It's just as he left it. Even the glowing dust motes seem to cycle through the air in the same gentle, unconcerned patterns. Just as he always leaves it - except that the ancient bookshelf along one wall is crammed even fuller with books than usual.

Crowley's not sure if that's better, or worse.

With Aziraphael's back to him, his hand hovers in the air, still and uncertain (petrified, perhaps; that's a good word). But when he reaches out, it's to close the heavy wooden door quietly behind them.