What if we rewrite the stars?

It suits you

Days passed and Crowley remained unconscious. Aziraphale stayed by the acrobat's side day and night, leaving quickly to swallow some food and go to the toilet or take a quick shower in the circus, but apart from those moments, he prostrated himself by the man's side like a statue of a weeping angel. The magician felt miserable and lost.

He thought the situation couldn't get any worse when a messenger from the circus turned up one morning and handed him a note. The circus was leaving for the next town.

Gabriel had been as sympathetic to their situation as he could, but as the saying went, the show must go on. The performances in that town were no longer being attended, all the inhabitants had seen the show and it was time to leave.

Aziraphale tried to pull himself together as much as possible and headed for the circus, leaving Crowley alone in the hospital, with a gentle kiss on the man's forehead. Another warm tear dripped down Crowley's delicate cheek.

The conversation with Gabriel was quick and bitter. There was nothing more to be done, and the magician no longer had the strength to fight. When the circus owner asked him that question, however, he almost lost control.

"Are you coming?" asked the circus owner.

"What?" Aziraphale asked indignantly. "Do you think I'd be able to walk away and leave him here alone?" His fists were clenched and his fingernails bruised the palms of his hands.

"I didn't think so... Well, it's a shame to lose two of my best attractions, but that's life, I guess." Gabriel said in a tone that made the magician's head hurt.

Crowley wasn't an "attraction". He was a human being, and he was the love of his life. He was his most precious possession and more important than his own life. How dare that man talk about him like that?

The magician had two days to get his and Crowley's things out of the wagon, and fortunately he had the help of the other members of the circus, who were moved by their plight. The only word Aziraphale spoke to them was a weak 'thank you' when they had finished loading the wagon with their things.

He took up residence in a tenement room in the city, as close as possible to the hospital. He barely got round to unpacking, as he spent more time at Crowley's side than he did there. His bed had never been used.

After about a month, on a strangely warm and pleasant morning, Aziraphale woke up to a gentle squeeze on his hand, which was holding the acrobat's hand.

The magician jumped in his chair and his back complained, he had been sleeping sitting up all that time and felt an unbearable pain in his body, yet he never left his seat.

"Anthony?" he whispered, his face close to Crowley's. "My love..." the tears flowed again, but this time they were washing a relieved smile.

Crowley opened his eyes with difficulty, everything was fuzzy and the last thing he remembered was falling...

He felt a presence next to him and his eyes moved slowly to the face of the man standing there. He knew that man, those blue eyes, despite being filled with sadness, still bore the stars that were so familiar to him.

Aziraphale was in a deplorable state. His hair was tangled and messy, his beard had grown and gave him a hirsute appearance, although it suited him, the acrobat thought. The magician's face was emaciated and deep, dark circles rested under his eyes.

"Azir..." the acrobat tried to speak, but was seized by an instant headache.

The pain was aggravated by the memory that came immediately afterwards, of the magician in the back tent holding that damn flyer and looking at him with that devastated expression. Crowley felt his eyes fill with tears and turned his face away from the magician's gaze. He was still weak and doped up on morphine, and soon slipped back into sleep.