The Sort of Thing You Forget

A Good Omens fanfiction

Part 2 of 4

"Raphael? As in the archangel Raphael?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

"Yep. That's me. A right archy archangel. Field worker, mainly, star-spreading division. Which would be why we haven't seen each other about headquarters. Still waiting on your introduction. You can start with your name, and work up to where exactly we are in the universe."

Aziraphale stared at him, nonplussed. What had gotten into Crowley? Was this some manner of joke? But then where, precisely, was the humour in his claiming to be, not only an archangel, but the one archangel who had disappeared during the rebellion, presumably now one of the legions of demons in Hell sporting name changes since the good old days?

For lack of anything else to say or do, the angel finally pulled his hands free and murmured, "This isn't funny."

"I don't understand." Crowley's expression was bizarrely guileless; Aziraphale had never seen his friend's face so entirely void of even the smallest planned mischief. "Listen, fellow angel, you have got to help me. I'm–"

Aziraphale let out a startled yelp. He'd just allowed his gaze to slide downwards and was horrified by what he saw. "What have you done to your poor feet!"

Crowley glanced down. "Ah. Yes. That bit of bother."

"Bit of bother?" gasped Aziraphale. "Crowley! They're red as boiled lobsters and covered in blisters!"

"They do hurt rather a lot, now that you mention it," he admitted, a trifle sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other and grimacing. "Oh, and, again, my name isn't Crowley."

"What the hell are you playing at?"

"Playing?" He sounded incensed. "I'm not playing. I'm bloody terrified. Here I am going out of my mind, you can't imagine the day I've had, lost as anything, and you're looking at me like I just murdered your best friend!"

"Wait." Aziraphale held up a hand. "Are you seriously saying you have no idea where you are or who I am?"

"Yeah, that's generally what happens when somebody finds themselves in a strange place talking to a stranger, isn't it?" The tone had grown tetchy. "I'm sorry, that's uncharitable. A fellow angel is never truly a stranger. Regardless of rank." He sized Aziraphale up and down in a manner that suggested his previous relief at finding him had dissipated a bit, leaving room for the barest touch of snobbery. "Though I'd reckon it's not very high in your case, amirite?"

It was a testament to Aziraphale's overall good nature that he did not find this remark obnoxious. Instead, he was filled – almost overwhelmingly – with pity. Whatever manner of mental breakdown Crowley was having had left him in the loneliest mindset Aziraphale could fathom.

Imagine just how alone...how utterly alone...

Crowley had never actually mentioned he'd been an archangel before. Or really anything more than the basest of angelic ranks. Aziraphale would never have suspected it. There were little indicators, here and there, but they were only falling into place in retrospect.

What a long, long way to have sauntered vaguely downwards from!

Aziraphale reached out and patted Crowley's shoulder forgivingly. "Wait right here. I'm going to get something for your feet."

As soon as the angel was out of sight, Raphael made a beeline for his desk. There ought to be something there telling him who his rather bumbling rescuer was. His feet smarted as he trotted over – he continued to ignore the pain. It could have been worse.

Atop a stack of promising-looking parchment was a dictionary left open to the first page. Raphael glanced down at it, briefly scanned its contents, registered them as fairly useless, and then slid the heavy tome aside.

Thud.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if the angel was coming back to investigate the noise.

He wasn't.

"Come on," Raphael muttered, shuffling through a handful of papers. "There's got to be something here..." He stopped. Notes on Current Theories on the Creation of the Universe by Aziraphale, Angel of the Ninth Choir of the Malachim and Part-time Rare Book-dealer. "Wot? Oh, I get it, he's a Principality. Explains a lot. That's a something of a joke these days. I guess it's my own fault; I should have talked a lot slower. Probably confused him. Well, beggars can't be choosers." He trailed his fingers down the length of the parchment. "Love the copperplate handwriting, though! It's so unbelievably neat." His eyes surveyed the contents of the parchment further down. "Earth is a Libra. Right, got a location. Earth. Good."

If he wasn't mistaken, this Aziraphale had to have a way to communicating with Heaven stashed around here some place. If the non-angel creatures came and went from this shop on a regular basis, the Principality likely had it hidden – wouldn't do for them to see it and lose their minds.

What was the most obvious place – for an angel?

