Aziraphale clicks his seat belt into place as Crowley starts the car's engine at a thought. He hasn't turned the key in fifty years; he's forgotten what it's supposed to be there for.

"Where to?" Crowley says, casual, nonchalant, turning to see through the rear window so he can pull out of the parking space without miracling a dent out of the bumper. His hand comes to rest on the back of the passenger seat, just below the headrest. It's only to support the position he's in, half twisted around; it has nothing whatsoever to do with the way his thumb is now barely slightly infinitesimally brushing against Aziraphale's shoulder.

Aziraphale is sitting very still. "Anywhere you like," he offers. "Driver's choice, let's say."

"Mmm. Alright. Decide on the way, then." Crowley squints at the car behind him and it shifts backward; the Bentley takes advantage of this extra wiggle room and leaps out of its spot at an unreasonable speed. Crowley turns back to face the front. He keeps his hand exactly where it is.

Aziraphale sighs.

"What?" Crowley says, steering one-handed. It doesn't make a difference to his driving. The movement of the steering wheel is only vaguely connected to the actual motion of the car.

"What do you mean, what? I said nothing."

Crowley glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye, safe in the knowledge that his sunglasses will hide the action. "Okay, then."

After about ten microseconds of quiet, Crowley says, "Put in some music, would you?"

Aziraphale does not say Do it yourself, to which Crowley would have to reply I'm driving. He just reaches for the music collection and too late Crowley realizes that this makes Aziraphale sit forward, losing contact with his hand. The stream of words that runs through his mind would make a sailor blush, and then Aziraphale sits back again. Crowley's hand somehow ends up more firmly touching him than before.

Crowley swallows, hard, and looks back at the road hurriedly. "Go on, then, pick a song. Anything, s'long as it's not been here two weeks."

Aziraphale rifles through a few discs and gives up when he sees nothing he recognizes. The Bentley contains nothing classical: Crowley is of the opinion that a classic vehicle is enough class for anyone. A disc is selected at random and inserted into the player.

IT'S A KIND OF MAGIC, howls the car immediately, and Crowley takes his right hand off the wheel to swipe at the on/off knob. "Not again. What'd the label say?"

Aziraphale peers at what he's holding. "Velvet Un… Ah, the bebop."

"Damn," says Crowley absently, "I liked that one." He really ought to pay more attention to how long he leaves his things around, but who can keep track of the passage of time? It's such a slippery thing, particularly when he's sitting with his hand resting for an eternity against an angel.

"Shall I choose another?" Aziraphale looks at Crowley expectantly.

"Nah. Probably it'd just be Freddie again anyhow."

The silence that fills the air manages to be both comfortable and tense. Rather like resting a hand on the shoulder of someone who is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge it. Crowley's fingers creep further off the seat and onto pale fabric.

"Pull over," Aziraphale says, voice strained.

Crowley does not ask questions. He swerves violently, grinning at the flinch it elicits from Aziraphale, and pulls to a stop at the side of the road with a rate of deceleration that ought to have liquefied either their organs or the car. "What's up?" he says, or tries to. He finds it suddenly hard to speak for one simple reason.

Aziraphale is kissing him.

Aziraphale is kissing him.

Aziraphale is kissing him.

Crowley kisses back because of course he does; there is no possible scenario among the zillions of potential multiverses in which he would not. It's taken them thousands of years to get here, but if this is it, he's going to take the chance, even if this is all he'll ever get, even if forever after he will be tormented by knowing what he'll be missing.

Aziraphale pulls away first and Crowley gasps, just a little, glasses askew, hair inexplicably mussed although Aziraphale's hands were nowhere near. Breathless. Awed. Hopeful.

"Sorry," says Aziraphale quietly.

Crowley blinks. He pulls the sunglasses down to get a better look at his— at the angel. "For what?" Complicated somethings start fluttering inside Crowley's chest. (The human body is so inconvenient. If he weren't wholly absorbed in staring at Aziraphale, lips tingling, he would be making a mental note to complain to HR about this vessel.) Surely he doesn't regret this? He must know it would kill Crowley to hear him say that. He's got to know—

"Making you wait," Aziraphale breathes, and pulls him in again.

A/N: Based on a tumblr post by femmeaziraphale. Title from Queen's "A Kind of Magic." Please leave a review to let me know what you thought!