The angel received a cool, steady look that would have been a glare if Crowley had bothered to remove his sunglasses. Since he hadn't, he settled with the impression of a glare. "You know very well, Aziraphale, that a certain percentage of alcohol is required in order to lubricate the synapses sufficiently enough to process thought patterns until this corporeal form is accustomed to the rather drastic change in climate."
His lips had, by now, curled into a satisfied smirk as he lifted his glass. The water had changed into his preferred wine. It was an old trick, but far from outdated.
He turned to Elaine, a suggestion of a hiss on his voice. Speaking of his superiors usually left Crowley feeling agitated, and he tended to revert to instinct when his nerves were pressed. even instincts six thousand years old. "Are you sure he won't just decide to show up?" It wasn't as though the three of them, in one place, was entirely subtle.