Immediately, in one terrifying moment, Aziraphale realises that he is far too sober to have this conversation. Crowley had been right. Completely right! Far more right than Aziraphale wanted to give him any credit for, but there you have it. He was damn right. Wine was an absolute necessity for this conversation and Aziraphale just hadn’t brought enough for the two of them.

Not by far.

He tightens his grip on the glass in his hand, fingers suddenly feeling loose and weak as he feels a sense of horror climb its way back up his throat. His eyebrows pull inward as his mouth sets into a hard frown.

“Your history?” he asks, hoping for the sake of hoping that his initial understanding was wrong. Perhaps, he had misheard or simply gotten something confused. Was this to say that the memories Crowley had lost were gone forever? Unravelled into nothingness the last time he vanished? That he would have to know them through Aziraphale alone? Would he always have a hole in his memories?

A long drink is taken from his glass. Then he asks, “Do you mean it was. . . ripping you out of time? As if you were never there?”