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Angels and demons are different in a lot of things, but they're also very similar, for example, they don't know how to swim.
It's not like they couldn't learn, with their human bodies there is no reason for them to find it more difficult than any other human activity, but they usually have no reason to.
We have to consider a couple of things.
First, they have wings, they know how to fly, they always have, this means that they never needed to swim nor to learn how to do something as complex as move your body, in a different pattern, through a new medium.
Second, there are no pools in heaven, nor in hell, nor oceans, lakes, rivers or any body of water.
Meaning that they were rarely even thinking about the existence of such an activity, and, even if one of them had, for some reason, such a thought, they would need to travel all the way to the Earth to even try, and no one would bother.
So, as we said, angels and demons don’t swim.
As every rule goes, there are exceptions.
Aziraphale had been on Earth for almost the entirety of its existence, had known a lot of places with big bodies of water, he had grown accustomed to learning new things, and less to using his wings, so, sometime during the twentieth century BC, he had learned to swim.
Enough time had passed since the Flood that the new generations could only consider it a story passed down by their elders, and what was once fear had been reshaped by resilience, necessity and curiosity, and every kid now would learn to swim as soon as they learned to run.
He had learned one day when, chatting with some locals on a sunny cost somewhere on the mediterranean sea, had raised multiple eyebrows mentioning that he had never tried, and they had decided to teach him.
And he learned that it’s not much different from flying, spread your arms, relax, let the current take control, let the water bring you up and down with every wave, it’s freeing and soothing.
Whitin a week it was for him like a second nature, and he kept swimming, every once in a while, as every generation gave it a new purpose, from fishing to exercise, and the only reason he didn’t swim more often is that books seemed to rarely be compatible with water.
When Aziraphale met Crowley in Rome, Crowley didn’t know how to swim.
It is important to clarify that demons are not usually wary of water for there aren’t many chances for it to be holy.
There was a fear, once, that the first rain would be blessed, but it turned out that She doesn’t seem to think it’s wort it.
And since one would need Her power to bless something bigger than a bathtub, no demon is scared of water.
Both Crowley and Aziraphale knew this perfectly well.
So, there was nothing remarkable in the angel asking the demon to go to the balnae with him.
They had been discussing for a while, the romans had invented this fantastic system, with hot water and everything, Crowley had admired the technical advancements, Aziraphale praised the improvements in hygiene, Crowley argued that it promoted vices like pride, Aziraphale proposed to settle the debate going there together.
But, as we said before, to every rule there is an exception, Crowley was scared of water.
He hadn’t always been, he hadn’t been sure about that first rain, but after that he had realised that there were no risks, no, his fear had developed later.
Demons and angels are similar in a lot of things, but they are also very different, for example, they see the world from different points of view.
While Aziraphale was watching Noah build his ark, Crowley was watching the families that would be left behind, and while Aziraphale was looking at every person and animal safe inside the ship, Crowley was looking at every corpse that was floating outside.
It would be unfair to assume that Aziraphale didn’t care about all the death and destruction, but his way of seeing it was “She is showing Her mercy, maybe, one day, it will be on me, again”, and Crowley’s way of seeing it was “She is showing Her wrath, maybe one day, it will be on me, again.”
During centuries of interactions with humans Crowley had given various excuses to avoid activities that involved water, just like he would do for activities that involved the church, “I’m sorry, it but I have an important work-thing…” “I’m sorry, it seems like I’m getting a cold, maybe another time.” “I’m sorry, I already have something else, with another person…”
With the angel it was even easier, he proposed a lunch instead, and Aziraphale didn’t think twice about it, accepted, they had a peaceful meal together, and, for some reason, didn’t ask again.
This request, however, was not inconsequential.
Even if Crowley rarely, or never, admitted it, he was familiar with the concept of fear.
There is a fear, he thought, that keeps you alive, the fear of a real, actual, foreseeable, avoidable danger, it’s a rational survival instinct you can reason with.
And then, there is a fear that is irrational and keeps you from living, a fear that stems from the unknown and the lack of control, a fear you should never try arguing logically with.
Crowley had hoped for a long time that he could just avoid this hassle altogether, that the humans would fear the water, that he would never need to face this monster.
Because he was perfectly aware that this one was a monster, that grew stronger every time he avoided dealing with it, and he knew how powerful that feeling of vulnerability was every time he thought about that.
And he understood, better than anyone, how irrational it was to try and keep his immaterial, winged self and his corporation, that doesn’t even need to breath, safe from drowning by avoiding lakes and pools.
Because, in the end, knowing that swimming or not would make no difference, that he could, can, fly, and still, Fell, doesn’t make it easier, it makes things a hundred times more difficult.
That day, after the meal, once he was back to his house, alone, he couldn’t shake off that feeling “I waited too long”, that knowledge “the humans are stronger”, that thought, “I will need, sooner or later”, that curiosity.
Crowley’s experience was clear on the matter, the only control is over one’s own courage, deciding when, where, how, before it’s too late.
He knew this to be true, so true in fact that he would do it immediately, he would stop running away, stop hiding, because, for someone’s sake, he is not a coward.
So he got out of the house, got to the closest pool, paced for about half an hour looking at it from the other side of a line of trees, as the sun beside it was starting to sink and someone looked at him suspiciously, and then left, and slept for the best part of a year.
He woke up upset with himself and in that grogginess decided two things.
One, he would never talk about this.
Two, he needed to go for extreme solutions.
And before he could overthink this he went and invited Aziraphale to go to the balnae with him.
What looks like a contradiction is actually a perfectly logical strategy that stems from a simple truth (that he’ll never admit aloud, of course, but he is self-aware enough). He wants to look cool in front of Aziraphale. Now he can’t back out.
Crowley would remember this day exactly the same way after an hour as he would after multiple centuries, that is to say, that after an hour he didn’t remember much.
Even after a minute, honestly, it seemed that his brain had simply forgotten to record some pieces, but everything else was there in vivid emotions.
The, perfectly masked, mix of fear and excitement while entering, looking perfectly calm and normal while nodding along to Aziraphale’s endless recount of his last time in the thermae, when he met someone and talked about something and something else that was completely unimportant because Aziraphale was already naked and he was also undressed already and somehow the pool is there.
And that peculiar feeling of embarrassment and nervousness and perfect control and clarity that allows perfect external confidence in being very interested in that New Testament thing that Aziraphale has now mentioned and could talk about for at lest ten minutes before remembering what he was doing.
And the panic, and rush of courage, and somewhat misplaced pride as Aziraphale took his hand, absentmindedly, still yapping and rambling about new books and secret heaven plans, and just walked both of them inside a pool.
He would learn afterwards that Aziraphale prefers warm baths and had walked them directly to the caldarium and attributed to the sudden temperature change any weirdness.
And he would learn, roughly three centuries later, how to float and swim, in a bigger pool, alone under the stars, and it’d be cold, and stressing, and tiring, and slow, somewhat trapping, and he wouldn’t really like it.
But he would, every once in a while, not too often, meet with Aziraphale and enjoy it.