With the same reverence he gives one of his first editions, Aziraphale makes contact with Crowley's wing, gently running his hand along the grain of the feathers. They are as soft as his own, but more pleasant to touch, because they belong to Crowley.

"You take such good care of them," he murmurs in admiration. He reaches up with his other hand, joining the first in its gentle pursuit of stroking all the feathers he can reach. Although it is harder to see Crowley's expression with the feathered canopy around them blocking out the light, he pays attention anyway, making sure that what he is doing is bringing him pleasure. "Not that they need it, but someday I'd love to groom your wings."