Aziraphale took an innocent, almost apologetic, sip of his wine. Hadn't he once swore to himself he would never let Anthony live that down? And he intended to make good on that. Besides, there was something utterly charming about throwing Anthony off his game of coolness and ease. Underneath that beauty and swagger was a man, awkward and endearingly messy with faults. Anthony was human, and all the more lovable for it. Aziraphale had been so caught up in his adoration until now, he hadn't really had much of a chance to know Anthony, and he intended to now.

He looked down his nose at the finger jabbed at him, of half a mind to bite it for its audacity, and gave another slow considering sip of wine.

"No? I thought devils employed lawyers."

Warlock was the name of the boy-- his mind unhelpfully reminded him.

"You know, though," he said, putting down his glass and rustling into the basket to pull out the plates and their assortment of foodstuffs. "You may be onto something. A pact with the devil could explain the centuries-old friendship we've seen referenced." His nose wrinkled as he smiled. "Does that mean you own my soul?"