Fanfic Short Stories

Good Omens & White Collar: What Fools These Mortals Be

Story description: What if the nearly-too-skilled-to-be-true Neal Caffrey was really a demon?

What Fools These Mortals Be

Italy, 1520.

"One of yours?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley sat beside him.

Crowley followed his gaze to an impossibly beautiful young man with impossibly bright blue eyes. "I think so, yes," he said. Impossible eyes were almost always the mark of a demon.

"They never notice," the angel said, referring to the people sketching the demon. "I think humans want to believe that such beauty is possible, and therefore they simply accept his presence. What surprised me is that he isn't tempting them into lust. I rather thought that would be his area of specialty."

It was true that the demon drew appreciative glances from all genders. "Looks can be deceiving. If he's who I think he is, he leads them into greed and jealousy."

Aziraphale nodded. "That explains it. I've been blessing Raphael's workshops, granting them more goodwill and camaraderie than was achieved in those led by Botticelli and Da Vinci. It had been a simple blessing until your peer arrived. He's been sowing discord."

"Good for him. What's his method?"

"When he isn't modeling, he joins the workshops as a fellow painter. I've seen him over the centuries, learning from other artists I've blessed, and with so much experience he soon outshines even the most talented humans. It's nearly impossible to tell his work from Raphael's. It upsets the other students." Aziraphale paused. "On the other hand, it also inspires those around him to produce their best work in order to keep up with him, so I can't say his influence is all bad."

"What name does he go by?" Crowley asked.

"It's always something different."

"As I thought. He's the demon Alibi. Known for constantly crafting new identities for himself." He gestured toward a plate of grapes. "May I?"

"Goodness! Where are my manners?" Aziraphale offered Crowley the plate. "You took me by surprise. I hadn't expected to see a second demon today. What brings you here?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news about Raphael."

It took Aziraphale a moment to comprehend what he meant. "Oh, no. But he's so young! There's so much potential. I expected him to have another decade, at least."

"Sorry," Crowley lied. Or perhaps it was only a fib. He did rather like Raphael's work, but an artist fostering good relations among his followers simply wasn't part of the plan. Crowley's side had put too much effort into making artists tortured loners to tolerate such a blatant aberration.

###

The next time Crowley saw Alibi was nearly a hundred years later. The pretty demon was acting the role of Puck in one of Shakespeare's plays. "What fools these mortals be," was the first thing Crowley heard Alibi say, in a voice as lovely as his outward appearance.

After the play Crowley introduced himself, and they slipped away for a chat. "That was an excellent performance, but I thought artists were more your thing," Crowley said.

"Playwrights think of themselves as artists now," Alibi explained. "The printing press is giving them visions of becoming as famous as the sculptors and painters I used to tempt. Shakespeare is on the verge of making a deal with me. He'll focus on serious plays — no more comedies — if I promise his works will be known for centuries to come."

"Gloomy plays?" Crowley asked. "But he's so good at the funny ones."

"It's important that he write tragedies," Alibi explained. "Those are even more of a slog to read."