Happy Holidays, _silverfox
Title: The Bimillenial Staff Review
Author: greywing12
Prompt: Gabriel catches A/C standing in for each other.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: Crack, angel abuse, mild swearing, art history geekiness
Summary: Gabriel descends to earth for the bi-millennial staff review. There is Spectacularly Bad Timing and Spectacularly Good Timing.
“A little to the left, Salai. (1) Good. Now tilt your chin just a little-there! Very good.”
Crowley rearranged his limbs, trying not to yawn. This doing-good business was boring. Not for the first time, he wondered how Aziraphale could stand it. Then again, he had a ridiculously warped sense of fun. (2) The angel was probably giving himself fits coaxing petty thefts back in rainy old England. Leonardo’s stuffy old studio, full of art and dusty books and learning, would likely send the angel into the throes of ecstasy.
Crowley fairly itched to do something substantially more wicked than stealing his master’s spare change and spending it on new shoes. Damn it, he was a demon, after all, and he’d be arsed if he’d keep completely to his end of the bargain. It hadn’t been so bad when this particular body had been younger, and he could sneak off to do Majorly Evil Deeds under the guise of play. Pity now the master simply wouldn’t have him out of sight, and Crowley was leery of scrambling his brain with the power of suggestion. (3) Perhaps there was more to this protectiveness than a master’s affection for his apprentice?
No harm trying.
Crowley draped himself more languorously across the divan, stretching to show off his toned, lithe body. With a thought he made the cloth draped about his waist slide to the ground, and gave Leonardo a smouldering look through half-lidded eyes.
“Good god, Salai, what are you doing?” roared Leonardo. “Stop fidgeting, you little menace-- you’ve completely ruined the composition! Now sit up, you lazy sod, and pick up that robe.”
Scowling, Crowley spitefully frayed the bristles of Leonardo’s brush and vanished the flaxseed oil from the paints.
***
A few hundred miles away, across a little strip of ocean, a precariously high pile of parchment and books wobbled and toppled onto the desk below, obscuring a little ivory envelope that smelled of lavender and clouds and glowed in the dim light of the musty bookstore.
***
Crowley could smell it the moment it entered town. The usual city-stench of waste and vermin had vanished, and the ill vapors in the air had given way to a nauseatingly sweet zephyr of sunshine and honey and heaven. And it was getting closer, heading straight for Leonardo’s door at Godspeed. (4) Crowley promptly sicked up on the floor.
“I say,” said Leonardo, mildly alarmed. “Are you alright?”
Crowley mumbled something about yesterday’s pasta not agreeing with him, and fled.
***
Gabriel (currently he-shaped), landed just outside da Vinci’s studio, wrinkling his nose in distaste at his surroundings. He hated (as far as it was possible for an angel to hate) these bi-millennial staff reviews. The mortal realm was always so… unhygienic. And Gabriel could pick up faint traces of demonic activity in the vicinity-Aziraphale was surely getting sloppy.
Folding his wings, he transformed himself into the form of a dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian gentleman of the times, replete with doublet, hose, and flamboyant, odd-shaped hat, and knocked on the door.
Da Vinci himself answered the door, wearing a dirty apron spattered with pigments, oils, and disturbingly enough, blood, muttering something under his breath about someone having run off and now he would have to answer every bloody door how may I help you signor?
Gabriel stopped staring and focused on the man’s face. “Yes-I’m looking for your assistant? A Signor A. Phale, from England?”
A furrow appeared between the mortal’s brows. “There is no one of that name here,” said the man. “I have only one assistant at the moment, and he is as Italian as they come.”
Strange. From the reports, Aziraphale was usually completely incapable of taking on non-English personae. He should investigate. “Perhaps my friend has changed his name,” pressed Gabriel, with the barest hint of suggestion in his voice.
Da Vinci’s eyes glazed over a little. “Yes, yes of course. He is ill and has retired to his room upstairs. Please, follow me.”
Gabriel followed the artist up a narrow flight of stairs to a small yellow door. Da Vinci knocked loudly.
“Salai, you have a visitor!”
