"Sort of trials, they're not exactly what you'd call fair," Crowley says, taking a step back from Aziraphale to finish removing his armor. He feels more like himself out of it. His leg aches, and he puts weight on it experimentally. No good. He's going to have to talk to Aziraphale about it. He's going to have to handle it before maggots crawl out of his muscle or he starts to turn into sand or whatever Hastur had planned up for him. Later.

"Oh, no, don't tell me there's another prophecy," Crowley says, tossing one of the gauntlets aside. "What is it this time? More War? Great big phantasmic opera in the sky? Rehash of American Idol?"