Two centuries in Soho, plus six thousand years around humans in general. It's a little difficult to miss their preoccupation with their own genitals. Crowley has always thought the term 'privates' to be incredibly misleading.

Aziraphale walks a bit quicker, and so does Crowley, and then Aziraphale looks at his mouth and says he didn't mind and fuck. "Here--" Crowley abruptly takes a left, turning them off course in the direction of Soho Square. It's closer. There are park benches, and trees, and still too many people but fuck it.

What he wants is to just shove Aziraphale up against a tree and kiss him until they're both senseless and breathless and willing to let the rest of the world go to Hell in a handbasket. What he does is find a relatively quiet corner (only relatively quiet, it's still Soho), wave his hand a little to divert attention away from them for a minute--and then stop. Just stop, looking at Aziraphale, gaze darting between eyes and mouth. "Aziraphale--" He stops, swallows, runs his thumb lightly over the angel's mouth. "May I?" May he, can they, is this actually happening?