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“You get to choose it,” Azirafell tells him, breaking the silence that ensued after he asked Raphael for his name.
“Huh?” Raphael asks, caught off guard.
“Your name,” the demon remarks casually. “I think I know how you feel. Make up a name if you don’t trust me with your real one, it’s okay.”
“It’s not that…” he trails off, not knowing how to explain. Here he was, talking with the enemy; one who had thrown him off-guard just by asking for his name. Had he retained his normal form, the demon might have never let him approach. He had tucked away two pairs of his wings when he first landed in the garden, not wanting to scare the humans. An archangel such as himself, willingly giving up his position in Heaven to stay on earth? He wanted to seem as normal as is possible for an angel, and now it has put him in this predicament. As it is, he was rather fond of the demon already. Seeing as he was the one to make contact with Azirafell in the first place, he decides, “Anthony.”
“Anthony,” Azirafell repeats. “Has a nice ring to it.”
Anthony wakes up from his slumber with a groan, running a hand up his face and through his shoulder-length hair.
Sunlight was filtering into his bedroom through the lofty windows, calling for a perfect day. As if the day should make up for the less than perfect night.
Anthony loved to sleep. He did not need sleep, but he had tried it once and had fallen into a sort of habit. It was nice to shut his brain off and not have to worry about anything for as long as he wanted – a few hours, a few days, a few decades; whatever suited him. What he did not like was the rare occasion that his brain made him relive memories. A human would call it dreams, but angels do not dream. His version of dreaming comes in the form of memories, whether fond or not.
As he slides out from under the covers to get ready for a day of selling plants, a feeling of guilt washes over him due to the memory. To everyone on earth and below it, he was, and always has been, Anthony Crowley. To everyone above, however, he is Raphael, archangel, healer, and a lunatic for wanting to go to earth and actually staying there. This means, for about 6000 years now, if he did the math correctly, Azirafell has no idea who Anthony truly is.
He spends the morning mulling this over. He fills his green spray bottle up to the top and mists the various plants in the shop, wondering how the demon would react if he told him now. He values Azirafell’s friendship too much to continue to lie to him – he refuses to call it anything more than a friendship – but he is terrified the demon will run away when he finds out, leaving Anthony behind and alone.
Even opening the shop and helping a few customers who wander in does nothing to take his mind off it. A cactus leaves here, some lilies go out there, and no you can not have the apple tree its roots are in the ground under the store. By the time dusk settles on the bustling city and he finally closes the store, he is no more rid of the thought than a flower is of its stem.
His moral compass weighs in and finally triumphs, so Anthony sighs as he resigns himself to tell Azirafell the next time they meet. Hopefully, it will be a while, so he can think of what to say.
As he is fixing the plants in the display windows, offering encouragement while rearranging the splay of their leaves, he notices a figure reflecting in the glass. With a startled jump he turns to face the Archangel Gabriel, who showed up without a sound.
“Gabriel,” Anthony greets with a frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing along a message,” he starts, picking up one of the plants to examine and ruining the foliage Anthony had just fixed. He jumps straight to the point, knowing Anthony is not much for small talk. “An informant of mine tells me that things are afoot.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he replies, his lips pressed into a thin line and crossing his arms as he keeps a close watch on the plant Gabriel is manhandling. “Things is very broad, you know. There are a lot of things.”
Gabriel sighs and sets the plant back down roughly. “My informant says that the demon… Azirafell? Is placing the antichrist in the world as we speak.”
Anthony freezes for a split second before recovering. “Oh?” he manages, hoping Gabriel will take over so he can think of something to say.
Gabriel nods solemnly. “You should keep an eye on him. Watch for the antichrist – without him knowing, of course.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo, Gabriel,” he enunciates. “I have been here since the beginning; I know what I’m doing.”
“Well, so has Azirafell,” he retorts. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t spotted you yet.” With a laugh, he continues, “I know, miracles are what we do.” He pops out of existence, and Anthony assumes he went back to Heaven. The other angels never liked staying on earth for long.
As he fusses over the plant Gabriel’s meaty hands had fondled, his fixation on telling Azirafell his real name disappears. If the antichrist is on earth as Gabriel said, there is only a matter of years left before Armageddon. Armageddon means no more plants, no more humans, and certainly no more seeing Azirafell. He needed a plan to prevent this from happening, and he had a feeling he would need Azirafell for it.
A few hours later, after he made it back to his apartment, his phone rings, the chorus of Spread Your Wings playing as it signals Azirafell calling.
“Hey,” he remarks casually as he picks up the phone, his glasses cast aside.
“It’s me,” Azirafell says through the speaker, causing Anthony to roll his eyes.
“I know it’s you, fiend. We really need to teach you some modern technology.”
“We need to talk,” Azirafell continues, ignoring Anthony’s comment.
