Time passes and a routine forms.
Aziraphale's bookshop continues, though he goes to extreme lengths to prevent customers from leaving with any of his precious books. Said extreme lengths are often a source of amusement for the demon, when she isn't roped into participating in them. He continues on, content with his collection of books. Aesthetically, he barely changes either. The briefly-ginger hair soon returns to his usual blond curls and he doesn't bother change his looks.
As for Crowley, she changes her appearance nearly every day to suit whomever was the focus of any of her plots. But, at the end of the day, she returns to a normal form when she goes to see Aziraphale. It is an appearance she adopted long ago and frequently catches herself going back to. Eventually, it becomes her default, as her seductions peters off and she acts as a succubus less frequently.
Though the Temptress begins to slowly stop seducing people for her plans, that does not mean her aesthetic standards waver. She is a vain creature at heart, and she takes pride in it whenever a man runs into a closed door or trips on a curb while he is distracted by the sight of her. She enjoys the stares she receives. (And it's not because she's tempting people into sinful lust.)
Her hair is long, dark, and curly; her eyes are warm amber and often hidden behind sunglasses; her skin is a slight olive tone and unblemished; her face is all angles and elegance; her figure is curvaceous and tall.
And as times changed, so too does her style and manner of dress, though it's always similar: a bold blood red or deep black dress that clung to every line and curve of her body. Though it is nothing particularly revealing, it draws the eye like a moth to a flame.
So you might find it understandable why she chooses such an appearance: it inspires lust in many men, envy in more than a few women, and (more frequently than he admits to or is aware of) distraction in a particular angel.
And so both parties of the Arrangement remain in London and in frequent contact. Whenever he isn't convincing sinners to repent or rewarding good deeds, Aziraphale runs his bookshop, collects some fine wines to share with his friend, and tries to bring out the good in the demon. After a long day of temptation, manipulation, and the occasional seduction[1]. Crowley enjoys bothering the angel until he closes shop and acquiesces to a night of drinking or dinner at the Ritz.
It's simple and easy and enjoyable.
Until the bloody Antichrist happens.
To be fair, in hindsight, Adam wasn't really to blame but at the time she hates him for what he heralds.
The Antichrist means the End of Times is near. The Antichrist means Horsemen and Armageddon and the Adversary. The Antichrist means a looming battle between "good" and "evil"—between the two sides that Crowley and Aziraphale are divided between.
They sit in St. James Park (and later Zira's bookshop) and discuss it all—ineffable plans of the diabolic and divine variety—and her throat is tight with urgency as they talk.
She pleads her case with notes about Heaven's taste, about music and restaurants, about this quaint human world they have adapted to and come to love.
Please, she thinks, Agree with me. For once in your existence, pick me over Heaven, pick me.
Of course, Crowley has her pride and she would never say that aloud or mention that in the argument. She knows how their friendship works, knows his nature. Aziraphale would listen to teasing bits about creature comforts of the human world; were she to bring herself into this temptation (for that is what it is), he would end it all together.
Zira was never tempted by her.[2]
By her words, sometimes; by her arguments, occasionally. By her? That was absurd to think and to test it would be an affront to him
Her words work. Her petty temptations of humans' modern world and creature comforts and books and wine and restaurants and antique shops and crosswords—they work. She all but begs and pleads, and she's fully prepared to do it, if only ever for Zira, but she doesn't have to.
The angel meets his eyes, nods firmly, and simply says, "Alright."
Crowley's eyes widen. "Truly? You're with me?"
He smiles warmly. "That's what I said, my dear. From here on out, it's us against Heaven and Hell, no matter what comes after us for it."
A lot comes after them.
But in the end, it's them between a handful of humans, including the Antichrist, and the Adversary and what seems to be the coming End.
"You don't mean we should actually try and stop Him?" she exclaims.
"What have you got to lose?" Aziraphale asks calmly. And it makes her stop. What does she have to lose? Not much, that's for certain. Nothing that wasn't already taken from her. Nothing else could be done to her, really. The only thing she had left to lose…is the angel before her. And he'd risk himself anyways, with or without her.
Well. He certainly wasn't going to do anything so foolish without her. Not while she had a say.
