Aziraphale turning his head makes Crowley all the more bold. He presses another kiss to the angel's jaw, and then a little lower, to his neck.

If someone had asked him, eleven years earlier, where they would be at this moment, just after the apocalypse, he'd have said fighting. Or running (in Crowley's case, certainly running, and attempting to convince Aziraphale to come along). Or something else. But this? Certainly not. Heavens, but he wasn't complaining.

"To sleep, perchance to dream," he murmurs against his skin.