Crowley's hand is tight in Aziraphale's, and he's thinking of six thousand years of lunch dates and squabbles and hidden looks, of doing for each other even though they could never say 'thank you'. And of the last few weeks, nervous but ready to be even more to each other. The last few hours, opening a door to something he never showed anyone.

And he's thinking of a car driving through a wall of fire, tirelessly blasting arena rock. And of a man who once painted his portrait in Italy. A young boy listening to a lullaby. A slightly older boy holding his hand.

He's thinking about the people he's already met here, Tyzias most of all. Because Aziraphale entered his life and quickly dropped into a category of his own, but Crowley had never imagined other friends. Friends who he could tell the truth to. Friends who seemed to get him.

If Crowley has established one thing about the being he wants to be, it's that he takes care of his friends.

He kisses Aziraphale's hand entwined with his. Then with his free hand, he snaps his fingers. Once, twice, three times, a percussive beat that slots into Noa's melody. He's attempting to miracle a shield around Tyzias, weakening her connection to the enormous Shadow and keeping her safe from their onslaught.