She hadn't changed clothes in all the time of this madness. She's still in an elegant dark blue dress[3] and heels. Hell on high heels, she thinks with a smirk and decides if she's going to die (actually, truly die) fighting the apocalypse, she's going to look damn good while doing it.
"I'd like to say," Zira says to her quietly, as though they are enjoying a quiet evening in his bookshop not the soon-to-be-ground-zero of the apocalypse, "if we don't get out of this, that…I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you."
"That's right, make my day," she mutters bitterly, to hide the warmth in her breast.
He smiles anyway and offers his hand. "Nice knowing you."
Something catches in her throat as she grasps it tightly, threading her fingers through his. "Here's to the next time and…Aziraphale?"
"Hm?"
Crowley hesitates, words fighting on her tongue to escape, before she simply replies, "Just…just remember that I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."
Just like in all the years past, whenever she said something they both secretly knew meant more than it seemed, he smiles gently, that pure angelic smile of joy that warmed her (not quite so) black heart.
They both nod to each other, communicating without words.
The backs of Aziraphale's jacket and Crowley's dress split as their wings sprout and grow, fully manifested for what was surely far too long. Zira's are pure downy white, as if they were made of clouds, of course. The Fallen angel's wings are like shadows made corporeal, black as obsidian rock, though lighter grey down lighten the feathers near the joints, if you look closely. The blond man's wings are slightly tousled, as if he had not groomed them in a bit too long, but the demon's were neat and pristine.[4]
And if Crowley has to choose a way to go…this is possibly the best way she could have imagined. She's got Aziraphale at her side, hand in hers. She's got her wings loose and free, with a weapon in hand—ready to fly and fight. To fight for her dear angel and for the world they had so long called their home.
But it isn't the end at all. Adam, of course, prevents it.
Crowley's tire iron-wielding arm falls to her side in shock. "Just…just like that…?" she murmurs in disbelief.
Her hand, which is still in her companion's grasp, is squeezed gently. "Just like that," Aziraphale replies softly, in awe. "It's over."
"I guess our presence wasn't really required all too much, then," she mutters wryly. "So much for fighting the Powers That Be and all that rubbish."
Aziraphale smiles slightly. "You needn't have listened to me at all, nor come with me."
It startles a laugh from her lips, a laugh more genuine than any he had heard in years from her. "Oh, angel," she sighs, shaking her head. "I'd have come anyways. There wasn't much of a question about it."
He stares at her and something like awe settles on his face. When he remains in that state for a few moments, Crowley turns to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Angel?"
Rather than speak, his response is to lean close and—quickly, so quickly she nearly thought she imagined it—presses his lips to her cheek in simple gratitude and companionship. It's brief and chaste and the most innocent kiss she's ever received, but it causes a bright flush to rise to her cheeks and her mouth to go dry. (No, she tells herself, Don't you dare. Don't you dare even hope. He's grateful and happy, that's it.)
"I—Zira?" she stutters. "Angel—I don't—how do I respond to that?" she murmurs, mostly to herself.
Aziraphale chuckles fondly. "I haven't ever seen you so flustered, my dear."
She stares at him and then shakes herself to focus, calming the storm of confusion raging in her mind. "Later," she decides quietly. "After we make sure this mess is cleaned up."
Crowley does not know if she's looking forward to that conversation or dreading it.
Footnotes:
[1] - She doesn't prefer that last one, though. It's hard work, tiresome, and sometimes difficult, but she generally keeps her attractive form and that makes things easier. In the end, while it may be temporarily pleasant, her usual partners are not at all her type. And no, she wouldn't say she had a type, much less give any hints about who might have been her type. [2] - "But you're part of it," he'd slurred. "You tempt people. You're…you're good at it!" Not to the person that meant most, apparently. "…Don't you try to tempt me. I know you, you old serpent," he scolds her—only for mentioning theatres and films. She ignores the sting of it and continues. [3] - Rare did she stray from a colour palette of black or crimson, though she indeed preferred blue. She always thought that blue wasn't very demonic and so stuck with the more appropriate black and red. But it always brings a small smile of pride to Aziraphale's face when he sees her in another color. [4] - She was unashamedly vain about them, too, and kept them neat as possible, while the angel was somewhat absentminded about the state of his.
