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Eighty years is a long time to hold a grudge for a human; that’s basically an entire lifetime, and quite possibly also drags the next generation or two into the situation as well.
For nigh immortal beings like angels and demons, that’s barely the blink of an eye. And yet when Crowley got wind of a double cross going down involving a bookseller in a church, his immediate thought was oh fuck, Aziraphale, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes followed by a mad rush to get to his angel as soon as possible.
So what if they hadn’t spoken since 1862? That was no reason to let the only being on the planet who could understand him get himself discorporated!
And, for hell’s sake, he could almost understand Aziraphale’s reluctance regarding the holy water. It’s not like the demon actually explained what he wanted it for. That’s an oversight on his part, and should the topic come up again—
Well, that’s for later. Right now is right now, and right now involves a bit of demonic influence to redirect the evening’s bombing strafe. The Bentley comes to a full stop right where Crowley needs to be, and he steels his resolve before barging into the church.
At first, he’s too concerned with how he somehow forgot that walking into a church meant walking on consecrated ground, and he can’t help but remark on that as he makes his way to where four people or people-shaped beings stand. Three of them are a bunch of Nazi idiots who British Intelligence has been keeping tabs on without much success in stopping them thus far. The fourth is the one he’s here for, and for about half a second Crowley almost stumbles over his words.
Because he isn’t quite sure what he was expecting when he finally met up with Aziraphale again, but it certainly wasn’t victory curls and red lipstick.
Later, he’ll take the time to wonder how long it’s been since the angel presented as female and come up blank, if only because every time they’ve met up in the past Aziraphale has presented as entirely male. Crowley had little qualms about toying with how he presented himself or herself to the world, basing that entirely around mood and cultural cues. The angel, on the other hand, had always seemed to gravitate towards what was easiest.
Right now, however, Crowley takes note of the flattering cut of the women’s fitted jacket and the way the skirt falls just so around her calves and thinks oh yes, this suits her nicely and I’m in trouble.
“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hisses, looking equal parts relieved to see him and annoyed with his presence.
“Trying to stop you from getting into trouble!” he hisses back, and his hiss is more impressive because, hello, serpent of Eden here.
The angel huffs something about having should have known this is Crowley’s doing, and the demon manages to defend his innocence and insult the Nazis at the same time. There’s brief conversation regarding his name—
“Anthony?”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’ll get used to it. Ah, what’s the ‘J’ stand for?”
“S’just a ‘J’ really.”
—before getting back to the matter of the approaching bomb and the need for a miracle. And, of course, wonderful and brilliant and beautiful Aziraphale gets the message and ensures that they both avoid a messy and utterly inconvenient discorporation.
As the dust settles, the angel brushes off her jacket and remarks, “That was very kind of you.” She says it with that little grin, the one she’s always used in the past that sort of makes him wonder if she’s trying to tempt him into kissing it off her mouth.
“Shut up,” he grits out instead, ignoring the way his ears burn a little. That grin always does things to him, and apparently he doesn’t care if the angel casting it his way is presenting as a man or a woman.
Aziraphale sighs. “Well, no paperwork anyway,” she mutters before her eyes go wide and she lets out a despairing gasp. “Oh, the books! I forgot all about the books!”
Oh yeah, Crowley thinks as he steps forward. Unlike his angel, he recalled those books of prophecy that she had brought along to the meeting, and made sure that, while Aziraphale protected them, he protected her precious cargo. It’s the matter of a moment to wrest the bag out of the corpse’s grasp and hand it over. The angel’s mouth snaps shut, and she looks vaguely stunned.
“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he remarks, giving her a tiny grin. “Lift home?”
He starts to walk off, heading towards where the Bentley sits unharmed and wonders to himself if the holy water he’d spotted earlier might still be intact. He’ll return after dropping Aziraphale off only to find it gone—either evaporated from the heat of the blast or miracled away by the angel before she caught up to him—and wind up stealing the statuary instead as a souvenir. Right now, he listens as there’s silence for a moment or two then the click of kitten heels picking their way through the rubble.
Crowley lets himself grin. Really, femininity is a good look on Aziraphale.