Crowley rolls his head a little, which is as close as he can get to shaking it while being completely unwilling to move. "Not...this," he says. Aziraphale's shoulder feels warm and comforting. He smells warm and comforting, he is warm and comforting, what is Crowley even doing here? He swallows, closes his eyes. "For 1862, and that stupid fucking argument. For saying all that utter tripe to you and then sulking off to sleep for half a century."