He can't run his hands up and down Aziraphael's sides, not when the angel has his arms around him. Instead, Crowley settles for splaying his palms against Aziraphael's chest and bringing them to his shoulders in a slow, warm slide.

(Not so warm as it should be - but it's not that sort of warm. And when Crowley pulls back, simply for the pleasure of leaning in again, the honey-pink light of the late afternoon paints some colour in his face.)