Aziraphale manages a half- no, more of a quarter-hearted chuckle at 'fourteenth century', then sinks back into uneasy silence at the rest of it. He leans slowly against the back of the couch as though being delicate with wounds, even though Gabriel took all the aches away, leaving only the marks on his face and the back of his neck. Crowley's fire can't stain him the way Lucifer's touch does, and he's glad of that. It would be such a terrible thing to carry scars from his - his friend.

They've come this far, surely he can admit that Crowley is his friend.

"I'm all right," he confirms with a subtle nod. He's not, of course, but neither is Crowley. It isn't something they're going to talk about. They don't do that. What would the point even be? They both understood what happened and why it had to happen. There's no sense in rehashing it now.

He sees the way Crowley is downing the wine, rather wastefully, and waves his hand to make the bottle a beautiful eleven year Añejo Tequila. After thousands of years, he knows Crowley's style.

"Let's drink," he says, finishing his wine and changing each of the glasses to shot glasses. As an afterthought he miracles them several slices of lime on a plate. "Let's drink as fast and hard as we bloody can."