Crowley tilts his head into the scritching fingers, encouraging them to wander. His hair is damp with sweat, spiky at random intervals, and he resembles the proverbial cat in cream in the way he preens and smirks. "Satan forbid I be improper," he says with mock solemnity, grinning down at his lover. "Can't have that. But if you're going to insist on my being decent before taking me to breakfast, you're several millennia plus time uncounted too late."

He bends down and kisses Aziraphale, slow and sated. "Mmm..." he murmurs into the other's mouth. "You're right that I'm better off here, though."