26. Taming the fox

When taming a wild creature, it is important to observe proper rites.

An angel and a demon meet in Eden. They meet every day at the same time, although not measured by a clock. They meet in the afternoon, at the time when the shadows are as long as the things that cast them. The hour of true shadows, they call it. There is something symbolic about it. It's the time when things in the shadows are exactly as they are in reality, not shortened or lengthened, not worse or better. They find it a suitable hour to meet, even if it's not truly an hour and comes at a slightly different time every day.

They meet by the lower pool, in the place where Crowley went to change from his snake form. Maybe it's symbolic, too - a place where the truth has been revealed. Or maybe it's just that the moss-covered rocks on the shore are pleasant to sit on and the air is fresh and cooling in the afternoon heat.

The bottle with the water from Lethe is hung from the branches of the Tree of Knowledge as the temptation it is. They both know it is there.

At first, they don't speak much. There's too much unsaid, too much turmoil in the feelings behind the words. It's easier to stay quiet, to just be with the other. Some distance away, not touching… just being there. Being there is all right. No sudden movements, no unpredictable reactions. Every day, same place, same time. The fox is wary, but does not snap. Aziraphale can't help but think of it like a fox, after what he said to Crowley. A wild little fox with big ears and pointy snout. He can't hate it when he imagines it like that, can't be too angry with it for fearing Crowley. He accepts its presence and waits patiently for it to be tamed.

Aziraphale is the one who sets the distance. Sometimes he overshoots it, too eager to close the gap between them, to fill that hollowness in Crowley's eyes. He tries to hide it, but Crowley knows.

Crowley is the one who decides about the time they spend together. Aziraphale wouldn't admit it when it gets too much. He would not lie to Crowley, but admitting it to himself is what's the problem. He's too used to suppressing his own discomfort for Crowley's sake - so used to it that he's not aware of doing it anymore. But Crowley has learnt to recognize the signs. He has learnt that when Aziraphale closes his eyes, he has already overstayed. He watches for the more subtle signs. A slight stiffness in the shoulders as hands that would like to fidget are consciously stilled. A little nervous smile. He leaves as soon as he notices them.

It's all right to leave. There always is the certainty of tomorrow. They can look forward to that hour tomorrow.

And in the time between, it is easier to be alone. When the memories come, it's easier to not be seen, to not concern the other one.

Then one day, Aziraphale sits just a step away from Crowley and he is relaxed, no stiffness in his shoulders. But he smiles nervously and Crowley shifts a little, ready to leave.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon," Aziraphale says unexpectedly.

"Sorry, what was that?" Crowley murmurs almost like a subconscious response, a thousand times mentally repeated conversation that his words slip into like a wagon into the tracks on a dirt road.

"I said…"

"Wait, that was my line. You stole my line."

Aziraphale chuckles, the nervous smile melting into a more sincere one. "Well, it's a good conversation starter."

"Yeah," Crowley smirks wryly. "Can be applied anytime. An accurate summary of the whole history."

He takes a good look at Aziraphale, searching for any signs of discomfort. His eyes soften when he only sees a slight embarrassment. "How long have you mentally rehearsed that?" he asks.

"A couple of days. Silly, right?"

"No. Not at all."

"It is."

"Eh… A little bit, maybe. But we are talking now, so that's it."

"Took me long enough…" Aziraphale murmurs dejectedly. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Stop it right there," Crowley interrupts him. "Please."

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but closes it again.

"I can wait," Crowley says. "I want to wait until you are ready, because if you aren't, I'll just pull you down instead of you helping me up. Don't push yourself to do more than you are ready for."

"It feels wrong, focusing on myself when you need me. After all you have done for me."

"Have you ever traveled by plane, angel?"

Aziraphale blinks, surprised by the unexpected question. "Well, there was that blessing in Japan I had to do in 1998, I had to take a flight to Tokyo. Gabriel only let me take economy class and the food was really awful."

"Yeah, that's one of ours. Mine, actually. Sorry for that, I didn't expect you to be forced to endure it. To be fair though, I got caught in that myself when I got the assignment in New York. But, anyway, you remember those safety instructions they give you at the beginning?"

Aziraphale looks confused. "I do, but what…"

Crowley stands up, demonstrating a perfect flight attendant posture. "Dear passengers, welcome aboard Shitty Airlines. The emergency exits should be somewhere here and maybe here. Life vests are under your seats, but if we fall, we are fucked anyway. In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will appear in front of you. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first, and then assist the other person."

Aziraphale smiles a bit with Crowley's flight attendant impression, but gets pensive afterwards. "I see," he says softly.

Crowley sits down again, not meeting Aziraphale's eyes. "I need you to first care for yourself… so you can help me. I can't deal with this on my own, angel."

Aziraphale nods. "It feels selfish..." he sighs.

"I know. It's a sacrifice I ask from you."

And Aziraphale recognises the truth in Crowley's words. "Tomorrow then," he whispers and gets up.

"Tomorrow," Crowley nods and watches him leave. When Aziraphale is gone, he curls on the ground and weeps. He's thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.


They talk about mundane things in the following days. They talk though, and that's important. Crowley brings meals that Aziraphale enjoys, knowing the angel likes eating much more than cooking. Aziraphale sometimes brings a papyrus to share some poem that he remembered and wrote down, continuing Crowley's work.

