Disclaimer: Raphael and Mikael aren't ours, but I'm relatively certain that
the rest were spawned from our brains and maybe too much tea.
Notes: Alright, it was six months in the making. Careful, sonny - you rush a
miracle man, you get rotten miracles. Email me, wrestle with our guestbook, or
beat my LJ into submission - I want feedback, puhleeeeease!
Frankly, Azrael didn't know what to do with it.
He shouldered the door open, the unconscious angel cradled in his arms. He wondered if it was going to wake up anytime soon. But the eyes remained closed, and the angel was breathing slow and deep, as if peacefully asleep.
For lack of better ideas, he unceremoniously dumped the angel on his bed, then sat down beside it. It was pretty, like Imriel, but more effeminate. The Metatron said the new angel was supposed to help Azrael collect souls, but the Angel of Death entertained any number of doubts on the issue.
Dammit, the thing didn't even have a name. He had asked the Metatron, but the Voice's giggling behind an absurd paper fan had been a singularly unenlightening reply.
He reached out and touched the angel's golden hair, letting the strands run through his fingers. It felt like the silk that Yurkemi spun, smooth beneath his callused fingertips.
A murmur that sounded more like a purr startled him. "That feels good."
Azrael jerked his hand away as if burned. Cornflower blue eyes blinked at him, pale pink lips curved in a smile. "Are you Azrael?"
He swallowed. Its voice was pitched too low - it had to be male. "Yes, I'm Azrael." He fidgeted for a moment under that gaze that seemed to cut not so much through him, as into him. It was unnerving to be the center of attention, and so he seized on the first thing that came to mind. "Are you hungry?"
The angel thought about it. "I don't know."
Azrael frowned. "Either you are or you aren't."
The angel blinked, and then laughed. "I didn't know it worked that way. But you can eat even if you aren't hungry, can't you?" The angel waited expectantly.
Azrael's frown deepened. The angel had been created by Most Holy, by way of the Metatron. For the past six months, the Metatron and his twin, Sandalphon, had been virtually locked together at the top of the Tower. Raphael, being an incorrigible gossip, had relayed that the twins had been cradling a small golden ball, whispering to it and feeding it arching currents of energy.
Azrael took another hard look at the angel who had been dropped into his life. It was just altogether strange. And he had liked things just the way they were, doing his duty by himself.
"I suppose so," he answered finally. "Come on, I'll find us something to eat." He got up and the angel followed him to the kitchen. As he was rummaging around for a saucepan, he heard a metallic clatter behind him and turned around to see the angel methodically preparing to make tea.
Unnatural, he snarled internally. "So what else do you know how to do?" he asked, keeping his tone purposefully flat.
The angel smiled sunnily at him. "Lots of things."
"Then, what's your name?"
If possible, the angel's smile turned sweeter. "I don't have one. You're supposed to name me."
Azrael went back to making soup. "What would you like me to call you?" he tried again, biting down on frustration.
Slender hands fixed tea with graceful movements. "Whatever you decide on."
Azrael decided he was going to break the Metatron's fingers, at least.
After dinner, which the angel ate without so much as an uncouth slurp, Azrael stood and turned down the lights. "We have an assignment tomorrow morning. We should get some sleep."
The angel nodded and then followed him back to the bedroom. He began to the strip out of his clothing when he noticed the angel was staring. "What?" he demanded irritably, pulling off his tunic.
"You're beautiful." The angel said it as a simple statement of fact.
Azrael snorted and flexed his coal-black wings. "Hardly. I look like somebody dropped me in a tar pit."
The angel shook his head but didn't offer any more words, only untied the long tunic he wore, letting it flutter to the ground.
Definitely male.
"I'll go sleep on the couch," Azrael muttered, trying to remember where his extra set of sheets was.
"Oh?" the angel asked. "It is big enough for the both of us?"
Azrael stared. Was he stupid? "Of course not."
"Then we should stay here, shouldn't we?" the angel said, smiling sweetly.
Azrael thought about arguing. He really did. But it had been a long day, and all he really wanted to do was curl up in his own bed. Even if it now came equipped with a blonde with no concept of privacy.
Azrael woke to the smell of bacon frying. He rose from bed swiftly, crossing the room and laying his hands on the handle of his Scythe before he remembered.
Dammit.
Sure enough, the angel was in the kitchen, merrily making breakfast. "Good morning," he sang sweetly. "Have a seat, I have everything all ready! Do you want orange juice?"
