All of the anger that Aziraphale has been holding tight in his chest, thick and heavy enough that it might have suffocated him, finally starts to diminish. Just a bit. It’s the pair of hands around his and the gentle agreement that Crowley will listen to the torrent of questions he has for him that finally helps dull the flame of his temper.

His eyes flick downward then, looking at their joined hands as he vaguely acknowledges that he’s been holding onto the demon all this time. It’s a true shame that it cannot continue. Not if Crowley truly wants that drink, anyway.

“As you’d like then,” Aziraphale agrees. He gently tugs himself free of Crowley’s grip in the following moment before walking in the direction of his desk. He’s kept everything here, for now, until he can figure out a better arrangement for his things in this cramped space. There’s hardly any room for anything. It makes the mess he had made feel all that more apparent. Grabbing the desk chair by its back, he pulls it upright again in the most nonchalant manner he can manage before reaching for one of the wine bottles.

When he walks back over to Crowley, two nearly full glasses in hand, he realises he’s forgotten to ask an important question during all of the ruckus.

“Do you feel alright after all that?” he asks, extending Crowley’s glass out to him.