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Moments after the birth of the universe, the first stars to ever light up the sky shining brilliantly, the twinkle in the angel’s eye died as Aziraphale explained that God only had plans to run it for six thousand years or so. They couldn’t believe that their time with this creation was slowly ticking away- there would hardly be enough time for most of the stars to be born, let alone admired. It was then that they started the countdown of when to come back, of the days to look out from this same spot and watch their creation form again. Little did they know that it was this love for their creation that would send them slowly sauntering down the path that dropped straight out of heaven and sunk straight to hell.
An angel-turned-demon out of love wasn’t exactly the best makings for a demon, though, and so they were cast onto earth, allowed to live as they pleased so long as they tempted others, or made human existence more miserable.
It took a few hundred years for the realization to set in that they’d never have that view of the universe again. Quite a lot happened before they saw their angel friend again.
By their third encounter, Crowley was entirely changed. Everything from his name to his body to his knowledge was different, and of course, he’d let loose a little, finding it amusing to tempt people on the regular. What he still held on to, though, was that vision of the stars he’d never see again. He’d studied astronomy to the best of his ability, and used that to determine what stars he still could see, and adjust his countdown for when new ones would be made. A guilty feeling settled within him, knowing that he’d miss their real birth by a few hundred years, but it’d be the first time the light was visible from earth, and that counted for something.
A few thousand years had passed now, and he’d never seen one of his stars born. It was a great big wrong place, wrong time sort of thing, but Crowley figured it was also another punishment from the heavens. Why had they damned him again and again?
The next time one of his countdowns came close to an end, Crowley was living out of the bookshop, finding his relationship with the angel to be a delicate dance, perhaps on top of eggshells, even. Nothing was official, sure, but that was only because everything had been left unspoken between the two of them. Although this bothered him, he didn’t let this stand in the way of inviting the angel to go stargazing for that night. He never explained why, per say, but Aziraphale knew he’d always been fascinated by the stars, even from Earth, and couldn’t say no.
The week leading up to it, Crowley constantly checked the weather, making silent threats to God if the sky covered over. The night before, he scouted out rooftops, finding none of them to be adequate enough for this. Instead, he drove out of the city, finding a rolling hill with a clearing, and wildflowers growing around the perimeter. It was beautiful.
As the set the next evening, Crowley packed them a picnic basket, complete with a blanket, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. He’d never been stargazing, but he figured that was appropriate for the setting. “Let's go, Angel,” Crowley called. He was perched on the armrest of a chair in the entryway of the bookshop, waiting for Aziraphale to join him. Once he did, Crowley drove uncharacteristically carefully, savouring the winding roads as they left London.
“I wasn’t expecting anything like this,” Aziraphale mused, mostly to himself, but the demon turned his head, giving him a curious look. The angel noticed this and quickly seemed to backtrack on his words. “I just thought you meant on, um… the roof! Or something.”
“Would you have preferred that?” The car pulled to a stop as Crowley asked, and he stepped out, shutting the door behind. Aziraphale followed suit, then gazed into the clearing beyond.
“Most certainly not.”
Pinks and oranges still painted the sky as Crowley led the way. Long grasses brushed against their legs and flowers swayed out of their way as they walked, and the colours faded from the sky above, leaving only a blue backdrop for the stars that would soon reappear. By the time they’d set out the blanket and poured their wine, lights twinkled above. They laid there in silence, both faced up towards the endless expanse of the universe above, until Aziraphale turned. “Take off your glasses, you silly serpent. I’m not sure how you can see like that.”
Without a fight, he pulled them off, only stopping to glance at his watch before laying his eyes on the sky again. Moments passed, and the silence only retreated to the angel's occasional, soft whispers of how dazzling the stars were. That was, until Crowley spoke up again. “Look up there,” he whispered, vaguely gesturing to a spot in the sky. “That blank space?” Aziraphale tried to follow, eyes eventually settling on a bald spot in the stars, a blank canvas that was ready for art.
“I see,” Aziraphale confirmed, and Crowley nodded happily.
“Keep watching it.”
The demon followed his own instructions, eyes glued to the area that he’d waved at moments before. He then looked to his watch, and back to the sky, before ever so subtly shifting, watching the angel next to him instead.
Within a minute, a dull light appeared in the middle of the space, the beginnings of a work to cover the section of navy canvas. “Oh, wow,” Aziraphale murmured, watching as the star faded into existence. “Crowley…” He trailed off in a sigh, simply watching the star, as though it were a baby opening its eyes for the first time.
“Can you see it?” He asked, and Aziraphale hummed his response.
“It’s beautiful.”
Crowley sighed softly, though didn’t say anything. Another one of his stars had been born, and he’d missed it. It was a curse of eternity, that the beauty was something he wouldn’t experience any longer after he’d fallen. He envied the humans, as he’d do anything to see the celestial orbs again, even as a mere backdrop to earth.
Then he whispered, “I wish I could.”
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Due to the structure of their eyes, it's nearly impossible for snakes to see stars. Complementary to his fall from heaven, Crowley’s eyes were a punishment for his love of his own creation. Never would he see them again.