Anthony. It almost doesn't register, for a moment, that the man is addressing him with that name. No one calls him Anthony, except for Hastur when he's trying to be funny.

(He's not funny.)

"I'll believe you, if it means you keep the vomiting to a minimum," Crowley says with a small wrinkle of the bridge of his nose. He looks away, off up the slope, then makes a noise that could almost be a growl in the back of his throat before he picks his way across to where Newt is.

"Putting me in the position of needing to save your skin is becoming a bad habit of yours," he continues, crouching down to get the man off his elbows and into a sitting position. "What's wrong with you, did you hit your head?"