Aziraphale lowers his head and covers his face briefly with his free hand. "He certainly would not," he says wearily. He lifts his head back up and levels a stare at Rashad, telling himself all right now, enough. "This is highly improper," he says sternly. "I would be hard-pressed to describe you as anything other than an enemy. You can't just go around - cuddling people whose shops you've set on fire." And other things besides. The lecturesque format of his complaint is a bit ridiculous, but he still feels awkward about it, and he knows, distressingly, that he'll be bereft for the contact if Rashad does depart. What a dreadful imposition.