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There was something about the rain Crowley loved.
He’d never admit it out loud, not even to himself, of course;
even after centuries of the weather turning sour at the drop of a hat, soaking him to the bone and fogging his glasses, he still could feel a distinct feeling in his chest at the scent of petrichor.
Aziraphale seemed to view a sudden downpour of rain as a means to an end, in a way.
His angel had an excuse to stay in his bookshop, losing himself in whatever novel had captured his attention that afternoon (if he’d already read it dozens of times in the past few centuries, that’s truly nobody’s business, now is it?), decidedly dry and comfortable, waiting for the sky to clear outside, with the faintest arc of color among the clouds if he was lucky enough.
Sometimes, however, Aziraphale inevitably got caught in the rain.
It didn’t happen often, of course, but when it did, Crowley had to hide the smile on his face when the blonde would hurriedly get back into his shop, a small pout on his face as he shed his rain-soaked coat, looking through the windows as others were subjected to the downpour.
“It was so nice just a moment ago!” he’d sigh, hands on his hips in exasperation.
When the angel got caught in the rain, he smelled of the earth.
He smelled of the clouds in the sky, trees in dense forests thousands of miles away from them, of dewdrops left on the leaves of plants in the early hours of the day.
the scent of a garden all his own.
He tried not to think of it.
no, Aziraphale didn’t get caught off guard by the rain often;
Even rarer an occurrence, however, was Crowley being caught in the rain with the angel.
It’s only happened a handful of times in the years they’ve known each other, but when it did happen…
Well, how was he supposed to feel?
The Subtle warmth that once flooded his chest when the angel grabbed his hand gently, pulling him under the cover of a bus station, cursing himself for not bringing an umbrella along on their walk.
Was he supposed to ignore the way that he didn’t drop his hand?
An angel and a demon, caught in the rain, taking shelter together, And the angel is holding the other’s hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the universe to him.
If he readjusted his hand slightly to hold the angel’s just a fraction tighter, nobody had to know.
*
Walking into the bookshop, Crowley hung his glasses where he always did, making his way further past the mountains of novels surrounding him.
“Angel?” he called, looking in between the shelves for the normal shock of blonde hair he’d usually find reorganizing the books.
“I'm upstairs, dear!” Aziraphale called, his tone soft as he looked over the railing down at Crowley.
As he made his way to the top of the stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him.
“Oh, fuck off, where did you find this one?”
Aziraphale sat on his bed, looking completely innocent, if not still damp from the rain outside.
On his lap, however, sat a black and white cat;
dry, warm, and sleeping without a problem in the world.
“He was in the alley next to Maggie’s shop- the poor thing was soaked to the bone when she found him.”
He rubbed his face in exhaustion. “And why couldn’t Maggie take him in?”
“Her apartment doesn’t allow pets.”
The angel smiled, petting the feline as it stretched, rolling onto its back to allow for belly rubs.
“You’re incorrigible.” Crowley sighed, taking a seat at the end of the bed, eyeing the cat.
“Would you rather me leave the poor thing out in the alley?”
The cat seemed to perk awake at the mention of being left alone.
Wide, Golden eyes stared back at Crowley as the cat stood from his perch upon the angel's legs, sauntering over to him.
“What does it want—”
Suddenly, the cat leaped from its position on the bed, right onto the demon’s shoulder, balancing himself on Crowley.
“Aw, dear, he seems to like you” Aziraphale laughed, reaching up to pet the animal from where it stood upon the other.
”Get this thing off of me, Angel.”
The damned thing was purring, rubbing its face into his crimson hair.
“Oh, alright.” suddenly, the weight from his shoulders was gone, and Crowley sighed.
“It wouldn't kill you to pet him at the very least, Crowley.”
“You’re ridiculous, Angel.” he laid back on the bed, shutting his eyes.
“…what if we had a deal?”
That sounded like trouble, now didn’t it?
He breathed a sigh, opening one eye to look up at the other, the cat also peering back at him now.
