Well this is... different. Or rather, it really, really isn't.
This is the body he-- or rather she1-- wore ages ago. Literal ages, in fact. Not so long after the Garden. She remembers this body; she'd first had it when she was busy worming her way into the court of Sargon of Akkad2 and for some time after that. It had been a good body; long of face with sharp narrow eyes and a build that Crowley can retroactively appreciate would have made her a hell of a basketball player. But what on Earth is she doing in it now?
Last Crowley checked, she'd been in an alternate universe Manhattan in a more or less male body, certainly not somewhere in the scrublands outside what she's fairly certain is the city of Babylon. Time travel? It's a possibility; the Rift did drag her and Aziraphale four years into the future, but surely any travel backwards in time wouldn't stick Crowley back into the appropriate body.
Bloody weird is what it is. She wrinkles her nose, and then wrinkles it again when the motion brings it up against the short veil she's wearing, weighted with beads of gold and lapis. Ah, yes. No sunglasses in... well. Whatever year this is. Looking down, she sees bare feet (still snake-skinned on their soles) and the fringed hem of a brightly-coloured skirt, and strapped at her waist, a broad-bladed knife. All the trimmings, then.
Not knowing what else to do, she sets off towards the city, running through the events of the past few days in her head to see if she can pin down any possible cause for her apparent time-travelling. She's knocked out of her contemplations as she walks by the sight of an unsettlingly familiar figure some way off. A huge, dark man kitted out in a soldier's gear, quite as alone as she.
She can always tell Aziraphale, even if she didn't already know the shape he's in. There's something about the angelic presence animating the flesh that makes it immediately apparent who he is, and all Crowley can think for a moment is thank fuck she's not alone.
'Oi! Angel!'
And, oh, that's weird, different voice; she'll have to get used to that all over again.
1 Demons, like angels, are genderless beings. Accordingly, Crowley has never felt especially attached to any particular gender, and has therefore as a matter of course just gone with whichever pronouns people seem most likely to prescribe her in any given body.
2 And susbsequently getting to know his daughter Enheduanna, whom history would actually remember, unlike old Sargon. She'd been rather enamoured of her at the time, and in retrospect realised that Enheduanna was just a slightly more pronounced example of why Crowley really quite admired humans.
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This is the body he-- or rather she1-- wore ages ago. Literal ages, in fact. Not so long after the Garden. She remembers this body; she'd first had it when she was busy worming her way into the court of Sargon of Akkad2 and for some time after that. It had been a good body; long of face with sharp narrow eyes and a build that Crowley can retroactively appreciate would have made her a hell of a basketball player. But what on Earth is she doing in it now?
Last Crowley checked, she'd been in an alternate universe Manhattan in a more or less male body, certainly not somewhere in the scrublands outside what she's fairly certain is the city of Babylon. Time travel? It's a possibility; the Rift did drag her and Aziraphale four years into the future, but surely any travel backwards in time wouldn't stick Crowley back into the appropriate body.
Bloody weird is what it is. She wrinkles her nose, and then wrinkles it again when the motion brings it up against the short veil she's wearing, weighted with beads of gold and lapis. Ah, yes. No sunglasses in... well. Whatever year this is. Looking down, she sees bare feet (still snake-skinned on their soles) and the fringed hem of a brightly-coloured skirt, and strapped at her waist, a broad-bladed knife. All the trimmings, then.
Not knowing what else to do, she sets off towards the city, running through the events of the past few days in her head to see if she can pin down any possible cause for her apparent time-travelling. She's knocked out of her contemplations as she walks by the sight of an unsettlingly familiar figure some way off. A huge, dark man kitted out in a soldier's gear, quite as alone as she.
She can always tell Aziraphale, even if she didn't already know the shape he's in. There's something about the angelic presence animating the flesh that makes it immediately apparent who he is, and all Crowley can think for a moment is thank fuck she's not alone.
'Oi! Angel!'
And, oh, that's weird, different voice; she'll have to get used to that all over again.
1 Demons, like angels, are genderless beings. Accordingly, Crowley has never felt especially attached to any particular gender, and has therefore as a matter of course just gone with whichever pronouns people seem most likely to prescribe her in any given body.
2 And susbsequently getting to know his daughter Enheduanna, whom history would actually remember, unlike old Sargon. She'd been rather enamoured of her at the time, and in retrospect realised that Enheduanna was just a slightly more pronounced example of why Crowley really quite admired humans.