Disclaimer: Good Omens and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.

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A/N: I am immensely fond of this fic, though I'm not entirely sure why. I just like it. Thoughtful fluff, as is my usual. I really should make it a new genre...

Aziraphale isn't sure how they got here, standing on the roof of his bookshop, staring at the piece of dark blue, star-studded sky that hangs over Soho. He only knows a large amount of alcohol was involved, and Crowley taking his hand and drunkenly slurring something about going up to see the stars, and Aziraphale replying equally drunkenly that one can't feed stars, dear boy, just ducks.

But how they got here isn't really all that important. What's important is how Aziraphale's hand is still loosely clasped in Crowley's; what's important is how Aziraphale can make out the tiniest bit of awe on Crowley's normally jaded face, as they tilt their immortal heads up to the velvet sky and gaze at the bright, bright stars.

Once, a long time ago, Aziraphale tried to count the stars.

An angel has a lot of free time, after all.

So every night for a hundred years Aziraphale climbed onto the roof and counted the stars, naming all the ones that he knew, and then some that he didn't.

He doesn't sleep, anyway, and there are worse ways to spend a night than sprawled out under the light of a thousand stars.

But there are some things even angels aren't meant to accomplish, and numbering the stars is one of them. Aziraphale soon lost track of the sheer multitude of worlds, all spinning high above his and Crowley's heads in their tiny (and yet so very vast) universe.

So he gave up trying to count the stars, and tried to count Crowley's smiles instead.

Aziraphale hadn't expected to lose track of that number so quickly.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" he says to Crowley, surprising himself with his sobriety.

The demon turns to him, and though the smile that stretches across his face is slow and sweet as treacle, Aziraphale knows the golden eyes behind the crooked shades are razor-sharp.

"Yep," Crowley replies. "I tried t' count them once," he adds.

Aziraphale's only somewhat surprised. Angels aren't the only ones with a lot of free time. "I tried, too," he says, with no small amount of sadness.

Ineffability hangs in the air.

"But I gave up," Crowley finishes slowly, and shrugs. His fingers twine with Aziraphale's, and the angel shivers, though the night is warm.

"What did you count instead?" Aziraphale asks. He's not entirely sure why he assumes the demon must have been counting something, but Crowley just grins and gives the angel another crooked smile to add to the endless tally.

"These," he says simply, and kisses Aziraphale soft and sweet under a dark blue blanket of countless stars.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the fic.