Crowley stares at Raguel, mouth hanging ever so slightly open, before giving a strangled, coughing laugh. Elbows on his knees, he presses his eyes to the back of his hands, and says;

"I can't believe I'm sitting here trying to have a rational political discussion with you."

"The Reavers, Raguel," he repeats, then, without looking up.

The palms of his hands are an angry, mottled red.