A few steps bring Crowley to the window, where he leans on the sill, fingering the shallow grooves worn by the shutter bolts.

I got some tea, as well. For fuck's sake.

A huff: short, and not so soft as the velvety breeze.

(When he looks down at his hands, the memory of Aziraphael's - weight sneaks up on him. His forehead furrows.)

But then - there's the velvety breeze, and the sun on the vivid green palms, and the sky that seems like it could go on forever. Even though it won't.

And the smell of mango tea.

With another huff, he pushes himself upright, and pads into the kitchen.