Beneath that gentle curl of wings, John again goes very still. His breathing hitches, stumbles.

He has been trying not to dwell on that final confrontation, those last moments when he was not alone. Arthur's bold, stupid, beautiful defiance: You're not going to have him. Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

In all his long existence, it is the only time someone has tried to protect him. The only time someone has treated him like a creature that could need, or deserve, protection.

"Thank you, Serph." His voice has gone thick. John tips his face away to hide against the brush of feathers, but this too is overwhelming: he can feel the gentle tickle of down against his cheek. He can feel the weight of wings settled upon his shoulder and over the small of his back, and the bunched blanket under his knees. He is not meant to have a cheek, or shoulders, or knees. This isn't how he wanted any of this. He— he didn't want this, truly, he thought he'd learned how to stop wanting this—

He clears his throat and pretends it does not sound like a sniffle. The wings are soft, and John settles close against them.

"Good night."