"How am I supposed to know? Do I look like a mole?"

Crowley continues to scrabble with his own hands, dirt under his fingernails. He doesn't know if it's the right place but it feels roughly like it might be, so far as he can tell from the weak sound of Aziraphale's voice calling him. This is insane. This is ridiculous, and Crowley hates it and can't for the life of him --

Dirt starts to fly back toward Crowley and he startles, bracing himself on his hands as he wildly tries to spot where the retaliation came from.

"What the heaven is going on?"