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They've made significant inroads into a rather fine Cognac when Crowley looks out of the window and wrinkles up his nose. "There's a strange glow out there."
Aziraphale doesn't budge from his cushion. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," he says, toasting Crowley with his goblet. "Come, have a little more, this is terribly good stuff."
Crowley squints through the tiny panes. His already poor eyesight is somewhat hampered by inebriation and the distortion of the glass, but he is, after all, a demon, and hell is still quite fond of flames. There are things one needn't see clearly to recognise. "Angel?" he says, "I think something's on fire."
Aziraphale blinks at him momentarily, then it sinks in. "Oh my," he says, clambering unsteadily to his feet. "Fire? We can't have that. My books!" He becomes quite distressed, flitting from one carefully curated stack to the next.
Crowley moves to the door, peeks out, and considers how recent his latest unsanctioned miracle was. He might be pushing his luck, but it's Aziraphale, and Aziraphale's books.
He snaps his fingers. "Nothing to worry about," he says with a smirk.
"Oh, Crowley." Aziraphale's relieved smile is entirely worth the risk.