Does he feel alright? After all that? Crowley takes the glass and squints at Aziraphale sceptically. He supposes he knows what the angel means, wants to know if there's any lasting damage, but still.

"Feel like I've been temporarily discorporated," he says, and takes a large sip of the wine he's been offered. "Sit down," he adds, because it's better if he does instead of pacing. Crowley's nerves can't cope with hovering over him or pacing just right now. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders a little as if trying to get a grip on himself. Come on, Crowley, get it the fuck together. It was only a temporary discorporation. You're fine now, no harm done. Probably. He squints down at his wrists, shoving up his sleeve to check the stupid bracelet things that caused all the trouble in the first place.

Still intact. Still got the stupid brightly coloured stone typing him to a so called god. He's not quite sure if he feels relieved about that, but it is what it is.