He didn't want angelic sympathy. He wanted to rage and scream and set things on fire. But what did it matter that he lost the job he loved to take on a task he loathed? What did it matter that his ex-lover had returned without gaining an ounce of understanding in the intervening time? What did it matter that he was Hell's punching bag? In the larger view, absolutely nothing. In the personal view, everything.

What Crowley wanted, more than anything else at the moment, was to have some kind of resolution. To have one problem solved no matter how small. To feel like he had any control over his own life. He focused on his wings. If he could tolerate this, keep his mouth shut long enough to not alienate Gabriel entirely, he could have that. So the demon sat stoically, trying not to grimace as he felt the bones beneath his skin draw together and knit, trying to ignore the feel of the angel's hands on a very sensitive area.

When Gabriel finished, Crowley came out of his self-induced daze and flexed his wings slowly once or twice. They'd be stiff and achingly sore for a few days as the bruising healed, but they were gloriously free of the sharp, stabbing pains he'd been fighting all week, having only managed to mend one or two of the multiple fractures himself.

"No. That's... I think you got it."