Aziraphale's prissiness never fails to be amusing, and Crowley gives him the requisite smirk. He gets the feeling that he's rather being played, here; Aziraphale more than has it in him to be an oblivious ass, of course, but Crowley rather suspects that the angel is deliberately, and obtusely, pushing him towards 'playing the serpent', as he'd put it. Well, if Aziraphale feels like pretending to be the seduced innocent, Crowley can't pretend that he objects.

He takes a swig from his newly-opened wine bottle. Really, this stuff is far too nice to be drunk from the bottle like a bum on the tube, but Crowley was never one to stand on ceremony.

'Nothing,' he shrugs, voice as lackadaisical and laid-back as he can make it (being Crowley, he takes that tone to such extremes you could probably take a nap on it.) 'Just seem disssstracted, 's all.'

The muscled bulk of his tail slides wetly over the gunwale as he lifts the tip of it to give Aziraphale a little prod in the shoulder.