I’m supposed to be working on some fics right now for nice people that sent nice tickets to ao3 the other day as a way to celebrate their Hugo Award,
BUT all I can think about is this headcannon I came up with in the shower:
So freckles are left behind in the wake of an angel’s kiss, which means that, once Crowley and Aziraphale figure themselves out, Crowley becomes absolutely covered in them. He has them spotted across his face, his shoulders, the dips in his back, the soft skin of his stomach, and everywhere really.
Over time, Aziraphale starts to develop his favorite spots to kiss Crowley, and the freckles become denser in those areas.
And over time, after hours and hours of admiring the freckles Aziraphale has left behind, Crowley starts feeling like they remind him of something.
Then one day, maybe a week after Crowley’s passing thought maybe a month or more than that, Aziraphale is absentmindedly tracing the freckles, dragging his finger over the empty space between them. And that’s when Crowley realizes that the freckles reminded him of the stars he made long ago.
How he would cluster the stars into galaxies, and how he’d place stars together in binary systems just because he could. Because he liked the idea how they might look like one star from far away, but that if you looked closer you’d realize there was more to see. But his favorite thing, his favorite thing about the stars were how humans made stories out of them. How they looked up at the sky and, instead of getting overwhelmed or scared at the size of their universe, they saw a reflection of themselves.
Without Aziraphale noticing at first, Crowley starts to add silver lines the places where the angel’s finger traces. He’s tentative with the lines at first, testing to see how thick the lines should be, how metallic he’d like them. But eventually he settles on a size and a sheen, and he starts to make shapes out of Aziraphale’s wandering. From those shapes he starts to make stories.
Three freckles in a row, where two of them are closer to each other than the third, become the sword Aziraphale gave away.
Other freckles come to represent Aziraphale and Crowley as godfathers, others become a stack of crepes, others more become a bird very similar to the bird statute Crowley took from the wreckage of a church in the 1940′s.
Eventually Aziraphale, ever one to understand and love the stories people make, notices what Crowley is doing. He starts tracing patterns more deliberately into constellations, occasionally adding another kiss or two if needed. champagne classes clinking at the Ritz. Crowley’s Bentley with the two of them inside it. A bag full of books. A balloon. ( “A balloon, angel?” “Yes, a rather lead one I’d say.”) Hellfire and a bathtub. A bench constellation next to one of a few ducks.
And they do this well into the evening, when Crowley’s skin begins to look very much like the night sky itself.