He wandered about, leaving the main room and wandering about the back. He didn't see Aziraphale, who must be deeper within this matchstick labyrinth, no doubt. He could hear running water. It was just as well. Perhaps he could help himself from here on out. Although, in all fairness, he still planned to recommend Aziraphale for a promotion – out of courtesy. He was an archangel of his word after all.

Raphael's roving eye settled on a large rug. Tugging it away, he found a dust-encrusted celestial chalk circle underneath. The level of neglect was deplorable, but he would ignore that for the time being. He was beginning to feel in control of his circumstances again. All that was needed were some candles and he'd get this show on the road!

The good news was that Aziraphale had – as he'd hoped – a jar of balm in the lavatory cupboard to treat the burns on Crowley's feet, and after some digging he'd unearthed the clothing he'd worn to Crowley's trial in Hell a decade ago – the one with the tartan collar the demon refused to accept was stylish. These were the only articles of clothing in Crowley's size he possessed, given that the demon liked to make clothing appear over himself rather than buy anything. The bad news was that while there was a spare pair of sunglasses somewhere about the shop, as well, Aziraphale hadn't had any luck locating them.

Well, that was the least of their worries at the moment.

It fluttered like a stray moth through the angel's mind, flowing benignly past the more important thoughts, how he'd secretly suspected for the last few thousand years Crowley deliberately deepened his voice to sound tougher and that – given the heavenly alto timbre 'Raphael' spoke with – he'd been right.

It felt wrong, knowing this for certain. He wished he didn't, that it was still a mystery.

With a helpless shrug directed at his own reflection, he loosened the rusty taps and began to run a bath. Crowley desperately needed one before he changed out of those – doubtless ruined – pyjamas Aziraphale had left at his place the last time he'd stayed over. The demon reeked of bad coffee and burnt flesh, with an odd hint of dog excrement – perhaps he'd stepped in some on the way.

The scent of candles and incense suddenly tickled Aziraphale's nostrils and he froze in momentary horror before hurriedly twisting the hot tap back into the off position. "He wouldn't!"

He would.

Sure enough, Aziraphale stepped out of the lavatory to find Crowley before the circle – which was powered up and glowing, enshrouded by candles – chattering away like he was addressing a persnickety phone operator.

"Yes, that's right. I need to speak to Lucifer. Patch me through as quick as you can. His address is 66th Morningstar, Nebula-Route 6... Please, it's very important. Tell him it's Raphael. I need him to–" Crowley stopped, frowning into the white light. "Right, fine. Look, I really don't see what's so difficult about this. Lucifer. L-U-C-I..."

The Metatron, whose head Aziraphale could now see in the centre of the circle, his face creased with frustration and impatience, irately bellowed, "IS THIS A JOKE?"

Aziraphale raced over, stationing himself in front of Crowley protectively. "That's right, you got us. Jokers. Prank call, what." He pumped a fist in the air. "Heh. Jolly good."

"But this isn't a prank," snapped Crowley. "I'm already incredibly late for work, you know. Not to mention stranded on a godforsaken molten rock in the middle of nowhere. I need Lucifer to come and get me."

"You really don't," Aziraphale bleated in an awkward squeak over his shoulder as he frantically tried to blow out as many candles as possible, chest heaving and breath puffing out in short anxious spurts. "Trust me." The candles out, he began waving at the vanishing head of the Metatron. "Good-bye. Yes, that's it. Have a nice day."

"What did you have to go and do that for?" hissed Crowley.

"Me?" spluttered Aziraphale. "Are you insane? Do you know what they could–" That was just it, though, wasn't it? Crowley didn't know. "Come this way, my dear. You and I need to have a little talk."

"So, let me see if I've got this right," Raphael said slowly, scooting to the edge of the couch Aziraphale had guided him over to before beginning to tell the most outrageous story he'd ever heard in his life. "You're saying there was a rebellion – up in Heaven. Big war, lots of celestial carnage and bam bam bam..." He chopped a hand through the air for dramatic effect. "And I literally got kicked out of Heaven for being on the wrong side?"

"That's right," said the Principality miserably. "And that is only the start of what you seem to have inexplicably forgotten."

"No..." He shivered and shook his head. "No. I wouldn't. I wouldn't."

Aziraphale winced. "You did, though."

