Archive of Our Own

SOHO, 2015

  The picture had been hanging in Crowley’s flat for as long as Azirphale could remember. As a purveyor and enjoyer of all sorts of rare art, it was only natural that the drawing had piqued his interest. For a while, he had (perhaps foolishly) assumed that the drawing was a special limited reproduction or, at most, a copy Crowley had managed to snatch from a collector at some point or another. However, upon the third time Aziraphale had entered the flat, he made a choice to look a bit closer at the thing.

  There was a line inscribed along the bottom in a matching reddish tone of sepia, living snugly against the left forearm of the Mona Lisa. “Al mio amico” was all Aziraphale was able to make out before the demon sauntered back into the room with heels clicking on the floor and hips swaying.

  “‘To my friend,’” Aziraphale had mumbled out, translating the words.

  “What was that?” Crowley asked, looking towards the picture. “Oh yeah. This old thing. I’m honestly kind of surprised you didn’t say anything sooner.”

  “Well, it is quite lovely. How did you…?” Aziraphale trailed off.

  “Paid a few florins for the thing. Smart bastard wanted more but I negotiated it down.”

  “I see.”

  “Yup. Leo was a bit of a stubborn one but he did know how to make a good drawing.”

  “I didn’t know you two were so well acquainted.”

  Aziraphale was trying to hide the shock in his voice and doing it quite poorly. Crowley had made a few eccentric companions in their time on Earth, most of them artists or musicians or writers. Always the creative types. However, Aziraphale found it uncharacteristic that Crowley might have entertained a few Renaissancemen. The lot seemed a bit pretentious - and if Crowley hated one thing it was pretentious people.

(Certainly he hated more than one thing. But that wasn’t the point.)

  “Yes, well. Didn’t keep him from trying to haggle with me. Anyways, you coming?”

  The demon had sauntered towards the exit, pulling open the door to the flat and gesturing out with his head. The stop had been unplanned - a minor delay in getting to dinner.

(It wasn’t exactly like the amount of time they took mattered anyways. Even if they had to take time to stop Armageddon, they would have miraculously arrived on time for any reservation that would have been made or just in time for a table to be vacated and cleaned.)

  “Yes, right. Off we pop,” Aziraphale responded, straightening his waistcoat and hurrying towards the door.

  Despite his angelic qualities, he had always been rather invested in a good meal and would prefer not to delay one any more than it needed to be. A little gluttony never damned anybody.

FLORENCE, 1469

  They had first met soon after Donatello had died. The kid had been a plucky little one, following around del Verrocchio like a dog at his master’s heels. His tunic was warm toned, his hair trailing behind him as he walked excitedly, asking questions about everything in sight.

  Crowley had found it quite admirable, a reminder and reflection of a much younger, more foolish version of himself. Occasionally, when pronounced in a more feminine appearance, Crowley tended to listen in to others’ intellectual discussions and debates. It was not uncommon for her to hear something about Botticelli or the young da Vinci son.

  After only catching glimpses of the boy here and there for a few years, they finally crossed paths in the marketplace. Crowley had maintained a rather simplistic, albeit rich, appearance to himself and, if questioned, would simply claim to be interested in patronizing an artist or two. This was not entirely a lie, though the extent of such patronage was often left purposefully vague.

  “Sir?” a young but confident voice called out from the other side of the studio room.

  Crowley raised his eyebrows. How interesting. It wasn’t very often that the apprentices chatted with him.

  “Yes?” the demon responded nonchalantly.

  “Are you here to patronize Sir del Verrocchio or not?”

  Oh, he’s a fiery one , Crowley had thought. His lips curved into a smirk familiar to his face and he readjusted his stance while turning toward the boy.

  “You’re his apprentice, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci.”

  The boy nodded with the clumsy posture of a teenager still not quite used to their growing height. His hands were occupied with a palate and oil paints, smudges of chalk on his fingers.

  “Ah. Excellent to meet you.” Crowley nodded in response. “I find your master’s work quite impressive. How are you developing here?”

  Leonardo seemed to take a moment to think, his eyebrows scrunching together before relaxing.

