Crowley lay on the tiled floor of the shower, scalding water beating down on him from above. He stared up at the dark ceiling, heedless of the spray that pattered against his eyes as the high-pressure droplets bounced off his skin and steam rose up around him, fogging the glass that encased the shower, obscuring him from the world. Could he just stay here forever? He'd long since miracled the place so the hot water never ran out, and Crowley considered vaguely that there were worse places to spend eternity. Thoughts drifted aimlessly in and out of his head, swirling like the steam above. He'd been in this position for quite some time, and the racing streams of panicked uncertainty that had been ricocheting off the inside of his skull had calmed.

Crowley had asked himself every question, and come up with no answers. What was happening here? He had wanted to kiss Azariah. When the librarian had initiated to movement, he'd responded instantly and without question. But was it really Azariah he wanted, or Aziraphale? They were the same person anyway, weren't they? And of course they were, except that Azariah had no idea he was Aziraphale, and no idea what Crowley truly was. If Crowley managed to find Aziraphale's memories and restore him to himself, would he still be Azariah, would he remember knowing Crowley that way? Would he hate Crowley for taking advantage of him while he wasn't himself? And if he didn't remember, what would Crowley do then? And deep in the darkest corner of his speculations, Crowley wondered, what if Aziraphale never returned? What if this was permanent? What if he was Azariah forever? What then?

The impossible, unknowable questions left Crowley empty as he lay in his watery cocoon. Part of him wanted every answer, and the other part wanted none. It was never as simple as right and wrong, good and evil. The apple hadn't given humans knowledge, but the ability to question; sometimes Crowley wished he'd been born… created… whatever, without it. But it was the questioning that had made him who he was, and indeed, the same was true for Aziraphale. Part of what he'd been struggling with since the angel's return to Heaven, and even more since his disappearance, had been who he was without Aziraphale. After millions of years talking to the same person, living inside each other's pockets in so many ways, developing the kind of connection they had, he didn't know how to define himself without the angel on his shoulder. He had realized the need to move on, to distance himself from his previous life, to no longer be demon, just Crowley. Wafting around the edges of his consciousness now like a hint of lingering cologne was the new idea that perhaps, maybe, there was a world in which he could be just Anthony.

Crowley closed his eyes, and let the steam carry him into dreamless slumber.

The next day, Crowley left his flat much later in the day. He hadn't slept in; spending the greater part of the night on the floor of his shower hadn't made for a lengthy sleep, even after dragging himself to his bed at some point in the wee hours. The nest of sheets and covers and pillow had cradled him to a few more hours' rest, but when he awoke it was fully, and with an unexpected clarity. None of his turmoil or questions of the previous day had been resolved, but he'd expected a hangover-like thickheadedness this morning, and there was none of that. He wasn't exactly refreshed, but there was also nothing dragging him down into the dark abyss of guilt and fear.

Crowley pottered about the flat that morning, making and drinking coffee after coffee as he washed dishes, tidied up books, watered the plants, and even did a bit of hoovering. Domestic tasks weren't normally his metier, but something about doing these things manually rather than by a miraculous click of the fingers was soothing, and let him think of nothing. The sun was out again, and it had travelled to the west of the kitchen window by the time Crowley rinsed out his cup for the final time, and glanced at the clock. He had promised, and it was time to make good. What that meant he didn't know, but he was ready to face it.

Upon entering the library, Crowley was met immediately by Sandra, who regarded him with narrowed eyes from behind the front desk. He tipped a finger off his brow at her, and her lips tightened. She didn't have to say anything to let Crowley know that Azariah's return from their walk yesterday had not gone unnoticed, and that she had opinions on how it must have affected the librarian. Crowley grimaced. He scanned the room as he passed through the gate. No sign of Azariah there, but that was mostly to be expected. Another of the library staff passed by, pushing a cart of books to reshelve, and Crowley felt more than saw the withering stare that raked him. The whole room seemed to have a chill, and he shivered.

For Satan's sake! Crowley swore internally, quickening his pace. No doubt Sandra had intercepted Azariah, pumped him for information, and then disseminated her own twisted version to the rest of the staff. Treading a now familiar path through the library, Crowley forged on to the Literature section. Finding the reading room empty, he mounted the spiral staircase to the gallery two steps at a time, bursting onto it with a flapping of jacket. But Azariah was not there, either. Crowley strode up and down the gallery, looking down each row, finding them all empty. A bit more slowly he came back down the gallery, and paused next to the door in the corner of it that led to some unknown inner workings of the library. He'd seen Azariah disappear through that door with its little gold Staff Only plaque many times. Crowley was tempted, and even went so far as to put his hand on the knob. With the polished brass under his fingertips, though, his conviction wavered. The hand fell to his side, and he retreated from the gallery.

In Science Fiction & Fantasy, Crowley morosely scanned the shelves. He didn't seem to have it in him to start up the search again, but also couldn't bring himself to leave. He'd given his word, and that meant something. With a burbling hiss, the radiator next to the squashy chair made its feelings known. Taking this as a sign, or at least an indication of a stop-gap to occupy him until a better idea presented itself, Crowley retrieved the copy of The Hobbit he'd been reading the day before and resumed the chair, thumbing through the book until he found his place. It was easy to slide back into the fantastical world of dwarves and dragons and lost jewels; drunken, menacing elves, and unlikely friendships. Before he knew it, Crowley had reached the end of the story, with Bilbo and Gandalf sitting together, talking of their adventures.

"…You don't really suppose, do you, that all your adventures and escapes were managed by mere luck, just for your sol benefit? You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!"

"Thank goodness!" said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar.

Crowley sighed, and slowly closed the book, the back cover falling shut with a soft flump. They could all do with reminding how wide the world was and how little they all were, now and then. The most important, and the very littlest, all at once. Well, he supposed, if he might as well at least get on with the search, so the day wasn't a total loss. Uncrossing his legs, he looked up to find a place to start. And there was Azariah, leaning against the nearest bookcase, looking down at him with half a smile. Crowley blinked.

"Oh."

"Hi."

"Hi," Crowley blinked again, pushing himself more upright in the chair, "Er, how long have you been there?"

"Not too long," Azariah replied with a soft chuckle, "I didn't want to interrupt you."

"Well, I— erm…" Crowley trailed off, then repeated, "Hi." Azariah pushed himself away from the bookcase and approached Crowley. There was just enough space between the chair and the bookcase in front of it for the librarian to squeeze in, his back against the wood and his shins just touching Crowley's knees.

"Hi," he repeated as well, looking down at Crowley, hands clasped in front of him. "Listen, I," Azariah took in a deep breath, "I don't want yesterday to become a, a, thing between us, okay? I want—" He looked up, searching for the words, then down again, "I like you very much. I want to keep spending time with you. Whatever it is that that means. If you're not ready for— for anything serious, that's fine. I don't know if I am either. But," Azariah's hands pulled themselves apart, his eyes dropping from Crowley's as he plunged on, "I want to be in the open with you, that I'm interested, but even if all you're looking for right now is a friend, I'd rather you not leave my life as suddenly as you came into it."

Crowley reached up and seized one of Azariah's flailing hands. The librarian's eyes snapped back to his, and Crowley tightened his fingers slightly, curling Azariah's inside his hand.

"Okay," he said simply.

"Okay?"

"Okay." Azariah's eyes crinkled.

"Coffee?"

"How about lunch?" Crowley suggested, rolling his head back with a smirk, "I know a place."