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Starry Night

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“Where did we stop?” Crowley asked and looked up at the milky night sky, brow furrowed. “Right, yeah. Well, that’s Cygnus, the swan. Uriel helped make them.”

“Uriel?” Aziraphale said, incredulous. “But they’re an archangel!”

“We were working a tight schedule!”

“Yes, I’d imagine,” Aziraphale mumbled.

He trailed the constellation with his eyes, following the lines Crowley painted with his index finger. It had become something of a tradition between them, coming out here to a quiet meadow in the South Downs, to gaze at the stars in the ink-black sky. There was less light pollution out here, and they were rather endeared by the silhouette-cut scenery. Every other Saturday marked their drives down here, to where a picnic blanket covered the grass and the stars shone above them, turning everything silver, from their wine to their stripped off shoes and the waves of Crowley’s hair. This light made him seem rather human, Aziraphale liked to reflect.

“I was thinking…” Crowley started, all of a sudden, then stopped.

Aziraphale looked at him, adoration in his eyes, and smiled. Encouraging. Patient. Loving. Crowley could see the brightness of that smile even in the dark.

“Yes, dearest?”

“Was thinking we could move here. It’s just – we spend every other weekend here already, and it’s quiet and peaceful and all that, and I’m not really attached to my flat anyway and, you know, we’re not exactly living –“

Crowley spoke like a waterfall, quick and hurried, with plenty of words to fill a stream, and although the words sounded most mellifluous to Aziraphale (as all words spoken here did), he gently interrupted him.

He took Crowley’s hand and said, most earnestly: “There is nothing in the world that I could desire more. I crave every second of the time you want to give to me, and I adore you beyond measure. My dearest Crowley, I was hoping that you’d ask.”

So Crowley looked at him, sweetly overwhelmed. He’d known, of course he’d known, that his proposal would be accepted, and yet, it was quite a thing to hear it spoken like this.

Aziraphale himself had never been a person who pronounced his feelings with ease, but he was growing better at it by the day. He fancied himself on the way to something – perhaps a day. A day when he could say the words I love you without a hitch, when he would find the courage to call Crowley his husband, or something similarly human.

He understood how Crowley felt, so he squeezed his hand.

“It’s all going to be rather lovely, don’t you think?” he said, and Crowley’s expression melted into a smile.

“What do you think of a cottage?” Crowley asked, eyes filled with hope.

“Down by the beach, perhaps? I know how you love the sea.”

Crowley did indeed love the sea, albeit not as much as he loved Aziraphale. And perhaps, dear reader, you might find them there on a starry night like this, laying on a blanket, holding hands.