  “I like it. I’m hoping to do more hands-on work soon. Mixing paints and doing color composites isn’t the same as making things, you know?”

  Crowley nodded with the experience of a being who created stars and galaxies beyond the boy’s comprehension.

  “Yeah, I get it. Making something is almost an act of magic.”

  Leonardo nodded. “As close to magic as one can come without alchemy or divinity.”

  Crowley laughed at that. 

  “Oh yeah. Certainly no divinity involved here,” he commented, gesturing to himself. “Now, do you mind if I hang around a little longer? I want to see what you and your master get up to today.”

ARNO, 1473

  The next time Crowley came across the young man, he had grown a few inches and was significantly more comfortable with his height. His hair was still on the longer side and his posture was confident instead of awkward.

  He was hunched over a board and a piece of paper. Approaching from behind, Crowley could tell the young man was intent on capturing the most amount of detail possible. His strokes were scratchy, but in a way that conveyed movement rather than inexperience. Mindful of the wet ink drying, Leonardo moved around the picture after capturing the detail of the hills.

  Watching him draw was unlike anything else Crowley had seen. Sure, there had been artists before Leonardo, and there were sure to be many after. But the young man had levels of talent and skill that extended beyond typical artistic fundamentals. His ability was ineffable. Though Crowley loathed the word itself, it felt impossible to condense all thoughts on the man’s work into one or two neat adjectives.

  “That’s a lovely drawing of the river here,” Crowley spoke up, careful to enunciate his words. His accent had adapted slightly to the dialect in the area, but it still seeped through in the vowels.

  Leonardo perked up at hearing him speak, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the new visitor. His eyes were still friendly, with an ever-present trademark glimmer of curiosity that reminded the demon of the angel.

  They would probably like each other, Crowley thought. They’re both far too clever for their own good.

  “Ah! Ser Antonio! What a lovely surprise that you would join me today. The weather is perfect for sitting in the sun.”

  Crowley stepped down the hill closer to the young man, careful to watch his step. Leonardo turned back to his drawing but continued the conversation with little hesitation.

  “Have you ever been to Tuscany before?”

  Crowley hummed and thought. “I’m sure I’ve been here before, though I can’t seem to remember when.”

(This was, of course, only partially true. Crowley could give a vague estimate as to the last time he had been in the region, most likely hanging around while watching an empire or two collapse. However, the burden of functional immortality is a poor sense of relative time. Aside from his own time blindness, the switching of calendar systems left the demon sometimes unable to piece together moments in time. As such, Crowley was only able to give approximations of years and times, save for a few key moments.)

  “Do you have plans to paint that?” Crowley asked, gesturing to the unfinished drawing situated in Leo’s lap.

  “Not particularly. I’m still with Verrocchio and we’re both a little more inclined towards capturing people’s likenesses. Landscapes are beautiful and all, but the lives of others are much more interesting to me.”

  “Going back to Florence, are you?”

  Leonardo seemed to think on the question for a minute, sketching a few more lines onto the paper before looking towards Crowley again.

  “I think I’d like to but taking the trip back and forth is a bit aggravating. If only there were an easier way…” he concluded, turning to observe the river and its turns.

  Adjusting his posture sitting on the ground, Crowley heard a few mumbles from under Leo’s breath, though any one word was particularly hard to make out. The young man had done the same thing upon their first meeting. It seemed to be a manner of thinking through any ideas while speaking to himself.

  “Say again, Leo?”

  Leonardo looked down at the drawing, which had remained unchanged since his last addition of lines. The artist seemed to compare his rendering to reality, turning his head at an angle and looking at both with a critical eye.

  “I was just saying,” he started. “I wonder if the river might be able to connect the two…”

  Crowley looked at the drawing, the landscape, and then the man. The details, rendered with hatching and organic lines, extended the river into the background, the suggestion of hills and fields beyond them both. The scratched lines were delicate and assertive, carving through the earth as if God Herself had molded the terrain by hand. Similarly, Leonardo’s profile was all curves and slopes - much like his artwork. He was like one of his own sketches come to life.

  “Not a bad idea, I say,” Crowley finally replied. “Besides, it’s not like this whole artsy moment is going to stop anytime soon.”

