"Don't know," says Aziraphale helpfully. He edges forward, slow and careful, until he can straddle Crowley's waist, where skin becomes scales. He perches there like a ridiculous, fluffy-headed bird, shrugs and says, "Improvising."

He places his hands innocuously (so far) along Crowley's sides, leans down and kisses him, quick and chaste. It had taken him a rather long time to pick up the knack for kissing, and though he still hasn't quite got the hang of it, he's come to enjoy it quite a bit. He smiles down at the demon and rolls his hips ever so slightly. There's nothing in particular to rub against but that's hardly the point.