Somewhere else Crowley and Aziraphale are still entwined so tightly that it's impossible for them to be closer; here, Crowley's arms tighten. He can almost hear Aziraphale's thoughts racing, the doubts and sureties chasing each other in restless circles. He's always been able to tell when Aziraphale was doing that. Taken advantage of it on countless occasions too, teasing out temptations and arguments to coax the angel into doing what Crowley wanted. What Aziraphale wants too, in truth; on the few occasions when Aziraphale legitimately did not want to do a thing there'd be no convincing him. Under all those layers of softness the angel is made of adamantine.

Crowley's always been comforted by that. It's been frustrating as Heaven sometimes, sure, but also comforting, to know there are limits to how much he can manipulate Aziraphale.

It's not always about temptation, however. Sometimes it's another way of offering comfort, finding the tangled knots of Aziraphale's emotions and soothing them until they straighten and calm. Crowley's a Hell creature, but he's also a snake. He can do calm. He can be still and wait, entwine and hold. He can be patient.

Their foreheads rest together quietly, and Crowley just listens to the sound of their breathing. In, out, aligned and in tandem, as happens when two people are so close. When he scents salt-water he gently kisses the tear away, not even needing to open his eyes to see where it is. Other soft kisses to Aziraphale's face follow, his cheek, his eyelids.