Little devil? Gabriel frowned. And there was more than a hint of sulphur and brimstone in the air…
Snarling, Gabriel waved the door open with a shout of “Begone, foul demon!” and braced himself to face-
A bed, a desk, and twenty-four pairs of shoes.
“The room seems to be empty, signor,” commented da Vinci mildly. “Perhaps he has gone to the apothecary for a remedy.”
Gabriel ignored the man. Where was Aziraphale? Had he been vanquished by a demon? Surely, if so, they would have known.
Gabriel exited the house and launched himself into the air, heading towards Aziraphale’s last known location.
***
Crowley wriggled as fast as his legless form would allow through the gutters of Florence, not daring to assume his most powerful (and noticeable) form in the vicinity of an archangel. Once past what he deemed was a safe distance, Crowley transformed, spread his wings, and flapped as fast as he could to the home of his only ally.
***
Aziraphale jumped and splashed his hot herbal drink all over his lap when Gabriel burst into his bookshop in a blaze of holy light.
“Gabriel! I say, it’s… good to see you,” he stammered.
Gabriel seemed surprised. “You are well, Aziraphale?” he queried. “You are not injured? No battles with demons?”
What was he going on about? Aziraphale had a feeling that things were about to go pear-shaped “No? Not recently, at least. Er… to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Comprehension seemed to dawn upon the archangel, and Gabriel’s face distorted into that expression of icy, righteous indignation, and Aziraphale, like so many before him, knew he was doomed.
“The Lord gave thee the honour of doing His most holy work on this blessed Earth, to watch over His most beloved Children. And yet thou didst not do thy duty, but sit in sloth and drinketh thy tea!”
Oh. Oh, bugger.
“Gabriel, look, I can explain-“
“Hast thou fallen, Aziraphale? Hast thou been ensnared by the devil’s wiles?” demanded Gabriel. “For when I entered the painter’s house it reeked with the spoor of demons. How couldst thou have allowed this?”
If the situation weren’t so dire, Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes. Could it get any more melodramatic?
“Look,” said Aziraphale, deciding that honesty was the key. “I had a deal with Crowley-“
“A deal?” raged Gabriel. “We do not consort with them, Aziraphale! You will come with me, and be judged before His throne.”
Aziraphale squeaked as his arms and legs were bound with golden rope. Gabriel reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, preparing to leave.
Then, several things happened.
First, the door burst open again, and a pale and shaking Crowley called out “Aziraphale!” just as Gabriel turned and shouted a surprised “Demon!” Then there was a tangle of grappling limbs and feathers (and in Crowley’s case, teeth) as the enmity of millennia manifested in one desperate, clumsy struggle.
Then Gabriel’s left hand closed around Crowley’s throat while he raised the right, poised to speak holy words of banishment, when Crowley disappeared. Gabriel whirled wildly around, searching in vain as a gleam of green scales, lightning-quick, slithered around behind him and bit him in the ankle.
Gabriel let out a roar of pain, and while he was distracted, Crowley swiftly transformed back and clobbered Gabriel over the head with Aziraphale’s favorite armchair.
Gabriel went down like a sack of potatoes.
“Crowley!” cried Aziraphale, horrified (though secretly impressed). “What have you done?’
Crowley smiled his smug serpentine smile. “Why, knocked him out, of course. Always wanted to do that.” His expression sobered as he wished Aziraphale’s bonds away. “I tried to get to you once I knew he was near, but it seems I was too late.”
“Upstairs usually gives notice,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. “I didn’t see a letter.”
“Knowing you, it’s probably buried somewhere in that pile of mouldy books,” scoffed Crowley. “But we’ll deal with that another time. Right now you’ve got to get him back to Tuscany before he wakes, and pretend he hit his head or something.”
“What? I can’t do that-it’s deceitful!”
Crowley snorted. “It’s either that or get divine retribution on our asses.” He winced. “And trust me, that’s no fun at all.”
Reluctantly, Aziraphale agreed, and picked Gabriel up in his arms.
He paused at the door. “Crowley,” he mused. “Why did you enter the shop? You must have known Gabriel was in here. Heard him, if not sensed him.”
Crowley looked distinctly uncomfortable, and kicked at the rug. “He was going to take you away,” he said at last, very quietly.
“Thank you, Crowley.”
