When the memories fade,

And your voice cries at last,

You'll know that you have learned

You are more than your past.

Aziraphale and Nebula's regular visits to the greenhouse have become a cherished routine in their lives. Nebula, now 13 years old, eagerly volunteers her time every weekend plus Wednesday afternoons to help out at the greenhouse, nurturing her growing passion for the natural world. And every time, Aziraphale would pick her up and she would regale him with the day's events on the bus ride home. Melody, the kind-hearted owner of the greenhouse, has taken a liking to the young girl and often invites her for lunch in the house. Occasionally, they extend the invitation to Crowley, who has become a quiet, but welcome presence in their lives. [1]

On a particularly warm July day, as Aziraphale approaches the Meelan house to pick up Nebula from the greenhouse, a sight on the front steps stops him dead in his tracks. There, sitting on the sunlit steps is a figure so strikingly familiar that it sends a jolt of shock and recognition through Aziraphale. The man before him has the same dark red hair, the same lean frame, and even the same fondness for indulging in a rare cigarette—a bad habit that was quintessentially Crowley every few decades. His heart skips a beat as he takes in the features that mirror those of his deceased. The sunglasses perched on the man's head, the relaxed posture, and the distinct air of nonchalance are all too alike.

A thousand thoughts race through Aziraphale's mind in this suspended moment. He wonders if this could possibly be a miracle, a twist of fate that has restored Crowley to his true form after so long, after so much waiting and praying. Hope and disbelief war within him, and he hesitates, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what he's seeing. For a moment, Aziraphale stands there, rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest. It's as if time itself has slowed down, and he can't tear his gaze away from the figure on the steps that have caused such bereavement. Is it possible that his love has returned? Or has he truly gone mad?

The seconds stretch on, and Aziraphale's emotions churn in a whirlwind of anticipation and uncertainty. He knows he must approach and must confirm whether this man is indeed Crowley. But for now, he remains frozen in place, unable to ignore the undeniable pull of the familiar presence before him. Just in case the man isn't even there, the angel takes a mental picture as a last goodbye he so dearly wanted. As the men lock their eyes, there's a tense moment of silence, broken only by the distant sounds of nightingales in the park and the gentle rustling of leaves in the summer breeze.

Then, the man on the steps calls out to him. "Mr. Fell I presume?" His voice carries a hint of uncertainty as if he's not entirely sure of himself. It's a voice that Aziraphale remembers well, the same voice that once spoke in sardonic tones and mischievous whispers in his ear. The same voice that so lovingly called him 'Angel' for centuries.

The name sends a shiver down Aziraphale's spine, Why are you calling me that ? and he takes a hesitant step closer.

"Crowley?" he replies, his voice quivering with a mix of hope and disbelief. He can hardly believe his ears, but there's an undeniable recognition in his eyes. The distance between them seems to close on its own, as if some unseen force is drawing them together. Aziraphale's steps quicken, and he finally stands before the man, who continues to regard him with a mixture of curiosity and confusion as he now sits up straight, cigarette still in hand.

The two of them exchange a long, searching look, as if trying to find traces of their shared history in each other's eyes. In that moment, he realizes how different the demon's eyes are– they are no longer the spectacular shade of yellow that he adored. Instead, normal, light brown eyes remain. The weight of the moment is palpable, and Aziraphale can feel his heartache surging to the surface.

"Crowley," he repeats, this time with more certainty, his voice filled with a mixture of joy and sorrow. "Is it really you?"

Crowley nods slowly, a confused smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, well, Mr. Fell," he says with a touch of that familiar dry humor, "I didn't think you'd know my name. We have yet to meet, after all."

A cold realization washes over Aziraphale, extinguishing the glimmer of hope that had briefly ignited within him. The pieces of the puzzle click into place in his mind, and the truth becomes painfully clear.

"Of course," Aziraphale murmurs, "You don't remember." The words hang heavily in the air, and he can see the confusion in Crowley's eyes, a reflection of his own heartache.

Crowley blinks, his brows furrowing as he tries to make sense of Aziraphale's words. "Remember what?" he echoes, his voice tinged with uncertainty while his mind twists, thinking the man in front of him might be a bit of a nut.

Aziraphale's shoulders slump, and he feels the weight of years of longing and grief pressing down on him. "Yes," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to the ground. They took you from me, erased your memories, and left you to live as a human. A worse punishment than death. The pain of the revelation is etched on his face, and he can't bear to look at Crowley, the man who once meant everything to him, but now stands before him as a stranger. A wave of guilt washes over Aziraphale as he realizes that this punishment, meant for traitors of Heaven, has befallen Crowley instead of himself. "How cruel.." Aziraphale mutters, bringing his trembling hand to his mouth. He takes a deep breath.