"There has to be some mistake." Raphael mentally ran through a list of angels he knew would vouch for him. Jeremiel. Islington. Lucifer. "Ask Lucifer if you don't believe me. He knows I would never–" Why was Aziraphale looking at him like that? "What?"

"Erm, well, Lucifer's the one who started the rebellion."

"But he's such a sweet guy!" Raphael cried. "We just went to Alpha Centauri together last weekend. Just decided to run away for a couple days. He seemed fine then."

"Wait." Aziraphale looked offended. "You went to Alpha Centauri with Lucifer?"

"Yes, Alpha Centauri. Lucifer. Keep up. Read my lips."

"You. Went. To. Alpha. Centauri. With. Lucifer."

"Stop parroting me!" Raphael whined. "Can't you see I'm languishing in despair over here?"

"Funny how you never actually mentioned that to me before." The skin around Aziraphale's mouth had tightened considerably, and his eyes were narrowed. "You wanted me to run away with you to some place you'd already been with Satan? Do you take all your best friends there?"

"What are you going on about?"

He sighed. "Never mind. The thing is, Cro–"

Raphael coughed pointedly.

"The thing is..." He sighed again. "The thing is that wasn't last weekend. It was over six thousand years ago. I'm so sorry."

"No. I can't... I can't accept that."

"You don't have a choice. Lucifer isn't... He isn't like you're remembering him. He's changed."

"And I'm not an angel?"

"No, my dear, I'm sorry."

"But that's stupid. What am I, then? An aardvark?"

"A demon."

"That sounds bad."

"You seem to manage it all right, usually."

Raphael wanted to stand up and pace circles around the couch and around the Principality's chair. If his feet weren't still hurting so much he'd have done so.

"Is that why I can't do miracles? I'm powerless now that this rebellion has–"

"Oh, no, no, you have powers," Aziraphale assured him. "They're just occult. You'd use them differently, I suppose. I never really asked..."

"I wish to God you had," sighed Raphael. "I could really use that information right about now. So. I take it we're not strangers after all? How long have we known each other?"

"Oh, since the beginning of the earth – Garden of Eden. We met right on the gate. It's been around six thousand years since that happened, too."

"You know, the crazy thing is, if my next meeting at Headquarters went according to plan, I was supposed to take over Gabriel's position next week. Retire from the star-making for a couple millennia. Well, I suppose it isn't next week, really, but for me it..." Raphael sniffed.

"Oh, goodness, you would have been my boss!" exclaimed Aziraphale.

"What do I do now?"

"Now you have a bath and then let me take you out to breakfast." The Principality rose from his place and gestured in the direction of the lavatory. "There's balm for your feet and I've laid your clothes out."

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

When Crowley did not reemerge from the lavatory after a considerable amount of time (they were going to have to settle for Lunch instead of Breakfast at this point, in all probability), Aziraphale decided to check on him.

He opened the door a crack, and was just about to announce himself, halting upon catching sight of what was easily the saddest, most pitiful thing he'd ever seen.

Crowley was sitting in the tub with his knees drawn to his chest, leaning forward with his dripping chin resting on the left kneecap. His wings were out, half hanging over the side, a few feathers trailing in the water.

Unaware he was being observed, the demon reached up and wiped the side of his nose with the back of his wrist.

He's been crying, poor thing, Aziraphale thought, and hastily withdrew.

Seeing one of God's creatures in such a miserable state made his chest clench. The least he could do was not humiliate the distressed soul by drawing attention to it. He wanted so badly to comfort him – to comfort whatever small piece of the Crowley he knew was left in there – but he was wise enough to know there are some things it's more dignified to allow a person to face on their own, some interventions that do more harm than good.

Crowley need never know he'd seen him like this.

Though, if he took the notion, he might wonder why the water, which had been steadily growing colder, was suddenly as warm as a friendly embrace.

Raphael barely touched the food at their table, though he had nothing but positive things to say about it, too preoccupied with scribbling out an urgent list onto a napkin and tapping Aziraphale – who had to swallow whatever mouthful of food he'd just taken a bite of – on the shoulder to ask him about the last name he'd added.

Aziraphale looked at the name and shook his head. "I don't know any Ramiel, either, I'm sorry."

"I suppose he's a demon now, too?"