Azrael didn't know he even had orange juice. Actually, his cupboards had been rather bare altogether. "Where did you get all this?" he asked, feeling quite grouchy about the matter.
The angel pointed to a note on the table. It was written in curly cursive with a profusion of doodled hearts. "Fuck," Azrael groaned. "The Metatron came by this morning?"
The angel set a plate in front of him. "Courtesy of the Voice, yes, but Sandalphon brought it by. It's a little early for the Metatron to be up, don't you think?"
What the hell ELSE did he know? Knew this, knew that, had no clue about that, no concept of modesty - all in all, totally fucking weird. He ate his breakfast anyway and found it surprisingly good. Maybe not so surprising, he conceded a moment later. Anything created and taught by the twins was bound to be bizarre.
A short while later, he retreated to the bedroom to don his heavy black wool robes. As was seeming to become a habit, he backed right up into the angel, who had followed too closely. "Hey," Azrael said gruffly. "I'd better lend you a robe. It's going to get messy."
"That's unnecessary," the angel said, smiling.
Azrael looked him up and down. He was still dressed in the thin white tunic, which, frankly, didn't hide much. "Have it your way. At least put your hair back."
Clearly humoring him, the angel secured his masses of golden hair back into a braid. Azrael clenched his teeth but said nothing, since the angel was at least following his suggestion. And with the hair bound, Azrael could see the angel's face more clearly. His eyes traced the curve of the delicate jaw and the fragile, slender slope of the neck - and then mentally shook himself and strode out the door.
And surprise, surprise - the angel knew how to fly, as well. And knew how to use his Key. And seemed to have no fucking difficulty whatsoever locating the souls. Why the hell had the Metatron given him to Azrael for training, anyway?
The angel followed Azrael into the house. His memory that was not memory whispered to him, warned him of what was coming. He could feel the awful stillness of the air, and he felt somehow outside himself, watching Death himself stalk his prey.
The man's soul was a crude oily black, reeking of evil and rotting filth. Watch, a silvery voice commanded him, and so he did.
He saw it all as if were slow motion. Azrael bent the murderer back over the handle of his Scythe. The black-haired angel leaned close, in a chilling parody of a lover, and placed one hand over the man's heart. Azrael whispered things that the angel could not hear, but the man looked beyond terrified - and he had a right to be. Azrael's eyes were dark and terrible.
"For the sin of taking lives you were not meant to take," he intoned. "For robbing others of their loved ones, all for your own greed." A dark, burning light floated underneath Azrael's hand, and the angel stood transfixed by this powerful, frightening judge.
"In the name of Most Holy, your soul is forfeit," Azrael said in harsh whisper. And then.
And then.
Azrael ripped out the murderer's soul. The body fell lifeless to the floor, his screaming soul still in Azrael's fist.
The angel wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to stop, and then he looked at Azrael's eyes. The dark Angel of Death's eyes were cold, numb. Horror and anguish so long subverted that emptiness was better. And that, more than the death of the murderer, was what made the angel feel sick inside. "There's another way," the angel whispered, barely aware that he had.
Azrael gave him a humorless smile. "I tried to find another way. But this is it."
The angel turned, and his heart stopped. A little girl, her chest covered with blood, was gasping on the couch. Azrael moved slowly over and picked the girl up. "She's dying, you know. Her own father stabbed her. Her soul can't find its way on her own - Most Holy did not intend for this to happen. So what do you think you can do? If I don't kill her, she'll wander the Earth forever, without rest. I only know of one way to take souls one way, and you just saw that."
"I can take her."
The angel took the girl from Azrael's arms, and he could see how frightened she was - how alone. She was small and he could feel the innocence of her soul shining like a beacon fire. She was gasping and crying and in so much pain.
"Shhhh. It's okay," he whispered tenderly, his fingers moving over her chest to stop the pain as he had been taught. Her terrified sobbing quieted, and he could feel her heart slowing. Could feel her soul reaching out for him. It took so little effort to catch that silver lifeline and pull the desperate, innocent soul close to his heart.
And as he did, she gave one last breath and died.
Azrael was staring at him, his breath coming in ragged sobs. No tears flowed down his face. "Who are you?" he rasped. "Who taught you? I searched for years - for centuries - trying to find another way."
The angel smiled. "I am Most Holy's Command."
"Command?" Azrael whisper. "Why did He send you? Why keep me, when I'm doing it all wrong..."
