Really, how cross Aziraphale is about it only makes it better. There are few things as satisfying as driving the angel so far over the edge he forgets himself. Crowley jerks back as the drink spills over the table, expression morphing into cartoonish surprise. Oh, the cruelty of it all! Oh, he's so hurt!

It's probably a blessing Crowley can't talk properly, as it saves Aziraphale some of the exaggerated dramatics that he might otherwise be subjected to.

A wave of Crowley's hand cleans up the desk, then another some of the drink that had dripped onto his clothing.

He holds up the notebook and pen, waves them temptingly. Oh, these? You want these? You're sure? Definitely these?

The second Aziraphale reaches for them, Crowley is well prepared to move his hand away a little further then tap his glass.

He was right. He's just saying. He was right about the drinks.

Nobody will ever hear the end of this.