(no subject)

[nny]

Crowley found him not that far away, in a tiny urban park full of crisp packets and beer cans that didn't even have any grass. The angel was on his knees, carefully pulling wind-piled litter away from the fragile blossoms of the only flower in the park.

He collapsed onto a heavily graffitied bench. "It wasn't me, you know."

"I know." Aziraphael wouldn't look at him. "Why did you feel the need to tell me?"

Crowley frowned at the back of the angel's head, at the hair that had been sprinkled with grey since he'd known him and had never got any greyer. "I... I don't know." He shrugged one shoulder, a pointless gesture since Aziraphael wasn't even looking at him- he was uncomfortable, and if they'd been manifested he'd have rustled his wings, but settled for the shrug. "I just thought you should know."

The angel sat back on his heels, rested dirty hands on pristine trousers and sighed, still not turning to face him. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

It makes *me* feel better, Crowley wanted to say. When he'd seen the mess they'd made, seen something that managed to turn even *his* stomach, his first thought was that Aziraphael might think it was him. Might believe that he'd Inspired it. And that thought was like a knife twisting in his stomach, like the hangover he'd tried on for ten minutes once to see what the humans were complaining about, like Falling. He'd needed to make sure that everything was still okay, and he'd found that somehow it wasn't but not because of him. He wanted to say that but just shrugged again, unable to find the right words.

Aziraphael sighed.

"If it wasn't you, Crowley, it means it was them. They came up with it on their own. And that's worse." He turned around, finally, and the look of desolation on his face made Crowley see, suddenly, what God had been thinking when he sent that flood.

The angel got to his feet, looking suddenly old, and tired, and all too human. "For what it's worth, Crowley, I'm glad it wasn't you."