'Angel,' drawls Crowley, by way of greeting. He's still in the water; he's stuck to the two legs for the best part of five millennia; he's really enjoying swimming about with the tail like this now. It feels rather like the relief one gets when one's been sick and stuck in bed for a fortnight; not that there's anything wrong with lying in bed, but it feels good to get up and stretch again. Change of pace, liven things up, all that.

'Fancy seeing you in my head; thought you didn't go in for sleep.'

He hooks himself over the gunwale of Aziraphale's little boat, peering lazily up at him and dripping onto the deck. Can you call it a deck when the boat's so small? He's not sure. The point remains, regardless.