Aziraphale watched the bombs rain down on London, and sighed. His apartment building would not be destroyed, but, at this point, he truly didn't care if he was inconveniently discorporated.
He felt a familiar presence join him in his small living room, and he turned slightly to see a demon sitting in his armchair.
"I thought you'd be in Germany," the angel said simply, hollowly, ignoring all forms of greeting.
Crowley stared straight past the angel, out the window. "I thought you'd be in Switzerland," he replied just as listlessly.
And the words that hovered in the air between them belonged to neither of them and both of them. 'London is my home. Where else would I be?'
The both flinched at the sudden roar of a bomb exploding in a neighborhood nearby. Aziraphale nodded distantly, concentrating on the barrier around the apartment building, wishing with all his might that he had the power to shield the whole city. He regarded the demon with a weak I-can't-be-bothered-to-deal-with-you-right-now sort of look and turned back towards the window.
"So…how much of this is your…your people's doing?" Aziraphale had never been fond of war, and the idea that his associate was responsible for all this needless destruction…it wasn't unimaginable, just unpalatable.
"My people don't have a lot to do with any of this anymore. It's pretty much all human at this point." The answer was businesslike.
"What did you do, Crowley?"
The demon shrugged, and was suddenly very glad that Aziraphale was looking in the opposite direction, just so those stupid, sparkling eyes wouldn't be able to make him consider feeling guilty. "It was my idea to get the children out of the city."
Aziraphale's head snapped around in shock. "What? Really?! My dear, please explain to a silly old angel like me how on earth that is an evil thing to do?"
Crowley shrugged again. "You obviously haven't spent that much time around people with children."
The angel bristled. He didn't like children as much as he probably should have—they wrote inside of books and colored on walls with their silly crayons. But he couldn't say that to the demon, so he replied stiffly and rather self-righteously, "I've been around God."
Crowley scoffed. "'Snot the same thing," he replied hurriedly, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm talking about humans. Human souls. And their kids. Any time you take a child away from its parent, it's like punching their souls in the nose." He paused for effect. "When you take a child away during a crisis"—another pause, and he removed his sunglasses, smiling weakly—"it's like punching their souls in the groin."
Aziraphale flushed. "That's horrible," he said plainly. He didn't look away this time, staring the ex-serpent in his golden, reptilian eyes.
For a moment, an emotion vaguely related to 'apologetic' flitted over Anthony J. Crowley's face. His brow furrowed, and when he spoke, it was with the tone of someone who'd explained this all before, a million times before. "It's what I do, angel. I'm a demon." A brief flash of something akin to worry. "You're not going to interfere, though." It was a confident statement, almost rhetorical, but not quite.
"No, I'm not," the angel replied, sighing resignedly. "At least the children will be alright," he continued, trying to console himself.
Now Crowley looked a little embarrassed, and put his sunglasses back on. The rolling sound of exploding thunder was the only sound for a long moment. Then: "Unless their parents die here."
Aziraphale groaned. Crowley didn't have to explain that angle. If the children lost their parents after being sent so far away, they would be tainted with pain and hate. It was ingenious, but it was despicable. Aziraphale had to look away from the demon on his sofa.
"Don't hold it against me," he heard Crowley plead quietly. "It's my job."
The angel nodded. "I know, dear. I know. Really, I know."
And then, the demon was beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. "How about thisss, angel? What—what sssay you we both get roaring drunk and pass out on the floor until this ruddy war is over and done with?"
"I haven't got any alcohol." His tone was defeated.
Crowley blinked meaningfully. Twice. "Now you do. C'mon, angel."
And they both guzzled down wine and whiskey to the sound of bombs dropping, and did their very best to stay inebriated or, better yet, unconscious for the remainder of WWII. Aziraphale sobered up every now and then to lend a helping hand to the Americans in finding concentration camps, and on one particularly brave day, Crowley made a point of rambling on and on in front of one Adolf Hitler about how suicide was looking better and better as Germany declined in the war. (For the sake of letting Hell have its fun with the Supremacist bastard as soon as possible, he excused himself.)
But, yes, for the most part, World War II went by as a drunken, sloshy blur, and it was better that way. They'd already witnessed a Great War and endless Civil and Revolutionary Wars. World Wars were just too much stress.
"And here's to shooting the guy who ever proposes a Third," Crowley had toasted one Monday, near the end of 1945. Aziraphale had crowed here-here with cheerful red cheeks, and they clinked their glasses so hard together that the glasses had shattered and gotten the blood-red wine all over them. They sobered up soon afterwards.