When Azariah left Crowley's flat that day, it was not with a goodbye kiss, but a squeeze of the hand and a look over his shoulder as he went. Crowley stood, leaning against the doorframe, watching until the lift doors closed and hid him from view. He didn't feel easy about sending Azariah back out into the world alone, but both knew they couldn't hide in Crowley's flat forever. Ninety agonizing minutes later, Crowley's phone lit up with a text that said,

Home safe

followed by a picture of an extremely agitated Tug, clearly screaming his head off. A laugh escaped him, and he texted back something about how it was good the closest neighbours were so far away. For the rest of the day, Crowley circled the flat, unable to find anything to occupy himself. He was still on high alert, full of tension; as Tennessee Williams would say: like a cat on a hot tin roof. His phone was in his hand constantly, waiting for any sign from Azariah that anything was wrong, but it never came. Crowley himself could hardly believe the whirlwind of the past week, the past day and half. The weight of responsibility that he felt to protect Azariah was counterpoised with his relief and cautious happiness that he hadn't been banished from the librarian's life. That Azariah, too, wanted to try again. All this combined to make Crowley a bundle of nerves, and on a number of occasions he had to lay down on the floor in front of the fire to calm down.

Finally Crowley went to bed, the first time he'd gone in the room since Azariah left. The bed was neatly made, the towel he'd left on the floor had been put in the wash hamper, and the dressing gowns had been hung up. Azariah's water glass was gone —he must have put it in the sink when Crowley wasn't looking— but the reading glasses still lay on the nightstand on his side of the bed. Crowley let out breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Feeling tireder by the minute, he undressed, changed, and sank down on his own side of the bed. It was only then that he noticed a small, folded piece of paper standing up on his nightstand like a little tent. Crowley picked it up, and slowly opened it to reveal the brief note inside.

Anthony,

You don't have to stop looking.

Just don't do anything without me.

-A

Crowley pressed the paper to his lips. His eyes stung and his chest throbbed, imagining what it must have cost Azariah to write those words. He picked up his phone, trying to think what to say, but finally ended up simply texting a picture of the folded paper, followed simply by,

Thank you

After a brief pause, a little heart lit up on the corner of Crowley's text bubble.

Next day, Crowley walked to St. James's Square to retrieve his car. As Sandra had said, it was indeed covered in tickets, and he grimaced. At least no one had slashed the tyres or sprayed rude graffiti on it. As if by thinking her name he had summoned her, Crowley heard a screech, followed at once by Sandra bursting through the library doors and storming across the square towards him.

"What. the. fuck!" Crowley held up his hands in surrender as she reached him, steam practically coming out of her ears. Before he could even start to say anything, she pulled out her phone and waved it in his face. "You know what one of these is, right?! Have you forgotten how to use it?"

"Sandra, I—"

"Azi finally got back to me and told me you guys were going through something but Jesus Mary Joseph and the little donkey, it's been a week, you absolute clot."

"Listen, I know you were worried about Azi, but—"

"Yeah, I fuckin' was! And about you! Come here to me—"

Before Crowley realized what was happening, he was being pulled into the kind of vicelike embrace that only a monumentally angry woman could muster, arms pinned to his sides and Sandra's head against his chest. It was as much a threat as a hug, and there was little he could do but squirm, make unintelligible noises, and wait it out. When she released him, Sandra took a step back, stamping her feet with rage.

"Uuuuugh, I'd slap you if this square wasn't covered in cameras!" Stunned, Crowley stared at her. He could already feel the bruises on his biceps where she'd squeezed them half to death. "Well?" she demanded, "Are you coming in or not?"

"I— thanks," Crowley mumbled.

"It's what friends do, numbnuts."

"Is, erm, is Azi in?"

"No, but he's coming in later." Not waiting to mince any more words, Sandra turned sharply with a flip of her hair, and Crowley hurried after. He hadn't actually been intending to go into the library today, but after that, he could hardly not. Friends, huh?

"Sandra," Crowley asked, once they'd passed into the warmth of the library, and she slipped behind the desk, "could you do me a favour? I don't want to pressure Azi to come and see me, but, when you see him, could you just tell him I'm here? I'll be in uhh… history of art. I won't go looking for him, but if he wants to see me…"

"Yes," Sandra huffed lightly, "Whatever you boys have got going on, I hope you figure it out."Then she caught Crowley's troubled look, and softened. "You're good together," she said, reaching across the desk to squeeze his shoulder, "Don't worry. I'll tell him." Crowley smiled wanly, and headed towards his chosen section.

History of art wasn't his favourite subject. Crowley had lived through all of it, after all, so a lot of his time spent engaging with art was criticising people who were painting or drawing or sculpting or whatever about things that'd happened before their time, and how they'd gotten it wrong. But there were some artists along the way who'd captured his interest. He had a soft spot for Galileo (who he considered an artist, but didn't appear in this section), and van Gogh. Van Gogh had really gotten it about the night sky, and in looking at his works Crowley felt like he could start to understand what it looked like from earth. Today, though, his aimless browsing had led him to a book on Caravaggio.

His tenebrism had always captivated Crowley, the unrelenting way in which light and shadow had defined his world. His Magdalen's ecstasy and the softness of his Narcissus showed Caravaggio's understanding of the twilight between light and shadow, and the blurred edges between sainthood and sin. To Crowley he was the most human of all the Italian masters, capturing angels, men, and monsters with equal reverence and exposure. No one was safe from his brush, or his love. Sandra had given Crowley back his glasses, but they sat perilously on the thin windowsill beside the chair in which he was curled, threatening to topple onto the radiator below at any moment. You just couldn't look at this kind of art through dark lenses, and Crowley had sat for hours, slowly flipping through the pages of the large book with its satin-finish pictures that covered his entire lap. He was contemplating Christ at the Column, when a voice spoke from over his shoulder.

"Coffee?"