Crowley gaped. This was clearly Aziraphale, but at the same time, it was absolutely not Aziraphale. There was no angelic aura, no bell of recognition, and most ominously and obviously, no memories. For all appearances, the person behind the desk was an ordinary, bookish, bespectacled, slightly stout middle-aged man with white-blond hair going just faintly grey at the temples. Internally scrambling, Crowley, clamped his jaw shut, struggling to respond.
"Erm, er, yeah, hi, er—" he cast about wildly for some reason to have come into the library. "Do you— do you have any books by Jane Austen?"
"Oh, but of course!" The man behind the counter brightened and smiled broadly, "We have all her books, collected proceedings of her titular society, and a number of manuscripts. And a great deal of literary criticism, of course. What are you interested in?"
"I, er," Crowley fiddled with the keys in his pocket, dropping his eyes to avoid the bright blue ones that seemed to bore into his soul, never gladder of the sunglasses that hid him from the world. "I've never read any of her books.
"Oh!" The man said, unable to completely hide his surprise, but clearly rapidly recalibrating his approach to the odd person who had come up to his desk. "Well, you've come to the right person then. I'm the literature librarian here, so I can take you right to them. Are you a member with the library?"
"No," Crowley replied automatically, his brain moving far too slowly to realize that he could have miracled himself a membership.
"Oh, well that's alright," the librarian looked over his shoulder with obviously feigned furtiveness before gesturing Crowley towards the old-fashioned wooden gates that divided reception from the rest of the library, "I can sneak you in, you'll just have to join if you want to borrow anything. Sandra!" he called across to the other side of the desk, "I'm just going to help this gentleman. Thanks."
Crowley pushed open the gate and passed through, as Not-Aziraphale slipped out from behind the desk. With a smile and a beckoning motion, the librarian indicated that he should follow, and Crowley did as he was bidden. As they moved away from reception and into the quiet area of the ground floor, Crowley was grateful for the silence that libraries demanded: rather than having to engage in further small talk as they walked, his mind now raced, still trying to parse was the heaven was going on. Had Aziraphale been made human? If so, by whom? If he wasn't Supreme Archangel anymore, who was leading Heaven? If he'd been removed, why would they make him human and dump him here, rather than demoting him or locking him up? If he'd rebelled, why hadn't he Fallen, or been wiped from the Book of Life? Had he pulled a Gabriel, ripping out his own memories, and come here to hide? What if—
"Ah, here we are!" the librarian exclaimed softly, indicating a row of shelves. Crowley blinked, and realized that they were in an entirely different part of the library now. This area was carpeted in that late-Victorian fashion that indicated how richly colored and expensively piled it once had been, despite being trodden to near oblivion in the ensuing decades, and its stacks were all towering bookcase of dark, polished oak. The striped jumper had already turned down the row, and Crowley hastened to follow. Not-Aziraphale halted about midway down the row, and pointed to a shelf just about waist-high.
"These editions of Austen's novels are absolutely lovely, I would highly recommend them for a first-time reader. Do you know where you want to start?" he looked back at Crowley, who shook his head mutely. "Ah, well, Pride and Prejudice is the classic for first timers, but it's so popular you probably already have an idea of the story. Now," Crowley decided not to reveal that he had no idea what Pride and Prejudice was about, and in fact had not known that Austen even wrote novels until a couple of years ago, as the librarian's finger skimmed over the top of the spines.
"Ah! Here." The finger stopped, then came down on top of the book over which it hovered, and pulled it delicately from the shelf. The librarian looked at it fondly, then turned and held it out to Crowley. "This one's my favorite." Crowley took the book and looked down at it. The covers were a dark, piney green, thin leather with silver-lettered script that read: Persuasion.
"Thanks," Crowley said, finally finding his voice again. "Is it, er, alright if I look around a bit?" He gestured vaguely with the book, and the librarian smiled.
"Of course! Just follow the signs back to reception when you're ready to leave. All ok?" Crowley nodded, and the man who was not Aziraphale gave a little bob of his head and vanished in a trail of soft footsteps, as readily as if the library had swallowed him up.
Crowley slumped back against the shelves behind him, suddenly weak in the knees. His head felt like it was spinning, and his vision blurred. Frantically he ripped off his glasses and rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut against the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. He could hear his own slightly ragged breathing, feel the rapid, fluttering beats of his heart. His chest felt tight, sweat beaded on his skin, and in that empty place in his chest that had so lately scabbed over, he could feel the roaring threat of an open wound.
