Aziraphale watches his back move with interest, every twitch and stretch and the magnificent flare of wings. There's something about Crowley that's always been poetry in motion. Though even if he were a poet, the words would leave him as soon as those eyes settled on him. There was something about that look these days.

He clears his throat, flushing even deeper as Crowley adjusts the pillows, feeling a surge of warmth at the care Crowley is showing. He knows better to bring it up and instead settles back against the pillows with a murmured:

"Thank you." And then proceeds to rest there, half drowsing as he runs his fingers over the jacket that Crowley left behind, smelling him faintly and enjoying it. The crashing about in the kitchen and even worse, the beeping of the microwave reminds him that in some ways Crowley really is evil. Reheating such good food that way? The wages of sin are terrible cuisine apparently!

"Just reheat it on the stove, my dear. I'm sure there's a pot somewhere."