The angel beamed at him, and took wing.
***
Gabriel awoke with a blinding headache and a nervous Aziraphale hovering about him. Aziraphale! Co-conspirator of demons! Gabriel tried to stand, but was pushed back down on the bed.
“Oh Gabriel, you’re finally awake!” gushed Aziraphale, before Gabriel could even open his mouth. “You’ve been out for ages. Hit your head, you know. (5) I’m dreadfully sorry-I’d just washed the floor and it must have been awfully slippery.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Gabriel. “Where is the demon? The snake which bit me?”
Aziraphale looked genuinely puzzled.
“I think you must have inhaled too many paint fumes,” he said firmly. “They are rather overwhelming, you know. I was seeing things, myself, at first. There isn’t any demon or snake-see for yourself.”
What? Confused, Gabriel sat up and looked about him. He was in the little room above Leonardo’s studio. And there were no traces of devilry, only the sweet smell of honey and sunshine, though it was nearly masked by the reek of turpentine and oil paint, which did make him feel a bit faint.
“Right,” he said dizzily. “About the bi-millennial staff review-“
***
1. Salai-Little devil (Italian). The sixth sense of artists and poets, though they be unaware, is very seldom wrong.
2. Which included imbibing herbal tisanes, feeding waterfowl and collecting tomes so old and dusty that they were spurned even by silverfish.
3. One never knew with these genius types
4. A little below the speed of sound. Not much, though. Devilspeed is somewhat slower, but not by much.
5. Technically true.
Author’s Notes:
Leonardo da Vinci did have an apprentice/companion of sorts he nicknamed Salai, for according to da Vinci he was a liar and a thief and a spendthrift (there is specific mention of him buying many pairs of shoes!), but he was very fond of him all the same. There are speculations on whether the handsome boy could have been a lover. Also, tea as we know it was not introduced to Europe till the 17th century, so Aziraphale’s fixation is on the next best thing-tisanes of herbs and flowers. I have made these divine beings capable of traveling between countries relatively quickly (see references). Go here for a picture of a painting with Salai as the model.
Enjoy, _silverfox, from your Secret Author!
Author: greywing12
Prompt: Gabriel catches A/C standing in for each other.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: Crack, angel abuse, mild swearing, art history geekiness
Summary: Gabriel descends to earth for the bi-millennial staff review. There is Spectacularly Bad Timing and Spectacularly Good Timing.
“A little to the left, Salai. (1) Good. Now tilt your chin just a little-there! Very good.”
Crowley rearranged his limbs, trying not to yawn. This doing-good business was boring. Not for the first time, he wondered how Aziraphale could stand it. Then again, he had a ridiculously warped sense of fun. (2) The angel was probably giving himself fits coaxing petty thefts back in rainy old England. Leonardo’s stuffy old studio, full of art and dusty books and learning, would likely send the angel into the throes of ecstasy.
Crowley fairly itched to do something substantially more wicked than stealing his master’s spare change and spending it on new shoes. Damn it, he was a demon, after all, and he’d be arsed if he’d keep completely to his end of the bargain. It hadn’t been so bad when this particular body had been younger, and he could sneak off to do Majorly Evil Deeds under the guise of play. Pity now the master simply wouldn’t have him out of sight, and Crowley was leery of scrambling his brain with the power of suggestion. (3) Perhaps there was more to this protectiveness than a master’s affection for his apprentice?
No harm trying.
Crowley draped himself more languorously across the divan, stretching to show off his toned, lithe body. With a thought he made the cloth draped about his waist slide to the ground, and gave Leonardo a smouldering look through half-lidded eyes.
“Good god, Salai, what are you doing?” roared Leonardo. “Stop fidgeting, you little menace-- you’ve completely ruined the composition! Now sit up, you lazy sod, and pick up that robe.”
Scowling, Crowley spitefully frayed the bristles of Leonardo’s brush and vanished the flaxseed oil from the paints.
***
A few hundred miles away, across a little strip of ocean, a precariously high pile of parchment and books wobbled and toppled onto the desk below, obscuring a little ivory envelope that smelled of lavender and clouds and glowed in the dim light of the musty bookstore.
