Crowley accepts the hay graciously, stuffing it into his little log tower, then angling some more sticks of wood around it. He notices the angel shivering, and once he's lit the kindling beneath the logs with his miracle-lighter, turns to face Aziraphale with some concern.

"You're not wrong, " he starts, looking lost in thought for a moment, his face brightens up with an idea, "Angel, let me make you a dry shirt. You're shivering."