At her sudden, sharp interjection, Aziraphale looks up, stunned and slack-jawed, and nearly lets the book slip from his knee. He doesn't move, nor alter his expression, for the duration of her rant, even as the bite leaves her and she withdraws once again. His initial reaction is sheer surprise; this is not the way he'd thought things were going at all. How thoroughly he'd misunderstood, or perhaps - willfully ignored? Offering her light conversation and biscuits - like she'd seen a scary movie. And there it is, secondarily, but much more staggering: an intense pang of guilt. Guilt. Because of a human. Because a human has put him - him! - in his place.
It's something he's particularly glad the Authorities aren't privy to.
What a terribly rank idiot he's been.
When she stops, he sits for a moment in silence, then carefully sets his Bible (letting his held place slip away) on the endtable, along with his teacup.
"I see," he says, and adjusts his glasses for lack of action. This not being enough, he takes them from his face and cleans them half-heartedly with the cuff of his shirt, before just folding them and leaving them in his lap. "You're... you're quite right. I don't have any idea what you went through." He sounds almost surprised by his own words, and even moreso at his next ones: "I'm sorry."
He lets there sit a weighty pause, wondering if this is enough, glancing curiously at her.
"But you're wrong, too," he feels the need to point out. "You have strength. I can see that just as I see your affinity, as you call it. It takes strength - incomparable strength - to be willing to sacrifice yourself for such evil. And to accept help. And to survive." He looks at her, quite seriously now. "Survival by any means is not weakness, Sunshine. It is the directive of life."
And, he doesn't add, unfairly difficult to achieve. Sometimes it galls him, how hard things have been made for these poor creatures.
He leans a little closer and offers her a rather genuine smile. "Which is to say nothing of the strength it probably took you to say all that just now."
[cw: dealing laterally with survivor's guilt]
It's something he's particularly glad the Authorities aren't privy to.
What a terribly rank idiot he's been.
When she stops, he sits for a moment in silence, then carefully sets his Bible (letting his held place slip away) on the endtable, along with his teacup.
"I see," he says, and adjusts his glasses for lack of action. This not being enough, he takes them from his face and cleans them half-heartedly with the cuff of his shirt, before just folding them and leaving them in his lap. "You're... you're quite right. I don't have any idea what you went through." He sounds almost surprised by his own words, and even moreso at his next ones: "I'm sorry."
He lets there sit a weighty pause, wondering if this is enough, glancing curiously at her.
"But you're wrong, too," he feels the need to point out. "You have strength. I can see that just as I see your affinity, as you call it. It takes strength - incomparable strength - to be willing to sacrifice yourself for such evil. And to accept help. And to survive." He looks at her, quite seriously now. "Survival by any means is not weakness, Sunshine. It is the directive of life."
And, he doesn't add, unfairly difficult to achieve. Sometimes it galls him, how hard things have been made for these poor creatures.
He leans a little closer and offers her a rather genuine smile. "Which is to say nothing of the strength it probably took you to say all that just now."