Eden remains for quite some time after the humans leave. Crawly's a bit surprised, actually. Given the magnitude of what he'd just tempted Eve to do, he expected God to destroy it in a big fiery ball of Divine Fury or something. She always could be a bit flashy, with the invention of Heaven and Hell and ambiguous orders and drastic punishments and whatnot. This time however, is different. Instead things happen slowly, meticulously, and far more personally than he'd predicted.

It's lovely, at first. More than lovely, wandering Eden's beauty for unknowable amounts of time, reveling in breathtaking greenery and vibrant colors. Since his first mission came to an end, Hell's left him alone, free to do as he wishes- perfectly fine with him, of course. If it were up to him, he'd spend the rest of eternity like this. Napping peacefully amongst the flourishing trees, partaking of perfect fruit, forbidden or otherwise. Something about the Garden fills him with a sense of warmth, a contentedness he hasn't felt since...well, since Before. A fraction of it, at least. He knows better than to become attached to something so temporary, but he can't help but savor every moment.

This place is safe. Painless, beautiful -the exact opposite of Hell, with all it's cold agony and unforgiving edges. There won't be anything like Eden again, that's for sure. He might as well make the most of it.

The Garden's not the only reason he stays, however. Just as Eden remains, so do its guardians. Crawly harbors a special kind of disdain for angels in general- the arrogant, self righteous bastards -but for the first time, he's met somewhat of an outlier.

The guardian of the East Gate is different. Softer. He's still not sure what drew him to Aziraphale in the first place, but since that first encounter he's been positively puzzled. Perplexed. The angel's mysterious, confusing, always annoyingly present in the back of his mind like a song he can't quite remember. It's infuriating. Why does he keep going back? Why should he care about an angel? He doesn't. Can't. He's a demon, after all, demons don't care for anything but themselves. But for all his reasoning and bitterness, he still can't seem to stay away.

Questions swirl in his mind, only growing in number with every visit. Things he's oddly determined to chase after, burning to know against his better judgement, if only to satisfy himself. Why does Aziraphale talk to him? Why not simply smite him, like any other angel would? Surely a promotion would be in order, but the angel doesn't seem to care much for his position. Why else would he have given his sword away? And yet, any mention of his superiors pulls him back, into his reserved, quiet shell like the reminder itself is enough to set him straight. It takes quite a while to coax him back out again, and even then he always seems a bit more anxious, more wary than before.

Aziraphale's a paradox in angel form. And, well, Crawly's never been good at ignoring his curiosity. He'll just have to keep visiting until he gets some answers.


After a while, both of them grow accustomed to a sort of rhythm. Aziraphale stands, steadfast and alert atop the East gate, until Crawly appears beside him and starts up conversation. If the angel notices him being nosy, he doesn't comment on it, and in turn, the demon keeps teasing to a minimum. They end up spending quite a bit of time together, and together, they experience the beginnings of Earth.

The first death comes and goes- the lion by Aziraphale's sword, much to the angel's unspoken horror. Then the first rain. It's only when the first sunset begins that Crawly starts to panic.

The sun- his sun -begins to sink. Slowly at first, and Crawly wonders if he's imagining it. Then faster, crawling lower by the minute, falling in a way that makes his hands shake and his throat feel like sandpaper. Its color dims, bleeding red into the dunes below. It kisses the horizon with a final, fiery shimmer, and something shatters inside his chest.

She's casting it out.

Now he understands. How could he have been so naive? This is the punishment she's decided on. To take his creations, the beauty he'd pulled from his own soul, and throw it away as a final act of rejection. He watches in mute despair as the sand swallows his last light, as the sky grows dark and cold, barely registering the tears spilling freely down his cheeks. His heart screams, reaching out, grasping desperately at the last glimmer before it winks out like so many candles, pulling any semblance of hope down with it.

This is it. What he's doomed to be for the rest of eternity. Empty, dark and cold, just like the sky. He sways, grief crushing every part of him as he stares at the last place the sun had been. He feels distant. He doesn't need to breathe but his chest feels like it's caving in all the same, and suddenly he can't speak. Whatever Aziraphale's saying fades into the gray background. Nothing matters anymore. The joke he'd made, something about good and bad things, curdles on his tongue. Because nothing good nor bad matters when everything you love has been destroyed.

