When Aziraphale sets down his book and teacup, Sunshine thinks: now you've done it. Here comes the flaming sword. Even the innocuous gesture of him polishing his glasses is watched with an exhausted sort of wariness. She doesn't know that much about angels, especially pre-fallen ones; her interests had always tended toward the darker end of the Other spectrum. But she's pretty sure a human can't just scold one and get away with it. Who does she think she is?

It should go without saying that she wasn't braced for an apology. She wasn't braced for anything, really, so much as just waiting for whatever punishment he might choose to dole out, and she shifts incrementally in her chair as it sinks in. He's… admitting fault? He sounds surprised - at her? at himself? - but no less genuine for that, and her expression shifts from exhausted and wary to exhausted and astonished.

She does not feel strong. It was Con's desperate intervention that insured her survival after Bo. And her petulant outburst, deserved or not, was just that: an outburst, a momentary rush of unsustainable pique that has left her drained and aching and in no position to handle a sudden onslaught of such… carthaginian angelic grace.

Her face crumples before she can hide it in her hands, and she quietly bursts into tears.