  Leonardo hummed affirmatively.

  “I sure hope not. I have a lot I still want to do.”

MILAN, 1498

  It had been a complete coincidence that Crowley had run into him at the marketplace. Aziraphale had gone off to go look at a few books for sale while the demon wandered around in search of something closer to his interests. Instead, he ran right into Leonardo, who was briskly walking out of a local shop.

  “Whoa there!”

  Crowley had to hold the man by the shoulders to keep him from falling over. It was a miracle (perhaps literally) that none of his painting supplies had fallen out of his arms. A few splotches of red revealed a level of embarrassment, which quickly disappeared after seeing who he had run into.

  “Ser Antonio! What a surprise!”

  Leonardo certainly looked older now. His facial hair had grown in more since his early twenties and the hair that was tucked behind his ears remained long and brushed. His hands, gripping onto some oils, tempera, and a few brushes, had small bits of paint here and there. It was clear the man had been working hard.

  “Leonardo! Excellent seeing you. Milan now, hm?”

  “Yes. I’ve been asked to do some work for the monastery at Santa Maria delle Grazie. If all works out, I should also be painting something for the Duke soon!”

  Crowley was astonished, though not surprised in the slightest. Given the skill with which Leonardo wielded his artistic materials, it was no wonder he was being commissioned to do work for such important clientele.

  “What brings you to Milan?” Leonardo continued on, not waiting for a response to his earlier statement. Just as before, his thoughts were like an endless stream of curiosity.

  “Ah, I’m here with…”

  Crowley paused, unsure of how to continue. How was he to explain Aziraphale to Leonardo? The man was quite private about his own life and, in return, Crowley had followed suit.

  Trying to explain the current tolerance? Mutual respect? Clemency? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t a relationship. The whatever he had with Aziraphale was not something he was going to get into when in a busy marketplace in Milan (or preferably ever).

  Leonardo was looking at him quizzically, as if unsure as to why the conversation had come to a sudden stop. The internal dialogue Crowley was having had certainly caused a lull in their banter, though for how long he could not guess.

  “Ser Antonio? Are you alright?”

  Crowley snapped out of it and made a split second decision. He could only hope Aziraphale was off still looking at books or something else.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he responded, trying to tamp down the audible nerves in his voice. “I forgot the word for a moment. I’m here with… a friend who’s interested in the food and in trying to procure a book or two.”

  The artist seemed a bit conflicted, as if unsure to believe the demon and move on with the conversation or to interrogate the man-shaped being about his hesitancy and unease. Thankfully, Leonardo had a level of social decorum and awareness for their publicity and chose the former.

  “Ah, I see. I’ve been told that Milan is an excellent place to be for those kinds of things. Now that Charles has left us well alone and the war is over, it seems that many are eager to get back to work.”

  “I can imagine. War with the French is…” Crowley made a noise as if to mimic the explosion of a cannon and then the yelling of a commander. “I certainly wouldn’t ever want to get involved with them.”

  “Oh, certainly not. Anyways, I must be going now. They’re getting quite haughty with me that I haven’t finished Christ’s face yet and I need to finish it soon.”

  Crowley chuckled a little at that, murmuring, “It’s always the men of the cloth, huh?”

  Leonardo allowed himself a small laugh in response and waved, turning to continue on his way before yelling over his shoulder.

  “Enjoy the rest of your stay in Milan, Ser Antonio! I hope your friend enjoys it here as well!”

  Crowley grumbled a little at the way the word “friend” had been emphasized. Before he could go on thinking about it, a white haired head popped into his peripheral vision and blue eyes met his shaded yellow. Its owner was holding two books and a bright red apple. Aziraphale, much like Leonardo, was ever the curious one.

  “Who was that, Crowley?”

  “Nothing, angel. Just someone I ran into.”

  “Oh I hope there wasn’t too much trouble you got up to while I was off,” Aziraphale commented smartly. “Though I suppose I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”

  Though the angel couldn’t see it, yellow eyes rolled behind darked glass as the demon adjusted his hair and glasses. The smirk on his face, however, was visible and given a quick chuckle.

  “Ha ha. Very funny, angel.”

