He traces the pad of his thumb along a crease in Aziraphael's sleeve. His touch is light, but not on purpose, or at least not all the way. He just feels -
The tunic's weave is tight but stiff, made to last; he can feel every thread standing out against his skin, every right angle in the hardy warp and weft of the cloth. He can feel every one of Aziraphael's warm fingers through his clothes; he can hear Aziraphael's slow, almost-measured breathing. And stronger than the wood fire and the trees outside and the tea, he can smell the clean and, and wrenchingly familiar scent of Aziraphael's hair.
His inhale - afterwards - is neither very quiet nor very steady.
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The tunic's weave is tight but stiff, made to last; he can feel every thread standing out against his skin, every right angle in the hardy warp and weft of the cloth. He can feel every one of Aziraphael's warm fingers through his clothes; he can hear Aziraphael's slow, almost-measured breathing. And stronger than the wood fire and the trees outside and the tea, he can smell the clean and, and wrenchingly familiar scent of Aziraphael's hair.
His inhale - afterwards - is neither very quiet nor very steady.