The angel smoothed a hand down the demon's skin, feeling the heat seeping into his fingers, and sighed into the kiss, feeling the slow relaxation of breath and muscle. The cold of the outside had yet to touch them both, or at least Aziraphale, who was still pinned by Crowley's lax weight.

There was meaning in Crowley's kisses, here, there always was, and it was feeling that the angel reciprocated, even if he wasn't capable of interpreting it just now. He understood, though; Aziraphale always had understood him.

And there was one more idea nudging on the edge of his consciousness. Something about cold air and being so free and open, or at the very least naked on a blanket, in a field just outside of Tadfield. The entire experience was almost dreamlike because of that, although the fallen stick poking into his back was nearly dissipating that feeling.