A/N: Story is set post-Apocalypse, guest starring Anathema and Newt because they need more love ^_^

#25: Disorientation - A witch's spell hits Aziraphale with rapidly progressing amnesia. Crowley enlists Anathema's help, desperate to stop the spell before Aziraphale no longer remembers who Crowley is - or that he's a friend, not an enemy.

"Crowley, I want to help, I just don't know how!"

"You're a witch, aren't you? Do something... witchy!"

Crowley yanked his dark glasses off so that Anathema would get the full benefit of his terrifying snake-ish scowl, forgetting for a second that they had saved the world together and she was altogether unafraid of him.

The witch in question sighed and rubbed her forehead. "We've been over this," she reminded him. "I'm an occultist and most of my 'witchiness' came from a book of someone else's prophecies, which I don't have anymore! And anything I ever learned... Crowley, nothing would have prepared me to deal with this."

She gestured at the "this" she was referring to as Aziraphale wandered up to them with a brilliant smile. He was carrying a frog in his palms, holding it out to them with delight.

"Look at what I found, isn't it wonderful, Crowley?"

"No," Crowley snapped, too anxious to be nice. "Looks too much like Hastur."

"Who's that, my dear?"

Crowley stared at the angel in alarm, then gestured wildly at Anathema. "You see what I mean?" he demanded. "He's forgetting more and more every minute! He didn't know where the bookshop was. He didn't know he had a bookshop!"

Anathema winced. "Oh dear."

"Oh shit, more like! Listen, it was witchcraft that did this to him, it's witchcraft that should be able to fix him. Now are you going to help us or not?"

"Still no luck, then?" Newt asked, poking his head into the kitchen. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help?"

"He's not a computer," Crowley grumbled back, more waspish than he'd intended. He growled when Newt ducked his head, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he gritted out. "Just..."

Newt nodded his understanding, leaning against the doorframe. The frog in Aziraphale's hands croaked once, making the angel chuckle, before he held it out once again towards Anathema.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asked. "You seem like a lovely young lady. I'm Aziraphale, by the by, terribly sorry, I should have introduced myself right off."

Crowley froze, sharing a horrified look with Anathema. Throat dry, he reached towards the angel and took his arm in a firm grip. "Angel," he said slowly. "You- you remember Anathema."

"Oh, is that her name? Pleasure to meet you, my dear."

Crowley let go and turned his back, trying not to hyperventilate in panic. Aziraphale had known exactly who their witch friend was when they arrived ten minutes ago. Whatever the spell was that was taking the angel's memories, it was only getting worse. If it kept progressing...

"Crowley," Anathema said gently.

"He's going to forget," Crowley whispered, sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the floor. "He's all I've got and he's going to forget..."

"We'll fix this," she said. A rustle of skirts preceded her crouching down in front of him, dark eyes earnest. "I want to help. If we can figure out what spell the witch used on him, maybe- maybe I can undo it."

"And what happens when he doesn't remember we're not enemies like we're supposed to be?" Crowley asked, voice hoarse with fear. His jaw clenched and he scrambled to his feet. "I should go- if he sees me and doesn't know I'm a friend- if I put you two in danger because he attacks me-"

"Crowley!" Anathema hushed, holding out her hands and taking both of his. "He's not going to attack you. Or us. This is Aziraphale we're talking about-"

"This was Aziraphale!" Crowley was on the verge of a full meltdown, he could feel it coming, only it wasn't going to help and he had to do something to help. He could not lose his best friend, not like this, not after everything. He needed to keep his head, he knew it, but-

"Miss, please stand aside."

Crowley's heart clenched as Anathema was firmly guided aside, and then he was face to face with an angel who held not a single trace of recognition in his eyes. His breath caught in his throat as his entire world came crashing down. Aziraphale was gone, and now he was just an angel, and angels did not look on demons with kindness, or mercy, or friendship, or love.

"Hmm," The Angel said, peering at Crowley in open curiosity. "You're a demon, aren't you?"

Crowley swallowed and unconsciously pressed himself as close to the wall as he could. "Aziraphale," he whispered. "You- you have to remember me. I..."

