it’s sunday who wants a snippet from the “things that aren’t crowley’s fault” fic.
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Whatever it is, it’s not fear of reprisal that makes Crowley clear his throat and say, a little awkwardly, “This wasn’t me, you know.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “My side, I mean. I’ve been causing a fair amount of trouble in Babylon, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t - they came up with this on their own.”
Aziraphale lets out a long, slow breath. “I know,” he says without taking his eyes off of the burning city. “I know.”
Crowley frowns at that, unused to being taken at his word. Aziraphale usually assumes all the world’s ills are down to some infernal interference, that Crowley and his ilk have their fingers in every sin across the world. And this, the destruction of a holy city, the chaos and death and destruction, this is exactly what demons are supposed to inspire. It’s what Hell expects of him, at any rate, and why should Heaven expect any different?
“I mean, I could have done,” Crowley says, nettled for some reason he can’t quite articulate. “This sort of thing’s just my style.”
Aziraphale wrenches his gaze away from the wreckage of the city, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “No, Crowley,” he says with a heavy sigh. “No it isn’t.” Before Crowley can reply, Aziraphale’s wings bloom from his back, holy light gleaming through the streaks of soot that stain the white feathers, and he takes off into the night.