Chapter Text
Aziraphale really ought not to be wasting his time, given how little of it he has to spare nowadays—what with his responsibilities having increased tenfold, and the Metatron breathing down his neck at all hours of the day. He’s frazzled, is the thing, and the eternal blinding light of Heaven and the expectations from his fellow angels and the knowledge that time is ticking by one second at a time, bringing ever-closer certain events which Aziraphale knows he isn’t (and might never truly be) ready for—
Well, none of it is making his work any easier. In fact, it’s thus far only served to give him a right painful, celestial headache.
So despite the fact that he really can’t afford to be away from his work for too long, nor should he be spending his time on such frivolous journeys and distinctly human activities, he’s finding himself loitering back on Earth more often as of late. Not back in his old bookshop—certainly not. He’s been checking in with Muriel in other ways; namely, those that don’t involve actually being there, in that place that started as his and gradually became—
In that place where he spent so many decades, but never properly settled in until—
In that place that always felt more like a home when—
But none of that bears thinking about right now. That’s what he tries (and fails) to make himself believe, anyway.
In short, he doesn’t return to the bookshop at all. Where he actually ends up is practically only a stone’s throw away, though.
It’s easy to sneak into the Royal Observatory under the cover of night. Aziraphale knows that this is yet another thing that he shouldn’t be doing. Sneaking. If these were the good days, before he accepted the Metatron’s offer and ruined everything he had in the process, then there’d be a demon on his shoulder telling him that what he’s doing isn’t rather good at all, angel. Maybe he’d defend himself, come up with some sort of justification for what is, no matter which way you look at it, breaking and entering, and maybe he’d get a laugh for his efforts. Maybe it would turn the guilt in his gut into something more electric.
But that doesn’t happen now, so Aziraphale wallows in the shame that comes from unlocking doors with a snap of his fingers and tiptoeing into a room that’s empty save for a lone telescope.
He doesn’t need to come here to see the stars. It doesn’t make much sense that he does, objectively. If he wanted to, he could just visit any star that takes his fancy. Even up in Heaven, he’d be closer to them than he is here on Earth. Physically, at least.
But there’s something magical about observing the stars from down here. They are a reminder of just how much is out there, beyond Earth’s atmosphere. A reminder of how small humans are, to be the only ones for light years around; yet also a reminder of humanity’s significance, to still exist and be able to look up at the stars after all this time. Maybe that’s why so many humans have dedicated their entire lives to studying them. They even have a special name for it: astronomy. They see so much beauty in things they cannot ever touch, and rather than let the distance get them down, they are spurred on by it. To continue living, learning, and loving.
Aziraphale feels just a slither of that same encouragement, with the stars hanging above him like this. He can forget about the Second Coming and his endless tasks up in Heaven. He can ignore the ache in his chest that hasn’t dulled for a moment since he felt fists tugging at his lapels and lips crashing into his own. Most importantly, he can pretend that he’s seeing the stars for the first time again. Like they’re exploding into existence before his very eyes, while laughter fills his ears and another angel’s wings rustle above his head.
They only watched the stars together that one time. Aziraphale now wishes he’d agreed, just once in six thousand years, to visit the stars with Crowley again. Returning to the place where all of this began, where they began…
It would have been a sort of magic all of its own.
But what’s done is done. Aziraphale cannot change the past. As much as he wishes he could, he cannot take back all the pain he’s dealt them both.
The future, though… That’s another story. There’s still time for him to change the future. He just needs to keep his head up, keep working, keep fighting to make things right once and for all.
Maybe, he thinks, peering through the telescope’s eyepiece at just the right moment to spot a shooting star—one of Crowley’s ideas, he remembers, those stars that don’t just hang there, but can really move—there’s still time to mend the bonds he’s broken, too.
He’s heard that when humans wish upon shooting stars, their desires become a reality. If that’s true, then he can’t see why it shouldn’t work for angels as well.
So Aziraphale takes comfort in the fact that, one day, he and Crowley will gaze upon the stars together again.