"Wha— what was that?"
No, no, nonono NO, not like this, not now, not here!
Crowley panicked. He snapped his fingers.
Instantly he and Azariah were transported into the living room of the cottage, where Tug screeched and fled up the stairs, and Azariah staggered back, stunned.
"What the fuck?" Azarah choked, turning on the spot unbelievingly, "What just happened? How the hell did you do that? What is going on, Anthony?!" Crowley threw the book he'd just mended down on the sofa and turned away, slapping his hands to his face, clutching his hair in his fingers. His mind was buzzing, he couldn't think, he felt sick. He was aware of Azariah's voice in the background as he continued to demand answers, but Crowley couldn't make out the words. Then through the haze, Azariah's hands clamped onto either side of Crowley's arms and shook him.
"Anthony! Answer me!"
Crowley's eyes focused Azariah's face. The librarian's features were shocked, angry, and fearful, but underneath was the care that never faded. Crowley looked at him miserably, the heart heavy in his chest. Everything was about to go wrong, and he'd done it to himself. He could see no other way forward now.
"I'm not who you think I am," Crowley said, and his voice shook. "I'm not— I'm not what you think I am. I— there's no good way to say this, there never was, that's why I haven— nnggggh." Crowley ducked his head, swallowing hard, then looked back into Azariah's eyes. "I'm a demon."
"A what?" Crowley cleared his throat.
"A demon."
"No," Azariah's hands released Crowley's arms.
"Yes."
"Demons don't exist," Azariah backed away, and Crowley turned to face him.
"I assure you we do."
"Demons aren't real, Anthony! Angels, demons, heaven, hell— load of old tosh, all of it!"
"Azi, listen, you've got to believe me," Crowley followed the librarian around to the back of the couch, "I know atheism is popular these days but it's all real, all of it. I'm a demon, and you—"
"Is this some condition you haven't told me about? Are you having a delusion?"
"No, and if I was, how do you explain that?" Crowley jabbed his finger at the book. "You saw it, you saw me mend it. And how we got here? Look, I know this is hard—"
"Hard? Anthony, you're telling me you aren't human, that demons are real, that magic is real—"
"Miracles."
"What?"
"Miracles, not magic," Crowley gripped the back of the sofa in one clenched hand, looking down at his toes. "What I can do, they're miracles. Demons, well," he gestured vaguely at the ceiling, spinning one finger around, "Fallen angels, y'know."
"Miracles."
"Yes. And you—"
"I what?"
"You," Crowley gritted his teeth, "you, you are an angel."
Absolute silence reigned. There was no crackling of flames, and even the clock seemed to have gone quiet. Crowley finally looked up at Azariah again, and his stomach turned. The expression on his face was indescribable, something between fear and disgust and rage.
"It's true," Crowley whispered, "Please, believe me. You are an angel. Your name is Aziraphale, you've lost your memories but I swear it's true."
"You're insane."
"No!" Crowley shouted, spurred to action by Azariah's flat statement, "no, look, I can prove it." He leaned over the sofa and seized the book, frantically flipping through it until he found the page. "Look, look here," he shoved the book towards Azariah, who retreated around the sofa, but Crowley followed, "it's right here! Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, look at the illustration."
"That doesn't look anything like me."
"Yes it does, just look at it Azi, look! You haven't even looked!"
"Yes I have."
"No you haven't—" Crowley stopped short, staring at Azariah. "Something's stopping you from looking properly."
"No, you're just talking nonsense!"
"No, no, something's stopping you." Crowley slammed the book shut and threw it aside again. "I don't know what it is, but it has to have something to do with your memories being gone. Listen to me, Aziraphale—"
"Don't call me that, that's not my name."
"But it is, it is, I need you to remember," Crowley pleaded, "Azi, Azariah, before I met you in the library, we'd known each other since before the Beginning, we were on earth together for six thousand years, and I thought I'd lost you, but then I found you in the library, I'vebeen searching for your memories in the books—" Crowley's jaw clamped shut suddenly at the look on Azariah's face.
"The books?" Azariah's voice trembled. "You've been searching the books for, for some set of lost memories to turn me into this Aziraphale?" Crowley said nothing. "Okay, so, say I do believe you," Azariah went on breathlessly, "Say all this is true and angels and demons are real and, and, all of it. Have you just been using me all this time?"
"No. No, I would never do that."
"Maybe you started coming into the library all the time to look through the books, but you stayed for me. Isn't that true?"
"Yes, but—"
"And you claim to have known me as this other person for thousands of years. But you didn't say anything, you just decided to come into my life and my home and let me fall for you under false pretences?"
"No, I—"
"And when you kiss me, when we're holding each other, when you call me angel—" Azariah's voice broke, but he forged on, "—are you thinking of him?" Crowley stared helplessly, not knowing how to answer. Azariah took a deep beath through his nose, putting his hands on his hips. "Have you ever used these "miracles" on me?"
"No," Crowley said at once, taking a step forward. "No, never. Only, just when we went to the bookshop, I made it so no one would recognize you, because…" He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Because why? Because it's my bookshop?"
"Yes." Silence fell again, brutal and agonizing. A wild, desperate idea came to Crowley. "I can prove it," he said, quietly at first, then shouted, "I can prove it! Let me show you!" He strode towards Azariah, arms outstretched; if he could just transfer those memories into his mind, he would see—
Azariah slapped his hands away.
"Don't touch me."
Crowley juddered to a halt, hands frozen in midair. His skin stung from the blow, and he felt as if his legs might fail. Azariah retreated again, this time to the stairs, rubbing his face. He turned sharply at the bottom step, gripping the railing.
"I need— I need some time. I need to think about this, to try and understand. I need to wrap my head around this." Azariah looked up, and a tear ran down his reddened face. "I love you, Anthony, but I need you to not be here right now."
"But—"
"Get out."
Crowley's arms fell to his sides. Slowly he straightened. Then, with a forlorn lift of one hand, vanished.