"You're not," the angel told him firmly. "You're just as much a miracle as I. Because you figured out how to dispense His justice without asking." He reached up to brush a blood-soaked lock of hair back from Azrael's face. "He needs you."
Empty, aching eyes. Onyx spheres dark with wrenching sadness and self- loathing. "I'm nothing."
The angel stepped forward and pressed himself close, his tunic staining with blood. "You're justice. You are His will." Azrael looked confused and lost, blood-spattered and exhausted, and the angel smiled.
"You are the one I was made to love, because you cannot love yourself."
He kissed cold, unresponsive lips and then stood back.
Azrael was still staring. "I...We need to go back and deliver the souls," he said finally, his voice rough. He turned his back and spread his wings.
The angel grasped his hand. "Can't we go together?"
Azrael yanked his hand away. "You're asking for a lot. I never asked for any of this - not this duty, not this immortality, and certainly not you." He Keyed back to heaven, leaving the angel standing there, innocent soul cradled close.
"Well, He didn't say it would be easy," he whispered to the soul. "But I have loved him with my first thought, and I will not forsake him."
Duchiel?
Didn't sound right.
Phakiel?
Made him sound like a trickster.
Kabniel?
That was just stupid.
Azrael snorted in disgust. He could just keep calling him "it" or "he" or "fucking idiot". But somehow he didn't think the Metatron would approve.
And in all honesty, the angel wasn't an idiot of any kind. The Metatron and Sandalphon had taught him well, so that he fit into Azrael's life as if he had been there for three centuries and not three days.
However, it was an unavoidable fact that the angel's very cold feet were pressed up right against his formerly warm calves. Azrael had just been about to fall asleep when the sudden cold shock brought him back to full alertness. "Dammit," he swore. He turned over to face the angel. "Hey," he growled.
The angel made an unhappy little questioning noise before cuddling closer. Azrael almost backed up before he realized that the angel didn't just have cold feet - he was cold all over. And while Azrael prided himself on being a stern individual, casual cruelty seemed unwarranted under the circumstances.
He settled the angel more comfortably against himself. After all, body contact was the quickest way to warm him up. Almost unconsciously, his hand stroked through the long, golden strands. So soft. He still didn't know what to call him. The angel had refused all commands, requests, and finally, grudging pleading to move to the guest bedroom.
But on some level, he wasn't upset that the angel had resisted.
So soft, everywhere.
"I don't think he likes me," the angel confessed sadly.
Ardouisur, Yurkemi, and the Metatron all heaved feminine sighs. "I'm sure he likes you, sweetest," Yurkemi said, giving him a one-armed hug. "He's just being prickly."
Ardouisur smiled over the rim of her teacup. "In other words, he's just being himself."
"Maybe you should try a little smooching. If cooking, housework, and doing your job right isn't getting you anywhere, maybe you should try a little..." the Metatron made a little gesture with his hands that the angel thought was supposed to suggest kissing.
The angel thought it over. It seemed like a reasonable plan. Except... "I don't know how. You never taught me that."
Ardouisur and Yurkemi giggled, and the Metatron blushed. "Well, We THOUGHT he would teach you that all by himself. We didn't plan on you having to seduce him."
"Don't scare him," Ardouisur scolded. "Nobody's seducing anybody. Just a few kisses, to remind Azrael that there are other positive aspects to a relationship."
"I still don't know how," the angel reminded them.
The other three exchanged glances.
"Imriel would have my head if he heard," Ardouisur said flatly.
Yurkemi giggled nervously. "Well, he's going to kiss a MAN. So he might as well get used to it."
The Metatron looked affronted. "Well, it's not like I have any great experience in the matter. I haven't even..." he trailed off and blushed, suddenly finding his knees quite interesting.
The women nudged him. "Go on, you can teach him how to kiss. Or should we call your brother?" Ardouisur asked slyly.
The Metatron squeaked in protest. "Sandy thinks mouths and tongues are unsanitary - he'd wash his mouth out with soap before and after!" He looked at them, and finding no sympathy and no recourse, sat down next to the angel.
The Metatron pulled on the angel's sleeve. "C'mon, you have to turn toward me."
The angel complied, and the Metatron leaned close. "Put your arms around me." The Metatron was warm and his shirt was made out of a silky material. The angel made a mental note to ask Yurkemi later if he could have a shirt like that. "Okay," the Voice said in a brisk tone, "the important thing is to angle your head so you don't bump noses. And you're supposed to close your eyes."
