Aziraphale wraps an arm around Crowley's back, the other sliding into his hair, twin anchors for them both as they ride this new wave of intimacy. White wings brush against black as he nuzzles into Crowley's bare shoulder and breathes deep. He is trembling only slightly less than Crowley, this melding of earthly and celestial bliss almost too much for an even an angel to contain.

It is the line of love poetry (from the Bible, no less) that has tears appear in Aziraphale's eyes, an outlet for his joy. He is glowing -- literally glowing with his personal grace. "My beloved," he murmurs, tilting his head so he can capture Crowley's lips in a soft kiss. "'Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.'”