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The clock ticked softly. Quietly. Barely made a sound.
Aziraphale sat peacefully on the brown armchair in their living room, staring out the window. The night was quiet. Agonizingly quiet. Outside, far up in the sky, blinded by the lanterns that stood in their back patio, laid the stars, one by one, unmoving. Aziraphale breathed slowly, exhaling through his nose. The air became heavier whenever he allowed himself to take a look at them.
He looked down, staring at his open journal in the nearby wooden desk. The silent pages stared back at him, not yet dyed by the dark ink of his pen, which laid next to it. The brown leather of the cover was carefully lit by the light coming from the candles that stood on the other side of the table, waiting.
The house was quiet. Awfully quiet.
Aziraphale pulled the curtains, covering the window. He swallowed as he did, letting out a shaky breath.
He stood up slowly, fixing his waistcoat as he did. The fabric wrinkled softly, so many years spent together, only so much time of getting used to it, he thought. Maybe, in the end, he wasn’t talking about the waistcoat.
He sighed, his mind drifting off to the stars once again. He closed the journal, his finger stroking the leather. He smiled before walking away from the desk, making his way over to the hallway. His steps were quiet against the wooden floor as he walked, looking at the doors that led to the different rooms. Where could he be?
Aziraphale checked the kitchen, however, he couldn’t find it in himself to be surprised when he didn’t find Crowley there. He then checked their bedroom, this time actually surprised when his eyes didn’t find the usual lump beneath the tartan bedsheets.
He opened the door quietly. The room was silent, softly illuminated by the tall lamp that stood on the corner, being the only source of light in the whole room. Well, physically, that was. Aziraphale could’ve sworn there was an even more powerful source of light inside those four walls. But that would’ve sounded silly.
He walked up to him, looking down.
Crowley sat on a small wooden stool, his hair pulled back partially, rather just out of the way messily, one knee against his chest. It was so unusual for the angel to see him in something that wasn’t fully black. He swallowed back the thought. Light gray fit him, anyways.
“What are you doing here, dear?” He said, his voice gentle. His hand laid on Crowley’s right shoulder, stroking the soft fabric of the sweater.
His gaze was slightly lost as the demon stared at the image in front of him. In front of him, stood tall a canvas, resting on an easel. Aziraphale had been confused as to why there was one of those among their things when they had first moved into the cottage. The easel had been tucked into the bottom of one of the cardboard boxes, covered by different pots and some books the angel hadn’t placed there. He didn’t comment on it. Now, it began to make a bit more sense.
On the small table next to them surrounded by the rest of the boxes, as this room was only used for that purpose, storing things, laid a few small metal tins, each labeled a different pigment. Crowley looked up at him. Aziraphale moved his hand from his shoulder towards the demon’s cheek. He stroked gently.
On the canvas, a soft layer of purple rested on top of a thick, dark layer of brown. Crowley remained quiet, swallowing back the knot in his throat. The angel’s breath hitched.
He reached for one of the wooden stools that were next to them, sitting next to the demon. He looked at him, taking his hand. Crowley looked down at the ground, sighing.
“It’s okay.” The angel spoke quietly, smiling. He lifted Crowley’s hand, kissing his knuckles. “I understand.”
Crowley looked up, leaning his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale sighed, stroking his hair back. He kissed Crowley’s forehead, looking at the canvas.
He looked at the brush, laying in Crowley’s left hand, the one he hadn’t kissed. The white paint, still wet against the strands of the brush. His gaze drifted back to the demon’s piercing eyes. He understood.
“Why don’t you do it?” He said, tucking a strand of Crowley’s hair behind the demon’s ear. “You can.”
Crowley didn’t answer. He just placed the brush back on the ledge of the easel, sighing.
“I don’t know where to start. And it would feel wrong to just make them up as I go.”
Aziraphale looked at him, his soft blue eyes heavy with emotion. His hand took the demon’s cheek once again, stroking.
“Isn’t that what you did, dear? Make them up. You created them.” He spoke. “Look at me, Crowley.”
Crowley looked up at him. Aziraphale could’ve sworn that look hurt something inside of him physically.
“But I can’t create them again. That would feel wrong.”
Aziraphale swallowed. His gaze drifted to the demon’s lips, kissing him softly. Crowley sighed, kissing him back. The angel ran a hand through his hair, slightly tangled curls meeting his hand.
