"Oh yes," Crowley says, although the ball of molten glass goes through several cycles of being squashed, stretched and rolled into a ball before he decides to elaborate.
"The greenhouse appeared in a state. I'm fixing the broken panes - hopefully I can get it done before winter-proper rears its ugly head."
Crowley is a peculiar creature about temperature. Demons and angels, technically, are quite immune to such things, but Crowley's been on Earth for a while and adapted some peculiar neurosis. He could gleefully hop, skip, and jump (it's not frolicking, shut up) across the surface of the sun without a care in the world, but heaven forfend that the temperature drop so much as a tiny fraction below a balmy 20°C or he'll complain endlessly about it.
But while Crowley is weird about temperature, plants very much aren't. If it's too hot, they die. If it's too cold, they die. They're very consistent like that.
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"The greenhouse appeared in a state. I'm fixing the broken panes - hopefully I can get it done before winter-proper rears its ugly head."
Crowley is a peculiar creature about temperature. Demons and angels, technically, are quite immune to such things, but Crowley's been on Earth for a while and adapted some peculiar neurosis. He could gleefully hop, skip, and jump (it's not frolicking, shut up) across the surface of the sun without a care in the world, but heaven forfend that the temperature drop so much as a tiny fraction below a balmy 20°C or he'll complain endlessly about it.
But while Crowley is weird about temperature, plants very much aren't. If it's too hot, they die. If it's too cold, they die. They're very consistent like that.