It matters to Crowley to say it like this, sometimes. Not just I love you but the ultimately unsuccessful attempt to express how much. It can't be done, and they both know it; the bond between them is profound in a way that goes far beyond words in any language mortal or immortal. But Crowley likes to try sometimes, to be expansive and eloquent. After so much time having to keep the words in it's a relief to say it, even if he can only say a small part of what's meant.

That doesn't matter. Aziraphale knows what he doesn't say.

Actions do speak louder. Not the fact of Crowley's fingers there, so intimately situated, but it shows in how much care he takes, his own body's needs held in check while he sees to Aziraphale's, slowly and carefully opening him up, making sure every step is pleasurable and relaxed instead of rushed. He can wait. He's always been good at waiting. And any discomfort for him is more than repaid by the sound of Aziraphale gasping, the sight of his fingers gripping the bedsheets, the way his body trembles around Crowley's fingers. "That's it, he says, soft and soothing. "That's good, angel, let me take care of you..."