He pulled back, giggling. “Your hair is a mess, my dear.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, smiling. Aziraphale smiled back, guiding the demon’s head against his shoulder, stroking his hair. His fingers undid the knots gently, sighing. “Love?”
Crowley looked up, his smile softening slightly at the nickname. “Yes?”
“Let’s do something.” He muttered, twirling a curl around his finger. “Clean up around here, okay? Take the easel, the paints, and meet me outside, sounds good?” He said, looking around the room. The room was neat, filled with boxes. Not even a window. Aziraphale swallowed. He didn’t want Crowley trapped there anymore.
Crowley looked around, nodding. He lifted his head, straightening up. His back cracked quietly. Aziraphale smiled.
A little bit later, Crowley was putting the different tins in a small box, tidying up the table. He sighed, grabbing the easel with his free hand, the canvas tucked neatly under his arm as he walked outside. Some of the still damp paint seeped into the back of the sleeve, leaving a few purple spots. Crowley didn’t seem to mind. Little spots of the starred sky had followed him for centuries. This wouldn’t be anything different now.
Crowley walked up to the door that led to their back patio, opening it slowly. Outside, on one of the ledges, Aziraphale sat, a folded blanket in his arms. Next to him, a tray laid on the ground, two steaming mugs on top of it.
The demon walked to him, sitting next to the angel. Aziraphale smiled. “What’s your plan anyway?”
Aziraphale took the easel from him, building it up once again. He set it in front of the two of them, placing the canvas on it.
“Come here.” He said softly. Crowley slid even closer, their sides touching.
Aziraphale reached for the demon’s hair, now fully down. He reached into the pocket in his robe, the robe that he always put on before going out to the garden late at night because he insisted he’d “freeze” if he didn’t. Crowley always smiled.
He pulled out a small brush, beginning to brush the demon’s red hair quietly. Crowley groaned, closing his eyes. A few months back, if Aziraphale had even dared try to do it, Crowley’s complaints wouldn’t be silenced until an hour later. Now, he couldn’t even respond. It was routine.
The angel brushed his hair back, tying the top into a small bun. The same look he had had on back when he found him in the room, but neatly this time.
Crowley opened his eyes once he had finished, looking at him. “What’s all this?”
Aziraphale smiled. “Grab the brush. The small one. And give me the white paint.” Aziraphale spoke, before standing up. He walked to the lanterns that hung around some of the trees in their garden, lighting a few of them so the two could see the canvas nicely. He sat back down on the stone next to Crowley, throwing the blanket over both of them. Once he was settled, Crowley handed him the small tin.
Aziraphale took it. He took the brush from Crowley’s hand, dipping it carefully in the white paint, before putting the tin down on the ground, handing the brush back to Crowley.
The angel laid his head against Crowley’s shoulder. The demon looked at him, clueless. Aziraphale took a small breath, before looking up. Crowley sighed as the angel looked up. He didn’t dare do the same, knowing he would be met with an empty darkness.
That’s when Aziraphale looked at him, before pointing at the canvas, his finger settling against the paint.
“Here.”
Crowley looked at him, eyebrows furrowing.
“A dot. There.”
Crowley obeyed, lifting the paint brush, before drawing a small dot on the spot Aziraphale had highlighted. Aziraphale smiled, before looking up once again. After a few seconds, he looked back down. His hand lifted once again, pointing to a different spot on the other side of the canvas.
“There.”
And that’s when Crowley understood what the angel was doing. And he let him.
He let Aziraphale guide him along, the brush leaving small bright dots against the dark hues of the paint that laid on the fabric of the canvas. However, only for a moment, he could feel the brush disappearing from his hand. And he felt like it was his very own hands, after so much time, giving life back to the stars once again. By the time the two had finished, the whole canvas painted with a perfectly represented image of the sky above them, Crowley was putty against Aziraphale’s hands.
The demon’s face was tucked against Aziraphale’s neck as he sobbed quietly. Aziraphale undid the bun, running his hand through his hair, soothing him. He lifted the demon’s head, leaning in to kiss his forehead.
He looked him in the eyes, both hands holding his head up. He kissed his cheek, wiping the tears.
“You are an artist, my dear.” He smiled sweetly, trying to keep his own tears from falling.
He leaned in, kissing the demon gently. Crowley kissed him back, sighing as the two pulled away. He smiled back at Aziraphale, pressing their foreheads together.
“Come on, dear, let’s drink the tea.” He giggled. “It’s probably cold by now.”
Except it wasn’t. Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale had miracled it warm once again just a few seconds before.