"Aziraphale," The Angel repeated slowly, tasting the name like the sweetest crepe in Paris. "Oh, I do like that. Aziraphale." He smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to the demon at hand. The Angel's eyes narrowed, only for an instant, then widened with the same innocence Crowley had always known in him. "My word, you feel like so much love. I do beg your pardon if I seem forward, only that's not what we were led to expect, you see. You have a good heart, I can feel it. Although it- it seems to be quite broken. I wouldn't presume to overstep my bounds, but- is there anything I can do to help?"

Crowley's mouth opened in shock and then—because he simply couldn't help it—he choked out a strangled, sobbing laugh. The Angel was still Aziraphale after all. Of course he was. A very confused, very disoriented Angel, but his angel nonetheless. That fact was the only bit of encouragement Crowley needed to replenish his stores of hopefulness. They could figure this out, they'd figured out the Apocalypse after all, they just had to-

SMACK!

Crowley and Anathema both jumped as Aziraphale crumpled to the floor before their eyes. They stared in shock, first at the downed angel, then at each other, then at Newt.

"What did you do!?" Crowley practically screeched, leaping towards Newt, who backpedaled frantically. "Did you just knock him out with a dictionary?"

"Cookbook," he replied, holding the book up as evidence and also to keep as a barrier between himself and the furious demon.

"WHY!?"

Newt shrugged, finally ducking behind Anathema to protect him. "Factory reset!" he exclaimed. "Maybe all he needed-"

"Factory- I said he wasn't a computer!"

With another shrug, Newt explained, "I know... that's why I thought it might actually work. It wouldn't, if he was, because, well, it's me-"

"If you hurt him," Crowley seethed, holding up his hand in preparation to snap his fingers and cause something dreadful to happen, but Anathema quickly covered his hand with her own.

"He's an angel, Crowley. A knock over the head isn't going to hurt him- see, look, he's moving."

Still fixing a glower at Newt, Crowley quickly crouched down beside the now stirring angel and took his shoulder.

"Aziraphale?" he called, trying not to grip too tight but needing something to steady himself. "You okay?"

The angel groaned and raised a hand to rub the back of his hand, wincing where the book had hit him. "Oh, my head..." he groaned, peeling his eyes open slowly to see Crowley and the two humans crowding around him. He blinked. "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Newt called down, still hiding behind Anathema. "I only wanted to help."

Aziraphale stared at him, and the glazed look in his eyes was no better at all in Crowley's mind than the blank ones from before. The demon growled, silently swearing a downpour of dead fish to follow Newt for the rest of his days, but that would come later. For now, he kept his attention on Aziraphale.

"Hey... you with us? Angel?"

The glazed, disoriented gaze turned towards him next, and it cost Crowley a tremendous chunk of his heart to see the utter lack of any recognition there, but then Aziraphale blinked and shook his head.

"Terribly sorry," he said, blinking again and then several more times as he rubbed his head. "Goodness, I don't know what came over me."

Crowley swallowed. If it had worked, he would forgive Newt everything. Carefully, he asked, "Do you... remember me?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Heavens, Crowley, I didn't hit my head that hard."

"Oh!" Crowley couldn't help but gasp, sinking back to sit on the floor, relief washing over him like a breath of fresh air. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his inner pocket and plopped them on his face so no one would notice if he happened to be tearing up a little bit. Beside him, Anathema smiled and offered Aziraphale a hand.

"You gave us a scare," she explained. "It seems a witch knocked you with some kind of memory spell. Newt saved you."

"Good thing," Crowley grumbled from the floor. "I'd have killed him otherwise."

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured disapprovingly, and it was so Aziraphale that Crowley only smiled happily about it. "Memory spell, hmm... I don't recall anything beyond fighting the witch. What did I..." He trailed off and looked back down at Crowley.

The demon, who after all had known him for over six thousand years now, saw every single emotion the angel passed through in the various expressions of his face. It landed eventually on sorrow, which Crowley always hated to see there.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, crouching down beside his friend. "Crowley..."

"You're better now," the demon pointed out, shrugging like it was no big deal, like his world hadn't been ending only minutes before. "That's what matters."

He could tell Aziraphale wasn't buying it, but was relieved that the angel didn't push the issue. Not here, not in front of other people, not when Crowley was still feeling shaken and vulnerable. They'd end up talking about it later over a good vintage, no doubt, but for now Crowley was going to just sink into the fact that he still had Aziraphale.

Everything was going to be okay.