He must've been silent for too long, because he can feel Aziraphale's concerned gaze, caught between the urge to comfort and his angelic nature. That's fine. Crawly doesn't need his help. It's about time to head back to Hell anyway. Crawly stares silently for a moment longer, reigning himself in. His legs tremble with the effort, but he forces himself to turn and walk away, every step feeling more like damnation than Falling ever did.

"It was a beautiful sunset," Aziraphale breathes from behind. Offers. His voice is quiet, impossibly gentle in the still air. Something in his tone tugs at Crawly's walls, pulls at the hope he'd just abandoned, and for a moment, rage thunders violently through every fiber of his being. How dare this angel tease him? How dare he make light of Crawly's loss, a loss he couldn't possibly comprehend? Crawly whirls around, fury rippling through every muscle, and Aziraphale flinches away, alarmed. Then he straightens, squaring his shoulders as he faces the demon fully, eyes hardening to steel. Crawly grits his teeth. Digs his fingernails into his palms, flares his wings in anger because no matter how hard he looks, he can't find an ounce of disrespect in the angel's gaze. Only compassion. Sorrow, for a reason Crawly can't possibly think of, on his behalf, though he has no way of knowing what the sun meant to him.

"What," he growls, bitter, but freezes at the cautious confusion on Aziraphale's face.

"You mean you don't know?" the angel asks gently. "I suppose you wouldn't, since it's only a recent development. The Earth is round. It turns while orbiting the sun, which means the sun is only visible part of the time. It'll be back tomorrow, just as it was before."

Crawly's head spins. It'll be back. A desperate gasp hisses through his teeth. So She hadn't destroyed his creation? Searing relief crashes through him so hard he feels on the edge of collapsing. Shaking, he turns away, hiding, hugging himself as he works through an overwhelming wave of emotions. She hadn't rejected him completely. His light is still there, somewhere, warm and bold and bright. It'll be back, just as it was-

"Why?" He snaps back around, pinning Aziraphale with acid yellow irises. He needs to know. Why make such a big change? What can God possibly hope to gain by-

"To see the stars, of course."

"...What?"

The angel's eyes sparkle as he turns back to the sky, an unbearably soft smile upon his lips.

"The stars, Crawly. They're so beautiful, aren't they? How could God keep them from the world?"

It feels like a punch to his stomach. It feels like burning and trembling and more than a few silent tears cascading down his cheeks as he follows the angel's gaze and for the first time since before his Fall, he sees them.

The stars. Diamonds refracting in the reverent darkness, pushing back the terror. Their soft light wraps together, casting the Earth in a blanket of tranquility, pin points of stunning direction all working together to protect and guide in their own distant way.

They are even more beautiful than he remembers.

And God...she kept them. After his Sin, after all this time. Not only that, she's presenting them, weaving them into her timeless plan of Earth and humanity, like he'd been there every step of the way.

She'd cast him out, but she hadn't forgotten him.

He used to be bitter. Perhaps he still is, but in the space of mere moments, he's no longer certain.

He doesn't know what he feels.

Almost as if they sense his gaze, starlight seems to pulse in recognition. Aziraphale stands oblivious at his side as, one by one, the stars turn their attention to the demon standing on the East gate of Eden. His creations, connecting for the first time in a millennia, reaching out to their creator's presence.

They know who he is. He is a part of them, as he has always been. They reach out tentatively, grasping for his aura, and without hesitation, he reaches back, reveling in the warmth of countless entities born from his own broken soul.

They make contact, and everything shatters.

The connection is brief, but Crawly feels everything. A shred of collective hope destroyed instantly by horror and betrayal. That accepting warmth, ripping away from him upon making contact with demonic energy, the repulsing dark soul so very different from the one they used to know.

The stars turn cold. Frigid and isolated. Black wings burn agonizing brands against his back as he collapses to his knees, deaf to the frantic cries of the angel beside him.

Of course. How could he forget? God has always been flashy.

She hadn't forgotten him.

She hates him so much, she has to watch him suffer.

