The bell tinkled. Crowley, legs draped over the arms of his deep chair, didn't bother looking up from his book.

"Welcome to Fell's bookshop, we don't have what you're looking for and we wouldn't sell it to you if we did. Here to help."

"Hello, Crowley."

The demon jolted and whipped around in his chair, but before he could speak, Muriel came clattering down the stairs.

"Mr. Aziraphale, I thought that was you! Welcome back, how have you—"

"Muriel," Crowley snapped, fingers digging into the arms of the chair as he stared over his glasses at Aziraphale, standing awkwardly below the door, "out."

"But I—"

"Go to the cinema or something, just get out NOW." At last sensing danger, Muriel hastily exited the bookshop with another nervous tinkling of the bell. Silence reigned as Aziraphale fiddled with the bottom of his waistcoat, and Crowley continued to stare. Finally, Aziraphale opened his mouth.

"Crowley, I—"

"No," Crowley cut him off, levering himself up forcefully from the chair, "don't speak to me." He turned away from Aziraphale sharply, covering his mouth with one hand, the other propped against the back of his hip in a fist. The tension across his shoulders spoke louder to Aziraphale than if Crowley had screamed at him.

"Crowley—" the demon threw up a hand sharply as if to slap the word away. The fingers on his face tightened, holding back the churning turmoil Crowley's mind, his eyes squeezed tight shut. He could feel Aziraphale's gaze on his back, feel the familiar energy radiating from him; familiar, yet tainted, somehow changed, perverted. If he breathed he did not know it, and his body felt unreal.

"Cro—"

"Fine, Aziraphale!" Crowley exploded, spinning on the spot to face the angel at last, raised hand ripping the sunglasses from his face to hurl them shattering to the floor at Aziraphale's feet, "Fine! Say your piece, but this had better be good, or Heaven's going to find itself with an inconveniently discorporated Supreme Archangel."

Aziraphale stared down at the ruined fragments of metal and glass on the floor, and felt the sting on his shin where a stray piece had ricocheted its way under his trouser cuff. His brows were knitted tightly, and he drew a shaky breath as he looked up at Crowley. Crowley, whose chest was heaving with fury, whose gold-glinting glare had never been directed at him like that before; whose heart he had broken.

"I— I'm not Supreme Archangel anymore."

"Then why," Crowley gritted, "do your eyes look like that."

Aziraphale closed them shame. He had known the violet veins spidering his once bright-blue eyes would provoke a reaction from Crowley. Mustering himself, he looked up again.

"I left, erm, without notice. I— Crowley, you were right," Aziraphale blurted, stepping forward suddenly and stretching out his arm. Crowley recoiled, and the angel juddered to a halt. "You were right," he repeated, "about everything. You were right about everything. I thought I could do good, I thought I could change Them, but I couldn't. Not by myself, not if you'd been with me. Crowley," Aziraphale pled, for the demon was staring determinedly out the window now, "please, please, Crowley, look at me! I'm sorry."

Crowley's head dropped. Then, slowly, he returned to face Aziraphale. The angel's eyes were shining with unshed tears, which broke to roll down his face as he blinked and choked out,

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. I'm sure I don't have the right to ask you for forgive me, but—"

"I forgive you," Crowley cut across Aziraphale, his voice inscrutable, "I just don't know if I can ever trust you again." Aziraphale flinched as though touched by a lash, and his voice broke when he spoke again.

"Crowley I— I love you."

The words hung in the air like a prayer, and the silence that followed was the most complete the bookshop had ever known.