Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens or any of the characters depicted herein.
Crowley's chair teetered precariously on two legs and his gin and tonic sloshed about in its glass. A Tale of Two Cities was still in his lap and he was reading it to himself drunkenly.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...Bloody he- Honduras, how long have I been here?"
The bell over the shop door tinkled slightly and Crowley swung his head around to look, miraculously keeping his chair and drink from tipping over. He stared at the door, quizzically. He was sure he had heard the bell ring, yet nobody was there. He turned back to face the table when a slight breeze ruffled his hair. It was then he noticed the melted stubs of candles on the floor behind the table. Crowley leaned forward slightly to investigate.
It was then that all the candles suddenly lit themselves. Crowley wasn't surprised; he just had that sort of effect on things - spontaneous combustion, that is. Things just seemed to catch fire around him. Whenever he would sleep, he would inevitably dream. And if it was a really good dream, he'd end up setting the sheets and maybe a few houseplants alight.
He had leaned back once again and was reaching for his book when another, stronger breeze circled throughout the room. Crowley, who was still obviously drunk, looked about the room with a comically exaggerated shifty eyed glance. The wind died down, and yet again, he relaxed back into his chair.
Therefore, poor Crowley was completely unprepared when a gale force wind began swirling about the shop, knocking his chair over and sending him gracelessly to the floor. All of poor Aziraphale's perfectly arranged books were blown off of their shelves and the ensuing dust cloud blinded Crowley. When he came to his sense and realized he didn't need eyes to see what was going on around him, he looked up at the table. In an instance of divine mistiming, the moment Crowley looked up, a cake batter and gardenia scented wind stuck him in the face. This was soon followed by a blinding, obviously holy light.
After he had stopped cringing horribly, Crowley looked up and saw Aziraphale sitting on the table, candles scattered about, legs akimbo, and hair in complete disarray. A vague look of surprise and amusement registered on his face before he spoke.
"For G- somebody's sake, Aziraphale, cross your legs. I can see right up your skirt."
A/N I do appreciate good critiques. If you see any areas that need improvement, I'll be glad to listen.