Aziraphale, like the angel he is, fusses over him cautiously, calling out his name. He even goes so far as to touch Crawly's shoulder, but stumbles back when the demon surges upward and slaps his hand away.

"Stay away from me," he hisses and, before the angel has the chance to reply, disappears in a flurry of pitch black feathers.


It takes a long time for him to make sense of it. Years and years, to come to terms, to sort himself out. The sun hangs low in the sky from morning till dusk, warm on the surface but cold, always cold towards him. At night, the stars blink and sway, utterly indifferent to him in the fullest capacity. They are gone. He can see them, and he loves them, but they are gone, and he is helpless in the face of their broken light.

He rages at God more than he used to, cursing her in silent, in the quiet moments when he's not sewing chaos among the humans. She can't hear him, he knows it, but it holds him together. Distracts him from the thousand year pain ripped anew by lies and false betrayal.

He's never felt this alone. Even after Falling, he had vengeful kinship with the rest of Hell, that burning hatred that brought them all together. But this...the other demons could never understand this.

The humans create fictional gods and deities to embody the sun itself, and he watches as they bow to it, pray to it like clockwork. They name the stars after dreams and the souls of those passed on, and he listens to the songs they sing to mourn them. They haunt his dreams, sometimes. Other times, he finds himself humming softly alongside them.

The demons howl at his reports when he returns to them, giddy at the false prophets and wicked beliefs running amok, but Crawly doesn't join them. It's ironic, he thinks. It all feels like a joke. No doubt every ounce the entertaining spectacle God expected, but Crawly's tired. Tired of being taunted by his own creations, tired of the plasticity of his peace in Hell. He's tired of crawling around. Tired of his name.

He'd almost forgotten a certain angel, until he sees him many years later. Platinum hair, the same kind eyes, sticking out like a sore thumb in a crowd of rushing mortals in their haste to watch the Ark. For some reason, the sight of Aziraphale makes him pause. He remembers then, and he wonders how he had forgotten.

Remembers the angel atop Eden's walls, muttering about a lost sword and the strict ideals of right and wrong. Remembers the rebellious nature the angel holds, despite his apparent fear of true holiness. Once again, that old curiosity- and perhaps a bit of relief too -fills him from head to toe, and he sways forward like every inch of the demon he is.

"Crowley," he introduces, after teasing a flustered angel, and Aziraphale accepts it without hesitation. Accepts the first thing Crowley's created since he cares to remember, and it means more to him than he'd ever care to admit. The angel makes no mention of their last encounter, something else the demon is grateful for, and soon they lapse into comfortable conversation, like they did all those years ago.

Then the rain comes, and they're forced to hide amongst the animals throughout the Ark. The storms last for quite some time, tossing the ship violently to and fro, but they end in startlingly clear skies and a steady sea. The stars shine boldly through the last wisps of clouds, and both entities watch them silently from the little window they share, until the angel clears his throat.

"You know," he starts, a little awkwardly, and refuses to look at the demon beside him. "I'm an angel, and you're a demon- no, stop smirking at me -and we will always be enemies." He stalls, fiddling quietly with his sleeves, before gathering his courage and fully meeting Crowley's gaze. "However, I do think I owe it to you to at least admit that I...I enjoyed your company, these last few days." Crowley blinks, but the angel continues, suddenly turning his nose up and adopting an almost arrogant tone.

"I can never support what you demons are wont to do, but perhaps, every few hundred years or so, I wouldn't mind doing this again, Crowley."

Crowley stares. For a long time, he can only sit there as he processes for a moment. And then it hits him why he's been so curious about Aziraphale since the beginning.

Because he's different. Of course, that should be obvious, but it's not in the way one would normally guess. Aziraphale isn't cruel or violent or cold. He doesn't destroy or force or throw away. He's nothing like anyone he's met so far, and for the first time since the stars withdrew, Crowley feels warmth bloom inside his chest.

He smirks, ignoring the glare Aziraphale sends his way, and raises a mischievous eyebrow.

"You would, would you? An angel of the Lord?" Aziraphale squirms, and Crowley laughs, leaning back against the wall with an amused smile.

"We'll see, angel. We'll see."