24. Remembering
Aziraphale remembers. He wishes it had come gradually, one memory at a time. He wishes it had come with some warning, at least. But instead, one moment it's just the taste of chocolate in his mouth and gentle fingers in his hair and the next, a trapdoor opening under his feet and dumping him into a cold mire of memories, leaving him gasping for breath as the dark surface closes above him.
Everything. He remembers everything. The time before Earth. 6023 years in service of Heaven. Three years… three special years on their own side. And the time that can't be measured. Time reflected back and forth between two mirrors. Time that feels like a black hole in his mind, distorting everything else.
He doesn't know how long it has been since he fell into that black hole. There is blood and pain in it, fire and fear, there's begging for a reprieve and guilt and misery of the knowledge of not being strong enough, there's agony and regret, there's helplessness, and it's heavy, so heavy it collapses under its own weight, all of it compressed into a terrible singularity.
Only now he's clawing his way out of it, feeling stretched thin by the force pulling him in.
It is still dark and the fire is still burning in the hearth, even if low. It is the same fire that burnt there before he remembered and that feels strange and wrong.
Shakily, he loosens the tightness of his limbs, curled in a fetal position, and looks around. He has memories of this place, too. He remembers a gentle voice, explaining where the wooden spoons are and how to make tea.
It sounds like a good idea. He gets up slowly and makes tea, focusing his attention on the simple act. Water, kettle, tea leaves. He feels proud of himself for remembering it.
Dear Crowley. He made sure to make him feel proud of himself for every little thing.
A few grains of sugar spill from the spoon and dance on the table. He stares at them and at his shaking hand.
Dear Crowley. He was explaining everything to him… as if he didn't expect to stay.
Aziraphale dips the sugar into the tea and wipes the stray grains from the table.
He will come back. He promised he will always come back.
Aziraphale pours a bit of almond milk into the tea. Right, he remembers. No animals in Eden. No cows. How did they get to Eden, though? The memories get blurry there.
Crowley will know. When he comes back.
It feels safe here. It's hard to believe it. He stirs the tea and then sits down on the bed, watching the whirling pale-brown liquid.
It must have been Crowley who brought them here, the only place in the world where they are truly safe. Dear Crowley. He will come back. He promised.
Aziraphale takes a sip of the tea, warm and soothing. He sighs.
It's good that Crowley left. Aziraphale is thankful for it. It was pretty bad, having all the memories dumped on him at once. His hands are still shaking as he sips the tea. But as much as it pains him to admit it, it would have been worse if Crowley had been here.
Now he could just curl and cry without making Crowley guilty about it. He didn't have to think about how it's making Crowley feel. Poor dear. He has seen too much of Aziraphale's pain, even been forced to cause some of it. He has been so brave and patient while Aziraphale didn't remember anything and was oblivious to that inner suffering it brought to his demon. No wonder Crowley needed a break from it. But he will come back. He promised.
Aziraphale finishes the tea and puts the cup on the table. The clay chatters against the wood before it's set down. He sits down on the floor, drawing his knees up and embracing them with his hands.
He thinks about Crowley. His fingers dig into the fabric of the soft bathing robe he is dressed in as the images assault him. There's one that always returns. Crowley is pressing a terrible ball of white-hot pain into his chest, pushing it all the way in into his heart. And Crowley's eyes. There's something broken in his eyes.
He promised. But what if he doesn't come back?
Aziraphale reaches under the fabric of the robe with one hand. It's there. The taut swollen scar. He traces it with his finger, all the way from the tail to the head of the snake. It's still a little painful to the touch.
The breath that he takes is shallow. It struggles to get deeper into his lungs and gives up half-way. He can feel the pain of the memories and some scared, wild thing in his mind. The one that connects pain with fear. The one that would flinch from Crowley's hand. It was hiding there, among the memories, and now it has been released with them. He remembers ignoring it, caging it, suppressing it so that Crowley wouldn't see. But he can't chase it away. It's still hiding there, desperately pressing into some corner, ready to lash out if left with no retreat.
It's good that Crowley is not here.
Aziraphale sobs. He wishes for Crowley to be here.
He wishes for Crowley to be here, but he doesn't want Crowley to see him like this. He wishes for Crowley, but doesn't want to hurt him by his own pain and fear and guilt.
He promised. He will come. What to do when he comes?
Aziraphale drags himself up from the floor and looks around the room. He walks along the wall and furniture, touching things. It is all familiar to him, and yet he can see it through a different lens now that he remembers.
He can see Crowley's efforts to make him comfortable. The tartan pattern on the bed. Not quite right, but it's the thought that counts. The clay mugs with angel wings. The vests and coats and bowties in the closet. It's all for him, there are none of Crowley's clothes. And the library. Aziraphale stops at the library and looks at the bound pieces of papyrus in wonder. He opens one and browses through it.
