Interlude: Azariah
It was strange, being in Anthony's flat, but not being with him. Azariah's panic had been tamped down just below the surface by what had passed between he and Anthony, and, odd though it seemed after the betrayal, he knew the utter truth of the statement You are safe with me when Anthony had said it. He'd come here because he knew it was true, even if he hadn't realised it at the time. In his confusion and fear, Azariah had fled to the one person he could confide in about this, and the one place he knew he would be safe. He moved through the flat in a dreamlike state, his mind shying just far enough away from deep contemplation of the revelations he'd undergone to keep calm as he showered, changed, and generally readied himself for sleep.
In the bedroom, Azariah paused. He surveyed the bed, still mussed from the last morning he'd been here, and the dressing gowns, still where he and Anthony had left them. His things were still on the nightstand, just as he'd placed them. The only thing different was a towel on the floor near the wardrobe. Everything else seemed frozen in time, like he'd only just walked out the door. Azariah circled around to his side of the bed, and slipped inside, straightening the covers around himself. Then abruptly, got out again: he collected the two dressing gowns, and hung them up. He knew he would never be able to get to sleep with them staring at him. Azariah climbed back into the bed, and turned out his lamp, immediately plunged into the room's total darkness. He closed his eyes.
Quite a while later, Azariah sighed, and opened his eyes. He could not sleep. He wasn't entirely surprised; he had plenty of reasons to be preoccupied. He'd tossed and turned and tried every which way to get comfortable and convince his mind and body that they were tired enough to overcome everything else at fall asleep, but all his tactics had failed. Finally, he gave up, switched on the lamp, and threw back to covers. Alternate remedies were needed. Azariah opened the door and padded silently out towards the kitchen. The fire was burning, as it always did, and he could just see Anthony's legs poking out from his chair.
"Anthony?" Azariah called softly as he crossed into the living room. But when he came around to the front of the chairs, he saw Anthony fast asleep, head lolling to the side against the high wing of his chair. A smile crept across his lips of its own accord, and he turned back towards the kitchen. So much for not needing to sleep. Azariah boiled the kettle, casting glances back towards the fire to see if the noise had awakened Anthony, but there was not a stir nor a peep from the chair. He stirred a generous amount of hot chocolate powder into his hot water, and glanced at the sink. The mugs he and Anthony had used on that last morning were still there, making rings in the sink, the thin coating of tea that had been left on them turning to dust. Azariah paused, his used spoon hovering in midair. Then he replaced it in his mug, rather than putting it in the sink.With one final glance towards the fire, Azariah took himself and his chocolate back to bed, with hopeful thoughts of a warmth and sugar induced slumber.
Crowley awoke to morning sunshine and a crick in his neck. He straightened it with a grunt, then jumped up with a start as the memory of the previous night came back to him. He looked round sharply, but Azariah was nowhere to be seen. Crowley tiptoed towards the bedroom, and saw the door still closed. He checked his watch. On a normal day he'd have expected Azariah to be up and about by now, but it was hardly an ordinary day. Unsure what to do with himself, Crowley wandered the flat aimlessly, misting his plants, and catching them up on the news, in case they hadn't managed to overhear everything. He tidied up some things that had been scattered around. Peeking into the bathroom, he saw a crumpled pile of black clothing just outside the shower, and cringed. He'd left the things in there, and Azariah had conscientiously moved them out before his own shower last night. Crowley darted in and snatched them up, folding them hastily and shoving them into a desk drawer in his rarely-used office, to be dealt with later. Struck by a sudden though, he went to the kitchen, and retrieved the box full of Aziraphale's clothing. He hugged it to his chest as he took it back to the office, and put it on his desk.
Back in the living room, he finally picked up his phone, and miracled the damage to the wall and floor. He didn't bother to look at the phone yet, knowing it was just going to be full of messages and summonses he wasn't quite yet prepared to deal with. Crowley took up the glass of whiskey he'd poured and forgotten about, and went over to the sink to dump it out, but stopped, confronted by the two mugs. He set down the glass slowly, and put both his hands on the edge of the sink, considering the ceramic edifices within. Then, with an effort, Crowley washed the mugs.
