A/N: I thought about starting off with some fluff, but let's be real, angst is my bread and butter. Here's a small helping. Also I never write in present tense, but that's what my brain offered for this one.
"It's not too late," Aziraphale pleads, "let's go!" But Crowley is not listening. Not how he needs to listen.
"Didn't you hear me, Aziraphale?" Crowley snaps as he jerks back around at the bookshop's threshold, and the sound of his own name scorches the angel like holy water. Call me Angel, he silently begs, but Crowley goes on, "I said don't bother. You forgive me? Don't lie to yourself. I don't want your forgiveness, I want your—"
The demon stops himself, the muscles of his jaw rippling as he clenches his teeth hard. Where Aziraphale can feel a bruise forming on his lip, he sees a matching red mark on Crowley's, and his fingers twitch. His chin trembles and his brows squeeze together, but he says nothing. If he speaks, he will give in. He cannot be tempted this time, for both their sakes.
The violence with which Crowley had turned had caused his sunglasses to slip down his nose, just far enough for Aziraphale to stare into half of those golden eyes, which both threaten and adore. He breathes in a stifled sob, and even as his voice escapes him hoarsely, he sees something change in them.
"It's not…"
The bell tinkles, and Crowley is gone.
"…too late…"
Aziraphale crumples to the floor. His whole body sobs this time, a spasm that wracks his corporeal being and feels as if it will tear him apart. His eyes sting and break, spattering the antique carpet with their salty rain, and one manicured hand presses to his lips.
It is there the Metatron finds him. The bell tinkles again, but Aziraphale is not listening. Shaking and weeping, he is unaware of anything other than what he has lost. He does not know how humans bear the pain. He does not feel the footsteps approaching, but when the heavy hand settles on his shoulder, Aziraphale starts and at last looks up. His face red and streaked with tears, he cranes back his head to see the Metatron, whose eyes crinkle and lips turn up as he squeezes the angel's shoulder and says kindly,
"Let's go."