Ironically, this may be why Aziraphael is so carefully listening, watching Crowley's fingers for every movement, every twitch in the bunched muscles of his back.

He works backward now, dragging his fingers more roughly against the feathers' natural growth. And here he distinctly remembers the way Crowley blew across them, how incredible it felt, each pinion warm and tingling. He leans in and breathes carefully on the light down where the wing joins the back.