  “I am rather clever, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, yes. Now what have you gone and bought this time?”

  At that, Aziraphale was quick to light up, holding the books tightly to his chest while looking down at them occasionally. The familiar wink of supernatural precociousness flickering in his eye, he was quick to begin rattling off facts about the bookseller and the books in question.

  Half listening to the other, Crowley hummed as they walked off towards a restaurant (which had, of course, been picked by the other), wondering what exactly took so long to finish Jesus’ face.

FLORENCE, 1503

  “It’s a rotten war,” Aziraphale said, lifting a cup full of wine to his mouth. The golden ring on his right pinky gleamed in the light, reflecting the sun rays from underneath the canopy the two were seated under.

  “All wars are rotten, angel,” Crowley muttered, taking a drink of his own wine. Though the canopy covered him from the majority of the sun, he still squinted into the far off town square.

  The two were seated in a small cafe, a bottle of red wine between the two of them. The demon lounged in the chair, legs crossed at the ankles. Though dressed in all black, the heat of the sun caused him no trouble. He had been in hotter places before. The angel was sat properly, a remnant of the prim decorum baked into him in Heaven. The sun shined off the white of his clothing, making the being appear to glow.

  Aziraphale sighed into his cup after his sip, looking into the wine as if searching for an answer. His eyebrows were bunched together in the manner Crowley knew meant he was troubled by something but didn’t want to mention it. It was the same face he had made the first time he was given tea with too much milk.

  “What is it?” Crowley asked, leaning his head nonchalantly towards Aziraphale, readjusting his arm flung over the seat back. He peeked over the top of his sunglasses to look.

  The angel sighed again and finally spoke up, “I just hate all of the fighting.”

  Crowley raised an eyebrow and went to say something, but Aziraphale spoke up again.

  “I’m not questioning anything…it’s just-” Aziraphale set down his glass and waved his hands around in a way that represented a mess. “It’s all so hard to deal with sometimes.”

  Crowley hummed, saying nothing for a moment and looking out into the square, squinting at a figure in a dark red ensemble.

  “I mean,” Aziraphale continued, “I don’t know what’s divine about standing by and letting the French and Italians wage war on each other for years.”

  “At least it’s not the Crusades. You hated the Crusades.”

  “I don’t think a single person liked the Crusades, Crowley.”

  There was a small shrug in response. The red figure was getting closer and was accompanied by another figure with dark curls.

  “You’d be surprised,” the demon commented offhandedly. “Humans can be cruel, angel.”

  Aziraphale pursed his lips and looked towards the ground at that, trying to figure out how to respond when two sets of shoes entered the corner of his peripheral.

  “Leonardo! What a pleasant surprise. I thought you had gone back to Venice or Milan,” Crowley spoke up, interrupting the angel’s train of thought.

  Aziraphale looked up from the stone pathway, performing a cursory glance over the two people. The one with red clothing had long hair, swept over the shoulder, and a bit of facial hair, clearly the oldest. The one with curly hair was holding a few notebooks, freckles sprinkled across his nose bridge. After a moment, the man with long hair, having come to a realization, cleared his throat.

  “My apologies! Salaì, this is my friend An-”

  Crowley stood up quickly and stuck out his hand, interjecting, “You can call me Crowley.”

  The one with curly hair, having shaken hands, commented, “Great to meet one of the Master’s friends. Though, what an unusual name. You’re not from around here, I take it?”

  “I suppose you could say that,” Crowley smirked. “Nice to meet you, Salaì. I’ve heard some great things about you.”

  Salaì smiled in appreciation as Leonardo and Crowley exchanged nods and friendly smiles. Suddenly, Aziraphale felt excluded, like he was an audience to a connection of old friends, which left an odd feeling in his chest.

  “Oh,” Crowley said, “Where are my manners? This is Aziraphale. He’s an associate of mine.” He rested his right hand on a shoulder clad in white, softened fabric.

  Awkwardly, Aziraphale extended his hand in greeting to Salaì and Leonardo, mouthing discreetly to Crowley, “ Associates? ” There was a clear strained look in his eyes.