"Forgive me, Crowley. You must think me insane, truly," Aziraphale tries to recover from the blow to his heart.

Crowley's gaze softens as he watches the turmoil of emotions crossing Mr. Fell's face. "No, Mr. Fell, I don't think you're insane," Crowley replies with surprising gentleness. He extinguishes his cigarette and gestures toward the open door of the Meelan house. "Come inside, won't you? We can talk over a cup of tea while yer daughter finishes up."

Aziraphale nods, shaken and bewildered, but grateful for Crowley's understanding and forgiveness, and follows him into the house. As they step inside, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the present hang in the air around them, but for the first time in a long while, there is a glimmer of hope that perhaps, in this unexpected reunion, Aziraphale may find a way to mend what has been broken[2]. But you aren't my Crowley, Aziraphale thinks as the dashing man pours each of them a cup of tea.

"How do you take it?" Crowley asks, squinting at the teacups as he drops one sugar cube into his tea.

"Pardon?" Aziraphale asks, his mind wandering to a time when they had a more than intimate conversation[3]. Crowley stirs his tea, the spoon clinking gently against the porcelain. He glances at Aziraphale, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"The tea, Mr. Fell. How do you take it?"

Aziraphale's thoughts snap back to the present, and he clears his throat, a touch of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "Ah, right. Just a bit of milk, please." Tea. He's asking about tea. Mundane, trivial, yet so achingly familiar.

As they prepare their tea to their liking, there is a comfortable silence in the room, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the air just moments ago. What have they done to him? What have they done to us? Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea, the familiar taste of black tea offering some solace in the midst of this bewildering encounter.

"Crowley, there's so much I want to ask," Aziraphale begins cautiously, "about what happened to you, where you've been, how you've been managing..."

Crowley leans back in his chair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts[4]. "It's a... a rather short story, I suppose. I grew up in the city, and recently I left to pursue a bit more of a tranquil life."

Aziraphale nods, his eyes locked onto the pools of honey, of humanity before him, searching for the flicker of recognition that never comes. Aziraphale can't help but to let out a soft sigh of frustration, You really don't remember... "Ah, I see. Do you have family, then?" It is best, then, if I treat you as a stranger, isn't it?

Crowley runs a hand through his hair, trying to recall fragments of his past. "Not that I recall. Which are really only bits and pieces. Flashes of somethin'..." He trails off before chuckling and a bright smile graces his lips. The smile makes Aziraphale's heartbreak– there were only a handful of times in his 6000 years together with him that the angel was graced with his smile. "But the details are hazy at best." He pauses, taking another sip of tea, his eyes distant.

Aziraphale's head tilts slightly at the mention of his history being hazy and forgotten, and he pushes forward. "Would you mind me asking... what, exactly, do you remember?"

Crowley's smile fades into a pensive expression as he tries to articulate his fragmented memories. There is a visible tension on his face that almost resembles pain. "Well, there's... flashes of light, like blinding white, and wings, I think? But the more I try to remember, the more it slips away, like sand through my fingers."

Aziraphale's heart aches for his friend as he witnesses the struggle to recall the past. He places a reassuring hand on Crowley's, offering a gentle squeeze. I know you are in there. Crowley appreciates the touch, though it doesn't bring back his memories.

Crowley purses his lips slightly, "Mr. Fell," He pulls his hand away from the touch and fidgets with his tool belt. "You do know that I am not your.. Friend , right? I am not the phantom from yer past. I don't want to be rude or insensitive, but I can't help to feel that-"

"Oh, of course! No, I understand.. I," He tries to come up with a clever response, but ultimately fails, "Forgive me. You are just so strikingly similar to him."

As the conversation continues, the two old friends find a peculiar sense of comfort in their present situation. It may not be the reunion Aziraphale once dreamed of, but it's a start—an opportunity to rebuild a connection that is severed. Crowley can't help but feel a mixture of emotions swirling within him. Mr. Fell has completely disoriented Anthony's life, flipping it on its head. The man seems familiar in many ways– like how he dresses in fashions no longer in style, or how his demeanor is much like Melody's being pure and naive. But then, there's also a sense of intense estrangement, as if Crowley has looked into a mirror of the past and seen another version of himself completely different from who he is now. He watches Aziraphale, taking in the details of his appearance—the soft white hair, the warm eyes, the waistcoat that seems like a piece of history itself. It's the same, yet different. Crowley wonders if he, too, looks as strange to Adam as he does to Crowley.