“Depends. If it's a deal that makes us take care of a cat for a while and you’ll inevitably be very, very upset when it passes away, I’d say that's not a deal worth taking.”
Aziraphale frowns at that, looking down at the cat in his lap, then back to Crowley.
“…we’ll take care of the cat for a week. And if by the end of the week, you still insist you dislike him, we’ll find him a good home.”
The demon groaned, sitting up. “It’ll take longer than a single week for me to even tolerate the thing- why not just put it up for adoption now?”
“I…want to give him a chance.”
Crowley paused.
“Such a small thing in such a busy place deserves something better than a dark alley as a home.” the angel frowned, eyes glossing over. “He was covered in mud and fleas when Maggie found him- tried to scratch her when she got too close. When she called me over for help with him, he ran right up to me like everything would be okay…I want to make everything okay for him. He deserves that, at the very least.”
His Angel looked back up to meet his gaze, but Crowley couldn’t maintain it, looking away to clear his throat.
“Have you at least thought of a name?”
Aziraphale blinked.
“Oh, come on, Angel, if we're doing this deal of yours, I can’t just call it ‘the cat’ the whole week, can I?”
Of course, Crowley had lied.
He knew they were going to keep the cat, even before they shook on their wager.
Crowley had suggested the name Eden, which ended up sticking.
And if he performed some miracles for Eden to age a little slower than a regular cat, who had to know?
At least Aziraphale was happy.
*
It's been a few years since then, and Crowley has come to terms with 3 things;
He loves the rain,
He loves Aziraphale,
And he tolerates Eden.
Of course, the second realization was far more important than the other two, and he knew that painfully well.
He was gorgeous, anyone could see that when meeting the angel; his smile could burrow into your chest and remain in your mind for years afterward-
but he was so much more than a visual.
Aziraphale was beauty that snuck up on you.
The kind of harrowing radiance shown in small gestures of kindness;
Buying flowers from a local stand to add a pop of color to the store, but not before researching to make sure they’d be safe for Eden to be around.
Giving away his umbrella to a customer leaving the store so she wouldn’t freeze out in the rain.
He’d once witnessed the angel heal a snail with a cracked shell, crouching to let it slowly crawl into the grass, away from the bustling sidewalk, lest it be stepped on.
It infuriated him.
He wanted to take Aziraphale by his shoulders, shaking him and demanding to know what made him think he could be so lovely.
If he was feeling especially hopeless that day, he’d just look at the angel quietly, too absorbed in a book to notice the eyes on him.
He’d catalog the lines on a face he’s known for thousands of years, so familiar to him like the earth itself.
To him, Aziraphale was more than any sort of appointment heaven could give; more than the promise of eternity in light, or the warmth of sun on skin-
He was rain.
He was the calming sound of it tapping on a roof or against a window, lulling you to sleep
He was bright like lightning and loud like thunder, more vast and endless than anything a clear sky could show you on any given day.
Aziraphale is the kind of rain that overtakes you, surprising you before you ever have a chance to prepare or look for shelter from it.
He was never a poet, he knew this.
He found the idea of comparing a person’s name to a rose ridiculous, if not downright pretentious.
But he seems to have been broken down in the centuries since Shakespeare, to the point where he can feel himself physically relax at the scent of old books that flood his senses when he enters his angel’s store.
He’s seen humans put their entire faith into god, into heaven-
Leaving behind their families, their jobs, and giving up the things they’ve worked to the bone to earn for even an inkling they may get eternity in bliss, showered in light.
Was this how they felt?
This permeating need to follow blindly- to strip oneself wholly of everything but the needs and wants of one holy figure?
The need to collapse to his knees, to cry out for his angel to soothe his thoughts, his pains, his fears?
it was horrifying to him, to not have these feelings under control;
He was supposed to be better than this, in a way. Meant to be heartless, an unforgivable stain on heaven’s history of archangels.
Instead, of course, he was petting Eden, who was purring in his lap.
It was raining again today.
It made Crowley ache.