Crowley sat on the rug in front of the fire, feet splayed out in front of himself, arms hooked around his knees as he stared into the flames. His flat was otherwise dark, except a bit of moonlight coming through the window, and the flickering light had a hypnotic effect. Crowley's thoughts swirled around, contemplating the events that had led him to this moment. Back on New Year's Day, cuddled up beneath a blanket on the cottage sofa with Azariah lying on his chest, Crowley had heard the librarian say, just a bit tentatively, "You know, when you called me angel? … I liked that." Then last night, when Azariah had come over after work and he'd fucked him against the tiled wall of his overlarge shower, Crowley had let it happen again. "Ngk, angel, you feel so good—" He'd gasped it into the crook of Azariah's neck, and Azariah's fingers had clenched tight around his own, pressed against the tiles.

When they'd gone to bed, Crowley found he could not sleep. He stared up into the blackness long after Azariah's breathing had gone rhythmic and slow, until he couldn't take it anymore. He'd gotten up and crept to the door, cracked it open, and squeezed out. But something made Crowley look back, and in the low, amber illumination of a streetlight spilling in from outside, he saw Azariah, sleeping peacefully, tangled up in the black silk sheets, his curls mussed against the pillow. Crowley's chest ached, and he shut the door.

The fire stared back at Crowley, and seemed to say, what have you done? He did not regret sleeping with Azariah. He did not even regret calling him angel, and it was the lack of regret that hurt and confused him all the more. He was still absolutely convinced that Aziraphale was locked inside Azariah somewhere. He was still sure that, fundamentally, they were the same person— but in lived reality, which was the only thing that really counted? Azariah had his own existence. The how of that still ate at Crowley, but he was no closer to coming up with an answer than he had been the first time he'd walked into the London Library. He'd already divided his life into Aziraphale and After Aziraphale before meeting Azariah, and now the eras were breaking down.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder, and saw the tartan scarf, barely illuminated by the fire, hanging on its hook by the door. Aziraphale would want him to be warm. Aziraphale would want him to be happy. But would the angel want him to stop trying to find him? Would he forgive Crowley for letting him live out his existence as a human? Did it matter? Of course it mattered. He sighed deeply and dropped his head to his arms. Compartmentalization expert or not, Crowley had gotten in too deep to avoid these questions now. Could it be as easy as simply deciding to be happy? Could he be just Anthony, leave it all behind, and move on to an entirely new way of living? His eyes prickled behind their closed lids.

"Anthony?"

Crowley's head jerked up, and he looked back towards the bedroom. Azariah had appeared from around the corner. He'd pulled on one of Crowley's black silk dressing gowns, which was comically long in the arms for him, but it made Crowley smile wanly. He stretched out a hand to Azariah, who crossed over to him and took it.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and Crowley nodded.

"Yeah. Just couldn't sleep." Azariah sank down to the rug behind Crowley and wrapped his arms around him from behind. Crowley scooted back as the librarian pulled him to his chest, and the arms wrapped around him made him feel safe. He hooked one of his hands around Azariah's forearm as it crossed across his chest, but could not stop the tremble in his breath as he inhaled deeply.

"Something's bothering you." It wasn't a question, murmured softly into Crowley's hair. He didn't reply, not trusting his voice. "Is it— were you thinking about— the person you lost?" Azariah asked, haltingly, as if trying to find the right words. After he'd given the story to Azariah that time in the park, the librarian had never asked Crowley about it. But it had always hovered beneath the surface, and just as then, Crowley told the truth.

"Yes." He couldn't stop it then, the prickling grew too strong, his next breath was a short gasp, and the next thing he knew Azariah was holding him tight with one arm while the other hand stroked his hair, rocking him gently as he sobbed, the tears cutting salt-fire tracks down his cheeks. The duplicity he'd been holding in for so long forced itself out of Crowley in weeping, the release of a tension so unbearable he hadn't even realised how much it hurt.

"Shhhhh, shhhh," Azariah soothed, and eventually Crowley quietened under the gentle passage of the librarian's fingers through his hair. Empty, he slumped back against Azariah's shoulder. For a moment the crackling of the fire was the only sound, until Azariah murmured, "Better?" Crowley could not find his voice, but nodded slightly. Azariah tilted his head down to touch a light kiss to Crowley's damp cheekbone, before wrapping both arms back around him. "You can grieve with me, Anthony," he said, hugging Crowley a little tighter to his chest, "You don't have to keep it locked inside."

Crowley closed his eyes. He had grieved. He had grieved Aziraphale, and begun to move past it, when his angel had reappeared, and not known him. How could he continue to grieve with the object of his grief was here, warm and alive, and holding him? How did you grieve the death of one relationship, while beginning another? Even as the questions circled like crows, he realized that his body had relaxed, and his mind was sinking towards sleep.

"Come back to bed," Azariah's voice coaxed softly in his ear. Crowley allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and back to the warm, dark cocoon where dreamless slumber finally claimed him in Azariah's arms.

Crowley awoke to the smell of tea, and the depression of his side of the bed as something sank onto it. He'd been sleeping on his stomach, and opened his eyes to see the mug that had just been placed on the nightstand, then rolled over onto his back, to see Azariah sitting beside him.

"Good morning," Azariah smiled, "or afternoon, as the case may be."

