With all these headcannons now about Aziraphale being War’s creator/father (what with the sword debacle) I honestly can’t stop laughing. Because I’m picturing, like:
War is on vacation. A proper one, this time, without all the “inadvertent” killing. And she just so happens to be in SoHo. Flashy motorcycle, red leather jacket and all, she skids to a stop outside a corner bookshop with a screech like a battle cry. Her heels click on the pavement like triggers cocking as she dismounts and strolls into the shop, grinning as the warning bell tinkles overhead. She drops down into the nearest armchair, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table, and twists a curl – so like Aziraphale’s, those curls – around a brightly painted fingernail. “Hey Dad!” she calls out. “I’m home!”
In the backroom, Aziraphale hisses into the telephone, “For Heavens sake, Crowley, my daughter is here! What am I supposed to do with her? The last time we spoke she was trying to cause the apocalypse!”
On the other end of the line, Crowley holds back a snort, because of course this is the family he married into. “I dunno,” he drawls. “You could always try grounding her.”