The repeated request only serves to make Aziraphale feel more nervous, fear and anxiety starting to eat up his insides. How bad must it have been for Crowley to require a drink before he could even begin to detail it? Once again, he wonders what in the hell had happened in that moment when the light had consumed him.

Was it disincorporation? Flashy teleportation? Most likely not (not when there usually isn’t any flashes of light for such a thing), but one could hope. It would certainly be the least offensive of the potential answers that he’s conjured up in his head.

“Crowley—” he starts again. He isn’t interested in pouring either of them a drink. Not at this very moment, anyway. He just wants to know. He also wants to yell, but he stamps that feeling down as quickly as it rises within him. His face already feels hot and eyes wet with the threat of tears. “I would-I would really rather you simply tell me now.”

He presses a little further.

“What happened? What did you do?” he asks.