Crowley doesn't lay down yet. Instead, he slides cautiously across the mattress, a little closer to Aziraphael.

A small movement of his fingers, and on Aziraphael's other side, the rumpled blanket twitches itself up over his arm.

It seems so loud - the rustle of the blankets, the shrill birdsong outside, his own pulse and Aziraphael's slow, warm breathing.