Aziraphale pulls his shirt off as careful as any of the steps he made so far, for a moment pausing, considering. He holds it in his hand still, as he glances at Crowley's torso and concludes that nothing would ever change the fact that Aziraphale thinks he's wonderful. Any shape, any form. That doesn't mean that seeing said shape partly bare like so means nothing.

He feel's Crowley's hand sliding down his side and he pulls in a soft breath. He doesn't wonder about other nights. About the future. About trying to figure things out. He unfortunately catches his mind too stuck in the past, but he's working on that too.

The angel brings his free hand to Crowley's back, soft and tenderly resting there, while the shirt still hangs from the other. He leans and pecks at his lips in request, closing his eyes again, which serves also as a way to subtly miracle Crowley's clothes - shirt, jacket, accessories - clean and tidy, folded right on the sofa. Tit for tat.