He looks ridiculous, sitting in the limp ruins of their small blanket empire: mostly just knees and elbows and ill-fitting wrists, draped about with a lumpy blue jumper that wasn't even made for him in the first place.




"Thank you," he says, smoothing down the front of his (Aziraphael's) jumper, "for putting it like that. That clears up a couple of things, actually."