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Poland, 1942. Sobibor.
"I thought this was below even you," Aziraphale said bitterly.
"I didn't do it," Crowley said.
"Who else?"
Crowley said nothing.
Aziraphale was getting angrier with every word. "You expect me to believe it was just a coincidence? I'm not stupid, Crowley--"
"I said, I didn't fucking do it, all right?" Crowley snapped, half-shouting.
They glared at each other.
After a moment--
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, all the heat gone out of his voice. "I believe you."
Crowley stared sullenly at the cold, gray cement, the cruel barbed wire.
"I was never this good," he said dully.
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