Crowley squirms a little, which has the (for once) unintended side effect of making Aziraphale's hand ride a little higher on his thigh. It almost distracts him. "No doubt," he says, with a forced sort of neutrality.

I can’t imagine any one refusing you.

He should have picked Hamlet. Anything by Shakespeare. Bloody Timon the Athenian, even, or Cymbeline, that convoluted mess. Anything but Oscar Wilde. He can't get at what he desperately wants to know and just as desperately wants to not ask, and he can't set it aside, and fuck Oscar Wilde, sideways, which the old reprobate would possibly have enjoyed, and enjoyed with the same lush, deep appreciation and enthusiasm that Aziraphale applies to earthly pleasures, and Crowley is quite rapidly going out of his damned mind and suddenly can't stand it and just says it. "He ever proposition you?"

It could have come out worse. At least it wasn't did you fuck him. Even so, he flushes abruptly dark red and drains the rest of his glass, leans forward (dislodging Aziraphale's hand in the process) to refill it. And babbles. Of course. "Nevermind, shouldn't have asked. Water under the bridge, and anyway it's none of my damned business. What you did. Or didn't do. With Wilde. Or anyone else. No business at all."