He's not sure whether he pulls Aziraphael towards him, or whether he simply lets himself be pulled. Perhaps a little of both; it doesn't matter much.

Everyone else is long, long gone towards baggage claim. Possibly they shouldn't even still be here. But it's quiet, and the sun is bright through the tall windows.

Crowley's hands fit well against the curves and angles of Aziraphael's jaw, when he tilts the angel's head just so and leans in for a kiss.

Slow.

(Apologetic.)