Seated in a nearby armchair, Gabriel glances up from the file he's been reviewing. It's propped a little awkwardly on one knee, and he's got a foot braced against the coffee table for support.

The way things are laid out on the surfaces around him -- so different from his organized upstairs office-- calls to mind words like makeshift and temporary.

"Nĭ hăo, Crowley."

His smile's a little crooked, but it's more due to the still-healing marks on his face than to anything else.