The pain of the burns and his efforts to hold them back from spreading across his entire body occupy nearly all of his focus, so that Crowley is barely aware of it when the door to the hut opens. He'd be doomed if it was some fervent young priest chasing after the demon who tried to curse the crusade, determined to bless him out of existence. Hell, if it was some fisherman's wife come in to scream at him and beat him with a bit of basket weaving he wouldn't be much good for defending himself against her, either. It isn't either of those things, though. Crowley lifts his head at the sound of his name, his features tight with pain, brows drawn together as he struggles for concentration. Nothing shields his eyes: his dark spectacles fell away somewhere as he stumbled here, and he's forgotten about them entirely as he looks up at Aziraphale.

"A-Aziraphale?" It is him, unmistakably alarmed as he kneels down in front of him. As well he might be, seeing him like this, and if Crowley had any presence of mind for it he'd be deeply infuriated to have Aziraphale see him in this agonizing state, writhing like a worm on a hook, but as it is--

"What...what are you..." He cuts himself off with a groan and a withering curse. "Ah--fuck--holy fucking relic--"