Ineffable Omens (Crowley x Aziraphale)

Gaps In My Memory

Crowley stared at the mess in his study, papers hovering in the air around him, trying to connect the dots in a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces to. For the past two months, it had been nagging at him.

A knock at the door distracted him, and the papers fell to the floor. He groaned, but the knocking continued. Maybe out of boredom or out of the desire to put the fear of Crowley into whatever insignificant human was knocking on his door, he left his study and opened the door.

The man standing outside was definitely not human. He was one of Crowley's lot. He was definitely not what most demons looked like, however. His skin was pale, almost white from malnutrition. His hair, which looked like it might have been blonde at one point, was blackened by soot and dust. His clothes looked to be the assemblage of someone with absolutely no fashion sense, or someone who had very little access to a variety of actual clothing. Everything he wore was dirty and sloppy. His eyes ... those were the worst. They were clouded over with a soul-chilling milky white. His creepy eyes lit up when he saw the door open, and a black blush came to his cheeks.

"Crowley, my dear boy!" said the smaller demon. "I can explain everything. I know you don't remember me, but up until two months ago, I was an angel, and you and I ... we were ... well, you were the best friend a guy could ask for."

"Who sent you?" Crowley growled, in no mood for Beezlebub's games. "Hastur? Ligor?"

"No, I, er, I came here to make you remember, Crowley, oh, my dear boy, it's me, Azirapha—" Again, he couldn't say the full name.

"I would never be friends with an angel," Crowley scoffed, and he slammed the door in the unruly demon's face.

Crowley returned to his puzzling, sifting through old newspapers describing historic events. Something wasn't right.

He remembered saving some books of prophecy from a bombed church. He remembered bombing that church. And what for? To kill a couple of nazis? To save a couple of books? It was very unlike him. It didn't make any sense.

And why had he gone out of his way to make Hamlet Shakespeare's greatest success? He hated that play, and much preferred the comedies. What on earth could have possibly persuaded him to do such a thing? He remembered he had reasons, but they weren't demonic in the slightest.

He remembered Adam and Eve had a flaming sword. He didn't know how, but he did know that they had it for protection because Eve was expecting already.

He remembered years ago, he had tried to kill himself, but he didn't. Why didn't he?

He remembered trying oysters. And crepes in Paris at probably the worst time in history to be in Paris. He remembered endless dinners at the Ritz where he ate absolutely nothing, simply drank a bottle or two of wine.

He remembered in the garden of Eden having talked to someone, but he couldn't for the life of him remember who.

The most confusing thing was a bookshop. He remembered it well, although it was all a little foggy. He remembered clearly that he bought flowers and chocolates for its opening. After quite a lot of thought, he placed the location of the bookshop in SoHo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley stood outside the bookshop, confused. "Excuse me," he asked a passerby. "What do you know about this bookshop?"

The man opened his mouth to speak, and a glazed look passed over his face. "Well, I suppose no one really knows much. It's hardly ever open. Keeps odd hours."

"What do you know about the man who runs it?"

The same glazed expression passed over the man's face again. "I suppose he has to exist, but I haven't ever met him. I dont think anyone has, actually. That's quite odd. Must be a recluse."

"Must be," Crowley said, staring at the bookshop. "Thank you for your time."

Crowley pushed open the door of the bookshop, a little bell on the door ringing as he did so. He scoured the shop, looking for any clues. Memories came rushing back to him, but they were only half memories.

Getting so drunk I could barely think. Getting so drunk we could barely speak.

Getting drunk and slow dancing to the sounds of Bach's orchestra—I certainly hadn't been doing that alone. There was someone else.

Slow dancing when we were sober.

Long winter nights spent curled up by the warmth of the fire with hot chocolates.

Watching ... someone ... read.

I picked up a book and brushed off the cover. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. He remembered that book. He had never read it, but he remembered saving it. As a souvenir. To remember ... what? What was he not remembering?

There was a fire. He remembered calling out someone's name ... but who?

It was like someone had tried erasing something from his memory, but they had done a shitty job of it.

Crowley stumbled out of the shop, staring at the building, until suddenly, the words across the top seemed to pop out at him. How had he not noticed the letters before?

A. Z. Fell

"A. Z. Fell?" Crowley said angrily. "What the hell does that stand for? Anthony Zanthony Fell? A. Z. Fell. A. Z. Fell." As he said the name, his thoughts flashed back to the small, gross demon he had met earlier. The demon had tried saying something.

Azi—

Azira—

"Aziraphale," Crowley said softly.