Aziraphale smiles and offers moderate assistance (mostly just leaning forward in moral support) while the boats are tied together. He's glad to see they've both got supplies, they're going to need it. Further glad to hear the other man say as much.

"Oh, me too," says Aziraphale cheerfuly. "Takes me about... well. I don't know how many bottles, but maybe about three solid hours before I really start to get here, you know? Such a bother." He uncorks a new bottle with a wave of the hand, deciding they should each get their own, because why not. He downs a good deal of it before speaking again.

"Oh, the label's wrong," he says. "Now it's a..." He takes another sip to check. "1959 Bordeaux, I do believe. Splendid." He smiles broadly and leans back against his cushions. "What's your name?"