"Oi! Don't you mood roofie me! Get!" The King of Hell flailed his other arm around the air as if able to physically push the reaching aura away. Spoilers: he couldn't. At least not with his physical hands. His demonic aura does push back against the attempts to calm him, swelling quite aggressively.

"Crowley. Mr Crowley. No relation to Aleister Crowley, before you even bloody ask. Now stop your puttering about like a hooked worm. I've already tried all of that and more. They're not coming off." If Aziraphale cared to look down at Crowley's wrist, he would note it was rubbed raw and bloody from where he'd tried to force it off among other things. "And besides, a gentleman always introduces himself to his date before asking his name." So, he's waiting, angel.