Somewhere during the last piece of Crowley's explanation is voice changed from dull and numb to something faster and more breathless. He makes a small cry of worry as Aziraphale knocks the holy writ from his hands, but his attention is wholly on Aziraphale. He doesn't spare even a glance for the sacred paper. Instead he tries to capture Aziraphale's hand, make sure the fingers haven't been burned. But before he can those fingers are gripping his arms, and his gaze is caught and held by beep blue eyes.

"Isn't it?" he blurts out, his own eyes wide and stricken. He closes them and shakes his head, still breathing too fast. He raises his hands and closes them around Aziraphale's wrists, as though to hold them in place. To give himself some sort of framework. "No, it's not that." He laughs, and it's more a sob. "Not just that. It's Heaven approving of it. Praising it. Again. All those deaths and all that pain to serve some, some, some Great Plan we never see and can't even ask about, what is it for, how--"

He's shaking more violently now, and his head bows, rests against Aziraphale's chest. "How can they sanction this and call it good?" He can't catch his breath. Technically Crowley doesn't need to breathe, but it feels like he does, and he can't. His next words are almost inaudible.

"How can I call myself good while I do their work?"

(Why haven't I Fallen yet, just for asking all this?

Do I want to?)