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There’s a moment during their fourth kiss.
Not the second kiss – that’s hurried, rough but chaste, just presses of mouths and confessions in amongst the end of the world and, more than that, the promise that they will make it out of this together.
Not the third kiss – ecstatic and safe and surrounded by a handful of comrades and friends and a scattering of bewildered, little humans. Crowley’s arms looped around Aziraphale’s neck, Aziraphale’s wrapped around Crowley’s waist, hugging him as they kiss and then the kiss quickly gives way to a simple embrace and then sniffles and tears of relief.
But the fourth time. It starts slow. Lips to lips, angling by increment, trying to find a way to slot together that feels just right and – ah, there – finding it and Aziraphale humming into it, melting forward and against, arms once again around Crowley’s body even as Crowley holds Aziraphale fast by the lapels of his jacket and that’s quite like the first time, and that’s okay.
Aziraphale sighs again, up against Crowley’s mouth, like Crowley’s never dared dream, the taste of his lips and his tongue flooding Crowley’s senses like he never even imagined.
And then there’s a moment, where Aziraphale wants and needs, his hands up against Crowley’s cheeks and across his ears, deep into his hair and it pulls something needy and vulnerable and deliciously taken from the supposed demon’s mouth, up out of his core, growled from the back of his throat, groaned against Aziraphale’s lips.
And so Aziraphale curls his fingers and finds the high arcs of skin at Crowley’s temples, where the hairline dips back and the skin is thin to the bone of his skull; Aziraphale presses his blunt nails in lines back across it, into the lush soft hair – unbelievably smooth and gentle and teasing – and he grabs a hold at the roots, twists just so as he kisses Crowley deeper and slips his tongue into his mouth.
Aziraphale’s fingers drag forward, pulling and petting handfuls of Crowley’s hair down across his forehead, upsetting the carefully coiffed style that was being held in place by some expensive, exotic product, tempered with miracles. Aziraphale wants the silky strands under his palms and curled around his fingers, but more than that he was to swallow another needy, little whimper from Crowley’s lips when he scratches just right, and even more than that, still, he wants to look at Crowley and see where his hands have been, seen how he’s left him rumpled and affected.
Crowley gets his teeth around Aziraphale’s bottom lip and bites, still gentle and careful, but it’s enough to make Aziraphale moan, forgetting to modulate it and Crowley’s lips part once more to meet it, giving Aziraphale the chance to lick up behind Crowley’s teeth as he continues to tangle his fingers in his hair. And it’s a moment of rushing, dizzying, satisfied happiness, overwhelming in its simplicity, as though nothing outside of them in time or space even exists, let alone matters.
They break apart a moment latter, silently agreeing to put some small distance between each other, shocked to have discovered just how good they feel like this: uninhibited and sparking lightning under their skin and their blood rushing overly-warm in their arteries. The things Aziraphale is going to want to do with him.
Crowley’s wide amber eyes shine brightly as he blinks from behind dangling strands of twisted auburn hair, pulled and pushed haphazard and absurd under Aziraphale’s grasping fingers, lopsided and sticking out and down over his forehead and ears. Aziraphale smiles to stop from gasping, but his grin drops away quickly when he sees the wet shine across Crowley’s lips; they’re still hanging open and kissed red as Crowley breathes and it’s audibly shaky.
Aziraphale’s about to say something complimentary or confiding when Crowley’s mouth abruptly shuts and his throat works through a swallow, Adam’s apple moving distinctively under Aziraphale’s watch.
“You’re stunning,’ Crowley says, a little bit quiet and his eyes dropping immediately to where his hands are still clutching, lower now, at Aziraphale’s waistcoat.
“Stunned, you mean?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley chuckles, shaking his head and blinking at the unexpected fall of hair into his eyes. Aziraphale can’t stop himself from reaching up to sweep it back, out of the way, tipping Crowley’s face towards him in the process, making him meet his eyes. He can’t bring himself to pull his hand back, instead keeps it there against Crowley’s face, fingertips playing with his hair.
“No,” Crowley says and the silence feels heavy but not in a bad way. “No, I said you’re stunning.” He smiles to himself. “Although, I guess I am stunned.“
“Oh?” Aziraphale queries and then adds before giving him time to answer. “Me too.”
Crowley’s small smile grows and he presses his head into Aziraphale’s hand where he’s still petting through his hair but making absolutely no progress on righting it.
“I knew kissing you would be good,” Crowley confesses, eyes closing as he turns his face to nuzzle against Aziraphale’s hand.
“Stunning,” Aziraphale offers.
“Gorgeous,” Crowley says into his palm.
They both blush and Crowley opens his eyes to look at him again.
“Shall we keep going, then?” Aziraphale asks, politely.
“Absa-fucking-lutely.”