Crowley lets his arms fall from Aziraphale's waist, giving him a fond look as he makes the suggestion. He nods with a sigh, looking over their make-shift bed and all of the glorious comfort it offers. "If you insist." he says, but moves so that the angel can make himself comfortable first. Crowley himself doesn't mind the bed, but also doesn't much mind the floor, so it matters little.

"Make yourself comfortable, angel."