There's a nice rhythm to the work, once you find it - it's... absorbing. You can forget there's anything outside the satisfying tug of weighty canvas and rough line in your hands, the creak and bustle of the ship beneath you, and the breeze in your hair.

It's a little brighter than when they started - Crowley blinks, looks up, and grins when the clouds split overhead and allow a ray of autumn sun to shine through.

Balancing himself on his hands, Crowley hoists himself up a little onto the yard, to check on the crack - it seems to be holding up as well as anything. He signals as much to Wellard with a nod and a thumbs-up.

(They're close enough for talking, when the breeze is quiet, but Crowley doesn't; he hasn't realised that the reason why is because he's humming under his breath as he works.)