The Mourning Star

Just Us

We should kiss.

Not because you passed

My way by chance,

But because you stopped

And I haven't been the same since.

Crowley parks the Bentley with a screech of tires, a testament to the urgency that propels him forward. He strides toward the entrance, the door standing firm against his weight as he begins to bang on the door. The cold of the wintry morning splices his lungs, but his body refuses to give way.

The relentless banging on the door echoes through the bookshop, cutting through the silence of the early morning. Aziraphale, who has dozed off at his desk in the middle of re-organizing, stumbles to his feet, disoriented and alarmed. His heart races with a mix of fear and anticipation as he hurries to the door. With trembling hands[1], he unlocks and opens it, revealing Crowley standing in the threshold. The expression on his face is a storm of emotions-ire, urgency, and an underlying desperation. Aziraphale's eyes widen at the sight, and for a moment, time seems to freeze.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice is a whisper, filled with a mix of disbelief- Am I dreaming again? He takes in the disheveled appearance of the demon, the insistence in his eyes- wait, his eyes. Aziraphale's widen in shock.

Crowley takes a deep breath, as if collecting himself, his gaze locks with Aziraphale. "I remember," he says, his voice a breathless mutter. "I remember everything, well, mostly. Some details, ngk are fuzzy and I-"

Aziraphale doesn't let Crowley finish his sentence. Instead, he reacts on pure instinct. Without a word, he steps forward, his arms wrapping tightly around Crowley, pulling him into a tight embrace. The angel's grip is firm, as if he's trying to anchor Crowley like a balloon that might fly away if let go.

The demon stiffens for a moment, surprised by the sudden closeness. Then, almost instinctively, Crowley's arms wrap around Aziraphale in return. He melts into the embrace like butterscotch candies on a warm summer day. Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley's shoulder, his grip unyielding. The scent of musky roses and soil, the familiar and comforting aroma of the demon, fills Aziraphale's senses, and he inhales deeply.

"I'm sorry," The words escape the angel just barely. Crowley hears them loud and clear. Crowley gulps as his hands dig into the angel's back. He pushes them into the bookshop so that they don't cause a scene so early in the morning. With the doors closing behind them, Crowley does not let go and neither does the angel as he wipes his face from tears with one hand.

"Don't cry," Crowley mutters softly, finally gently releasing Aziraphale who looks up .

"I've missed you so," Aziraphale chokes on his words, his lips trembling with every word. A small smile creeps on the demon's lips as he brings his forehead down and presses it against Aziraphale's. "You fiend."

Crowley chuckles, the sound a long-missed mix of relief and affection. "Missed you too, ya softie," he teases, his thumb gently wiping away the remaining traces of hot tears from Aziraphale's cheek.

The weight of the past, the pain of separation, and the joy of reunion converge in this quiet moment within the familiar walls of A.Z. Fell & Co. The bookshop, with its shelves of stories and the whispering promise of knowledge, now seems to breathe for the first time in ages. Upstairs, the luscious green plants bend toward the morning light instead of cowering in the shadows.

Aziraphale's hands find their way to Crowley's face, cupping his cheeks as if to assure himself that this is indeed real. Crowley leans into the touch, savoring the intimacy of the reunion.