Crawley stood on the Eastern wall, leaning on it with a slump, arms crossed on top of a parapet. He stared dully out to the horizon over which Adam and Eve had disappeared the day they'd left the Garden, chin resting on his folded arms. His mind was far away and churning. Of all the questions he had asked, there were none which Crawley thought were deserving of what had been done to him. And now that it had been done, the beautiful —ineffable?— irony was that he only had more questions, mostly centering on the idea of why. None of it made any sense. Beelzebub had responded by making Hell as unlike Heaven as possible under Lucifer's guidance (although they couldn't seem to escape the bureaucracy). Crawley had pushed back against some of their decisions, and perhaps that was why they'd sent him up to Earth to cause some trouble. You don't fit in with Heaven, you don't fit in with Hell, so go hang about with the people and stay out of the way. Crawley sighed heavily. Apart from the loneliness, though, it wasn't so bad. It was mostly quiet, and he liked the plants. His wings still hurt, and up here there were hot springs that didn't stink of sulfur to soak in when the ache became unbearable.
Crawley's distraction was such that it made sense that he had not noticed the dimming of the light that came with approaching stormclouds. For the second time, it began to rain. The first light drops spattered onto the stones of the wall, and hissed into the backs of Crawley's hands. He jerked upright and flapped his hands about, trying to escape the pain. But the rain began to thicken, and Crawley yelped as drops began to patter onto his head, his face, and his wings. His feet began to steam as he shuffled about on the now-saturated wall, and illogically he raised his arms over his head, cowering beneath them for some kind of protection.
"Come with me, hurry!"
A hand seized one of Crawley's and pulled him towards the nearby steps. Blindly Crawley followed, keeping his head down, shading his eyes with his free arm. At the bottom of the steps, he realized the rain was no longer coming down on his head. Blinking, he looked up as he stumbled along, and saw a brilliantly white wing spread overhead. Aziraphale glanced back and nodded encouragingly at Crawley when he saw him looking up. "Not far now," the angel assured, and Crawley gripped his hand tightly, biting back yelps as the occasional drop made it around the sheltering feathers.
Around a final bend in one of the paths that now wound their way through the Garden, Aziraphale pulled Crawley into a cave. "Here," the angel said anxiously as Crawley slumped against the wall, hissing the pain through his teeth, "let me help." With a quick gesture he called down a miracle, and the burns peppering Crawley's skin and wings healed. Unsteadily, Crawley straightened up and pushed himself away from the wall.
"Won't you get in trouble for that?" he asked, pushing the straggling hair back from his face, "Helping a demon and all." Aziraphale fidgeted.
"Well. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, and I couldn't get in trouble for that." Crawley laughed slightly, then softened, seeing Aziraphale's discomfort.
"Thanks, Angel." He turned to look outside, where the rain now fell in steady sheets. "Why—"
"It's holy," Aziraphale interrupted quietly, "Apparently the first seven rains will be. You know how fond She is of sevens." As in a dream, Crawley sank to the ground, staring out of the cave.
"Why would She do that?" he asked. Aziraphale folded his legs beneath himself to sit beside Crawley.
"I don't know."
"Normal rain would've been fine. Why make it holy unless you wanted to wipe out everything— anyone— it hurts?"
"I don't know."
Together, angel and demon sat and watched the rain.