"Yes," Crowley says, in a tone which means no, but I thought it'd be fun, and I was right, so there.

His mouth does finally make its way back towards the centre of Aziraphael's stomach, but (for now, at least) he refrains from dipping a tongue into the angel's navel, lest any more such hijinks earn him another swat upside the head.

His hands, meanwhile, start at Aziraphael's knees, thumbs neatly fitted to the dip between kneecap and muscle. Then, a slide (leisurely; unhurried) up the outside of the angel's thighs, the flannel pyjama bottoms rucking under his fingers, his palms hot through the fabric.