The feeling of Aziraphael's palms, smooth and soft, elicits a pleased hum, echoing in Crowley's throat and against Aziraphael's lips.

As should surprise no one, the demon has little reservation in taking the easy way out; while he begins to open the first few buttons of Aziraphael's pyjamas simply for the sake of it, for the sensation of his knuckles brushing the skin of Aziraphael's chest, he gets only halfway before the rest of the buttons find themselves mysteriously undone.

His fingertips skirt above the angel's waistband, tantalisingly close, before skimming up to slide the shirt from Aziraphael's shoulders.