Just as he was placing them in the dish drainer, he heard the bedroom door open, then the bathroom door close. Crowley grabbed the kettle and filled it, putting it on to boil as he emptied and rinsed the whiskey glass, then went to the sideboard and stoppered the abandoned bottle. By the time Azariah emerged, still in pyjama trousers, but having pulled on a shirt and jumper, Crowley had the tea made, and held out a mug as the librarian approached.
"Cuppa?"
"Thanks." Azariah accepted the mug gratefully, and together they moved to the small kitchen table along the wall that Crowley had acquired, once meals began to become a regular thing in his flat. Normally they'd have sat in the chairs before the fire first thing, but both seemed to feel that putting the stability of a table between them was the correct choice at the moment. They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping tea and orientating themselves in the strange situation they now inhabited. Crowley was the first to break the silence.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Not great, to be honest. Probably better than you, though." Crowley rubbed his sore neck, but didn't say anything. "It's just… a lot to try and comprehend."
"Yeah, I bet."
"It's like my head's too small," Azariah said, shaking the part in question, "Like there's all this empty space of things I can't remember, but it's somehow too little space to understand all this… angel and demon stuff."
"I s'pose that makes sense," Crowley fiddled with his mug, "Humans aren't supposed to have to understand it all."
"Am I human though?" Crowley looked up sharply at the tremor in Azariah's voice, and saw the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped his mug.
"I think you must be," Crowley answered, "I don't know how, but it really seems like you are. You haven't noticed yourself being able to do anything humans shouldn't, right? No strange, unexplained talents?"
"No. No, the only time I've even felt anything out of the ordinary was when I looked at that book about angelic beings, and when I tried to remember my past. I got this strange pain in my head," Azariah touched his temple lightly, "And when I found those clothes. They seemed so familiar, but I swear I've never seen them before. And the writing— the writing on the label, it's my handwriting." Crowley nodded. "What, how is that possible?"
"Hang on." Crowley got up and disappeared back to the office, returning a moment later with a small, leather-bound volume. It'd gone soft around the edges with age and use, but was still sturdy. He'd taken it from Aziraphale's desk. "Here," Crowley handed it to Azariah, "open it to any page. You don't have to read what's in it, you might not be ready for that, but look at the writing." With curious trepidation, Azariah opened the book at random, and glanced down.
November 10, 1827. Dear diary, today Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh
Azariah snapped the book shut and dropped it on the table. It was his handwriting filling the pages, pages that smelt of the time they'd been bound into the diary and ink that had faded with age, but impossibly dated. He stared at the book, then swallowed deliberately.
"Aziraphale's, I assume?"
"Yeah. Quite the dedicated diarist, actually. Guess it's one way to pass the time." Azariah exhaled deeply, ruffling his hair in distraction.
"And," he said suddenly, "the only other time I remember anything strange is when, well, when I first met you," Azariah's brows furrowed. "It was like you were familiar, somehow. I thought it was just that I found you attractive, but— could it have been that I knew you?"
"Could be," Crowley contemplated, letting the question of his attractiveness pass by, "could be that you were, er, predisposed to like me. I was you. Obviously." It was an awkward silence that fell this time. Crowley sat sideways on his chair, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together between them. His mind churned, trying to think how best to help Azariah now, what he should try to explain, how to deal with the ache in his chest.
"Can I ask you something?" Crowley's mental prevarications were interrupted by the librarian's voice, and he sat up straight.
"You can ask me anything you want."
"Well," Azariah took a breath, drumming his fingers on table, "demons are supposed to be— I mean, the word 'demon' is sort of analogous with evil, right?" Crowley nodded. "So— I mean—well, it just doesn't fit, Anthony!" Azariah burst out, "How're you meant to be evil?" Crowley let out a bark of laughter at that, tinged with bitterness.
"Did a pretty evil thing to you, didn't I?" Azariah's lips pursed. He didn't disagree, but he did say quietly,
"You weren't trying to."
