"Oh, dear," Aziraphale murmured as he stepped outside of the Ritz, casting a cursory gaze at the darkening sky. "I don't remember them calling for rain."

"It's England , Angel," Crowley stepped out as well, eyeing the sky warily. "They don't need to call for it." He tugged his coat a bit more securely around him as he and and Aziraphale strode toward the waiting Bentley.

"I suppose the rain will be good for your plants, though," Aziraphale offered, amiably.

"Suppose so," Crowley agreed, and that's when the skies opened up and unleashed the rain.

Aziraphale bolted for the car with a startled sound, and Crowley was about to remind him that he could simply teleport, that he didn't need to get wet, when the angel suddenly stopped, face tilting back to the rain, eyes closing.

Crowley was seized with such affection without warning (for a demon), that he slipped closer, taking in the open look of delight on Aziraphale's face, before backing him smoothly against the car, and kissing him, lightly.

The Bentley shuddered to life without prompting, Freddie Mercury's The Kiss seeping through the speakers.

And when Aziraphale kissed him back, Crowley could safely say they'd finally gotten something right.