Normally he'd just leave Aziraphale to whatever nonsense he'd got himself into, he would, except-- well, except. If last night in the park had shown him anything, it was that Aziraphale isn't doing particularly well for himself just at the moment, and there's not been an answering text from him or whomever he's fighting with. Which, that's another thing; who in Manhattan is strong enough to take Aziraphale in a fight, other than Lucifer and Gabriel? And Aziraphale had said she. So Crowley might go so far as to say he's concerned.
Concentrating on the divine pinprick of angel on his mental map, Crowley tucks his phone away, and wills himself away. With a clap of air suddenly occupying the space previously taken up by his body, he vanishes into the aether.
He reappears, somewhat winded (travelling like that, without the aid of anything more than the air, is tiring), in what looks like an unlived-in flat. The air is thick with power, a faint uncomfortable backwards scratch like static on Crowley's skin, and his eyes flick about until they land on Aziraphale, over by the little kitchenette. He's accompanied by-- someone. She looks like a woman, if a peculiarly blue one, though she certainly doesn't feel human.
Crowley doesn't really care who it is, though, because she's got one hand on Aziraphale's throat, the other buried in the feathers of his wing, and Aziraphale is kneeling on the floor like he's frozen, eyes wide and frightened. It's a far too familiar tableau, and Crowley flushes suddenly hot. What is the idiot doing?
'Oi!' he shouts, striding forward and sticking out a hand to manifest the first thing that comes into his head and swinging it at the back of the blue woman's head like a baseball bat. It's only after it's connected that he realises it's the bloody tyre iron.
tw for woooo more violence
Concentrating on the divine pinprick of angel on his mental map, Crowley tucks his phone away, and wills himself away. With a clap of air suddenly occupying the space previously taken up by his body, he vanishes into the aether.
He reappears, somewhat winded (travelling like that, without the aid of anything more than the air, is tiring), in what looks like an unlived-in flat. The air is thick with power, a faint uncomfortable backwards scratch like static on Crowley's skin, and his eyes flick about until they land on Aziraphale, over by the little kitchenette. He's accompanied by-- someone. She looks like a woman, if a peculiarly blue one, though she certainly doesn't feel human.
Crowley doesn't really care who it is, though, because she's got one hand on Aziraphale's throat, the other buried in the feathers of his wing, and Aziraphale is kneeling on the floor like he's frozen, eyes wide and frightened. It's a far too familiar tableau, and Crowley flushes suddenly hot. What is the idiot doing?
'Oi!' he shouts, striding forward and sticking out a hand to manifest the first thing that comes into his head and swinging it at the back of the blue woman's head like a baseball bat. It's only after it's connected that he realises it's the bloody tyre iron.