Written for the trope mashup on Tumblr - 85 Innocent Physical Contact and 86 I didn't mean to turn you on
After 6000 years of keeping one another at arm's length, Aziraphale has finally gotten comfortable touching Crowley.
Nothing too scandalous - the occasional arm-touch here, a pat to the shoulder there, squeezes to the elbow that linger longer than before. Crowley neither objects nor does he seem to mind when Aziraphale's fingers dance a stray curl behind his ear or brush the back of his neck when he pops Crowley's collar against the wind. Once or twice Aziraphale even grabs Crowley's hand to hurry him across the street, or taps the side of his chin to turn his head in a certain direction. It's comforting and familiar, a sign that they're friends.
Good friends.
So it stuns Aziraphale to no end when he reaches out absentmindedly to take Crowley's hand and Crowley stops him.
Aziraphale looks at the demon's hand locked around his wrist, then up at Crowley's eyes with a small measure of shock. "What … what's wrong?"
"Aziraphale …" Crowley tilts his head down and peers over his sunglasses at him with an expression Aziraphale equates with that of a disappointed primary school teacher "… I need you to stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Touching me."
"What?" Shock and embarrassment fight for real estate on Aziraphale's face, along with confusion since Crowley has yet to relinquish his hand. The demon does so the moment Aziraphale thinks of it, but still … it took him a bit. "I'm … I'm so sorry. Have I been making you uncomfortable? Of course I have, or you wouldn't have mentioned it, would you?" he berates himself, slapping his right hand with his left in subconscious punishment. "Silly me. Stupid me! I should have thought …"
"No, you're not stupid," Crowley interrupts, not wanting to risk Aziraphale slapping himself again. "And it doesn't make me uncomfortable. It's simply …" He pauses, closing his mouth tight as if he might not say another word.
"Simply … what?"
"Every time you touch me – you take my hand or pat my shoulder …"
"Yes?"
"I really … really … really …"
"A-ha …"
"Ngk … mmm … wanna kiss you."
"Oh. Oh." Aziraphale raises the offending hand to his chest and slips it inside his coat, as if peace tying a dangerous weapon.
"So as awful as it sounds, if we're not going to go any farther than we've already gone as friends, I need … I need you not to touch me."
"I see," Aziraphale says, scrutinizing the emotion – or lack thereof – on Crowley's face as his yellow eyes drift down to Aziraphale's hand tucked inside his coat, settling there with a wistful gaze. "So are you saying that if I wanted you to kiss me, possibly here and now, then I could hold your hand?"
"I … yeah, I guess," Crowley murmurs, bouncing a shrug.
"Oh well. I understand." Aziraphale straightens the lapels of his coat, brushing the points down flat, then fixes his bowtie. "Whatever you want, my dear."
And with the slyest grin an angel has ever worn, Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand, weaves their fingers together, and gives it a squeeze.