[At the very least, he watches, eyes following Aziraphale around the kitchen. (What if I told him. Huh? Would that make you talk to me?) He's not sure he can... but hell. Maybe he can work out a way. Aziraphale's a technician (Sort of.). Maybe he'd be able to... help somehow.

The thought makes him shudder, dredges up hallucinated half-memories of what actual technicians did to the Soldier, memories of the table with straps, the needles and lights. Technicians don't help. For a moment, the angel doesn't look like himself, but a short man with round glasses, not fixing coffee but filling syringes, and he has to put his head back down in his hands again until he can control his breathing.]

Not real. Not fuckin' real.