Aziraphale's hands are steady as he carefully winds the anointed bandage up along Crowley's left arm, up to his elbow where the burns have stopped their progression. He's had practice with this sort of thing, aiding humans the mundane way when Upstairs has warned him about using too many miracles. He's glad for it now, all the practice.

He murmurs soothingly at the sounds Crowley makes -- no words of import now, merely the feeling behind them -- then switches to the other arm, wrapping it in the same manner. He rests his hand on Crowley's shoulder, watching his face, waiting to see if the demon can push out the holiness. It hurts to see how much pain he's in. Hurts even more to think about what could happen if he isn't successful. He'd gotten used to Crowley popping into his life every so often that the thought of him burning up into nothing fills him with a quiet panic.

Please, he thinks to himself. Please don't leave.