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Aziraphale didn’t mean to start crying. He certainly didn’t mean to start crying in Crowley’s arms, onto Crowley’s shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric of the demon’s shirt.
They aren’t even tears of distress, really; at least, not entirely. Just tears of too many emotions, tamped down and swallowed back for far too long.
“Okay,” Crowley murmurs in his ear, hand stroking up and down Aziraphale’s back. “Okay, angel. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
And the tears flow faster, and though he didn’t mean to start crying, Aziraphale lets them come.
Tears of relief; tears of catharsis; tears of sanctuary.