'Mn- eh?' Crowley squints muzzily at Aziraphale, not seeing the connection. He continues to not see the connection as Aziraphale shifts and jostles, and after a moment decides to let his eyes drift shut. It is definitely a conscious decision, and not something his eyelids have just done of their own accord. The idle petting at his foot is nice, a pleasant distraction from the annoyingly sticky thoughts about Decisions and Choosing Sides and Moments and all that... shit.

Even if Rome wasn't fixed in a day. He frowns. 'Sssnot-- built, innit? Din't need t'be fixed. Well.' That's a philosophical point which is just not worth pursuing at this point. He waves a hand in Aziraphale's direction. 'W'ever.' As if it were the angel who had said that and not himself.

'Y'always say that, 'n, 'n 'n then'sss-- enda the world. I like the world.' On that declaration, his voice ascends into what is nearly a whinge.

Sober Crowley would scoff at what is plainly a request for cuddles, because seriously, demon, etc etc. Many-more-than-just-three sheets to the wind Crowley frowns in consideration, and tries to lever himself up out of the cushions. His legs are still thrown across Aziraphale's midsection, and the cushions just give under his hand when he tries to push off against them.

'Whoah,' he concludes, flopping back as the room rotates around a central axis somewhere just above his head. 'Don't think I can either. Your... bloody couch's ate me.'

He wriggles himself against the cushions and further across Aziraphale, prodding him again with his foot. 'Keep doing that; 'ss nicccce.'