The tiny twitches, the hints of an emotional map that he's been watching under the skin of Crowley's back are no longer a tight, solid mass of tension; Aziraphael smiles into his neck and tries to mirror his own actions on the left wing. Almost.

"All right, my dear?" he asks, a little more clearly. His right arm is still wrapped tightly around Crowley, but his left is dragging long, slow strokes down the feathers of Crowley's other wing.