"Am I?" Aziraphale looks down at himself and cleans himself up just a little, the barest minimum of effort. Some minor un-rumpling, mostly. Taking out the blood stains. "Gabriel fixed me up a bit. Obviously." He realizes he's still avoiding actually looking at Crowley. He doesn't want to look at anyone, not with his face burned up like this. But he's going to need to do it sooner or later. Might as well sooner.

"Are you all right?" he asks, and finally he does it, looks up and catches Crowley's eye. Or, well, he thinks he does, through the dark glasses. Aziraphale wishes he wouldn't wear those, but he doesn't say anything about it just now.

It doesn't jar him as much as he thought it would to look at Crowley. What had been jarring was watching him, those moments that he could bear to look, watching his expression contort and harden, a constant, visibly exhausting effort to look like he meant it when he did everything he'd done. Everything Lucifer had made him do. Now, there's no twinge of residual discomfort, no triggered memory of the pain, as he'd feared; it's just Crowley, looking at him like he's supposed to, over a glass of wine in the back room of the shop. It's a relief to see him.