Crowley was already filling the crook of his arm with bottles from the minifridge when Aziraphale darted out the door, grumbled something about how the angel must have disappeared to go find himself another gauche tartan accessory, and started setting the bottles on the nearby table when the angel came back in with basket in tow. Even if he hadn't heard Aziraphale come in on his own, the crinkling of the cellophane gave it away.
His yellow eyes stared at the powdered blue cellophane encased basket, blinking only a few times. If the angel didn't want people thinking he was gayer than a tree full of monkeys, he needed to not do things like parade around gift baskets with a sort of glee one would expect from a woman who'd just received a spa package.
“What's in there?” the demon asked. Then, because he couldn't really help himself, he chided, “scented soaps? That barbaric shampoo and conditioner hybrid? Some fuzzy slippers, a sleep mask... a shower cap...” Crowley couldn't really see what was in it from his angle, but it felt natural to pick on the angel for carrying it about. Wasn't that usually what hotel concierge hospitality baskets had in them? “And what do you mean we both have one? I never saw...”
Crowley's head turned and saw the red wrapped basket. Red. How apropos. “Oh,” he finished a moment later.
Curiosity got the better of him, as it sometimes did, and he approached the basket with a bit of fascination. How odd that it would be personalized, unless the coloring was completely coincidental. Possible. But given that neither he or the angel had any idea how they wound up in this location, it was far more likely that whomever or whatever had brought them there had personalized the baskets a bit.