Crowley immediately imagines the coat picked up and folded, put away on the couch, and it is, safe and sound. Dangerous to use a miracle, even a little one, but Crowley doesn't care, can't possibly care right now. His own jacket he slips out of and tosses aside, letting it fall away from them and in a heap on the floor. He can sort out his own clothes later.

He leans back down and kisses Aziraphale like it's breathing. He unbuttons his waistcoat, long fingers slowly undoing each button, slipping them carefully through each eye, smoothing them down as he does. Aziraphale cares about little things, like his clothes and keeping them, and Crowley wouldn't have the angel any other way. No matter his desire to just pull the clothes off of the angel, he wouldn't dare. No, he'll move slowly, carefully, respectfully. Such a bad demon, really.