Crowley's always been wonderful. Always been good, and kind, and nice, and, honestly, Aziraphale still feels quite silly for the times he accused the demon of the awful things that happened around him. But where the demon shined the brightest - perhaps due to Aziraphale's own biases - was in how kind he's always been to him. How understanding. Freeing, in ways Aziraphale didn't always quite see.

His hands slide back to Crowley's shoulders, and the kisses, the wonderful kisses, they distract him from registing what exactly lies under his shirt at this moment, not that Crowley's looking. When he does remember, he impulsively pulls Crowley closer again, hands at his back now, a pang of anxiety, hoping he doesn't notice.