Aziraphale makes an impassioned sort of grunt (in the place of where an ordinary person might say something like "Christ") and sags a little. There's not much he can say that he hasn't already said, all of it inadequate.

"I... I'm so sorry," he murmurs, because he has to say something. "I'm glad you could help him."

He feels like an absolute ass, standing here floating vague platitudinous comforts. He wishes he could just give her a hefty dose of divine joy, but one can't simply do that, humans have to have already worked toward it.

But he could give her something.

"Here," he says, and takes her hand perfunctorily. "This doesn't - nothing can possibly make up for what you've been through, apart from time. But this might help you now."

He clasps her hand gently but firmly and gives her a little burst of - well, sunlight, essentially, or rather the feeling of sunlight, the warmth and sensation of standing in it, as she might receive if she went outside at noon. A little boost, for all that she's done today, and all she's done recently.