Disclaimer: Good Omens and all the wonderful beings within do not belong to me. They belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, or vice versa... depends on which version of the cover you're looking at. No profit is being made, alas, I'm just having fun.
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A/N: This is for Sawlt to Your Suger (sometimes known as Inconsequential) because she's a great writer and a great friend. And I felt like writing fluff for her when she was feeling blue. Check out her stuff, dear readers! She's good.
Another A/N: Warning! Contains fluff, immortal beings kissing, wine, nice tablecloths, and badly done footnotes.
Aziraphale, Crowley has decided, is a master of accidental physical contact.
Last weekend, for example, when they were stacking old boxes of files in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. During the three hours they had been lifting and stacking (1), Aziraphale managed to bump elbows with Crowley eleven times. The demon had been counting.
And then on Tuesday, as they walked through St James' Park. Aziraphale's arm grazed Crowley's at least three times before they got to the pond, and it happened again when Aziraphale offered him the bag of stale bread.
Crowley sank a duck extra deep that day, with a well aimed piece of stale whole-wheat, and Aziraphale tsked reprovingly as he floated the poor thing back up to the surface.
Even just two days ago, Aziraphale managed to assert his remarkable powers of coincidental contact. They'd lunched at the Ritz; not an unusual occurrence, but their fingers managed to brush four times as they both reached for the wine. Crowley isn't sure if he should count the fifth time, when Aziraphale steadied his hand and saved the white tablecloth from certain destruction (2).
Now, Crowley feels it's time for some completely intentional physical contact.
Aziraphale, seated next to him, turns to ask a question. Crowley, with impeccable timing, turns in the same direction, leaning forward ever so slightly.
Their lips touch.
Aziraphale kisses him, and then pulls back. Crowley smiles innocently, and Aziraphale returns the look.
"My dear," the angel murmurs, with a wicked look in his light eyes, "I was wondering when you'd get around to that."
Crowley scowls, and perhaps Aziraphale wants to say more, but the demon has already leaned forward and sealed his lips with a kiss again.
And the hand snaking towards the small of his back assures Crowley that this is most definitely not an accident.
(1) It wasn't that the boxes were particularly heavy, because they weren't; they'd been miracled lighter. It's just that paperwork tends to build up over the millennia, and there were an awful lot of files to put away.
(2) It was a very nice tablecloth, and Aziraphale is fond of damask.
Thank you for reading! Kisses are nice, but reviews are nicer. :D