He walks, but his feet don't actually touch anything. He can't tell if he's pushing off anything or floating. The only sound is himself, there's no walls, no windows, no sky. No time. Nothing at all.

Just Aziraphale, and endless white. Endless nothing, for eternity.

It's fairly disturbing, really.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Oh..."





He angel is still unconscious. None of the jostling and moving around gets a response from him.

At least it seems like his coat will be fine after a wash. He'll be happy to know about that. His bowtie, however, might need to be replaced.

And, of course, the thin lines on his skin that barely poke out of his collar. Part of something else, of course, a black mark that concentrates on the center of his chest. Like a burnt mark, splintering through.

Could have been worse.