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Our side, Aziraphale thought, and steeled himself to take Crowley's hand on the Oxford bus.
Crowley clasped back, hand spasming shut. It was nice, for a moment, to feel that connection. Until the burn started.
He held on, desperately. Just this, he thought. Couldn’t he just have this? Didn't they finally deserve this?
Crowley’s skin scorched. He yanked his hand away.
Crowley stared at him, then crossed his arms, faced towards the window, jaw firmly set. “I’m knackered. Wake me when we get to London.”
He tried to hide how much it hurt, Crowley turning away like that, as he inspected his reddened, blistered palm.
Crowley didn't move again, all the way home.
~*~
He'd never actually told Crowley about it, the reaction he felt touching hellish flesh. He'd always assumed that the demon must know, mustn't he? The effect must be reciprocal. It wasn't like it was safe for them to touch much anyway.
But this--he reached to wake Crowley, and Crowley sat up and shied away.
Our side, he thought again desperately. All he’d ever wanted was our side.
The flat was dark and spare. Crowley waved a hand. “Make yourself at home. Tea’s in the cupboard, I'm off to kip.”
“They'll be coming.”
“And I'd like to meet them with some sleep behind me.”
“Crowley--”
Crowley twisted away from his outstretched hand. “Don't want to do that.”
“I do, actually. But... I think I know what it means.”
“What, that you don't want to touch me?”
He tried not to flinch. “Agnes's prophecy. I had time on the bus.”
“And what does it mean then, angel?”
“‘Playing with fyre.’ I think my lot will use hellfire.”
“Your lot,” Crowley murmured. “And holy water from hell, I suppose.”
“Choose our faces wisely. Do you trust me?”
That stricken look again. “To the end of the world.”
He could try to explain. He should do; should lay out plans and spend all night arguing over interpretations....
Or he could just go for it. Trying to plan had got him nothing but heartache.
Aziraphale stepped forward, grabbed Crowley's face in both hands, and kissed him.
Crowley squawked into his mouth, flailed briefly and then clutched him, hands fisting in his jacket. It was brilliant--Crowley’s mouth was soft and, after that first surprise, surprisingly mobile and attentive.
And scorching. His lips, his whole self blistered. He pushed in. Brushed the edge of something beyond bodies. Do you trust me?
Forever echoed through him, searing heat against his angelic self.
It may hurt you.
Don’t care. They were still, now--pressed along, into one another, attention on another plane.
Switch with me, then.
I don’t know-- Hesitation. Decision. Crowley surged along him, into him, through him. Seared a path to the depths of him, and he screamed, agony and joy at once.
~*~
“Ow,” someone said.
Aziraphale opened his eyes. Blue eyes looked back at him, his-but-not-him. “Crowley?”
“You could have warned me, angel.”
His borrowed body twinged. “How do you feel?”
“Tingles. Itches.”
“No burning?”
“Why would there be burning?”
Aziraphale laughed and cupped his demon’s cheek. “No reason.”