And then one day, it starts raining.

It doesn't rain often in Eden. The soil keeps wet and soft even without rain. But when it does, Aziraphale moves closer to Crowley. That first meeting still in his mind, he summons his wings and extends one above the demon.

Only it does not shield Crowley from the rain. It is a pathetic thing with big patches of naked skin and a few longer feathers sticking out like trees left after a windstorm that felled the forest, torn and scorched in places.

Crowley stares at it, at the drops hitting the sad feathers and sliding onto his skin. His breathing gets shallow, his gaze unfocused.

"Oh dear… I'm sorry…" Aziraphale stammers, immediately tucking the offending wings away from the material plane. "I wasn't thinking. Please, Crowley-"

But Crowley is already gone, fleeing away into the forest.

Aziraphale does not follow. He curls on the ground and weeps in the rain. He's thinking about the bottle hanging on the Tree of Knowledge.


"Do you mind showing them to me again?"

It's the next day and the sky is clear. Aziraphale adjusts his plain blue bowtie, glancing nervously in Crowley's direction. "Are you sure?"

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale sighs and unfurls his wings - or what's left of them.

Crowley watches, but doesn't touch them. Aziraphale is thankful for that. He shudders with the memory of Satan's touch, so gentle on his wings for just one moment before He took the whip.

"Angel?"

He doesn't respond.

"Angel, are you with me?"

Aziraphale sighs and finally focuses on Crowley. "Oh? Yes, yes, sorry…"

"No, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see... while thinking more clearly, you know. I thought the feathers would have started growing by now. But it makes sense that your essence needs to recover fully before putting energy into new feathers."

Aziraphale looks at his own wings critically. "I think it will take a few moults for the feathers to grow to proper shape. It's fine, really. Sometimes I didn't have the wings out for a decade, I don't mind that."

"Your essence, though…" Crowley says chokedly. "It's still weakened, isn't it? You can't do any miracles yet?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Not yet. I don't know how long that should take, either. Could be years as well. I've never experienced… well… we don't know. This is probably normal. No reason to worry."

Crowley nods, but his hands are shaking.

Aziraphale hides his wings. "Dear?" he asks quietly.

Crowley smiles a bit. "It's fine. You are right, no reason to worry."

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He takes a step closer. He doesn't close his eyes as he reaches for Crowley's hand. He keeps their gazes locked, so that Crowley can see - there's a slight hesitation, but no fear in his eyes.

The demon doesn't move as Aziraphale closes the gap between them like an exhausted marathon runner crossing the last meters to the finish line. He doesn't move as Aziraphale embraces him. He doesn't dare do anything to not awake the fear he's trying to tame.

Aziraphale doesn't move, either. He remains motionless for a long time, but Crowley can feel the angel's breath tickling his neck and it's getting deeper with every exhale.

Finally, Aziraphale relaxes fully. "It's not fine," he whispers. "I know it's not fine."

Crowley hisses as the words touch something deep. Suddenly his knees buckle and he sobs in the embrace.

"I almost lost you," words spill through the sobs. "There was... such a small, weak spark left… almost nothing. So close to losing you completely…"

"I'm so sorry, Crowley. It must have been so scary," Aziraphale sighs, caressing the fiery hair. It's long now, just like when they met here for the first time.

Crowley's tears fall on the pale coat that he made himself. He clenches his fists around the fabric. "Dammit, angel! Don't… don't say you are sorry! It was me! I did that! My hand!"

"But I am sorry, dear. I feel sorrow over the fact that you had to go through that. And that… that your hand part… That makes it even worse. I am so sorry."

Crowley slowly loosens the tight grip like a marionette with cut strings. "I'm sorry, too."

Aziraphale brings them both down, kneeling with Crowley in his arms. "I'm here," he whispers, his voice shaking with the need to reassure. "I'm here, you didn't lose me. I'm with you… I'm sorry it took me so long…"

"Angel," Crowley half-sobs, half-snarls into his shoulder. "Stop saying you're fucking sorry."

Aziraphale shudders. How was it? Secure your own oxygen mask first. "I need to," he whispers. "I am sorry. I don't know what else to feel. And you didn't lose me. You won't lose me. That's what matters today."

And that's how they stay for a long time.

The fox gets a bit restless after a while. Aziraphale doesn't hush it, doesn't try to restrain it. He doesn't withdraw from Crowley, either. See? It's all right, he tells the fox. He won't hurt us. I know he did before, but he won't. Can you feel it in the tremble of his hands? He won't, we are safe with him, there's nowhere safer than with him.

And this time, the fox listens.

o

It's a while later. The sun is setting already. "I... didn't lose you," Crowley speaks with the wonder of a prisoner looking at the world outside of his cell for the first time after long years.

And Aziraphale imagines the burdens Crowley is carrying from that room of mirrors. If Aziraphale's fear is a fox, then Crowley is like a snake who swallowed an elephant. It is sitting there in his stomach, weighing him down so that he can't move from place, skin too thick to be digested properly. That elephant is called guilt.

They are barely at the beginning, and there is still a bottle hanging from the Tree of Knowledge.