Aziraphale is far too familiar with Crowley's kind of sarcasm to be bothered by it - and he's in far too high spirits to be bothered by most things in the first place. He follows them into the room, closing and locking the door behind him, moving over to take a seat on the opposite bench.

The angel sighs, head buzzing slightly with the delectable touch of alcohol, wiggling slightly in that familiar way he does to adjust himself in his seat.

"I can't help but to be curious about what would appear. What would this train - this place, or, whoever - make of the classics."