A/N: Gift-fic request from Cafelatte100 to 29-Pieces. I hope you both enjoy this, and that it's the sort of fic you were hoping for.

Eyes of Amber Starlight

A Good Omens fanfiction

It was a nippy, autumn afternoon, sliding along like clockwork into an early nippy autumn evening. The British Museum was getting ready to close up and visitors were being herded, in a general sort of way, towards the exit.

Aziraphale, one arm through the sleeve of his camel hair coat, was struggling to step out of the way of a pair of fumbling workmen carrying a statue from one exhibit to another.

The curator was at his wit's end, animatedly imploring them not to drop it, though there had been a remarkably low chance of that happening prior to his putting the idea into their heads, which – ironically – upped the probability a hefty percentage.

"Good lord," commented Aziraphale, a little thoughtlessly, on the piece as the workmen passed him, "I don't know who'd be coming to see that – it's spooky."

The curator gave him a look. "Everyone's a bloody critic these days."

"It's the eyes, you know – they don't look quite human," Aziraphale felt the need to clarify, finally managing to slip his other arm into his coat sleeve. "They do say eyes are the window to the soul."

Beside him, Crowley stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

Aziraphale – busy straightening his collar and lapel – didn't notice, though he did pick up on the fact that Crowley was unusually quiet as they made their way down the steps, and that he stood for a while staring out from behind his dark sunglasses – seemingly at nothing – with his hands in his pockets outside the building rather than heading straight for the Bentley.

"I say, my dear, is everything all right?"

"Fine," he replied, walking across the pavement and towards the road, a puzzled Aziraphale trailing behind.

Crowley drove in silence to his flat (Aziraphale was planning on staying over); he didn't even switch on the radio. Seeming lost in his own thoughts, he gave only the shortest responses to any comment the angel happened to make during the ride over.

He did perk up slightly as he poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Aziraphale, and taking his own into the lounge, but he still didn't seem properly himself.

Whatever he said about being fine, it was plain that something was needling at the demon's nerves. Somewhere along the way today, a sore spot had definitely been poked at.

"Angel," he said, after a few more silent minutes ticked by and Aziraphale had sat down on the couch beside him, quietly sipping his wine. "D'you really think eyes are the window to the soul?"

Aziraphale glanced up at him. "Is this about that comment I made at the British Museum?"

"Nah, was just wondering," he said, not entirely truthfully.

Aziraphale considered. "I think sometimes they can be – though it really isn't that simple. There are plenty of nasty beings in the world with nice-looking eyes. Why do you ask?"

Rather than answer, Crowley reached up and took off his sunglasses, setting them down on the arm of the couch.

The angel was astonished. "Your eyes?"

Glancing up moodily from his wineglass, Crowley murmured, a touch mockingly, "Well, they're not quite human, you know."

"You know perfectly well I didn't mean that – I wasn't talking about you."

"I know. You were talking about the ugly statue," Crowley said, almost amiably, yet still retaining a barbed edge in his tone. "Fair enough."

"There's nothing wrong with your eyes, Crowley."

"Of course there's nothing wrong with them – I always have to hide them – but there's nothing wrong."

"I've always thought they looked rather nice," Aziraphale insisted. "Amber suits you."

"My eyes aren't nice," he hissed, mildly ruffled. "Nothing about me is nice."

"Yes, yes, four-letter word, what. I know. You keep telling me." The angel rolled his eyes, then shifted, leaning sideways on the couch so as to look at Crowley more directly. "Out of curiosity, dear, were they always amber – even before the whole serpent of Eden business?"

"No – they were another colour."

"What colour was it? Blue?" An expression of vague distaste flitting across his face, he added, "They weren't purple, were they?"

He scoffed, and shot Aziraphale a look of amused disbelief. "No, they weren't purple! For pity's sake, Aziraphale! They were... Sort of...hazel...I guess? It was a long time ago."

"Don't demons typically have black eyes?"

"Typically, yeah, and – trust me, angel – that's one window to the soul you don't want to peer into."

"Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

Aziraphale sighed, wondering if his friend was that drunk already or if he was being coy on purpose. "Have black eyes."

"No particular reason," Crowley said, hurriedly and unconvincingly, reaching for the television remote (which was still in the wrapper, because he never used it – always turning the television on with a mere snap of his fingers). "Would you look at the time? I think The Golden Girls is on."

Aziraphale set his wineglass down on the floor beside the couch, then reached over to snag Crowley's wrist. "Crowley."

He mumbled something practically inaudible.

Aziraphale's brow creased; he thought he'd caught a few words of that. "Lurking in bars? What does that have to do–"

"Looking at the stars!" snapped Crowley, glowering, wrenching his wrist free. "Not lurking in bars."

"Oh. That is rather different."

The demon sighed. "When I fell–"

"I thought you sauntered," Aziraphale interrupted.

"I tripped," invented Crowley, pressing on. "Anyway, when I fell–"

"Sauntered and tripped."

"Do you want me to tell you this or not?"

"Sorry." The angel blushed apologetically, bending over to retrieve his wineglass. "Do go on."

"Right. Where was I? Did I mention the boiling sulphur yet?"

"I don't believe so."

"Well, there was boiling sulphur – and I was looking up, beyond the barriers of hell and into the night sky. I kept looking for stars – and, believe me, they were hard to see through all that bloody smoke... Anyway, I was thinking of the old days, building nebulas and spreading galaxies. I blacked out, but when I woke up in Hell" – he waved his wineglass, sloshing the remaining wine – "everybody else had black eyes and mine were amber."

"Complete with slit pupils," Aziraphale added, a misguided attempt at being helpful.

"No, that came later – shortly before we met," he told him. "I was teasing Lucifer – well, Satan by then – about something. I turned into a serpent as a joke, and it stuck."

Aziraphale's mouth formed a little O of comprehension. "Hence Crawly."

"Yep." He stared over the angel's shoulder. "Hence Crawly."

"I don't think they're spooky, you know."

"Eh?"

Aziraphale inhaled deeply. "Your eyes. I don't think they're spooky. They're beautiful – like starlight."

"Oh, come off it." The demon looked discomfited – angels weren't meant to just go around comparing his eyes to starlight, not if there was anything resembling mercy left in the universe.

But, of course, Aziraphale was in earnest. "They wouldn't be nearly as nice to look at if they were human, or even angelic – they're your eyes."

"That's easy to say," Crowley managed, finding it hard to speak for a few stunned moments, though he'd never admit he was touched. "But you don't know what it's like. With eyes like mine you don't belong anywhere – not on earth, not in Heaven, not even in Hell."

"Ah." Aziraphale looked as if he'd just worked something out.

"What'd you mean ah?" demanded Crowley, thinking the smug angel appeared a little too proud of himself.

"So the problem isn't what your eyes are, then, is it? You're just worried about what they're not. Not Heaven, not Hell. Seems a bit silly to be worried about that."

"Where do you think they belong, then, if you're so sure? What side are they on?"

Aziraphale smiled, softly. "Our side."

"Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human? Do the stars gaze back?" – Neil Gaiman

A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.