That -

The not-so-gentle scrape of Aziraphael's hands back - back through his feathers gets a one-two-three of short, sharp gasps into the bedclothes, but that -

(It feels like Aziraphael's breath, Aziraphael's warm and soft breath is curling down every fibre in his shoulder, and every short, delicate feather near the base of Crowley's wing stands up - )

That was loud.

I can't, Crowley thinks. It's a litany; I can't, I can't -