[ Crowley nods, looking up at Aziraphale through the dark lenses of his glasses, closing his eyes briefly when he takes another long drink of the wine but then opening them again to watch him. It's...comforting, somehow, to watch the angel here in his own domain, whole and well as he promises. It gives Crowley a sense that he, too, is at last in a place where things might be well again, at least for a little while. ]

That's good. That's good to hear.

[ He waves the hand not holding the wine glass, dismissing the credit Aziraphale gives him. ] I'm all right. [ The angel's regard is almost palpable. It makes Crowley think briefly of taking off his shades, which he hardly ever does, even around Aziraphale, unless he's quite drunk--maybe he's well on the way there already, he thinks, taking another drink. ] It's--you won't find what you're looking for, angel. No wounds. See?

[ Spreading his arms out, he offers himself to Aziraphale's gaze. ]

It's just--

[ He stops, searching for words to explain what is going on, why he can't seem to--feel like his old self again. ]

That war, it was so terrible, Aziraphale. The things they did to each other. Did you see much of it?