"Hmm," Aziraphael hums through his smile. His breath catches when Crowley's fingers insinuate themselves beneath his waistband, but he's - there - got past the button, at least, on Crowley's trousers. This stretchy waistband affair on the pyjama bottoms isn't fair at all, he thinks vaguely. To even the odds, (or so he tells himself), he edges the two of them, gently but inexorably, in the direction of the bed.

"That depends entirely," he says, "upon what you mean by plans." and leans carefully forward until both of them topple onto the rumpled blankets.