If not for the fact that Lord John were currently present, this moment would be unfolding very differently. As it were, Aziraphale was putting in an extraordinary amount of effort to remain as composed as he could possibly be considering that he had only just been pulled out of what was very possibly meant to be his grave.

He cracks a little as Crowley immediately starts wiping off some of the dirt and a very measure of blood from cracked skin he'd won himself earlier. He catches one of Crowley's hands in his, holding on tight and desperate as if the contact might comfort at least one of them. At least somewhat. They're here now. Above ground and certainly a little safer.

"I assure you, I'm alright," he tells him, voice low and expression openly affectionate. Everything that Crowley is offering is something that he'd truly appreciate receiving and he hopes to try and collect on some of it later in the evening. When things are better, calmer, and he doesn't feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. "I'm alright," he repeats, still as much of a lie as the first time he said it.

He turns his gaze to Lord John Grey, who had obviously injured his arm at some point.

"I am not sure if the same could be said for our friend here."