"Terribly sorry," Aziraphael says, not sounding particularly sorry at all, but he does duck a little lower to drop kisses along Crowley's jaw. It's close to his chin, after all.

He braces his weight on one elbow, which means the other hand is free to roam. It does, slowly, lingering on Crowley's face, the underside of his chin, that ever-fascinating collarbone.

It might occur to him to move up the bed sooner or later.