That whine is nice. Takes Crowley back to the days when Aziraphale had actually required convincing for this sort of thing. Soooo much easier this way, he thinks. That admission is also nice, and Crowley gives a little involuntary writhe that presses him further up against Aziraphale, strangely unfocussed arousal crackling under his skin.

'Tart,' he accuses, and makes to close the distance between them before Aziraphale even starts to respond.

He realises the error in this as soon as he moves. Locomotion when one has the lower half of a snake and the torso of a man is a dream in water, easy enough on land (if a hell of a strain on the lower back muscles), and next to impossible in a very small rowboat. The boat rocks violently, sending bottles clinking, and Crowley throws out his arms to brace on the sides of the boat, his tail tightening in reflex.

'Um,' he says.

And then, somewhat guiltily, he loosens the coils around Aziraphale, aware that that might have hurt a bit; a snake's muscles are powerful.

'That might,' he says once the boat's rocking has ceased, 'be easier said than done, here.'