As much as Aziraphale would like to declare great pustulent mangled bollocks to angelic standards, the night is drawing closer around them, wrapping them in a safe, soft darkness. This is one of those precious temporary places where he can give in to his un-demonic softness, where he can give and receive comfort. Very little else matters right now.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. The words always feel like an exquisite blasphemy in his mouth: demons aren’t supposed to love, aren’t supposed to be capable, but he’s always been terrible at being a demon in the ways that really count. Loving Crowley feels like getting away with something, in the best possible way.

Another kiss—gentle, slow, as if he’s using it to tell a secret—and then he finally lets a question fall into the warm little space between them.

“How long have you been in Seville?”