Those fingers. It's as though there's an electrical current between them, sparking at that one lone point where he's touching her, and it's powering her to move forward with quick clipped steps. She knows Aziraphale has made them unnoticed, just as she'll make sure no one interrupts or hears. For a few minutes somehow no one will happen to need access to the cloakroom. People on their way will be delayed by slow traffic, people already here trying to leave will find that the card machine isn't working, some will choose to linger longer over their desserts or listen to the song the pianist is playing.

Th door closes and Crowley turns, pushes him against it, pushes her body against his, pushes her tongue into his mouth. There's a small window on the opposite wall, set high-up and letting in some moon and city light, but it's mostly dark. That doesn't matter. She can see just fine and her hands and mouth know the way. She would know him anywhere, find him anywhere. She always has.

"You," she hisses into his mouth. "You're so good, damn it. So blessed good." It sounds angry, the word like an insult. She catches his hands, presses them against the door on either side of his head, pins him. Her mouth moves down neck, sharp teeth scraping against the skin as she sucks on his neck. "You're so fucking good to me, angel." She bites hard, leaves a mark. Something to show above the edge of his collar, something more permanent than lipstick.