When War finds out she technically has an angelic father, she wants to use it to hurt the angel. She wants to remind him that he is the reason, cause a war in his mind.
The first time she sees him she calls him dad.
He is so viscerally hurt and horrified that he flees fast across the world. He spends years doing good things for people and doing miracles for the betterment of humanity.
War is satisfied with her work. But then she feels something the personification if War never should.
Guilt. She throws it down to continue.
When she calls him dad, this time she grins and he looks back with a gore that could break glaciers clean in half. Somehow she feels a juggling feeling in her chest.
The third time that War called Aziraphale dad, it went the same.
Before the apocalypse she paid her angelic origin a visit, between starting a war in small countries all over the place.
She face him as he was in his shop and slouches on his chair until he noticed her and startled so heavily she feels satisfaction and guilt.
The angel pauses for a moment and sighs, “Hello War.”
She hums, “have any booze? Maybe a gun or two?”
She groans. “You are no fun. Old as shit.”
He hums and tuts at the language, he has slowly become accustomed to her antics. After 1300 AD he just dealt with her and all that she entailed. He felt horrible that he was the reason she existed but also a small part of him enjoyed knowing there was something he created.
It was a terrible thought that he stabbed swiftly before it grew.
He tuts and continues pitting books away, and she goes to grab one to maybe throw at him and he turns with a huff and snaps. All throwable objects are away from War.
She gives harumph and opens her hands in a gimme motion.
“I won’t even acknowledge you if you don’t have manners.”
Finally the fiery woman shaped horseperson groaned, “wine. Please.”
He give a self satisfied grin and her face scrunches up. She can’t believe that he is the reason she exists. The soft and grumpy old angel who forces her to use manners, which she detested.
She drinks the wine in one fowl gulp and he rolls his eyes at her.
War groans aloud and get up, throwing the glass to the ground. It gives a satisfying shatter under her and the angel scoffs.
The end of the world didn’t happen and she was without sword and without most things she enjoyed. She was defeated.
In her drunk state she stumbled somewhere that she barely knew in her brain.
She vaugkey hears fussing and arms catching her.
“Angel why the hell is she here?” A hissing time demands.
“I couldn’t have let her stumble the streets to cause trouble.”
“You could have killed her! Or something!”
She hears everything go quiet and she raised her head blearily. The reason for her existence and a demon where staring eachother down. She is laid on a sofa with a tartan blanket on her and her sunglasses and shoes were carefully placed on the side table and floor respectively.
Something in her chest hurt at the sight.
It didn’t feel like rage. But it burned.
Aziraphale finally noticed and sighed, “what have you got yourself into this time?”
War grinned, “three bar fights and four bottles of whiskey.”
He whistled I’m amused exasperation, “do you ever think before you act?”
“Yes! Most thoughts being I like starting fights.”
An eye roll for the trouble. The demon was staring, his head turning to look at the two in disbelief.
“Something I’m missing here angel?”
War but the chance to make trouble, “dad have you kept anything from him?”
The angel goes still, jaw locked. The demon sputters and snarls.
Aziraphale looked at her sternly, “stay quiet. I’ll smite you young lady.”
And he grabs the demon and drags him away.
Somehow the next time War calls Aziraphale dad, she knows the feeling. It was unbecoming of war but it was a fighting emotion. She felt loved. It was disgusting and she hated it but she also found that curled on a guest bed after a few fights made her hatred lessen a little.