That brings Crowley up short. He might as well have been suddenly tugged backwards on a lead for all the momentum it takes out of his proverbial sails, and the tyre iron dips slightly in his grip. He cocks his head incredulously.

'He, sorry, he what? You were-- because he tried to take your phone?'

And then Aziraphale, going from pinned down and helpless to that, hands spread and shrugging like he's in some dreadful 50's television programme and cheekily breaking the fourth wall to say oh, what scamps we all are. Crowley huffs, loudly. 'Has it?' he asks, deadpan. Now that the rush of-- whatever, worry, protectiveness-- has receded somewhat, he finds himself faintly embarrassed at his position. 'Who is she, even?'

Not bothering to wait for an answer, he turns back to the woman. 'Who are you?'