He knows, of course, that Aziraphale knows, that they both know damn well there's nothing to be done about it, but Crowley still feels that uncomfortable itch under his sternum. Like he should be doing better, or expecting more of himself, or some such similar bollocks. Not right for a demon at all. He wrinkles his nose.

Shots, Crowley decides, are simply an unnecessary intermediary, and sweeps a hand at the lot of them on the table; a blink later, they've coalesced into a large tumbler, which he fills generously.

Aziraphale's toast makes him snort, and he lifts his glass in turn. 'To... ineffability,' he decides on with a sort of wryly amused bitterness, and drains a good half of it as though it were a pint of lager rather than thousand-dollar tequila.

'Fffffuckitty fuck,' he hisses as soon as he's swallowed, his face rubbering fantastically. 'Whoo! Blimey, that is like being... punched in the throat by a beautiful Mexican.'

Sliding down a little further against the cushions, he lets his head fall back limply. 'Bugger it,' he pronounces. ''S all-- shouldn't be surprising, even, should it?'