He can. Of course he can. He feels all the same things, even the fear, though that he's buried under determination to take care of Aziraphale, the same way he's always done. It's a well worn coping mechanism for Crowley. And in the circumstances, it's not a bad one.

So he concentrates on that, only that. Only Aziraphale, and wringing those shudders and twitches from him, those breaths, until he's fully seated in his lover's body, shaking and panting. Crowley looks up and meets Aziraphale's eyes, and the focused expression on his face morphs into a slight smirk. "Ready?"

It's a tease more than a word, a silent request: are you ready, tell me you are, tell me you want this. Tell me you want me. Say it out loud.