"Is it?" Aziraphale asked, confused, and then blushed horribly, a deep pink darkening his cheeks. He looked away, face burning, and straightened his tie as Crowley attempted composure.

"My dear," he began, after a moment, "could I...?"

He couldn't finish his sentence, horrified at his own go-ahead and graphic mental images that finished his sentence for him silently.

"Um," he said instead.