"You know what?" says Aziraphael, his smile widening rather, "I jolly well can, at that."

He takes a moment to look around, make sure they're alone; everyone knows what he is, to be sure, but there's a difference between knowing and believing; he has no wish to unsettle anyone.

There's a soft silken sound like tearing cloth, a moment's flurry of movement.
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings;
And he's perched comfortably on the railing, wings spread slightly to maintain his balance - he looks, suddenly, comfortable. Graceful.