Aziraphale frowns with immense disapproval. Should he really try to stop such a violent, arrogant, dangerous being from throwing herself back into the rift? It's a vindictive thought, and as soon as he's had it he suffers a surge of panicked good will. Sighing internally, he says, "I promise you this is different. You will be hurt if you try to leave this place."

He pulls his overcoat closer around himself, briefly noting the continued presence of skittish-looking New Yorkers eyeing them from a distance. Oh, she's still covered in alien blood. For goodness' sake, he ought to have done something about that right away. The rain isn't washing it away fast enough, just taking some of it in swirling, discolored pools on the stone ground. He raises his hand and brushes it all away with a flick of the wrist, vanishing the discarded spine for good measure. Much better. She's still noticeably blue, but it is New York City. That's a lot less bothersome than being covered in blood.