It's less of a victory pose and more of manic attempt to stand up and look ready for more, though inside he's roiling in agony. He knows he won't survive more of this. When Lucifer comes toward him, damaged but undeterred, his stance falters and his heart proverbially sinks. Maybe if he rallies, just keeps stabbing at him, maybe - maybe at least he can do some serious damage before Lucifer ends him.

He takes the slap with as much dignity as he can in this situation, though he staggers slightly at the force of it. He's so very tired, and every part of him hurts, it's almost more than he can bear just to keep the sword tangible.

And then, abruptly, inexplicably, Lucifer lets him go. Ducks out, as if having suddenly received an important call. Well, then. All right. He's not raining down destruction and he's not killing anyone, or making Crowley round up prisoners. Tentatively, Aziraphale considers this a win. Or at the very least a successful draw.

And that's about it for him. The sword sputters and dies, vanishing from his hand, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to disappear his wings. He drops like a stone, knees hitting the singed grass, and then he tips backward until he's sprawled on the ground, wings splayed beneath him, hands open. He can't think, can't move or heal himself, can't search for Crowley. He can only lie there, broken, bleeding, drifting into deep, dark unconsciousness. He's so tired. So very, very tired.