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"Why is he doing that?"
Aziraphale turns to the voice behind him. "Crawly!"
Crawly nods. "Why is he putting food in the ground?"
"Oh, yes, you've been gone. It's 'agriculture.'" He waves at the man in the field, still wiry with youth. "Young Cain has very much taken his father's advice to heart--he has been collecting seeds for some time now, and watching how the plants grow, so he can control where to forage."
"He's… burying food to make more food?"
"In a sense, I suppose. He's very excited about it. Last season went quite well!"
"And how much of that did you do?" Crawly asks.
"I may have provided some advice. I have seen many of the blueprints, after all." Crawly watches him, and he sighs. "All right, and just the teensiest miracle. To help things along. But he's really got the hang of it now."
Cain stalks back to his fields, shoulders set in anger.
Aziraphale watches him go.
"You really shouldn't poke at him like that," he tells Abel.
Abel doesn't look up from the lamb he's brushing, carefully removing all the mud and brambles from a morning's frolic. "Oh, I know. But he's so dreadfully dull about it all! He spends all his time with the plants, when the flocks are so much more fun."
"You eat of his plants readily enough."
“Oh, it’s always the plants! They’re good, but they grew before Cain. It’s not like we can’t just walk out into the world and find plants!”
“And weren’t there sheep, before you started taking care of them? Aren’t there goats in the wilderness, that you worked to tame for milk and for meat?”
Anger flashes in Abel’s eyes, though his hands never stop their gentle work. “I spent weeks on that, just to get even one!”
“Hasn’t your brother also worked, though?” Aziraphale says, keeping his voice mild. “Spending seasons watching the plants, figuring out when they grow best, where they will wither and where they will thrive?”
“Honestly, it’s not the same. Cain just needs to lighten up.” Abel takes his spotless lamb back to its flock.
“Well,” Aziraphale huffs to himself. “That went well.”
“What are you doing?”
Aziraphale doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He doesn’t turn to look; he can’t quite deal with facing Crawly right now. The demon has been away for some time--tempting, wiling, called back to Hell, or just wandering, he doesn’t know and won’t ask. “Digging.”
“I can see that, but why?”
He nods toward the fleece-wrapped body. “So Eve doesn’t have to.”
“What’s… what happened?”
Aziraphale digs.
“Angel, what happened?”
“Cain was angry. His offering was rejected, and Abel’s accepted.” He moves more dirt. “They fought.”
“He’s--is he dead?”
A short nod, still not looking.
Crawly falls into a stricken silence, long enough that Aziraphale chances a look. The demon is kneeling on the ground, touching the boy’s body (not a boy, he reminds himself, grown into a man now, but he will never get any older).
He turns back, not wanting Crawly to know that he’s seen. “Crawly?”
“He talked to me. Cain. Said it was unfair. He was so angry--” Movement behind him, as he digs. “I told him he was right, it wasn’t fair. Did I do this?”
“What? No!” He drops the shovel, turns now. “No, you didn’t do this.” The Almighty was being capricious, he doesn’t say. He puts his arms around Crawly instead, the closest they’ve touched up to now.
Crawly stiffens, then abruptly buries his face in Aziraphale’s robe and howls.