He does know all Crowley doesn't say. They've learned to read each other, understand each other, even before they were free to let themselves see all of it. Snippets and glances sometimes spelled danger, so they'd ignore it, fight it, even be blind to it - in the case of the angel -, but they've always related and understood each other better than anyone else in existence. Their way of existing just made it so.

And, nowadays, he knows all of Crowley's unspoken words, the impossibly grand meanings. He can feel them in times past, he can feel them in glances he catches of Crowley's eyes, in the way he kisses him and makes everything else stop. He feels it in his careful touches. He feels it in everything they share. It's more than than the things he does - it's the way he does them, and why.

He lets his forehead rest down on one of his arms, warm breaths hitching as Crowley's deft gentle fingers work him open, patiently and meticulously, sweet in his patience, loving in his words. Aziraphale keeps himself still, but his body aches to hold his demon, to kiss him, to intertwine with him, to tell the world the message it won't hear, that they can never tear them apart.