At the end of the row there was a window. Crowley dashed to it, seized the lifts, and threw it open, gulping in deep breaths crisp air as it rushed in. He leaned upon the stool, practically hanging out the window. Slowly his dizziness cleared, heartrate returning to normal, and the cool breeze dried the sweat on his brow. Crowley shivered suddenly, and the motion brought him fully back to reality. He didn't know how long he'd stood in the window, but it had been long enough to chill him. With much less haste now, he raised his hands to close the window, before turning back into the row. Both the book and his glasses lay on the ground, abandoned in his rush to the window, and he retrieved them, carefully threading the latter back onto his face.
The book felt warm in Crowley's hands, and with the window closed again, the general warmth of the library itself impressed itself upon him. It was a warmth not just of radiators and gas central heating, but of the closeness of the stacks and the countless volumes they held. The light, too, made it warm: this library hadn't succumbed to the modern trend of putting in bright white tubes to keep their readers awake, but retained a softer amber glow. And in this section, Crowley observed as he walked slowly out of the row, the antique fixtures had been preserved by some fastidious, no doubt a bit fanciful, caretaker, and their bulbs gave off a deep-hued radiance that scarcely illuminated the stacks beyond dim. Though he had no memory of climbing any stairs, Crowley realized that he was in fact on a gallery, and on the floor below, visible over the wrought-iron railing before him, was a reading room. A jumbled mix of comfortable chairs, desks, and low tables, its lamps were brighter, but not enough to jar. The whole place was cozy, comforting, and lost to time.
And somewhere, among these tens of thousands of books, Crowley wondered as he rotated on the spot, taking in the whole section of the library in which he found himself, might be a book that contained Aziraphale's memories. There was no way of knowing, but it wasn't a chance Crowley was willing to let pass by. Somehow, he'd have to find it. If it was here, he would find it, and restore Aziraphale to himself. And if it wasn't? If there was no book? Crowley shook his head. He could neither think about that nor find the book right now. He had to get out of here, clear his head, and decide exactly what to do. As much as his mind screamed at him not to walk away from Aziraphale now, he'd found him. He'd found him, and he wasn't going to let him go.
It took Crowley longer than he'd expected to make his way back down to reception, as apparently it had been quite a winding journey through the library to arrive at the part of Literature where Austen resided, and he had, of course, not remembered a bit of it. Not-Aziraphale had told him to follow the signs, but the tiny gold plaques affixed to the walls frequently seemed to hide themselves away, and the library had been there long enough and gone through enough changes that it was a maze of stacks, reading rooms, corridors, and staircases that traversed the eras of every monarch from Victoria to now. But finally he did reach reception, and when he approached the desk, the librarian was there waiting.
"Just the one, then?" he asked brightly as Crowley raised Persuasion sheepishly to his shoulder. "It can all be a bit overwhelming at first, I understand, But I'm glad you've had a chance to look around! Now, let's get you sorted out." Crowley filled in the membership forms that would allow him to borrow the book, and exchanged pleasantries with the librarian. On his extended journey back to reception, he'd had a chance to calm down a bit, and determine how to get a piece of information out of him.
"You've been so helpful today, thanks so much," Crowley said smoothly, taking both book and newly-printed library card as the librarian handed them across the desk, "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again. What was your name?"
"Oh, no trouble. Azariah Feld." Even from behind the sunglasses, the librarian took in the ripple of surprise that crossed Crowley's face, and gave a good-humoured grimace. "It's a bit of a mouthful, I know. Most people call me Azi." Crowley cursed his lack of control, but before he could open his mouth to say that no that hadn't been it at all, the librarian went on. "And you?"
"What?"
"Oh, your name. If you don't mind. Sandra processes the forms and I try not to be nosy, but since we'll be seeing you—"
"Oh, right. Crowley," Crowley said, then backpedaled on himself. "That is, Anthony Crowley. But everyone just calls me Crowley."
"Lovely to meet you." The librarian reached across the desk, and Crowley took his hand. They shook firmly, then let go, the most mundane of actions between two strangers. Crowley turned away and pulled open the door to leave, stepping out into the darkening square. As the door swung shut behind him, it was to a cheerful, haunting call from within.
"Good night Crowley, come back soon!"
