Fortune Plus Forty, an Austin and Ally one-shot

I do not own Austin and Ally. This was prompted by a tumblr anon. Please enjoy and review! (If you do review as a guest, and would like a reply, please leave a way to get in contact with you.)

Doing something accidentally on purpose is way more difficult than he thought it would be.

Convincing himself to do it purposely on purpose is harder yet. He can't just walk up to her, grab her by the jaw, plant one right on her lips.

For one, his hands are covered in butter. Ally will not be a butterface.

Ally could never be a butterface. She's gorgeous. Which is why he wants to kiss her.

But the butter.

And the fear. Fear of screwing things up, losing her respect, her friendship. Her hand in his.

He wants to grab her hand now.

Stupid butter sculpture.

Stupider emotions.

There's a patch of butter on the floor, and he considers slipping on it, tripping into her. One step, two step-

"Austin, watch out. There's butter on the floor." Two steps forward, one step back.

"How are we going to get all this butter cleaned up?" he asks, wiping his hands on a rag.

"I'm on it!" Dez runs out of the room, into the kitchen. Now's his chance. All he has to do is kiss her.

Still, the butter hands. He can't restrain himself from holding onto her. How else is he to make sure she doesn't run away?

He returns, a loaf of bread dangling from one hand, a toaster in the other.

Austin takes a slice, wipes his hands for the last of the residue. Effective. Looks like they're going to be eating a lot of toast.

Might as well. It's not like his mouth has another way to occupy itself.

(the page breaks here)

He loops the tie around his neck, walks over to Ally, who's struggling to tug at the zipper down the side of her bridesmaid dress. She breath hitches when his fingers glide over hers.

Four seconds feel like four hours.

He'd prefer four days, four months, four years.

Four lifetimes.

"Thanks," she exhales.

"No problem," he replies, letting the cool metal fall from his fingertips. Her arm goes back down.

His arm doesn't want to move away. It should be going up, to that tie still hanging loose round his neck.

It should, but her hands are coming to the rescue, grabbing at the ends.

She's so close. One accidental tug, that's all it would take.

He asks her to pull it tighter. "Better?"

Not until the space between them vanishes.

"Tighter," he beseeches, feeling his airways constrict.

"Sorry." She attempts to loosen the tie, a task she has to get closer for, because the knot is stuck, and he wants to lean down and kiss her. Like an, 'oh, I was just checking the status of my tie, and happened to brush my lips against yours.'

Air floods his lungs, oxygen hits his brain. Fully functioning, he can think clearly. Kissing her would be a bad idea. It's Dez and Carrie's day, not his. If he scares her off, the entire day will be ruined. He has to be smiling in those pictures.

And not lipstick stained.

"I'm going to go check up on Dez."

(the page breaks here)

They hold the after party on the beach, and Ally has to balance on Austin to take her shoes off. There's no way she's going to risk heels in the sand.

He doesn't realize it at first, and when he takes a step forward, she stumbles. He swoops in to catch her.

Eye contact.

There's no way this would be an accident. The only accident here was falling in love.

Hooking the straps of her shoes around her pinky, she gives him her free hand and weaves through the crowd. They've lost Trish since leaving the church. He spots her, tugging Ally's arm to get her to stop.

This is a fortunate set of circumstances. Here she is, within his reach.

Why is there no one around to bump into them, send his lips crashing into hers?

"I found Trish," he says, pointing through the throng of people.

She starts off, and a party goer bumps into him.

Really? Could they not have shown up thirty seconds ago?

Could they not have been holding a cup of punch?

There's a red stain down the front of his shirt. It sticks to his torso. So much for pulling her in close and kissing her.

As if he'll ever get the nerve.

(the page breaks here)

Exiting the dry cleaners the following morning, he bumps into a girl. One that's not Ally, but is pretty all the same.

"Watch where you're going," she grumbles, not looking up from her phone. Same look, different demeanor. He wants both. He wants the total package.

How much does it take to win her heart?

He'd say twenty dollars for the pants he'll wet, another twenty for the ice cream he'll binge on when rejected, and a fortune to mend the heart she'll break.

He doesn't have a fortune plus forty.

Just a stomach full of nerves.

(the page breaks here)

They're sitting at his piano, writing a song. His hand touches hers, accidentally. This always happens. Why is it so easy for the hands to touch?

Maybe they should play the piano with their lips.

Maybe he should muster up the courage and kiss her by his own will.

(the page breaks here)

Exhausted, she flops onto the couch, pressing play on the video player. He sits down next to her, passing a plate of spaghetti to her. Extra sauce, on the off-chance that she gets it on her face, and he leans in and then magical things happen.

Is there such a thing as a planned accident?

His plans go awry. Not one drop of sauce gets on that perfect face of hers.

"You have something on your cheek." She moves in, wipes his face with her napkin. Backs away before anything can happen.

He gets sauce on his face again.

This time it's on purpose.

Wipe, wipe.

No kiss.

(the page breaks here)

Walking out of the dry cleaners, shirt in hand, he doesn't bump into anyone. He just walks straight up to her, kisses both cheeks, like in the movie they watched last night. He had asked her about it, and she'd told him it was a French thing.

The only French thing about him are the fries he ate for lunch.

She doesn't turn her head. There's no accidental kiss.

This one is totally on purpose.

He'll apologize later. For now, he's going to enjoy this.

Because she's kissing back.