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It seems a bit pathetic, if he thinks about it — ethereal beings disquieted by earthly occurrences. Perhaps it’s a side effect of being around humans for too long: their idiosyncrasies, their fears, their weaknesses rub off on you just as their hopes and passions and joys. Perhaps Crowley has begun to blend in too well, maybe Hell wasn’t wrong when they said he’d Gone Native; he’s been here too long (and he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else).
Crowley doesn’t have a problem with the rain itself, really. Not anymore. As long as he doesn’t get caught in it, as long as the cold dampness doesn’t stick to his skin, as long as he can keep himself inside and warm with far more layers than the average human would need (he’s more reptilian than just his eyes, even when he’s human-shaped). On good days, it reminds him of the Garden, of Aziraphale’s first act of comfort towards him, a wing extended and crossing the boundaries from day one (or, well, something a handful more than one, in the scheme of things).
He has one of his own now, a garden, so he really has to appreciate the rain; what it does for his plants, how it helps them grow. If he can watch it from inside, fall asleep to the sound of it hitting the roof with an angel close by, Crowley’s fine with the rain.
He stands at the window of their cottage, watching over the garden, looking out at the grey sky hanging over it. He’s had a close eye on the forecast all day, hoping it’ll change, keeping an eye on when it’s predicted to roll in because—
The first signs of an incoming thunderstorm rumble in and ah, yes, this is the part he hates. There’s a tension in the air, inside himself, and he’s watching out for a flash of lighting so he can brace himself before the first real crack because that is always the worst.
The first real crack of thunder, even with the flash of lightning that precedes it, can never really be predicted. It takes Crowley off guard every single time, and he hates that it makes him think of—
A ripping, tearing sensation inside of him, something fundamental to his Being snatched away, and he should have known this was coming with the way he kept questioning but he didn’t, none of them ever did, and everything hurts and he’s overwhelmed and he’s Falling—
… Well. Something he never wants to think about, but something he could never forget.
In the early years, and he’s far from proud of this, when humans blamed storms on God or a god or gods punishing everyone for what they’d done, he’d worried. He'd wondered if the first time wasn’t enough, if maybe She was coming back for a second helping, but what more could She take than his soul—
The sky breaks, and he flinches.
Crowley had spent more storms hiding away than he’d care to admit. What a human-built structure could do to protect him if it really was the Almighty striking out at him, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to question something that brought him a semblance of safety.
It was worse in the Beginning, when his wounds were still new, but it had almost gone away by the Ark.
Ah, the Ark.
His fear came back with a vengeance then, after the Ark.
It’s been millennia since, and he really should be over it by now, but it’s hard to shake the discovery that your unfounded fear may not be so unfounded. He'd hated rain for years, always worried the flood would come back without warning, this time. She had promised she wouldn’t do it again, put up the rainbow and all that, but part of a demon’s job description, besides being unforgivable, is a lack of faith in the Almighty, so you’ll have to forgive him if he takes that promise with a grain of salt.
But it had been quite a long time, and he was alright with rain, unless there was too much of it (there’d been flash-flooding which blocked the roads a year or so back, and he’d barely let Aziraphale out of arm’s reach until it had cleared up), but he could never get used to thunder.
There’s another clap, and Crowley screws his eyes shut, counting the seconds between each flash and roll of thunder so he can estimate how long he has to deal with this.
He stands there for a while (seven claps, eighteen seconds since the last one, nineteen, twenty—), lost in trying to endure the storm, before a warm and heavy blanket is draped around his shoulders, and Aziraphale places a mug of tea - definitely spiked, because they know each other well - on the countertop in front of him.
The next one is louder, and Crowley pivots where he stands, buries his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder, lets the angel wrap his arms around him.
Aziraphale is warm, and comforting, and familiar, and Crowley feels safe here. He worms his arms around Aziraphale’s soft middle and pulls him closer, grounds himself with this sensation of touch alone.
“Come watch something with me, dearest. Get your mind off the storm,” he says, softly. Crowley nods, takes his tea and lets the angel lead him to the couch in front of the TV.
One thing that Crowley loves about modern technology - clever, clever humans - is the ability to play music or a show or a film loud enough to drown out even the sound of thunder; the swells of music are infinitely less worrying, if you ask him, and if he feels like being honest.
Crowley is warm, draped in a blanket, and his head is resting in Aziraphale’s lap. Hands are running gently through his hair, they’re watching Star Trek for the millionth time, and his mind drifts steadily away from the storm outside.
After all this time, Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being afraid of thunder, but that’s not the point. The point is that there are things stronger than fear. The point is that Crowley is not human, but he still has human worries which sometimes require human solutions, and sometimes they need to be helped by an angel. The point is that there is a thunderstorm outside, and Crowley is afraid of thunder, but he is inside the cottage he shares with his angel, and he is asleep on their couch with a cheesy 1960s show playing in the background. When Crowley wakes up there will be sunshine outside, his plants will be flourishing, and he will not know that the storm lasted several hours.
Human fears, Earthly worries; tied up with inhuman memories a certain demon would rather forget. A recipe for disaster.
And Crowley knows how to best it all. That is the point.