  The demon smiled uncomfortably and leant over to Aziraphale, whispering under his breath with a slight lilt, “Do you have a better word for it? One single better word?” Then he straightened up and smiled awkwardly again, trying to feign casualty.

  Visibly more uncomfortable, the angel tried to sit up and be more nonchalant, smiling at the artists. He fiddled with the hems of his sleeves, and readjusted himself before looking more at ease (though not by much).

  “Charmed.”

  Thankfully, Leonardo and his assistant redirected their attention to the man in the dark sunglasses. Leonardo whispered to Salaì, who then dug through his bag and produced a paper, unrolling it to reveal shaded chalk sketches of a woman with varying expressions

  “So I was called here by Gheradini to try to make this into a bigger thing,” Leonardo remarked, gesturing to the various figures. “I’m hoping I can get this done but I’m still not sure which expression I like.”

  Crowley took the full drawing in, following the curves and lines of the face and its subtleties. The shading, though rough, easily demonstrated an exceptional command of anatomical structure. It was skillful and slightly unearthly - exactly what Crowley liked about Leonardo’s work. Under dark sunglasses, eyes trailed over lines and shadows.

  “This is…” he started, whistling low under his breath in awe. “You’ve done it again, Leo.”

  “I’m still not exactly sure which of them I like the most yet, but I’m sure it will become clear when I do some more drawings.” The aforementioned artist shrugged and tucked his arms behind his back in a relaxed posture of pride.

  Aziraphale peered over Crowley’s shoulder, bright eyes peeking from behind a crop of red hair. Upon the first glance at the paper, Aziraphale gasped, murmuring something under his breath and scanning the page. It was clear the angel was impressed.

  “I’m sorry… Leonardo, is it? Have we met before?” Aziraphale asked. “You have such beautiful work here.  I’m sure we must have crossed paths before.”

  The wavy long hair shook with laughter before the man collected himself and responded.

  “Thank you, Ser. Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

FLORENCE, 1507

  “I don’t know what they want from me!” Leonardo sounded exasperated. “I’ve told Lorenzo and Guiliano what they need to do and they still won’t do any of it.”

  “Yeah, that sure sounds like a rather… disagreeable situation,” Crowley commented, taking another sip of wine. “Why don’t you just leave them to fight it out themselves?”

  Leonardo gave the demon a pointed laugh and responded, “You know I can’t very well do that. If it were up to them, there would be nothing left for me. What then?”

  Crowley looked around the workshop, taking in the assorted models and sketches, all in various stages of completion. One of the newer works by Melzi was tacked to the wall near a wax model of a horse. Flicking his eyes to the opposite wall, a familiar smile caught his eye. Near it, on an easel, sat the finished iteration of the drawing. The smile was noticeably more mysterious and less defined.

  Sitting up, the demon walked over to the finished painting and compared it to the sketch, reaching as if to pluck it off the wall. Though Crowley didn’t know the commissioner nor the sitter that well, the way Leonardo had rendered the softness of the face was beyond incredible. Sometimes, the expression seemed like one closer to a genuine smile, while other days it seemed rather secretive and illusive. The painting had given her a softer, more aloof appearance.

  Before Crowley could pull the page from its spot next to the other sketches, Leonardo spoke up, setting down his glass of wine with a sort of exhaustion.

  “I got her bloody smile right in the cartoons,” he groaned. “But it went all over the place when I painted it.”

  Crowley turned and raised an eyebrow at the artist, who had clearly been frustrated by the work. Leonardo continued without a moment’s break.

  “Her husband had a few things to say about it when he was in yesterday. All on and on about her face and the background and what have you. But, like I told him, Signor del Giocondo, apart from you, who’s ever going to see it?”

  He punctuated the last sentence by throwing his hands up for a moment in irritation. Clearly, the piece had been more than he had bargained for with the original commission. Just one look at the several drawings and outlines of the painting around the studio was evidence enough.

  The demon turned his back to the sketch he had originally been eyeing. He tilted his head slightly to the right, trying to take in the whole thing. From the first time he had seen the preliminary expressions four years earlier, this one had been his favorite. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But this one had been different.

  Leonardo was still mumbling about something in the background but Crowley had no qualms about interrupting the last few bits of his rant.

