This is part 1 comprising of Chapters 1 & 2 of Chekov's "on the same page" Good Omen's fanfic.  Parts will be published every 2 weeks with an estimated 7 total parts. 

It had been a mistake. 

Aziraphale had known it from the moment Crowley stepped out from the car parked precariously with one wheel on the curb. Swayed on his impossibly long legs, spun around as if to show off the inkblack jeans clinging to his thighs for dear life. His jacket snapped over his sharpcast shoulders. Hair - a fiery red, swept up in an artistically wild mess. The jaw - oh good lord, that jaw!

Aziraphale's eyebrow arched as Crowley sat in the chair, only after having received permission to do so. So often, the demon would sprawl himself across the nearest surface, invited or otherwise. And yet even when sitting right now, his posture was straighter, his gaze more attentive. Obedient, even.

Aziraphale and Crowley have an arrangement. One could say it's mutually satisfying.

It wasn't fair, he thought. It wasn't fair that Aziraphale could give him everything he wanted, everything he had hoped and dreamed of and longed for for six thousand years and that Crowley couldn't do the same.

No, not couldn't.

Was refused.

And Satan, did Crowley hate being refused.

---

Aziraphale's a sadist, Crowley's not a masochist, and Crowley comes up with possibly the worst solution for this issue.

“Just as you predicted. Don’t worry, there’s not a scratch on you -- me -- oh, dear, this is going to be terribly confusing.” And then Aziraphale is clutching his lapels and pulling him up (up!) into a kiss.

Aziraphale puts his hand on top of Crowley’s and Crowley can feel the blood drain from his head. His face feels hot and his eyeballs hurt and the room starts to close in. The last thing Crowley knows is the sensation of his knees hitting the floor as he slithers out of his chair.