Crowley's kisses are slow, and only barely unchaste, lips as dry as the hand that comes up to cup Aziraphael's jaw (to brush a thumb across his cheek, to feather the fine, soft hair at his temple, to trace the line above his eyebrow with unsteady fingertips).

And they're interrupted, more than once, when Crowley simply rests his forehead on the pillow, and breathes - mostly silent, mostly even - from the crook of Aziraphael's neck.