At Crowley’s dry comments, Gabriel looked up quickly. “Raphael,” he breathed, a mix of relief and concern showing on his angelic face.

He set the glass of holy water down, leaving Aziraphale’s side to approach the other archangel. He grasped the Raphael’s shoulder in warm greeting. “Raphael,” he repeated, his eyes suddenly sober. “The others, how are they? Have they - ?” His gaze flashed quickly to Crowley’s acrid expression, and he let his questions die away unanswered. “Never mind, you can tell me later.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he continued, gesturing towards the bed where the sickly angel waited. “Aziraphale... his fever has not broken. It is a normal virus, I think, but he is too weak to fight it. And his leg... Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to help him better than I could.”