Archive of Our Own ^beta

When the world brightened, it was very bright. It took a moment before he realized that brightness was because everything was white.

He had a vague impression that everything being white tended to be associated with dying and going to Heaven. He had an even vaguer impression that dying and going to Heaven was quite impossible for him.

Perhaps he was an evil person. A criminal. The sort of person who didn’t pay his taxes, or parked his car in no parking zones, or stole books.

The latter seemed most likely, since he was standing in front of bookcase and holding a book that he didn’t remember buying. But then, he didn’t remember anything. Including his own name.

He glanced down at the book. It certainly did have a very evil sort of aura. He set it down on the shelf.

“Oh, bother,” he said, a trifle testily. “I wish I had a cup of tea.”

A cup of tea materialized in his hand.

He stared at it for a moment, then took a sip. It tasted like a cup of tea, quite a good one, and apparently made just the way he liked it.

Well. That settled things. He certainly must be evil. Perhaps he was an evil witch. Or a demon.

A demon somehow seemed much closer. At least, he had a vague impression of doing demonic things.

In the hopes of finding clues about who he was as a person, he studied the bookshelf more closely. He found that he was the sort of person who alphabetized his books.

He also found that he was the sort of person who alphabetized his records and films. He also kept a meticulously clean and extremely white flat with a fancy but useless personal computer, a rather massive television set, and the sort of sound system only needed at a concert, but without any speakers for some reason. He had a very nice kitchen, with a well-stocked refrigerator full of gourmet foods and all the latest cooking gadgets.

He was also, apparently, the sort of person who kept houseplants.

They were mostly quite large, and very glossy, and seemed to be in good condition. Possibly. He realized how that he didn’t know anything at all about plants.

He poked the soil in one of the flowerpots with some sort of cactus-looking-thing. The soil was very dry.

“Oh dear. You need a drink,” he said, and a watering can materialized in his hand. He raised it, then paused. “Hmm. I don’t know how much to water you. Or do you need fertilizer or something?”

Oh dear, that was the trouble with not remembering anything. He certainly didn’t remember the proper watering regimen. Or the last time the plants had been fertilized. Or if he needed to fertilize them.

He went back to the bookshelf and looked under “P” for “Plants”. He found a few books there, and also some under “H” for “How To”.

He took them all back to the room with the plants and read the sections on watering plants. Water sounded terribly important. Fertilizer was less of an emergency, so far as he could tell, but plants would die without water.

Determined to take better care of his plants, he picked up the watering can again. “There, now you won’t have to be thirsty.”

“Nonono, stop that!” A very agitated young man rushed into the room, waving a hand dramatically. He had black hair and wore dark glasses, as well as a well-tailored suit. “Don’t water that plant!”

“Who are you?”

“Crowley,” Crowley said, seemingly instinctively as he snatched the watering can.

“Who am I?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley put the watering can down, far away from the plants. Then he turned, his expression baffled. “Hang on. Hang on. You don’t know who you are?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m Aziraphale. You just told me,” Aziraphale said. He eyed Crowley curiously. “Are you a demon too?”

The dark glasses obscured Crowley’s eyes, but his eyebrows crept up. “Wow. You forgot who you are, and you immediately decided you’re a demon?”

“Well, I think so. I seem to have special powers and such. And I have vague impression of doing demonic things, ergo, I must be a demon.” Aziraphale considered it, and added, “Although, based on this flat, perhaps I’m not very good at being a demon. What sort of a demon alphabetizes his books, owns an all-white flat, and keeps houseplants?”

Crowley stared at him.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“I do!” Crowley snapped. “This is my bloody flat, isn’t it?”

“It is?” Aziraphale looked around at it with confusion. “I have the vague impression that I’ve spent an awful lot of time here. Are we married?”

“No!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale considered the matter. “Are we dating?”

“Hrgk? We’re— Nmghn. Guh.” For a moment, Crowley just stood there making incoherent sounds. Aziraphale blinked at him. “Doesn’t matter. We have an Arrangement. Anyway. Don’t water that, it’s a succulent, it doesn’t need more water.”

“I poked the soil,” Aziraphale pointed out. “It was dry on top.”

“It’s fast-draining soil, isn’t it? Succulents don’t do well sitting in water, do they?” Without waiting for an answer, Crowley grabbed his hand and dragged him off through the flat. “You read out loud from the big black book with all the occult symbols on the cover, didn’t you?”

“Well, I don’t remember, but perhaps. I was holding it when things got bright again.” And Aziraphale had a vague impression that if there was a book anywhere nearby, he would read it. “Did that erase my memory?”

“Yeah, a spell.”

“Why do you have a book with spells that erase people’s memory?”

“For work,” Crowley said, evasively.

“Why didn’t you warn me about it?”

“Because I thought I could go out for bloody takeaway without you erasing your memory, right?” Crowley sighed, let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and grabbed the spooky book. “Look. Look. Just stand there and let me fix it.”

Aziraphale stood there. Crowley opened the book, muttered all sorts of vague things that sounded like complete gibberish, and made a series of rather overdramatic gestures.

And, all at once, Aziraphale remembered everything. He gave an embarrassed laugh and blushed. “Well. Um. That was interesting.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Got your memory back, yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t think you’re a demon any more, eh?”

Aziraphale, who often felt a little guilty about how much he enjoyed committing demonic acts for Crowley as part of the Arrangement, cleared his throat. Deciding to change the subject, he pointed to the bag of takeaway on the coffee table. “Did you remember my breadsticks?”

“Of course I remembered your breadsticks,” Crowley said, indignant. “I’m not the one who accidentally erased my memory, am I?”

“Well, in point of fact, it was your book that did it,” Aziraphale pointed out. “So it’s still your fault.”

Crowley pointed out that he wasn’t the one who’d read it out loud. Aziraphale pointed out that if he was going to keep dangerous books around his flat, it would only be polite to warn his guest of them. Crowley pointed out that demons weren’t supposed to be polite.

Everything was back just the way it ought to be.