Keflavik airport, though elegant enough, was small - but at least it was quiet. Uncomfortable bench or no, by the time Aziraphael had gotten back, Crowley'd been nodding gently off into his cup. Having decided that, on balance, it was better to risk the demon's ire sooner rather than later (especially when 'later' involved a boarding call), the angel had shepherded them briskly through security. Except insofar as he'd been required to wake up and move again, Crowley hadn't much noticed, glowering at the tiled floor until he'd found himself planted on yet another bench.

(He didn't think he'd ever felt quite so much despair as when he realised that it was sectioned off into separate seats by steel armrests - that he couldn't stretch out horizontally and go back to sleep. In the end, he'd done so sitting up, instead.)