Time has no meaning to an immortal and they have centuries to make up for. The kisses are tender, sweet, needy and full of desire. They're as multifaceted and intense as the unspoken moments they've shared together, and for one of the few times in their shared existence, Aziraphale is not looking over his shoulder, worried about being seen.

Crowley's warm breath against his cheek as the kissing ends finally reminds Aziraphale that they do pretend to need to breathe. He should probably also pass a message to his unnecessary heart that it can resume normal functions again, though his corporation has decided quite frankly to have its own awkward ideas about how to react to being kissed so thoroughly. Cheeks pink with his embarrassed, pleased, well-snogged smile, it's difficult to play at being a suitably demure and prim little angel--not when he's licking his lips like the cat who got the cream.

"Well, now," he says softly and then clears his throat, tugging at his collar as if overly warm.

There's no more he has to say, or he loses the thought in Crowley's golden eyes. Instead he steals a smaller kiss and then another and another, like chasing the last few drops of good scotch and then, never one for moderation once he's set on something, he happily, shamelessly indulges again.