It's not quite what Crowley has in mind - but it's not altogether off-base, either.

It's something of an irony, really: still so new in his own skin, Crowley moves - can't help but move - with the creaking uncertainty of an old man. After he wraps his fraying sweater more closely around himself, thumbs tucked inside the sleeves, he turns to pull awkward legs up onto the couch. And then, with that same slow caution, he lowers his head to rest in Aziraphael's lap.