Pursing his lips, Anthony starts, “Yes, we do. I assume this is about–”
“Armageddon, yes,” the demon interrupts before hanging up.
Anthony pinches the bridge of his nose before setting the phone back down. Sure, say they need to meet but not set up a time or place. He sprawls back across his couch as he starts to form a plan, waiting for the demon to realize his mistake and call again.
~~~
“Come on, we can do something,” Anthony urges, trying to convince the demon to help him with his anti-Armageddon crusade. Though, perhaps the middle of St. James Park was not the best place to do so.
“I can’t!” Azirafell protests, glaring at the angel. “I have to help bring Armageddon about–”
“You know what we lose if we let this happen, right?” Anthony interrupts. He needed to convince Azirafell somehow to help. “No more humans, no more ducks to terrify, no more pawn shops hoarding lucrative items and secretly helping out those in need!”
This gives Azirafell pause.
Taking advantage of it, Anthony continues, “I have a plan.”
“No,” he says firmly, but there is a hint of consideration in the demon's expression.
“Fine,” Anthony sighs. “How about lunch? I still owe you from–”
“Paris,” Azirafell interrupts, perking up at the mention of food. “1793.”
“The reign of terror, right,” Anthony nods, starting towards the white Bentley currently being booted by a traffic cop. He knew Azirafell had a weakness for food – if he could just get the demon in a happier state, let him eat, maybe do drinks after, then he could try to tell his plan again. He just wanted to thwart Azirafell; his thwarting would make it seem like they were working opposite of each other, but with his heavenly influences around, the antichrist will hopefully grow up to be a normal kid.
He belatedly remembers as they climb into his car that he said he would tell Azirafell who he really is the next time he saw him. He pushes it away because this plan was enough to deal with for one day. There is always tomorrow.
~~~
Anthony had every intention of telling Azirafell the next day, but he found his day preoccupied with applying for the position as Warlock’s nanny. So he pushed it off to tomorrow. Then tomorrow turned into a day stuck inside because of the rain, coloring with Warlock, and tomorrow was cleaning the boy up after he and a particularly demonic gardener played in the mud, and tomorrow he had to fix the garden because really, Azirafell, you should have gone for a cook, you don’t know a bloody thing about plants – no you can’t just feed them crepes! And then tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…
And then today. Monday. Warlock’s eleventh birthday is Wednesday. Time sure did fly fast. Anthony cut his hair recently – just another one of those tomorrows. He had grown tired of it being so long, and now with it spiked up in the front, it did not fall into his glasses.
“The hellhound will be the key, shows up at three on Wednesday,” Azirafell informs him.
“Right…” Anthony responds, his brain taking a moment to process the words as it had been too busy screaming tell him! There is always tomorrow for that. “You never mentioned a hellhound before.”
“Oh?” Azirafell asks, an eyebrow raised. “Biggest one they’ve got. Supposed to guard him; pad by his side. Once he names the dog, he’ll have his powers. If we’ve done our job right, he’ll send it away unnamed.”
Anthony ponders this for a while as they observe Warlock and his mother further down in the park. “Wouldn’t someone remark on the appearance of a huge, black dog?”
“It’s reality, dear,” Azirafell tuts. “And young Warlock can do what he wants with that, whether he knows it or not.”
“What happens if he does name the beast?”
Pursing his lips, Azirafell answers, “Then you and I will have lost, the boy will have all his powers, and Armageddon will be days away.”
Anthony gulps. That does not sound pleasant. “Well, that could change.”
“How? There are only two options. Naming or no naming. There is no third alternative.”
“If there was no boy,” he responds, trying to let Azirafell work out what he means.
“But there is a boy! He’s over there, writing rude words on a description of a dinosaur.”
“There is now,” Anthony agrees. “But something could happen to him.” There is another pause, and Anthony can practically see the wheels turning in the demon's brain, but he still does not understand. “I’m saying you could kill him.”
Azirafell looks affronted. “I’ve never actually… killed, well, anyone.” He frowns before changing the subject. “The hellhound will show up at his party. We should be there. In fact, I could entertain.”
Anthony groans and protests the magic show, but he knows once the demon gets on something, he is not going to stop.
Tomorrow he finds himself pulling a catering service together last minute to show up at the party.
Then tomorrow he is dressed in all black, standing at the back of the tented area near the food as Azirafell is up front in all white, embarrassing himself by trying to do human magic, then breathing life back into the doves the demon had stuffed up his sleeves and finding out they spent these last eleven years with the wrong child.
Then tomorrow turns into a frantic search for the real antichrist, and Azirafell gets paint on his jacket, and Anthony has to remove it, or he will never hear the end of it. Then someone runs into his car with their bike, and Anthony has to heal them because it was his fault for driving with the lights off; Azirafell repairs her bike, they take her home, and then a book causes the demon to act strange.
