"I'd see," Crowley grumbles, though it's less than convincing given how happily he's leaning into those fingers on his scalp, how his breath catches at the near-ticklish scrap along his chest. "Do you already have a picnic basket, then? You been picnicing without me these past decades, angel? I'm hurt."

Again, it's not remotely convincing, especially not given how his hand strokes up Aziraphale's back.