His laugh is weak (it will probably get stronger later), and his half-hearted swipe even more so.

"I was mostly joking there," he says, not at all repentant, "but your way sounds intriguing. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me about it."

He stretches languidly, and his thigh just brushes Crowley's lingering hardness accidentally-on-purpose. Aziraphael had made a promise earlier, of sorts.

Warm as he is, comfortable as he is, there's a sense of something having passed him by, some nuance that he might have picked up, given a few more decades.

But he is warm, and comfortable, and they have a few more decades. His fingers trace lazy patterns on Crowley's back.