  “I’ll give you eleven florins for the sketch.”

(Though Crowley was a demon, there were certain lines even demons found were too far. In his case, the demon Crowley, whether for a friend or enemy, was absolutely abhorred by the amount of ignorance afforded to artists. On more than one occasion, he had been known to curse a patron who claimed to pay the artist, not with money or amenities, but “in exposure” for their work. It was an unfortunate trend, rarely dissuaded by warnings, direct or indirect, by people who thought similarly to Crowley.)

  Behind him, Crowley could hear the artist sitting up in his seat, clearing his throat. Whatever story he had been in the midst of recounting was silenced, in favor of a more incredulous tone.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Crowley repeated himself, “This one. I’ll give you eleven florins for it.”

  “Twenty,” Leonardo retorted.

  Though he had been a bit out of sorts just a moment earlier, Leonardo’s artwork and its prices were both things he took quite seriously. In nearly any circumstance, he would sober himself up enough as to not undersell himself. It was impressive, really.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Deal,” the artist responded. His voice relaxed, and Crowley could hear him slumping comfortably back into his seat. “Now, explain this helicopter thingie again, will you? You brought it up earlier and I want to circle back.”

  Anything after the word “deal” was muffled in Crowley’s ears. All he cared about was the drawing. Reaching up to the wall and rolling the parchment into a tube, he considered what he would do with it next.

  Was framing it too ostentatious? It felt a little rude to just pin it to a wall as is. Though Leonardo had been convinced no one (aside from Lisa’s husband) would ever see the finished painting, he said nothing about Crowley or the sketch. Maybe he would hold off on displaying it just yet, wait till he got into a proper place to stay. It would be the first thing he would hang up in the space.

  “Antonio?”

  Crowley returned to the present, turning his head in response to Leonardo. The artist looked concerned, assumedly because he had been attempting to get the demon’s attention for a moment or two.

  “Yes? I was thinking about other things but I’m back now,” Crowley responded, tucking away thoughts about the rolled drawing for later.

  “I was saying you need to tell me more about the helicopter thingie you were talking about,” Leonardo repeated, taking another drink of wine and swirling his right pointer finger in a circle. “You said it would… fly like a bird?”

  Crowley strode back across the workshop and returned to his wine glass and his friend. Sitting back down, he looked up to the ceiling, thinking about that day in Eden and how the rain had pattered down onto a pair of wings. The breeze had been mild that day, and the sky had looked so clear.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s exactly like a bird,” he started, grabbing his glass. “It’s like… as if you had wings yourself. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.”

AMBOISE, 1516

  “Well, it’s a little gaudy for my taste,” he commented, raking his eyes over the building, sunglasses tilting with the movement of his head.

  “Even I have to admit that this is a bit… much,” Aziraphale murmured. “It seems the King is quite the fan of Leonardo, hm?”

  “Not that I blame him - his art is pretty stunning - but I’m not sure I’d give the man a house ,” Crowley responded. “But what do I know? I’ve never been a king.” The humor was dry and sarcastic as usual.

  “Sure is an upgrade from a simple workshop.”

  The two walked across the green lawns, wind blowing slightly through their hair. The building stood firm, tuffeau stone and brick architecture standing alongside a watchtower. In the distance, a water wheel could be heard turning and paddling gently.

  “So, how has the old chap been?” Aziraphale tried to make conversation as the two beings approached the house. “He sure seems to have been keeping busy.”

  “Oh, certainly. Francis certainly loves keeping him occupied,” Crowley responded, pulling open the door for Aziraphale before following in after him.

  Two pairs of footsteps echoed slightly as their owners walked through the halls, taking in space. The walls were pristine and there were sounds of chatting coming from not too far into the home. Tapestries and paintings hung on the wall, accompanied by the sunlight pouring in from the numerous windows. Aziraphale followed Crowley, who was walking with his usual sway, taking in what new additions had been included since the last visit.

  Stopping momentarily in the doorway of a room, Aziraphale could see a large wooden bed with fine sheets adorning it, a large pillared hearth against one wall with a vase of flowers on a table beside it. Wooden planks, aside from helping to support the room’s structure, lent a warmth to the space contrasting the stone walls.

