'Well, not of this stuff, that's for sure.' He takes another gulp of the wine and grits his teeth, waving a hand in the direction of the remaining bottles. Their contents imperceptibly change from the unremarkable Merlot currently residing there to a ripe 1959 Bordeaux.

Seeing Aziraphale's suspicious look, Crowley chuckles. 'Aw, what's that face? What am I going to do to you? You've been immune to my wiles for millennia.' His own expression suggests that Aziraphale's insistence on being so makes him a terrible sport.