'Of course he didn't fight fair,' Crowley snorts, nose wrinkling, 'he's the Devil.' In case Aziraphale had missed that. It seems even odds that he might've, given his behaviour thus far. Crowley's overall opinion of Aziraphale's intellect has not been greatly improved by this encounter.

The sharp intake of breath and sudden attention paid to his shoulder does not escape Crowley's attention, and he huffs, waving a dismissive sort of hand at Aziraphale. 'Oh, turn over.'

His tone is impatient, as if it were a bothersome trifle that's distracting Crowley from more important matters, but Aziraphale does as he's asked regardless. Crowley is faintly surprised, and then faintly alarmed at what that must say about the amount of pain Aziraphale is in, that he should comply so easily. Faintly stymied, he regards the angel's sprawled form.

'Uh, are you ok if I sit on you, or should I... not do that?'

All this being considerate, it makes him itch.