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The Angel of the Eastern Gate had looked nervous when he first asked that question, refusing to look his way in favor of observing the humans leaving the Garden.
"Well," his voice faltered, "it is an angel's duty to protect Her creations."
Crowley remembers the Fall, felt his white feathers turn into ash as he dived. He remembers feeling Her Grace pulled out of his being, the stench of sulphur burning in his soul.
And if God herself has forsaken him, who is he to deserve Love?
But then again, the rain is only getting heavier. And while it won't harm him, he still dislikes the feeling of water pricking his skin.
Crowley stood under the angel's wing, waiting for the dark clouds to pass.
Aziraphale had shot him a fond smile when he asked that question again that night they went back from dinner at the Ritz.
"Really, dear," Aziraphale chided gently. "Hurry now, the rain's only getting heavier."
They had been lucky. Against all odds, Armageddon had been stopped. He and Aziraphale are free from both Above and Below, living among humans as free agents. And somewhere along the way, they also discovered their feelings for one another.
Demons were not made to receive love, he had explained to the angel one evening at the bookshop. They had spat on their Creator's, and they would do it again.
But Aziraphale remains patient with him, all kind smiles and gentle touches, and a tartan umbrella in the middle of the rain. And really, who is he to refuse his angel?
Sharing an umbrella in the rain, Crowley thinks there's nowhere else he'd rather be.