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It was 1862 and an angel stood alone at St. James Park. To be clear, he wasn’t intending to be alone, but his companion was running late, and every second only made him more nervous, fidgeting with the thermos in his hand.
Anael–or Anthony to the humans–was waiting for his demon. Most people would consider “demon” to be an insult, but it was a mere fact, and sometimes a term of endearment depending on his tone and if he was inviting the demon to lunch.
Their last meeting, Anael witnessed his demon dragged to Hell as punishment for allowing him to interfere. As far as Hell was concerned, Zira took too long to stop Anael from influencing the human to the Good Side. The human still dug up the graves and set her soul to damnation, and it was still one more victory for Hell, but they noticed the delay and the angel, and there’s a funny saying about assumptions.
Assumptions meant pain and punishment without a chance to defend yourself in Hell.
Zira’s terrified eyes were seared into Anael’s memory.
On this day, his demon was late.
Zira appeared out of nowhere. His usual dark grey suit was extra ashy, dirty rather than well-worn. His usual curls were limp, framing exhausted blue eyes.
The two of them stared at the ducks. Anael forgot to bring bread for them, hands otherwise full. London bustled around them, unaware as ever about the forces at play. Or perhaps, slightly aware that these two beings were on different sides but uninterested.
It was St. James, after all.
Anael didn’t ask how Zira was doing. It was quite obvious.
“I have something for you,” he said instead.
“So you said,” Zira replied.
It was risky, sending a message after what happened. Anael was too much of a coward to see Zira when he was finally out of Hell. He waited until the demon rested up, until most of the marks were healed. He might’ve done something stupid, like try to heal the demon, and neither side would’ve liked that.
So, a letter, delivered by an errand boy who got a shiny coin and a blessed day.
“Insurance,” Anael continued. “Just in case something goes pear-shaped.”
“I like pears,” Zira said wistfully.
“If something goes wrong,” he clarified. “Bad. If you’re in trouble. Something to bail you out.”
During their conversion, Anael was twisting the cap of the white thermos in his hands. Slightly open, then as tight as it could go, then repeat. He was careful not to slosh the liquid inside, lest it fall on his hands and he touch Zira without realizing.
He extended the thermos. Zira looked at it, unsure of what was inside, but took it anyway.
“Don’t open it too quick.”
A small shake proved it was liquid, perhaps a soup or a smoothie on any other occasion.
Zira opened the cap carefully, so slow that anyone else would assume he was struggling. To Anael’s relief, none of the fidgeting or shaking got the liquid on the cap. Zira still angled the cap away from himself, Anael’s strange seriousness inspiring caution.
Blue eyes stared at the water uncomprehendingly.
“In case your side discovers our arrangement,” Anael offered.
As the realization set in, Zira didn’t react. Anael stuffed his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels, waiting for acknowledgment. The demon was fairly serene compared to Anael’s chaotic energy. He was also recovering from Hell. Still, Zira was frozen in place. The park surrounded them with sounds and movement, and in the center of it, Zira might as well have been a statue. He wasn’t sure Zira was even blinking.
Then finally, “Are you really so scared of getting found out that you got me a suicide pill?”
Anael jerked back.
“What? No–”
“If we get discovered,” Zira continued, rage seeping into his voice, “I should end myself?”
“No! Zira–come on! You’re my friend–”
“We are not friends!”
In a fit of recklessness, Zira tossed the thermos to the side. The Holy Water arched through the air and landed on the grass, the thermos hitting the fence with a clang. Humans glanced over before politely averting their gazes.
It could have hit him, Anael noted numbly. A single drop could’ve landed on him and Zira would be gone, and all because the demon was refusing to listen to him. Refusing to understand.
“We’re not friends,” Zira repeated. “You are an angel. I am a demon. We’re on opposite sides, and I will not be seen fraternizing with the opposition.”
“Fraternizing,” he repeated slowly.
He thought they were past that. He thought Zira finally accepted that they were companions, if not friends. Their arrangement should’ve been enough to prove that Anael was not giving him a suicide pill.
“Whatever you want to call it,” Zira dismissed. “I am not going to make our discovery easier for you. I am not going to just lay down and die.”
“That's not what I meant,” he insisted, desperate for Zira to understand. “If they hurt you–”
“You don’t understand, Anael. Being found with Holy Water would be the ultimate act of treason, and my lot do not like treason. This is out of the question.”
Zira glanced at the empty thermos, the pattern of wet grass, and carefully stepped over it to the pavement.
Zira was walking away.
“Fine!” Anael snapped. “Fine, I don't need you! I have plenty of people to fraternize with!”
Zira didn’t look back. He had a slight limp, favoring his left leg, and he still wouldn’t accept help against Hell.
Anael picked up the thermos. The pristine white shell was dented and covered in dirt. A few drops of Holy Water still clung to the inside, but a good shake got rid of them. Zira still had the cap, Anael realized. The demon flung the thermos but never dropped the cap.
It was fine. Anael didn’t need the cap anyway. He wasn’t going to use the thermos.
Still, he held it close to his chest as he walked back to the shop. The plants would make him feel better. They were good listeners, they would understand Anael’s explanation and they wouldn’t interrupt or say that they weren’t friends.
He’d just have to find a new way to keep Zira safe from Hell.