The demon's hands feel like they belong on his skin, another feeling he didn't quite think, even consider at all, not that long ago. But when they're together like this, in the quiet like this, together and joined with no interruption or barrier, he feels like that's where they belong. He's never quite managed to put that into words. Maybe he's never had to.

(Feathers shift as if breathing, hold and encase. He's free to go, free to roam, but this light is his if he'll take it.)

Aziraphale follows the kiss, lets himself lean down and lay upon the demon. Both his hands touch Crowley's face now, thumbs brushing over his cheeks.