"Yes, I thought you might approve," Aziraphale leans into him, pressing his hands up the planes of Crowley's chest to his shoulders in self-indulgent wonder. He'd known this corporation of Crowley's for ages--had even worn it himself--but goodness! being held against it stirs up all kinds of desires he'd thought would remain hidden indefinitely. "Can't be too honorable, not with you involved."

He purses his lips into a small pout that turns into a barely contained smile when Crowley tells him he's wrong. Intoxication indeed. From which there is hopefully never going to be a hangover in need of a cure--and given that it's a love that has endured literal Hell and high water, even if it hasn't always been romantic love, he reasonably suspects there won't ever be.

Still, despite the promises of pampering, he's a little nervous they've gotten their wires crossed when Crowley doesn't make the next obvious move. Aziraphale is waiting, searching his eyes, expecting Crowley to take the lead like the suave, roguish hero he is...when he realizes that maybe Crowley is also waiting on him.

"Suppose you haven't."

Aziraphale inhales, nods.

"No slithering out before you've fulfilled that promise," and he doesn't mean for it to sound quite as scandalous as it comes out, but then his mind is elsewhere: on Crowley's wet, pink lips, on the rough tone of his voice, on the warm heat of his body--and he brings a hand up to cradle Crowley's face as he leans up for a kiss.