"That young lady of yours, Nebula, she's quite a character," he says, recalling her exuberance from their meetings since she began to work at the SGG. "Bright as a star, that one, even if she does tend to make herself heard from kilometers away."

Aziraphale's expression softens as he listens to Crowley speak about Nebula. "Yes, she is quite a handful, but I wouldn't have her any other way. Nebula is a special girl, full of curiosity and life."

"What of that, then? Her name, is quite peculiar. Never in my years have I met someone with her name." Crowley's question about Nebula's name prompts a thoughtful pause from Aziraphale. He takes a sip of his tea, contemplating his response.

"It's a bit unconventional, I suppose," he begins, choosing his words carefully. "You see, I named her after a dear celestial object– Alpha Centauri, the nearest star system to our own. It seemed fitting, given our... unique circumstances." He trails off, not wanting to delve too deeply into the reasons behind Nebula's name. It's a reminder of their shared past, a connection that Crowley may not remember but one that still holds significance for Aziraphale.

"Alpha Centauri," Crowley leans back in his chair as he finishes his cup of tea, "Sounds like a wonderful place for a vacation."

Aziraphale smiles warmly at Crowley's remark about a vacation. It seemed to the angel that there were still irremovable parts of the demon's personality seeping through the cracks. "Indeed, it does sound wonderful. Perhaps, if you'd like, you could join us for some stargazing one evening. Nebula would love to have you along, and I, well..." He hesitates for a moment, "I'd appreciate the company, my friend."

Crowley meets Aziraphale's gaze, and for a moment, they share an unspoken understanding. He might be a nut, but at least I will get out of this house... [5]

"I'd like that," Crowley replies, his tone sincere.

"It's a date then," Aziraphale sets his teacup down gently on the saucer before realizing his words, "No, wait. I mean, I meant that-"

"I understood, Mr. Fell," Crowley holds back a chuckle as he begins to stand up from the table before stretching out his back. The languid movements make Aziraphale stare[6], but as soon as Crowley looks at him again, the angel turns his head while clearing his throat. Nebula bursts into the room, her ginger hair now braided into a long plait down her back, and Aziraphale's attention is instantly drawn to his daughter. He smiles warmly at her, unable to contain the joy he feels every time he sees her.

"Hello, my dear Nebula," he greets her, his voice filled with affection.

Nebula's eyes light up as she rushes over to him, throwing her arms around her father in a tight hug. "Dad, you won't believe the things we did today."

As Aziraphale shares in his daughter's excitement, he can't help but glance back at the spot where Crowley had been sitting just moments ago. To his surprise, the demon is nowhere to be found. It's as if he's vanished into thin air. A strange feeling washes over Aziraphale, a sense of unease and disbelief. He blinks in confusion, wondering if he's losing his mind. Could it be that his encounter with Crowley was nothing more than a figment of his imagination? Was he losing it after all this time?

But the memory of their conversation, the familiar features of the man, and the undeniable connection he felt tell him otherwise. Aziraphale is left with a bewildering mix of emotions, unsure of what to make of the sudden disappearance.

Yet, just outside on the back porch, Crowley stands leaning against the wall beside the door, listening in on the conversations within the house. The words exchanged between Aziraphale and Nebula, the warmth in their voices, and the connection they share fill him with a strange sense of inadequacy. He leans against the wall, lost in his own thoughts, a feeling of hollowness gnawing at him. It's as if there's a missing piece within him, a void he can't quite explain. He sees moments blurred out of focus, fragments of a life that once was, but they remain distant and elusive, like fading dreams that disappear once he wakes up. Crowley's heart aches with a longing he can't fully grasp. He knows there's something more to the story, something he's forgotten or lost.

He wonders, as he pushes on to finish up his last duties of the evening, if he's condemned to remain in this incomplete state, forever yearning for a past he can't remember. As he listens to the laughter and conversation within the house, a sense of isolation washes over him, and he can't help but feel like an outsider looking in, a phantom of a former self.

[footnotes//unformatted, for formatted visit the AO3 version!]

1.However, Nebula hesitates to mention Crowley to her father. She's aware of the fragile state he's been in, although in recent months his heart seems lighter and more joyous than it has been in the past. Nebula fears that bringing up Crowley's name as a real, living person might only serve as a painful reminder of what he's lost.

2. Perhaps, with enough luck, they might fall in love again, as if it were the first time.

3. ADAM ZACARIAH FELL, GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THE GUTTER.

4. It dawns upon him in that moment that this man before him likely thought Crowley to be someone else than he actually is. It's a tentative step towards rebuilding their connection, one that neither of them is entirely sure of, but it's a start.

5. Why not just let your tongue fall out then, Mr. Fell?