Crowley's warm when his shirt falls open, warm like a human, warm like a snake that's been sunning itself, and Aziraphale presses his palm to that warmth, curling around his side, the ladder of his ribs and the jut of his hipbone. He opens to that kiss and its ferocity, sighing into Crowley's mouth, so distracted that he nearly doesn't answer. "Mmhmm," he manages in acknowledgement, and then he's kissing Crowley's jaw. "What are you going to do about that?"