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They're in the kitchen, in their house, and Aziraphale feels like dancing. Crowley's humming along to an old rock music record in a vague sort of way while chopping up garden vegetables, and Aziraphale's supposed to be rolling out pastry but is really just watching the quick, precise movements of Crowley's hands, the little furrow of concentration that crosses his face.
The pastry starts to go dry and crumbly under Aziraphale's hands. He nudges it back into tip-top shape, but unfortunately, Crowley notices the miracle. "Distracted?" he leers.
"Oh, you." Aziraphale sets the dough aside and washes his hands at the sink. "Come here. This'll keep."
He takes Crowley by the hands and pulls him away from the counter. One of his hands comes to rest on Crowley's back, a little lower than what might be considered standard for this sort of thing; the other settles into a proper interlacing of fingers, Crowley's warm hand safe in his.
"Are you going to lead, then?" Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him.
"Hmmm. Perhaps I just like having my hands on you." Aziraphale spins Crowley around, then pulls him back in, so close that Crowley stumbles into him.
When Crowley rights himself, he's grinning, and his cheeks have gone flushed. "Well, you know, feel free to do that any time."
The music shifts into a slower song then, and Aziraphale pulls Crowley back into their earlier position. Crowley's free hand lands on his hip instead of his shoulder, curved possessively over the bone and flesh, sure of its place there. Years now, they've been together, and Aziraphale still marvels at the phenomenon that is their adoration for each other.
They shuffle around the kitchen like that, more for the closeness of it than any desire for finesse. Aziraphale steps on Crowley more than he'd like to admit, and Crowley gets tangled up in his own long legs, but as they're both going barefoot in the cottage these days, neither of them minds.
Crowley nudges him into a closer and closer hold, and Aziraphale smiles up into his mouth, until their lips meet and they're kissing without even having to reach for it. His hands go into Crowley's hair; Crowley squeezes his hip and presses him into the counter, where they melt into each other, the baking and dancing forgotten in favor of making out in the kitchen like the old fools they are.
"If you wanted to kiss me," Crowley starts.
Aziraphale huffs and musters up the most pompous tone he can manage, which isn't very. "I wanted to dance with you. The kissing was an—an afterthought. A fortuitous happenstance."
"Oh, is that so? I'll show you fortuitous," Crowley says, before Aziraphale finds himself literally swept off his feet and back into the middle of the kitchen, where Crowley takes the leading position.
"Shall we?" Crowley asks. With a snap of his fingers, he starts the record over.
Aziraphale smiles and lets Crowley pull him in tighter. "With pleasure, my dear."