***
Crowley could smell it the moment it entered town. The usual city-stench of waste and vermin had vanished, and the ill vapors in the air had given way to a nauseatingly sweet zephyr of sunshine and honey and heaven. And it was getting closer, heading straight for Leonardo’s door at Godspeed. (4) Crowley promptly sicked up on the floor.
“I say,” said Leonardo, mildly alarmed. “Are you alright?”
Crowley mumbled something about yesterday’s pasta not agreeing with him, and fled.
***
Gabriel (currently he-shaped), landed just outside da Vinci’s studio, wrinkling his nose in distaste at his surroundings. He hated (as far as it was possible for an angel to hate) these bi-millennial staff reviews. The mortal realm was always so… unhygienic. And Gabriel could pick up faint traces of demonic activity in the vicinity-Aziraphale was surely getting sloppy.
Folding his wings, he transformed himself into the form of a dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian gentleman of the times, replete with doublet, hose, and flamboyant, odd-shaped hat, and knocked on the door.
Da Vinci himself answered the door, wearing a dirty apron spattered with pigments, oils, and disturbingly enough, blood, muttering something under his breath about someone having run off and now he would have to answer every bloody door how may I help you signor?
Gabriel stopped staring and focused on the man’s face. “Yes-I’m looking for your assistant? A Signor A. Phale, from England?”
A furrow appeared between the mortal’s brows. “There is no one of that name here,” said the man. “I have only one assistant at the moment, and he is as Italian as they come.”
Strange. From the reports, Aziraphale was usually completely incapable of taking on non-English personae. He should investigate. “Perhaps my friend has changed his name,” pressed Gabriel, with the barest hint of suggestion in his voice.
Da Vinci’s eyes glazed over a little. “Yes, yes of course. He is ill and has retired to his room upstairs. Please, follow me.”
Gabriel followed the artist up a narrow flight of stairs to a small yellow door. Da Vinci knocked loudly.
“Salai, you have a visitor!”
Little devil? Gabriel frowned. And there was more than a hint of sulphur and brimstone in the air…
Snarling, Gabriel waved the door open with a shout of “Begone, foul demon!” and braced himself to face-
A bed, a desk, and twenty-four pairs of shoes.
“The room seems to be empty, signor,” commented da Vinci mildly. “Perhaps he has gone to the apothecary for a remedy.”
Gabriel ignored the man. Where was Aziraphale? Had he been vanquished by a demon? Surely, if so, they would have known.
Gabriel exited the house and launched himself into the air, heading towards Aziraphale’s last known location.
***
Crowley wriggled as fast as his legless form would allow through the gutters of Florence, not daring to assume his most powerful (and noticeable) form in the vicinity of an archangel. Once past what he deemed was a safe distance, Crowley transformed, spread his wings, and flapped as fast as he could to the home of his only ally.
***
Aziraphale jumped and splashed his hot herbal drink all over his lap when Gabriel burst into his bookshop in a blaze of holy light.
“Gabriel! I say, it’s… good to see you,” he stammered.
Gabriel seemed surprised. “You are well, Aziraphale?” he queried. “You are not injured? No battles with demons?”
What was he going on about? Aziraphale had a feeling that things were about to go pear-shaped “No? Not recently, at least. Er… to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Comprehension seemed to dawn upon the archangel, and Gabriel’s face distorted into that expression of icy, righteous indignation, and Aziraphale, like so many before him, knew he was doomed.
“The Lord gave thee the honour of doing His most holy work on this blessed Earth, to watch over His most beloved Children. And yet thou didst not do thy duty, but sit in sloth and drinketh thy tea!”
Oh. Oh, bugger.
“Gabriel, look, I can explain-“
“Hast thou fallen, Aziraphale? Hast thou been ensnared by the devil’s wiles?” demanded Gabriel. “For when I entered the painter’s house it reeked with the spoor of demons. How couldst thou have allowed this?”
If the situation weren’t so dire, Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes. Could it get any more melodramatic?
“Look,” said Aziraphale, deciding that honesty was the key. “I had a deal with Crowley-“
“A deal?” raged Gabriel. “We do not consort with them, Aziraphale! You will come with me, and be judged before His throne.”
