[After millennia of not communicating honestly, he has no frame of reference for actually talking about what he wants or needs. Beyond that, admitting or showing any kind of vulnerability is a weakness, one that every other demon would exploit to make his existence utterly miserable, and it's hard to break long ingrained habits. Logically, he knows that Aziraphale wouldn't use something like that against him, but logic doesn't always help, and not using it against him doesn't mean he — wants to hear any of it.

It's hard not to think about every other time he opened up, back home, and how quickly he was shot down. I forgive you still stings, even if he knows it was just stress and fear, with the apocalypse looming.]

For fuck's sake, Aziraphale.

[The main emotion in his voice is resignation, not anger. A bit of exhaustion, too, but that's hardly surprising.

He's clearly not done, but he can't find the words just yet, he's too busy staring at his hands in the soapy water. There's a bruise across the back of one that he doesn't even remember getting, because that's just something that happens now his body is fragile and human.

Insignificance isn't a new feeling, necessarily, but he's never felt as small as he does right now, the entire universe narrowed to him and Aziraphale and this stupid kitchen.]

If you'd just talked about the worst experience in your existence, would you be fine with it if the only other person in the entire building decided they'd like to bugger off?

[He has no idea how he manages to keep his voice steady. Years of practice at burying his emotions, probably.

At least he doesn't have to look at Aziraphale, he's not sure he could handle it, after admitting that.]