The light doesn't disturb him; the rhythmic pattern of his breath barely alters. The only thing that changes much, here in this bright, timeless room, is that every so often, on one or another of the soft sighs or snorts that accompany sleep, Aziraphael shifts a little further toward Crowley's familiar weight.

By the time the shadow of the wardrobe has begun to scale the foot of the bed, Aziraphael's knuckles are brushing gently against the threadbare fabric of Crowley's sweater.