Crowley has six millennia's worth of experience watching Aziraphale be in denial or restrain something he doesn't know how to cope with. Even with his eyes closed and the distraction of a kiss, he can read Aziraphale's tension.

He's not all right. Neither of them are. They will be. They'll get there.

Crowley sighs into the kiss, wraps his free arm more firmly around Aziraphale, splays his flat palm and open fingers over the angel's heart. His other hand moves, teases at the elastic pyjama waistband and slips underneath, resumes its hold and slow, firm strokes with no barriers.

Crowley really wants there to be no barriers between them, not even thin cloth layers.

(Elsewhere scales caress against feathers, and it's comforting).