Aziraphale kisses him, and if Crowley could melt without the help of holy water, he probably would right about now. He cups the angel's face with one hand and the other moves to touch the bare skin above his heart. All of the time he's spent thinking about why they shouldn't, and why they couldn't (and definitely why Aziraphale wouldn't) and now, here they are. Reminiscing on Shakespeare and undressing themselves. Defying the stars, as Aziraphale so aptly put it. Certainly defying everything that the universe says they're supposed to be. Crowley wouldn't have it any other way.

He pulls back, just enough to shrug out of his shirt, tossing it to the side. "One half of me is yours," he says. "The other half yours. Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours."

He moves back to kiss Aziraphale again. "And so all yours."