Shit, Crowley thinks, looking over at Aziraphael and then back at his palms.

He wipes them on his jeans, and tries again.

He's still clumsy, but in this, he's willing to ease the way with some pointedly directed thoughts on latches, and the appropriate positions thereof (and hinges, and what constitutes an acceptable amount of squeaking).

It's a few inches. Not much, but enough to let in some air.

Crowley breathes in deep, once, twice, and feels - how strange - a dampness drying cool at his temples.