The angel let a tiny frown pull his lips downward. "How can I not bump noses if my eyes are closed?"
The Metatron looked flustered. "Well, I guess you touch lips first and then close your eyes. Here, let's try."
The angel leaned forward and their lips met. It was most startling. The Metatron's lips were soft and sort of nicely textured. He belatedly remembered to close his eyes. Then the Metatron pulled away. "So that's how you do it?"
Ardouisur coughed, and it sounded rather oddly like the word "tongue."
The Metatron glared at her. "Alright, alright, I'm getting to it." He sighed again. "After a little bit of kissing like that, you can change it a little."
"How?" the angel inquired politely.
The Metatron squirmed. "Well, you sort of open your mouth and um...touch tongues with the other person."
"Is that nice?" the angel asked.
Ardouisur and Yurkemi giggled. "It's very nice when you love the other person," Ardouisur said gently.
The angel smiled brightly. "I love Azrael more than anyone."
The other three exchanged glances. "Now there's an unusual sentence," Yurkemi muttered. The angel wasn't quite sure he understood. But he had to practice the tongue- touching so he could try it on Azrael later.
He put his arms around the Metatron and leaned in again, touching lips like before. And then, quite suddenly, the Metatron's lips opened underneath his, and it was nice, as promised. Though Ardouisur said it was different when you loved the person, so perhaps it would be even better with Azrael.
"Are you watching this?" he heard Ardouisur murmur to Yurkemi.
He sneaked a quick peek. Yurkemi was fanning herself. "You bet," she said emphatically.
Azrael glared at the door, as if the door were somehow responsible for his dislike of this visit, and for the need to do so. He rapped firmly on the door, which was answered moments later by Belial.
Belial's lip twisted in barely disguised hatred. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
Azrael nodded his head in the direction of Raphael's study. "I need to see him." He started to push his way past, but Belial hissed caught a handful of Azrael's tunic.
Fuck it all. Azrael looked at Belial's grip on his clothing with the disdain that he reserved for small insects and the damned. "Let go, pretty boy," he warned softly.
"Or what? You'll rip off both of my wings?" Belial taunted.
Azrael could feel his temper begin to slide. "Look, I fucking well said I was sorry. I owe him, not you - and I can't make this right if you won't let me see him."
"Belial," a voice called softly. Belial froze, his form straightening with what could only be frustrated anger.
Raphael stood in the doorway to his study. His face held a warm smile that made Azrael flinch. I don't deserve your forgiveness - your kindness is torture enough.
Belial's eyes blazed with fury. "If you're going to allow this in here, I'm leaving."
Raphael covered his eyes with one hand. "Belial," he sighed.
But Raphael's lover paid him no heed and stormed out the door. Azrael watched him go, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. "Raphael, look, call him back - I'll leave."
Raphael walked toward the door, not limping so much as swaying - and shut the door firmly. "I'm not going to turn you away. I understand why Belial is upset - he thinks me foolish and too trusting. What do you think?"
Azrael's eyes fixed on the empty space where Raphael's wing should have been, but said nothing.
Raphael sighed sadly. "He'll come back later. In the meantime, we can talk." He gestured toward the study. "Go on, I'll bring in the tea tray."
Azrael did not go, but watched Raphael make his way to the kitchen. The uneven stagger pained him more than he really wanted to think about. Almost without consciously deciding to do so, he strode forward and snatched up the tray.
Raphael's amethyst eyes sparkled with humor. "As bad as Belial, honestly. Just because I walk like a drunkard doesn't mean I'm an invalid."
Azrael opened his mouth to retort, but too many things hit him at once - drunkard - invalid - shame - guilt. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, helplessly, hopelessly.
"Would it help if I broke your nose?" Raphael offered conversationally as they sat down in the study.
It was Azrael's turn to blink. "What?" It was almost as bad as talking to his uninvited housemate.
"This guilt complex you've got going. I told you, I forgive you. What will it take to get that through your head?"
Azrael pushed his hair out of his face, pulling hard on the strands as he did so. "I don't know. But, you said I could come talk to you. If I needed to."
Raphael's amethyst gaze was mesmerizing. "Why do you need to?"
Azrael's next breath was almost a sob. "I don't understand why Most Holy just doesn't replace me and get it over with."
"Hey," Raphael said, his tone concerned. "That's not what the angel is for - have you named him yet, by the way?"
"No, I haven't named him," Azrael said dismissively. "And what do you mean?"