"Hnggggg," Crowley replied, laying a forearm dramatically across his eyes, before wriggling up high enough in the bed to sit with his back against the headboard.He lifted the cup of tea with one hand, and the other found Azariah's which had moved up to rest on Crowley's leg. Crowley took a long drink of the tea (which, he noticed, had been well sugared) with closed eyes, and allowed its comforting warmth to seep into him before opening them again.

"Thank you," he said, and it was clear he meant for more than the tea. Azariah lifted his hand and kissed the knuckles softly. Crowley took another sip of tea, then set the cup back down. "I want to take you somewhere today."

"Oh?"

"Yes." The idea had come to Crowley on its own, and he was certain it was right. "It's not far."

They had a leisurely breakfast— if you could call tea and biscuits breakfast, for Crowley still hadn't gotten around to stocking his flat with anything substantial, which Azariah put down to bachelor laziness. Then, bundling up against the cold, they set off into the streets of SoHo. It was still early in the new year and a bit of holiday spirit lingered in the air, making them chipper as they walked, hand in hand, talking aimlessly. Until finally Crowley halted on a street corner, and gestured to the building across the road.

"There." Azariah looked up, and his mouth fell open in surprise.

"A. Z. Fell & Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books," he said in amazement, "How odd! Is this your friend's shop?"

"Yes," Crowley said and, spotting a break in the traffic, led the way across the road. He pulled open the door, the bell rang, and Muriel turned around.

"Mister Crowley!" they cried, rushing over to greet him, "You've been away ever so long! And who's this?" They turned to Azariah expectantly.

Upon entering the neighbourhood, Crowley had a performed a miracle. He knew it had risk, but he didn't care. He was not prepared to deal with the waves of recognition washing through Whickber street at the sight of the mysteriously vanished Mr. Fell, but he needed to bring Azariah to the bookshop. If any place was going to jar him into recovering his memories, it was here. And if not, well, Azariah would love it. Much like the miracle he and Aziraphale had jointly performed upon Gabriel, Crowley had made it so that anyone who would have recognized Aziraphale now felt only a vague sense of familiarity with Azariah, which could easily be explained away.

"Azariah Feld," the librarian reached out to shake Muriel's hand, which they did enthusiastically, having learned about the gesture a week or so after taking over management of the bookshop.

"Well that's odd isn't it, very like Mister Fell's name! I'm Muriel by the way."

"Yes, I thought so myself! Lovely to meet you, Muriel." Azariah laughed, then finally looked up and around at the bookshop itself. As if an invisible hand had pulled him, he paced into the centre of the room beneath the upper gallery, rotating on the spot as he took in all the shelves and their piled-high books. "How extraordinary," he said quietly, pulling off his scarf. Crowley grinned.

"You can go back to your sudoku, Muriel," he said, leaning towards the angel, "I think we're going to be here a while." Muriel nodded brightly and scampered back to the desk. Azariah had started to wander off, and Crowley followed. He watched for any sign of recognition; a flash of light, a crackling of celestial fire, the beat of wings, a gleam in the blue eyes caused by something other than the feral love of books. But Azariah gave no such signs, and Crowley kept getting distracted by his soft, fervent cries of wonder at each new treasure he discovered on the shelves. When they made their way to the upper gallery and Azariah disappeared into a cluster of odd-shaped shelves, it was Crowley's turn to rotate on the spot, hands in his pockets, eyes roving over the bookshop.

The two times he'd come in here since meeting Azariah, it had been to quickly steal something and get out. Now he really looked at the place, and everywhere he looked, he saw ghosts of Aziraphale. Sitting at the desk below where Muriel now hunched; coming through the door in a whirl of snowflakes, crossing the carpet with a cup of tea in hand, appearing from among the stacks here on the gallery with some book or other in hand that he insisted Crowley must see; striding up the stairs to protest that Crowley was getting much too close to the ancient scrolls with his wine. He remembered the day the shop had opened, and how Aziraphale had invited him in without ceremony, as if an angel welcoming a demon into his home were the most ordinary thing in the world. He remembered how over time the bookshop had become his home too, though he'd never lived here, and how Aziraphale had always believed he was good, deep down.

"Azi," Crowley called, glancing up in the direction he'd last seen Azariah go, "I'm just going to check on something with Muriel, okay?"

"Yes, lovely!" Azariah called back, clearly preoccupied with some tome or other. The corner of Crowley's lips tugged up, and he trotted back downstairs. But he did not go talk to Muriel; he instead proceeded across the floor and to a different set of stairs, leading up to the private area above the shop.

Aziraphale's flat was just as he had left it, and just as Crowley had last seen it, the day he'd taken the jacket. The very jacket he was wearing, in fact, and as he thought of it his hand pressed against his stomach in an echo of the gesture he'd used to miracle it black. He moved slowly through the rooms, letting his gaze travel over every inch. The ghosts were fainter here, for he'd not spent as much time in the flat, but the sense of Aziraphale was everywhere. Where it imbued the jacket from the inside, like an extra lining, here it was in the air, and Crowley breathed deep. Last of all, he pushed open the door to the bedroom. Aziraphale had never slept much, preferring to use the hours to read, or draw, or other such productive things, but he'd kept the tidy room with its quilt-covered bed, chests of drawers, chairs before the fireplace, and of course, books. Crowley stood in the centre of the room for a long time, until a voice came from behind him.

"He wasn't just your friend, was he?"

Azariah's question hung on the air without judgement. Crowley shook his head.

"No."

The floorboards creaked as Azariah moved across them. He slipped his arms around Crowley and embraced him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.

"Thank you for bringing me here."