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Crowley felt impressively stupid. Perhaps it was her backward, old-fashioned lover's behaviour at the last minute, or perhaps it was the idiotic hope that had fed her and forced her to spend almost two hours in front of the bookshop, waiting for someone who had surely given up on everything even longer ago.
After all, people who love don't say that nothing lasts forever. Even more so when it comes to Crowley and Aziraphale. Six thousand years and in the end it was all business, book sales and recipes for treating plant burns.
Aziraphale saw her standing in the street and his face was expressionless, as if he hadn't been kissed by Crowley just a few minutes before.
It was either bad luck or maybe that didn't work for creatures like him, because love perhaps wasn't for creatures like him. It was so ridiculously mundane. Humans were created to suffer, they could deal with broken hearts more than once.
Crowley didn't need to be forgiven anything. Maybe what she needed was a memory wipe like there was in The Beginning and that indie film from the early 2000s, Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind.
But let Aziraphale remember her fucking face when he blow the trumpets of the arrival of our Saviour, Lord Jesus Christ and whatever his other titles were.