Raphael pushed a teacup into his hand. "Why do you think it has to be one way or the other? Why can't both of your methods of soul collection be right?"
Azrael stared at him, his mind turning the idea over. "Because," he sputtered. "He...he doesn't hurt them - he doesn't hurt anyone! Why would Most Holy want to keep me when He could have that?"
Raphael arched an eyebrow. "Because some people deserve punishment and others don't. Let it go, Az - Most Holy made you the way you are for a reason."
Azrael gripped the teacup hard enough that his knuckles turned white. "I'm out of control - you should know that better than anyone."
"You're so full of shit. You were drunk out of your skull and you lost it - I'm not saying it was right, Az, but it's done and it's over with. You know, the angel is supposed to lessen your agitation, not exacerbate it."
Azrael looked up. "What?"
"He was made for you - to be your partner, your balance. Why don't you let him do what he's supposed to do, so you can get on with what you need to do?"
"I don't need a-"
Raphael cut him off. "A lover? I disagree. I think you need to work off some stress is a nonviolent way."
Azrael crossed his arms. "You sound like Uriel," he complained.
"Really? How would you know? And here I thought you were a virgin," Raphael chortled.
"Don't confuse me with that fucking waste of space Voice," Azrael mock-growled.
They grinned at each other, and then the teasing insults began in earnest, as if the unfortunate incident in the bar had never happened at all.
The angel watched Azrael.
Just watched. The dark haired Angel of Death was outside, his way lit only by stars on the cloudless night.
Azrael was dancing.
Maybe not dancing in a conventional sense. But what else could one call this? Azrael had his Scythe out, and he swung it in graceful, deadly arcs. His feet moved in light, sure steps, and the blade whistled as it sliced through the air.
Azrael was most certainly beautiful, despite all his protestations otherwise. His face was calm, his coal-black tresses fanning out behind him as he spun. No other angel in Heaven has his trademark black wings. Azrael was different, but terribly beautiful.
The angel eased the porch door open and walked barefoot out into the field. At his approach, Azrael slowed to a stop and rested his Scythe upright. "I thought you were asleep," Azrael said, his voice low.
The angel shook his head and stepped forward. The Scythe was taller than he, and he reached up to touch the handle where Azrael's hand gripped it. Azrael's fingers were cool and callused underneath his touch. "You're beautiful," the angel breathed.
Azrael looked puzzled. "No. But you are."
The angel bit down a wave of frustration, wishing he could make Azrael understand. So he stood on his tiptoes instead and pressed his lips to Azrael's, in an effort to make him see that he was beautiful, that he was loved.
Azrael responded hesitantly, then gently pushed him away, a flash of something that looked very much like fear crossing his face.
The angel pressed his fingers to his lips, feeling bereft.
Azrael was absolutely pissed. He threw his bloodied robe into the wash basin, where it landed with a satisfying smack. He desperately wanted something to pound since he couldn't touch that damn fool idiot.
He stepped into the shower and washed himself with rough, angry movements. The pounding of the hot water didn't relax him any, and in fact, the time to simmer somehow made it worse.
So it was that he stomped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped precariously about his waist and began yelling at the same decibel level that he had been using before entering the bathroom. "Don't EVER interfere with my assignment again," he yelled. The angel was sitting at the table where he had left him, staring hard at knotted hands in his lap.
"I was just trying to..." the angel said softly.
"They don't deserve mercy. They don't deserve an easy death. They don't deserve any of your fucking kindness, and if you EVER do that again, you'll be looking for somewhere else to live," Azrael said, breathing hard with fury.
The angel stood up and looked him in the eye. "You don't even know what you're threatening me with," he said, his voice firm. "I was just trying to do my job."
Azrael let loose a vicious curse. "Look, you're very fucking useful - but you do what I say, and you follow my orders."
And damned if the angel didn't start to look slightly pissed. "Well, thank Most Holy you finally admitted that, at least," he snapped, his eyes flashing. "I'm your partner, Azrael, not your servant - would you mind getting that one straight?"
Azrael clenched his teeth, still breathing heavily.
And while he was trying to think of a suitable retort, the angel got up in his face. "You won't even name me - why is that, Azrael? Afraid you'll have to keep me? Afraid you'll have to learn to think about someone other than yourself?"
Azrael was shaking in anger, but the angel carried on, maybe heedless - or maybe really ballsy. "Afraid you'll have to fuck me?" the angel asked in a dangerous whisper, the crude, unexpected word shocking Azrael to something resembling rationality.