  “Angel? You coming?” Crowley called from slightly down the hall.

  Ducking back into the hallway, the angel responded affirmatively before following his friend down a set of stairs leading into what seemed to be a basement. The sounds of chatting grew louder as did the smell of oil paints. Two voices could be heard going back in forth while the sound of bustling about the room stopped occasionally.

  Stopping at the bottom of the staircase, Crowley melodramatically knocked on the stone wall and called, “Leo, are you in here?” before stepping into the workshop.

  The space was much like the upstairs, bricks composing the walls and a pillared hearth occupying a significant portion of a wall. Multiple easels had been assembled, each with a painting set up. From the entryway, there were three paintings visible: one of a woman against a forested landscape, another of two young women attempting to manage an infant, and the last of a masculine figure with a smile and a hand pointing upwards.

  Standing and leaning against one of the desks was a young man with a crop of light brown hair and a red cap on his head. Across from him sat an older Leonardo, dressed in a robe with his right arm resting inside the lapel. At Crowley’s interjection, the two had stopped talking and turned towards the stairwell down and were looking with pleasant surprise.

  The demon in question walked over and bowed his head to them both in a gentle greeting before turning directly towards Leonardo.

  “What have you got going on now, Leonardo? Seems I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Ah! My friend! What has brought you this way? I didn’t know France was your scene.”

  Crowley shrugged and walked over towards the artist and his apprentice before responding, “Eh. Just like to see as much as I can, you know?”

  Leonardo chuckled a little before looking towards the angel still standing sheepishly near the stairwell before returning his glance towards Crowley.

  “I see you’ve brought your associate with you today. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Another shrug before a friendly and slightly sarcastic, “I figured I might check in to see how the great da Vinci is faring in his grand chateau.” He then switched to a more genuine tone before continuing, “I heard about the huge lion. Loved the lion, me. Very fancy. Great work.”

  Behind Leonardo, Melzi chuckled before crossing his arms and shaking his head with a sort of fondness Crowley often saw reserved for humans of close companionship or relation. It was a gesture of understanding but also of familiarity. It was usually for people that had known one another a number of years, when words could no longer contain sufficient amounts of fondness.

(If the demon himself reserved a similar kind of fondness for a certain angel, he was loath to admit it to himself or anyone else. Others might have noticed, but a sharp glare or minor miracle usually deterred them from saying anything. Crowley didn’t do feelings.)

  “ I keep telling him to take a break and rest, but you know him. Stubborn as an oxen but no doubt much smarter.” Melzi gave a pointed look towards his mentor.

  It was then that Crowley took notice of Leonardo’s attire and state. His robe, though rich, was not something to be worn out in the market square. His right arm was carefully tucked close to his torso and his left hand, in a substitute for the other, was holding a paintbrush awkwardly.

  “What’s going on there?” Crowley asked, gesturing with a hand towards his friend’s impairment. He wasn’t one to be subtle or try to talk around things.

(The demon who invented trying to talk around things, of course, had received an overwhelmingly positive commendation from the many offices of Hell. The process of doing so, however, had been an excruciating affair, as their speech was no shorter than six hundred and sixty-six seconds long.)

  “Oh! This? It’s nothing. I’ve been trying out work with my left hand these past few years. That’s all,” Leonardo replied, casual with a slightly positive tone. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Over the years, Crowley had observed that the artist was ambidextrous. He could be found writing and drawing with his right hand, but just as easily could be found doing so with the other. Regarding most of his paintings, however, Crowley hadn’t realized they were largely created with his right hand.

  Out of the corner of his eye, it was clear the angel was a bit concerned by this. Aziraphale looked as if he might speak up for a moment, the key gesture of his right hand raising to interject, before lowering it and choosing otherwise. Instead, he turned his attention towards the paintings around the studio.

  It was not uncommon for Aziraphale to consider directly intervening in the very human problems around him. From pondering curing a minor sprain to debating whether or not to direct a young man towards his long-forgotten lover, the angel had no shortage of ideas. However, as a being (more or less) committed to letting the Plan proceed as She saw fit, he rarely ever did so. