Crowley keeps his hand where it is - slides it down a little, to rest his fingertips above Aziraphael's pulse, to grin again beneath Aziraphael's lips when he feels it quicken.

"Suppose," he murmurs indistinctly, "suppose I can give you that one."

His other hand spiders down Aziraphael's side, sneaking fingertips beneath his waistband at the hip - then around, to the small of the angel's back, and then back up, along the curve of his spine.

Tracing memories there, just barely touching the skin above Aziraphael's shoulderblades, he says (smirks, comfortably), "Suppose I could make it up to you, too."