"I have wanted nothing more since the Voice dropped you in my arms," Azrael growled, pulling the angel into his arms.
"Then we agree on something," the angel hissed, and the next moment, they were caught up in a bruising, painful kiss. Azrael was dimly aware that he was going to leave bruises on the angel's fair skin if he kept gripping the blonde so tightly.
The angel bit Azrael's lip, and the coppery taste of blood flooded Azrael's senses as he gasped.
"You don't understand anything," the angel muttered angrily, pulling roughly at his own clothing and throwing Azrael's towel aside before pushing them both into the bedroom.
Azrael snarled and pushed the angel down onto the bed. "Why the fuck do you have to be here? Why won't everyone leave me the hell alone?"
The angel's nails raked down his back, and Azrael shuddered despite himself, and then winced when the angel tugged his head down via a firm grip on his hair. "Why don't you quit feeling sorry for yourself and ask Him?" Azrael shut him up with another brutal kiss and pinned the angel beneath him, his mouth trailing down that admired neck, marring the skin as he went with nipping kisses. And damned if the angel wasn't writhing against him, grinding their erections together. Their hands were everywhere, and anger blurred with desire.
Azrael was kneeling between the angel's thighs before he knew it, and then he stopped himself.
The angel leaned up on his elbows, and his voice held a mocking edge. "He made me for you - aren't you going to use me?"
Azrael glared at him, and made to move away.
The angel caught his wrist, and enunciated, "Coward."
And if there was one thing that Azrael could not stand, it was that too truthful accusation. It coursed through him like ice, clearing away the fog of anger and leaving only starved desire in its place "Well, excuse me for giving a damn," he muttered, and retrieved a bottle of oil from the bedside table.
When Azrael's slick fingers touched the angel to prepare him, the fight seemed to desert the blonde immediately, leaving a pliant, gasping angel in Azrael's arms. He traced a droplet of sweat from the angel's collarbone with his tongue, even as he removed his fingers and slid his aching erection home.
The angel whimpered and Azrael groaned, and after that it was burning heat and friction, sweat and rhythm, and the angel moaning beneath him and finally crying out as his release spilled out between them. A few more hard thrusts, and the angel whispered endearments as Azrael shuddered and emptied himself inside the only one who had ever offered to love him just as he was.
"I love you," the angel said softly, afterward.
Azrael held him close and pressed a tender kiss to his temple.
"Azrael?"
He pulled back a little to look in the angel's eyes. "Yeah?"
"Do you think we could do that again? Maybe without the fight?"
The angel's tone was completely innocent, but Azrael had his suspicions now. And maybe it was just the late hour and the complete relaxation, but he began to laugh helplessly. "Yeah, I think we could manage that."
The angel traced his flank. "Is now too soon?"
The angel hung the wet sheet over the clothesline with Azrael's help. They methodically worked their way down, hanging the laundry out to dry and securing it with clothespins. It now was almost two months since Azrael had brought him home. They had achieved a sort of rhythm in their duties and at home, and the progress they had made brought a smile to the angel's lips.
"I've been thinking," Azrael said, his voice gruff.
"Imagine that," the angel murmured, fiddling with a stubborn clothespin. It earned him a glare, but it was a glare that contained a rather startling amount of affection.
"You said...you said once that you were Most Holy's Command. Command to do what?"
The angel smiled sunnily at him, the wind catching his hair and blowing it every which way. "To love you."
Azrael looked away. "I've decided. What to name you."
The angel drew a quick breath and just stared.
"You know all our names are in Fiat, right?"
The angel quirked an amused eyebrow. "You think the twins let me go without teaching me about Angelic Script?"
Azrael looked defensive. "Well, you're the one who didn't see a problem with washing laundry in the nude. Outdoors."
The angel rolled his eyes. "You were saying?"
Azrael swallowed. "Well, I thought that, since you are, that your name should be -
"Suriel."
Suriel flung his arms around Azrael's neck. "I love you!" he sang in delight. "I love you so very much!" He sprinkled Azrael's face with kisses. "I love you!"
Azrael gave him a very tiny smile that he drank in with enthusiasm, determined to memorize so he could see it forever. "What does your name mean?" Suriel asked, though he already knew the answer better than his own.
Azrael raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It means, 'Whom Most Holy helps.'"
Suriel searched his face. "Has He?"
Azrael's little smile widened a fraction, and his dark eyes reflected the deep emotion singing in Suriel's heart.
"He has, indeed."