Aziraphale clicked his tongue in distaste. Meat suit. He was tempted to say It's yours now, you might as well make the best of it, but thought better of it. It wasn't as though he was particularly pleased with his own body at this moment.

"They all wear out after this kind of thing," was what he settled with, allowing himself to sink to the floor. His posture was as prim as it could possibly be in such an odd space: hands clasped on his upright knees, back straight against the wall. He was tempted to slump, but kept a lookout outside the opening instead. If Balthazar was going to take an impromptu nap, someone out to keep an eye on things, just in case the thing from yesterday came back.