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Aziraphale had thought he knew what love was. Love was baked into the fabric of every angel's being from their moment of conception, after all.
And it was no surprise that Crowley cared about him, either. Just tonight he'd saved him from certain discorporation, and—more importantly—his books from destruction.
But this—his trembling arms, the fear behind his dark glasses, the powerlessness crawling up both of their throats—this was all new.
Crowley's love wasn't a duty to uphold towards all living things equally. It was a rifle loaded with trust and aimed at his only friend's head.