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Righteous fury.
Crowley knew what was flowing through Aziraphale the second his angel pulled him closer. Aziraphale's touch burned, but not the way this sort of angelic grace would usually. Perhaps it was because he was the cause for the anger, but not it's target.
Lower ranking angels had decided their path to recognition was less through good works, and more through violently trying to kill him.
Their plan of attack had been solid, Crowley would give them that. He'd admit it even had a stylish flair. Smug pity, he'd also extend.
Because they hadn't counted on Aziraphale being there in his home. They hadn't counted on the soft, bespectacled angel, who moments ago had been fixing tea, to react this way the second Crowley's blood ran and his knees hit the floor.
Aziraphale's eyes flashed so sudden and brilliantly that they shattered the glasses on his face, the cuts healing before a single drop of his own blood ran. Angelic wings bursting into view, feathers looking far more like knives from Crowley's vantage point, and Aziraphale's entire being radiating such an intense holy aura, it could have caused an army to fall on their knees.
Their greatest mistake might have been taking that one last threatening step forward.
Crowley couldn't help but sigh.
“You poor bastards.”