It was a good day to be a duck. More specifically, it was a good day to be a duck in St. James Park. Two regulars were sitting on a bench quite near the water, and the one that looked like he might own more than one Liberace album was dolling out breadcrumbs from the world's most deceptively small paper bag, while the one that looked like he might own a gun looked on anxiously.

"This is… highly inconvenient, of course," said the one with the bread. A particularly ambitious duckling pecked at his ankle. He tossed a handful of bread onto the duckling's head, and it squawked delightedly.

"Inconvenient? Understatement of the century. I'm telling you, Hastur was ready to throw me in the pit then and there. I might be the only being in existence that owes its life to the mercy of Beelzebub. I doubt I'll be so lucky next time," said the one with the dark glasses.

"No, I would imagine not."

There was a long pause, during which a drake got spunky and head-butted an Armani-clad leg in hopes of another bread shower. He received a swift, Armani-clad kick for his trouble, before the blond one clucked disapprovingly and rained down breadcrumbs like so much manna.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you. For telling me. I know this isn't easy for you. Much worse than it is for me."

"Don't be stupid. Of course I'm telling you. What, like you wouldn't have got wise when I stuck my hand down your—"

"Crowley."

"Only joking."

The sun began to set over the pond rather majestically, and when every duck had eaten its fill, there was a mass, ducky exodus, in which little webbed feet paddled across the water towards wherever city ducks go at night. Several minutes later, the dangerous looking chap checks his watch and, without a word, the pair strolled away towards dinner and drink, elbows brushing carelessly all the while.