"Could be. Who else have you come up with?" Aziraphale tilted the napkin towards himself. "Who's 'Little Skippy Angel With The Dingy Halo'?"

"I don't know his name," Raphael admitted. "He says good morning to me sometimes. He covered for me once when I was late." His brow furrowed. "Badly, mind you. Sandalphon hit us both for making him look bad. But the thought was there."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Aziraphale sighed, shifting uncomfortably and returning the napkin to Raphael as he visibly arrived at rather a tragic conclusion. "But...well...are...that is were...any of these angels actually your friends?"

Raphael felt his cheeks grow hot. He tugged at his collar. "M'sure they were. Must have been."

They sat in strained silence until the bill arrived. Raphael swallowed some tea and poked absently with his fork at a slice of apple pie. He ate some of the filling and left behind the crust.

Because Crowley didn't remember he had a Bentley, or – in all likelihood – what a Bentley even was, and Aziraphale had never driven a vehicle in his life, they'd taken a bus which – on the route back – stopped a few streets shy of the bookshop.

As they walked along the pavement, Crowley paused under a swinging wooden sign that read R.C. Tailoring & Alterations.

Craning his neck he stared at it before turning back to Aziraphale. "You don't happen to have any earthly currency leftover from lunch? I'd pay you back."

"You want new clothes?"

He nodded earnestly.

"But you never buy clothes," Aziraphale said quietly. Seeing Crowley emerge from the lavatory looking – at least a little – like his old, proper self, save for the tartan collar and missing sunglasses, had been the only stability in his day thus far. He knew it was silly feel put out over 'Raphael' wanting to take that away from him, but he couldn't help it.

"The hideous eyes are bad enough. Please let me have this, Aziraphale, I look like a criminal."

No, you look like my best friend. "They're not hideous." But he agreed to give him the money – of course he did.

Aziraphale followed him in and sat on a painted iron-grate bench while his friend was measured and a handful of light-coloured suit pieces and scarves were carried in by the tailor's gangly, flat-chested assistants.

"It's the best we can do if you must have something today," the tailor said, a smidgen disapprovingly, pulling back the curtain for Crowley to step out. "We can do further alternations in the future, though."

Aziraphale, rising to his feet, recoiled when he saw Crowley properly.

"I didn't think I looked that bad." The demon glanced down at the business-causal powder-blue suit self-consciously.

"You don't look bad, Crowley," Aziraphale managed weakly, wringing his hands. "You just reminded me of Gabriel for a moment there. He dresses similarly." It was off-putting, that was all.

"How many times must I remind you my name is not Crowley?"

"Evidently at least once more, my dear," he replied glumly.

"Oh, don't be upset with me, good angel." It was amazing how the inclusion of 'good' so drastically changed the former endearment into something almost meaningless. "I'm sorry to be harsh," he went on, struggling to make amends, "I'm just sensitive about my appearance right now. When I find out who cut off all my hair, I'm–"

"You made it shorter."

"Oh. Right then." He motioned at the snake tattoo on the side of his face. "Well, when did I get this done?"

"You've had that a long time – I can't really picture you without it."

"Clearly the fall from Heaven damaged whatever was left of my common sense," he groused. "Not to mention any good taste I might have had."

"You didn't fall," sighed Aziraphale wistfully. "You just sauntered vaguely downwards."

Raphael was proud of the canopied fort he'd constructed in the middle of his flat's lounge.

Given the fact that he supposedly could never return to Heaven, he thought maybe he'd just live in it from now on and wait for the end of the world. He'd perked up some when – on the way to the building – Aziraphale had pointed out the beautiful black car on the curb and told him it was his. Delighted, he'd even made a corny joke about how he could just sit in the driver's seat and honk the horn to signal the end of the world whenever it came around.

Now, however, he was beginning to feel melancholy again.

He tried to distract himself with the only book he found in the entire flat and had brought with him into the fort on the off chance he wanted to peruse it: The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy. He was glad it had a lot of pictures – Raphael, despite his love of creating things, had a secret tendency towards laziness that disinclined him, at times, towards reading.

"Hello again. Just me." Aziraphale, holding a decanter and two glasses, slipped under the canopy with a shocked expression on his face. "You built this in the three minutes I was gone?"

