Aziraphael's eyes are closed, harsh breathing broken by the tiny intermittent sounds he can't prevent. His own hand picks up the rhythm, clenched in the blanket and marking out a steady pattern: tighten, relax, repeat. He feels surrounded, secured, and Crowley's breath across his shoulder is warm; he feels warm everywhere. It's so warm.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2008-12-29 07:52 am (UTC)