Midsummer Night's Dream, the title says. He remembers the first time seeing that play. Crowley liked that one. There's something else he realizes as he is reading it, too. It's not random shapes on the pages anymore. It's English and he can read and understand it. The languages he knew returned with the memories. Even now he's thinking in English, not in Enochian. He looks at the library and tears up a little. When he didn't remember, he didn't understand what it was, didn't realize how much Crowley did for him. It only hits him now.
He needs Crowley. He feels incomplete without Crowley. He craves the demon's touch, feeling cold and empty without it. But that treacherous part of his mind flinches at the thought. It reminds him of an injured beast, snarling at the hand that hurt it. And he feels guilty for it because he knows that everything Crowley did was for him, out of love. What if Crowley only sees the flinching, not the craving? What if he doesn't come back?
He will come back. He promised.
Aziraphale puts down the hand-written book and caresses its pages. Crowley's touch. It's everywhere around. All of these things were made by him. Aziraphale can feel his aura in them, can feel the care they were made with, the purpose that was given them. They were made for Aziraphale.
He takes a clay pot into his hands and traces the smooth surface shaped by Crowley's hands with his fingertips. He presses the vessel to his chest, wrapping his hands around it. It soothes the faint itching in the snake-shaped scar.
The fire in the hearth is dying, but its light is replaced with the pale dawn creeping through the windows. Aziraphale's body and essence craves sleep, still feeling weakened after the…
No. He does not want to think about it. He does not want to sleep, either. He's afraid of the nightmares, now that the memories have returned.
He falls asleep sitting on the bed, clutching a clay pot to his chest.
Mercifully, there are no dreams.
He wakes atop of a tangled almost-tartan cover, the pot still clutched in his hand, although sometime during his sleep it slipped away from his chest. He watches it for a moment, disoriented. The familiar feeling of missing something - someone - pierces his consciousness, followed by a terrified whine from that scared thing, trembling in fear at the thought of whom he is missing. He hushes it, annoyed at its mere presence. It's so unjust to Crowley, that it's even there! What if Crowley doesn't come back because of it?
He looks around the room and it feels cold and empty. There is a faint demonic aura in every object, but no actual presence in the room besides his own.
"Crowley?" he asks anyway, in a small voice.
There is no response.
He takes a deep breath and waits for his heart to find a steady pace.
Instead, it's beating faster and faster.
"In you go, we don't have a whole day," Gabriel snarls and pushes him towards a door. It is half-open and there's a bottomless shaft behind it, walls of rough concrete stretching up and down infinitely.
"No! Please no! No no no…" He resists, catching himself on the doorframe, clutching it with the strength born of desperation, struggling as an unrelenting force pushes him inside. He kicks and hits something, although he barely registers it in the choking panic.
He hears an angry curse. Then his muscles spasm in an electric shock and he is falling into the infinite depth. He sees himself, watching from above. His body hits something hard but his heart continues falling, falling, falling deeper and deeper into despair.
When the spasms subside, there is no door. He is between two mirrors, and he is alone.
Alone.
In the room where Crowley died.
He is alone.
He wipes the tears from his cheeks and takes a slow, steadying breath. It still doesn't fill his lungs fully, but it stirs the stale air in the memory, at least.
He is alone. But Crowley will come back. He promised.
Aziraphale clutches the pot to his chest again and focuses on the way it moves with his breath. Up and down, up and down, like a living creature, another body next to his.
Some time later, he feels steady enough to get up. He is still wearing the bathing robe, he realizes. He goes to the closet and picks from the clothes inside. Trousers, socks, a shirt, a vest, a coat, a bowtie, straw sandals. All made by Crowley (who still hasn't figured out proper shoes). He puts on each of those, carefully smoothing any wrinkles and adjusting his bowtie. For a split second he wishes for a mirror. Then he doesn't. He shudders, but manages to push the thought aside. Instead, he looks out the window. The day is bright, but the sun can't be seen through the canopy of leaves, so he has no idea what time it is. Time for tea, then. It's always time for tea.
It takes him a while to start the fire again. He puts the kettle over it. While he is waiting for the water to boil, there is a quiet knock on the door.
He freezes, staring at it. There is no coherent thought in his mind. He feels like there's a black hole sticking in his throat and he can't swallow it.
"Angel… are you alright? I will leave if you want. Just tell me and I will leave."
Aziraphale opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He tries again. "N-No!" he manages this time.
Crowley is quiet for a moment. "May I come in? Or… would you rather come out, maybe? Just… wherever you feel comfortable to talk. I can stay across the lake, if you want. I only want to offer you something. A choice. Please?"
Crowley came back, as he promised. It takes some time to deal with the feelings that it brought. There is relief. There is love and it's so deep it hurts. There is a memory of pain and it wakes… fear. The bristled, snarling thing inside him. He struggles to put it into a cage, to not let Crowley see. That takes some time too.
Finally he opens the door, afraid that Crowley has left already.
But he didn't. He's still there.
Aziraphale smiles shakily. "You came back..."
Crowley smiles faintly. "Well, I promised I will, didn't I?"
