[The demon doesn't waste any time in getting up to the roof when the thing lands in Wonderland. He'll push past a few people on his way up, not a single fuck given if he knocks them over or sends them flying, and when he bursts out into the fresh air it's with a very, very loud stream of cuss-words.]

Oh, this is bad, this is bad. [He mutters to himself as he turns to walk away from the view, then turns back as if he can't help but keep looking. People down in the gardens are doing much the same thing, and the extra elevation that the roof offers doesn't do much against the sheer scale of the ship-- creature-- whatever it is.

Crowley's jaw tenses. He pulls off his jacket, shoving it at the nearest person with a sharp 'hold this' before two white wings unfurl from his back, ripping through his shirt and he moves swiftly towards the edge of the roof.]

[He has blood on his hands.

Not in the metaphorical sense, but a very literal one. It's in the grooves of his palms and under his fingers because he hasn't yet had a moment to think about getting it off. Crowley has shown no patience for the increasing number of Indoctrinated in the mansion getting in his way, and he's been trying to leave for at least a day and a half, only to be drawn back in by one emergency or another. Aziraphale would laugh. He keeps coming back to that thought. Aziraphale would laugh because everything that Crowley is doing is so unlike Crowley.

He wishes Aziraphale was here.

The demon rounds a corner, to find yet another person hovering near one of the pieces of Reaper technology showing up in ever-increasing amounts over the mansion. Indoctrinated or not, he snaps out a warning.]

Hey! Get away from that!

[Singing had been a breeze compared to this. Zombies had been a breeze compared to this. Holding his Bentley together while driving across a Hellgate had... maybe been a bit harder than this, but the wear is starting to show.

Crowley hasn't slept in five days. That doesn't show, since sleep isn't really a necessary thing as much as something he just enjoys doing. What is showing is the general sense of dishevelment about him. Small things that don't seem much each on their own, but all together... It's the small scratch on one lense of his sunglasses, the unpicked cuff of one sleeve of his jacket, the pale scuffs of dirt on his trousers. It's the sure signs he's had far more to think about than just himself.

He finds his way into the tunnels early on the fifth day after the Reaper lands, and sinks into a corner with all the air of someone who has most certainly Had Enough. When the ground above them starts to shudder, he leans his head against his knees and says nothing.]