Aziraphale squeaked as his arms and legs were bound with golden rope. Gabriel reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, preparing to leave.
Then, several things happened.
First, the door burst open again, and a pale and shaking Crowley called out “Aziraphale!” just as Gabriel turned and shouted a surprised “Demon!” Then there was a tangle of grappling limbs and feathers (and in Crowley’s case, teeth) as the enmity of millennia manifested in one desperate, clumsy struggle.
Then Gabriel’s left hand closed around Crowley’s throat while he raised the right, poised to speak holy words of banishment, when Crowley disappeared. Gabriel whirled wildly around, searching in vain as a gleam of green scales, lightning-quick, slithered around behind him and bit him in the ankle.
Gabriel let out a roar of pain, and while he was distracted, Crowley swiftly transformed back and clobbered Gabriel over the head with Aziraphale’s favorite armchair.
Gabriel went down like a sack of potatoes.
“Crowley!” cried Aziraphale, horrified (though secretly impressed). “What have you done?’
Crowley smiled his smug serpentine smile. “Why, knocked him out, of course. Always wanted to do that.” His expression sobered as he wished Aziraphale’s bonds away. “I tried to get to you once I knew he was near, but it seems I was too late.”
“Upstairs usually gives notice,” said Aziraphale, wringing his hands. “I didn’t see a letter.”
“Knowing you, it’s probably buried somewhere in that pile of mouldy books,” scoffed Crowley. “But we’ll deal with that another time. Right now you’ve got to get him back to Tuscany before he wakes, and pretend he hit his head or something.”
“What? I can’t do that-it’s deceitful!”
Crowley snorted. “It’s either that or get divine retribution on our asses.” He winced. “And trust me, that’s no fun at all.”
Reluctantly, Aziraphale agreed, and picked Gabriel up in his arms.
He paused at the door. “Crowley,” he mused. “Why did you enter the shop? You must have known Gabriel was in here. Heard him, if not sensed him.”
Crowley looked distinctly uncomfortable, and kicked at the rug. “He was going to take you away,” he said at last, very quietly.
“Thank you, Crowley.”
The angel beamed at him, and took wing.
***
Gabriel awoke with a blinding headache and a nervous Aziraphale hovering about him. Aziraphale! Co-conspirator of demons! Gabriel tried to stand, but was pushed back down on the bed.
“Oh Gabriel, you’re finally awake!” gushed Aziraphale, before Gabriel could even open his mouth. “You’ve been out for ages. Hit your head, you know. (5) I’m dreadfully sorry-I’d just washed the floor and it must have been awfully slippery.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped Gabriel. “Where is the demon? The snake which bit me?”
Aziraphale looked genuinely puzzled.
“I think you must have inhaled too many paint fumes,” he said firmly. “They are rather overwhelming, you know. I was seeing things, myself, at first. There isn’t any demon or snake-see for yourself.”
What? Confused, Gabriel sat up and looked about him. He was in the little room above Leonardo’s studio. And there were no traces of devilry, only the sweet smell of honey and sunshine, though it was nearly masked by the reek of turpentine and oil paint, which did make him feel a bit faint.
“Right,” he said dizzily. “About the bi-millennial staff review-“
***
1. Salai-Little devil (Italian). The sixth sense of artists and poets, though they be unaware, is very seldom wrong.
2. Which included imbibing herbal tisanes, feeding waterfowl and collecting tomes so old and dusty that they were spurned even by silverfish.
3. One never knew with these genius types
4. A little below the speed of sound. Not much, though. Devilspeed is somewhat slower, but not by much.
5. Technically true.
Author’s Notes:
Leonardo da Vinci did have an apprentice/companion of sorts he nicknamed Salai, for according to da Vinci he was a liar and a thief and a spendthrift (there is specific mention of him buying many pairs of shoes!), but he was very fond of him all the same. There are speculations on whether the handsome boy could have been a lover. Also, tea as we know it was not introduced to Europe till the 17th century, so Aziraphale’s fixation is on the next best thing-tisanes of herbs and flowers. I have made these divine beings capable of traveling between countries relatively quickly (see references). Go here for a picture of a painting with Salai as the model.
Enjoy, _silverfox, from your Secret Author!