It started with Crowley's hair. After the Nopocalypse, he and Aziraphale developed a friendship with the Them, and the angel wanted practice braiding Crowley's hair so he would be able to do the same for Pepper. Crowley had never seen Pepper with any hairstyle more elaborate than a ponytail, but he would have screamed at his plants a bit, put on his darkest glasses, and miracled up a scrunchie, if Aziraphale had asked.

After 6,000 years, Aziraphale didn't need to ask before drinking Crowley's wine, Crowley didn't need to ask before breaking into Aziraphale's shop. Not to mention their former servitude muddled the issue of consent a bit for the both of them. Asking was for other p- for people.

They knew each other too well.

That was the problem.

Physical contact was different, at least for Crowley. Over the centuries, Aziraphale had Langston Hughes and Oscar Wilde, who probably kept his hair that length just so passing angels would stop to play with it.

"Looks like bloody Severus Snape," he hissed under his breath.

"What was that, dear?" asked Aziraphale. He was attempting the fishtail. So far French was still his favorite, but that was hardly a surprise. The angel preferred everything French: wine, bread, toast. Fries, but only the curly kind.

"Nothing," said Crowley.

He knew better than to mention Oscar, and not just because the angel would bring up Leonardo.

Crowley was a demon, not a bloody incubus. The only thing he had offered Leonardo was his services as a model. (The painting had borne a greater resemblance when the gilding was still intact, but at least the eyes still followed people wherever they went.)

"Are you alright?" asked Aziraphale.

"Fine."

"Only you've gone all tense, and I haven't heard you mutter this much since 2008."

"Yeah, I may have spent a bit too much time with those nuns. Good for gossip though. That's how I started the whole Nicolas-Cage-is-a-Time-Traveling-Vampire rumor."

Aziraphale made a noncommittal humming noise, and they lapsed back into silence.

Crowley tried to relax his shoulders, but when he was relaxed, he usually didn't have shoulders.

The next thing Crowley knew, he was waking up in snake form, with a tea towel over him. Perhaps he shouldn't have tried quite so hard to relax.

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, hunched over a bit of paper. He didn't mention Crowley's impromptu nap, just offered him a distracted, "Good morning," even though it was early evening.

Crowley didn't buy it for a bloody second. They knew each other too well.

That was the problem.

So Aziraphale knew that Crowley was touch-starved, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale would spend the next 6,000 years finding reasons to touch him.

So why didn't Aziraphale know that of course Crowley was touch-starved, but that wasn't why it was a good thing he didn't need to breathe every time Aziraphale started fiddling with his bloody hair? Crowley had never been accused of subtlety. It might be the only thing he hadn't been accused of.

Not that Aziraphale was any better.

It started simply enough. A shoulder pressed against Crowley's while they sat on his sofa. A hand on the shoulder. Keeping the shop colder than usual so he had an excuse to tuck Crowley under his wing. The yawning-arm-over-the-shoulder bit was downright embarrassing, but worse was when he got the Them involved. Not to mention Anathema, Newton, rather alarmingly, Madame Tracy, and even more alarmingly, Shadwell.

Eventually Crowley relaxed when the Them ambushed him or Madame Tracy invited him to her bedroom (to cuddle, for a small fee, which she said didn't count).

He still got tense when Aziraphale touched him. Warning or no, which the angel began to give. Permission or no, which the angel began to ask.

Until one day, when Aziraphale snapped.

"Is it because I'm an angel?"

"I- What?"

"Because of the war? You saw me before, with the sword. I know you were scared to speak to me that day, which is why I told you I gave it away. It's been 6,000 years, Crowley. Don't you trust me? What can I do to-"

Crowley did not, as a rule, approve of the whole kissing-someone-to-shut-them-up trope. It was misogynistic and generally a bit rude. Neither of them were currently presenting as female (they liked being able to pee standing up too much), but of all people, Crowley should have remembered to ask permission.

He began to apologize, but before he could get any further than, "It's really your fault-" Aziraphale kissed him.

The angel really did prefer everything French.

A/N: Aziraphale saw Leonardo's sketch during his temporary cohabitation with Crowley. He got jealous, and decided to try drawing the demon himself, hence: the new hairstyles. Also, this is not especially relevant to the story, but: Canonically, they do need to pee (Crowley got up from his decades-long nap in 1832 to use the lavatory).