Crowley's lounging slantwise on his bale, easy as a latter-day emperor, so when he glances across at Aziraphael it's with a tilted, sideways grin.



"A little of the good stuff never hurt anyone," he reasons, then. And just like that, there's a third wineglass on the table, between the fruit bowl and the bread. Crowley pours with a practised flourish of the wrist, low to high, until there's two fingers' worth of dark, promising red in the bottom of Ingress' glass.