"No," Crowley said, after a moment, "Seldom do, to be honest. Not about anything serious, anyway. Just take credit for the evil things humans come up with on their own, they're astonishingly good at it. Oh but selfies, that was me. Can't go anywhere these days without tripping over tourists taking selfies. Well, and I guess tempting Eve was a pretty big one, but I still don't see what was so evil about that."
"Tempting— Eve? The Eve?"
"Yep. You've heard of the serpent in the Garden of Eden, right?"
"You're not telling me—"
"Yeap," Crowley leaned back in the chair and pointed at his face, "Snake eyes. Not exactly a genetic condition. Sorry." This bombshell seemed to hover on the surface of Azariah, not fully sinking in. He shook himself, casting about for another question.
"You said you could look like other things. Do you— can you still—" he clammed up, but Crowley had gotten the jist.
"Can I still turn into a snake, d'ya mean?" Azariah nodded. "Er, yeah, haven't done it in a long time though."
"Show me." Crowley shifted uncomfortably.
"I think maybe we should wait on that one, Azi. You've had enough shocks, yeah?"
"You're probably right." Azariah lifted his mug and put it to his lips, but the tea had gone cold. He made a face and put it back on the table. Crowley tilted his head, and with a casual flick of his fingers, steam arose from the surface of Azariah's tea. The librarian looked at it in amazement, then up to Crowley, who nodded, then back to the tea. He lifted the mug, and took a sip. "Thanks."
"No trouble." They sat quietly for a few moments, drinking their tea, then Aziraphale spoke again.
"You did say anything."
"Yes."
"Why did you fall?"
Crowley blew a breath of air out through his lips. It wasn't a question he'd been expecting. He thought it would've been something about the workings of Heaven or Hell, or what kind of miracles he could perform, or more about Aziraphale, and how this could all possibly be true. His face squeezed in on itself as he stared at his hands.
"I asked too many questions." Crowley looked up at Azariah, and saw his confusion. "It wasn't— Lucier's rebellion, you know, it wasn't some grand plan, at least not at first. Not all of us wanted to rebel. God has this great, big, ineffable plan, and I just wanted to know more, be involved, have a voice. Got caught up in things." Crowley fiddled with the handle of his mug. He hadn't thought about these things in a long time, and despite the awkwardness of trying to explain, the words tumbled out of him, almost without thought. "I didn't mean to fall. Never meant to fall, never meant to be a demon. Demons didn't even exist until the Fall, then God chucked us out and when we climbed out of the boiling sulfur we were a whole new thing, black wings, and…" Crowley had gone far away, and his voice was almost inaudible as he said, "…She took away my stars."
"Your what?"
"Stars," Crowley came back to reality, scooting himself back upright in his chair, not having noticed how he'd slid down, "They were my job, when I was an angel. Stars, nebulas, all that sort of thing. But after I fell, I got these," he gestured at his eyes, "and I can't see them anymore. When I look at the sky at night it's just… empty. That's, er," he flushed slightly, having started the sentence before fully thinking it through, "that's why I have all the astronomy books. The pictures."
"Oh." Azariah's soft noise sent a pang through Crowley, that had nothing to do with remembering his fall, and everything to do with the care he heard in it.
"Azi, I— rrrrrrgh," Crowley put his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers rapidly through his hair. Why were words so hard? "You know in that book, how it calls me 'the demon Crowley'? Well, ever since I lost Aziraphale I've been trying to figure out how to be, to be, not demon, just Crowley. And," his head came up finally, hands dropping to the table, "with you, I thought, maybe I could be just Anthony. You made— you make me want to be just Anthony. And I— look, I'll understand if you don't want anything to do with me anymore. But I'm here to help you with this. If you want. And if you want me to, I'll stop looking through the books. I'll stop coming to the library. I'll leave you alone completely if that's what you want. But I want—" The words failed Crowley again, and one hand clenched into a fist, rubbing against the table, as if it could force them to come. He pushed them out one by one. "I just— I hope, I wonder, if, maybe, we could try again?" As he finished, Crowley's hand relaxed, palm up on the table. Azariah's gaze dropped, and so did Crowley's heart. But then, after a long moment, Azariah's hand crept across the table to rest on top of Crowley's.
"Yes."