Raphael beamed, looking up from the page he'd been mulling over. The praise of a fellow angel made him feel better. "Oh, this is nothing. I like making things. You should see what I did to my office–" He broke off, stricken. "Oh no. My office. It's been six thousand years, right? They'll have... Ugh! I hate them all, damn them. You should have seen it. I had a big neon sign with my name on it over my desk."

"Neon. Impressive," said Aziraphale, not as if it really were.

"Well, actually some of the letters burned out, so technically it said RAL, but the design was good."

"Good heavens." Aziraphale's eyes darted about the length of the fort. "It's bigger on the inside."

"What is?"

"Your fort."

"Oh. Yeah. Pretty amazing, right?"

"Indeed. But I thought you couldn't use your powers."

"I didn't," he said brightly. "I'm just that good."

"And so modest." Aziraphale eased down onto a cushion and set the decanter between the pair of them. "Here. Let me see your feet before I pour the wine."

Raphael pulled a pair of dark socks off his bandaged feet. He peeled back the bandages. "They're a lot better now – thank you."

"Wriggle your toes for me." The angel leaned over and began to rub his foot and assess, by feel, how it was healing. "There. I still can't believe you tried to enter a church. It's consecrated ground; you're a demon."

"I didn't know that."

"I wish we knew what happened," Aziraphale lamented, gently digging his thumb into the arch of Raphael's left foot once more for good measure before letting it drop back onto the nearest cushion. "Then perhaps we could fix this."

"Fix it?" Raphael propped himself up onto his elbows. "How? Like, get my memories back, you mean?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"See, I've been thinking about that – a lot." He smiled shakily, turning a page he hadn't actually looked at yet. "I'm not sure I want them back."

"You don't?"

"If you'd committed a bad sin, wouldn't you want to forget it?"

"Oh, Crowley..."

Sitting all the way up, Raphael dragged the heavy book into his lap, made a show of focusing all his attention on it as if he were alone in the fort, and sang, "La, la, la..." pointedly, refusing to acknowledge his companion until he realised his mistake.

"Raphael," he amended, but as if it galled him.

"Yes?" he replied, with exaggerated sweetness.

"What you did–"

"It's different for you, Aziraphale." He closed the book and set it down beside him. "You didn't pick the wrong side."

"Only I'm not in Heaven's good books, either." He lifted the crystal stopper out of the decanter and began to pour wine into the glasses. "Not any more. It's just us, you and me. We don't have sides here."

Raphael took the glass Aziraphale offered him. "Thank you. So what you're telling me is I'm stuck here – with just you – forever?"

"You don't have to put it like that," he said, hurt.

"I'm sorry, I simply meant–"

"I forgive you."

"All right." Raphael felt like he'd been backed into a corner – he wanted to keep going, only it was wrong to reject an offer of forgiveness. "But why didn't you let me finish?"

"Because I can't cope with any imaginable way you were going to end that sentence, and it's cruel of you to ask me to."

They drank for a while, subdued, then, a bit more merry as the alcohol entered their bloodstreams, began to laugh and share stories as if the previous coldness between them had never occurred.

Until, that is, Raphael drunkenly launched into a tale of one of his and Lucifer's escapades up in heaven. "Gabriel was furious," he slurred. "Just furious. So...wait, listen...you'll like this bit...it's too good... Listen." He burped, then barrelled ahead, wholly ignorant to the minefield he was approaching. "We had to come up with something...and we totally blamed it on this random Principality. Sucker." He gave Aziraphale a friendly nudge with his elbow, accidentally sloshing his wineglass so that a few deep-red drops stained the front of the angel's shirt. "You should have seen the look on–"

"Thank you," said Aziraphale darkly, looking angrier than Raphael had yet seen him.

"Oh." Raphael appeared to suddenly realise who he was talking to. "Come on. Don't tell me that was you."

"Right. M'going to sober up." The decanter refilled halfway and Aziraphale crawled over a pile of blankets towards the edge of the canopy to let himself out. The spilled wine on his shirt had flowered out slightly, looking for all the world like little bloody bullet wounds on the angel's chest. "I'm going back to the bookshop. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait, hang on. You don't have to go. Don't–" Raphael tried to go after him but was unable to recall the process it took to remove the alcohol from his material body and thus was still so drunk he fell forward, flat on his face.

A/N: Yes, those references to Doctor Who and Neverwhere were deliberate.

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