He pauses for a moment, elbows on his knees, listening to the Pleistocene pace at which Aziraphael pads back across to the bed and sits down.

(His footsteps are almost silent, but it's there in the dip and squeak of the mattress, and the soft stretch of wool and cotton over skin. In this state, he can hear it even over the small buzzings of frustration in his brain - hear it very well.)

Face darkening a little, he leans back down.