Aziraphale felt an immense sense of relief when Crowley abruptly sat up. He hadn't really let himself think about what might have happened and whether his healing would be enough, not even once he was done. Crowley would be alright. He had to think that. The alternative was simply unacceptable.
He got up and hurried over to the bed. His own injuries were well-healed now, though he could still feel the phantom ache of his wings even though they weren't visible. But that wasn't the important thing right now. He came to a halt beside the bed and dithered for a moment, wondering whether he had the right to take Crowley's hand then deciding he did. They had, after all, held hands on the bus back to London after the whole Armageddon't mess.
"Thank goodness, you're awake," he said with relief. "And no, of course, I didn't. I wouldn't dare."
The gown was rather revealing, now that he took a good look at it. He didn't think he'd seen that much of Crowley since Rome. Or perhaps before.
"Are you alright, dear?" he said hurriedly. "What happened to you?"