"No, of course not," Aziraphale replies swiftly, a look of genuine offense in his eyes that he quickly softens by dropping his gaze. "I... I do have a picnic basket, I haven't used it, but..."

His scratches turn into a light massage while his other hand wanders, no longer skimming playfully, but petting Crowley's side as if in apology. "I saw one in the window of a shop and it was so lovely, it even had a spot for the wine. I'd planned to ask you, once I worked up the nerve, but then the whole anti-christ business happened, and... well, it never seemed like the right time..."

He presses another kiss to Crowley's cheek. "The blanket doesn't have to be tartan, dear, it's all right. Whatever color you prefer."