Crowley's mouth is open, but his eyes drift shut as another quiver surfaces beneath Aziraphael's lips and hands, rolling out beyond the angel's reach, beyond the edge of the bed, to the very tips of his longest primaries which twitch and flutter in the air above the floor.

One hand curls back around the bright, wrinkled bedsheets, but the other fists in his own dark hair. He looks like a colour study, half-done: pale skin, white sheets, and the two black inkstains seeping from his back, where Aziraphael keeps dipping and sifting and stroking his fingers - which he leans down to kiss, again and again, and comes away clean every time.