Tomorrow he tries to find a place to go, a place far away from the turmoil that will happen when Armageddon commences, a place for him and Azirafell to hide away from the forces of Heaven and Hell, because what can they do at this point? Then his demon rejects this plan, and he is left floundering.
And then tomorrow, or today, is haunted with the premonition of Armageddon, the angels blame him for the problem with the antichrist, the Bentley’s tires squeal as he drives away from the burning plant shop, his hellfire trap spreading quickly over his beloved plants but he does not care anymore, he needs to find Azirafell, and they need to leave or stop Armageddon or – the pawnshop is flooded; full of water at an average of knee height. He can not feel Azirafell’s presence, not here, not anywhere, and he wonders if the water soaking through his pants is actually Holy Water, and –
He has never been good with emotions, he will be the first one to admit, so he tries to drown himself in alcohol at a nearby bar because damnit, what was the point of doing anything else without Azirafell. But then the demon appeared out of nowhere in front of Anthony; discorporated is his excuse, the little shit. Then he is driving through a ring of fire to get to Tadfield because his demon said they needed to stop Armageddon, and it was there, so they meet up again, and then the antichrist actually stops Armageddon on his own with his friends, but the forces of Heaven and Hell are pissed, and now Satan is coming.
“Do something!” Azirafell yells over the sound of the earth ripping itself apart for the Devil to crawl his way to the surface. He picks the flaming sword up that was once Anthony’s and threatens, “Do something or I’ll–” he looks down at the sword and holds it at his side. “Or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Anthony could not bear that thought racing through his mind, so in a last-ditch effort, he throws his hands to the sky – time freezes, and he, Azirafell, and Adam are up in the clouds. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as he stretches his wings out behind him. They appeared when he froze time, and he has not had them out in such a long time –
“Anthony?” Azirafell interrupts, almost horrified.
He realizes belatedly that all six of his wings are on full display as he takes in the demons wide eyes and mouth open in shock.
“Fuck.” He sighs and pulls a fresh pair of glasses out of his jacket pocket before starting to roll up his sleeves.
Azirafell can not pick an emotion as too many are coursing through him, so his voice fluctuates as he speaks. “You mean to tell me you’ve been an archangel this entire time?!”
“I was going to tell you, honest. I just… kept pushing it off.” He claps his hands together and the gold snakes on his arms spring to life, winding down to his hands and intertwining as they fall off of his skin, forming his caduceus. “I’d love to explain everything now, but I can’t keep time frozen forever.” He gestures to Adam, who is looking between the two of them, confused.
“Right,” Azirafell finally says after looking over to the boy. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation,” he threatens Anthony while wagging his finger at him.
Rolling his eyes, Anthony answers, “I know.”
~~~
He had actually managed to forget about it. After all the energy he had used to stop time, Adam managed to get rid of Satan, and then he and Azirafell had to figure out that last prophecy. He was lucky his apartment was separate from his store, so they had someplace to crash for the night. Then they woke with the nursery and the pawnshop back in tip-top condition, and Heaven and Hell tried to kill the two of them. It had honestly slipped his mind.
“So,” Azirafell starts as they sit at the Ritz, enjoying the food and drinks, now free of their respective workplaces. “Raphael, huh?”
Anthony chokes on his champagne, setting it down and swallowing before asking, “Did they use it while you were up there?”
“Nearly caught me off guard,” the demon remarks in response. “Not like they noticed.” He purses his lips before asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Be honest with me. If you were standing up on the wall of Eden, and I had come over with all six wings flapping, tell me you wouldn’t have run the minute you spotted me, scared I was going to smite you into oblivion or something.”
Azirafell tilts his head to the side in a vague agreement.
“Okay then, what about if I had told you my name was Raphael? Judging from your earlier statement, you would have recognized me, and then we would have never talked again because you’d be afraid that if you made one wrong move, I could disintegrate you with a sneeze.”
“So why did you wait so long?” It is an honest question, but it still makes Anthony internally groan for letting the sentence escape Azirafell’s mouth.
He sighs and runs his hand down his face. “Because – because I let it go for too long, and I was afraid that once you found out I had been lying to you, you’d hate me, and I’d never be able to see you again.”
“Oh my dear boy,” Azirafell remarks quietly, gently placing his hand on top of Anthony’s, which was situated on the table. “I could never hate you.”
“Never?” Anthony asks quietly, questioning eyes gazing into the demons.
“Never ever,” he affirms. “Any angel willing to come and talk to a demon is someone worthwhile in my books.”
“You fiend,” Anthony laughs softly, wiping at his eyes. “Why must you torment me so?”
“Let me amend that,” Aziraphale avows, leaning across the table and into Anthony’s space, gently touching foreheads before locking their lips together in a kiss that has waited for an eternity.
There is always tomorrow, but today will do just fine.