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Crowley is a demon of very few regrets (and most of them are shortcuts he failed to take), but right now, he is absolutely regretting getting Aziraphale a mobile phone. Aziraphale has always complained about the loss of subtlety in electronic communication, and Crowley has always responded that all of those "modern technology is ruining communication" articles were his idea so yes, of course it would seem like that. But they were just articles, just something to stir up animosity. He never thought that convincing the angel that texting was, in fact, just a modern version of telegramming (which Aziraphale also resisted at the time) would make those articles come back to bite him. Or, well. Not bite him, as it were.
Aziraphale plucks another mussel from its shell and before he pops it in his mouth, he says, "Are you quite all right, Crowley?"
Crowley, who feels like he's been slowly boiling in his own skin for the last 45 minutes, manages a very weak mmhmm.
"You don't sound all right." Aziraphale dips a chunk of baguette into his broth.
"'m fine," Crowley grunts. "Just…"
Aziraphale stops just before putting the slightly soggy bread in his half-open mouth and eyes Crowley next to him at the table. "Just...what?"
Crowley stifles a groan as Aziraphale bites down and makes a very pleased noise. "Just...emojis mean things."
Aziraphale savors his sip of wine before putting his glass down. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Don't make me say it," Crowley mutters, and bites his bottom lip.
Paused midway through gently easing another mussel shell open, Aziraphale tilts his head to the side. "Say what?"
The bastard is going to make him say it, Crowley realizes. He takes a deep breath and tries to gather up the bits and pieces swirling around his head into something resembling a coherent thought. "Listen, I know you're still learning the ropes of texting, but when you put a tongue emoji after 'I want to eat out tonight,' it...implies certain things."
Aziraphale darts his tongue out to lick up a drop of broth from his bottom lip and then has the audacity to raise his eyebrows.
"And I might've…" Crowley continues, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "made an Effort."
Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, and contemplates the final few mussels in his pot. "I take it you've never done that before in this context," he says, absently, as if he's mentioning it's going to rain tomorrow. He glances quickly at Crowley, and a little smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.
Oh, Crowley thinks, digging his fingers into his thighs. Fuck.
"So let me ask you this, my dear." Aziraphale carefully wipes his mouth with his napkin, and leans over so their heads are almost touching. And then he says, very quietly, "What, exactly, do you think is for dessert?"
Crowley feels his chest tighten and his hips twitch backwards involuntarily. "Ngk," he says.
Aziraphale only smiles, smugly, and finishes his wine.