[Crowley bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood, it's the only thing that keeps him from making an incredibly embarrassing noise at the sudden press of Aziraphale's face against his neck.

He'd briefly entertained the thought of taking off his sunglasses when they'd entered the flat, and he's endlessly grateful he didn't follow through on it. His eyes sting, and he has to blink a few times to clear them.]

Stop that. You're not — you're not putting me through anything.

[He tries to sound casual, like they're talking about Crowley suffering through a play that he doesn't want to see, but his voice is too strained for it to really work.]

Not quite this. M'sure you don't want the sordid details.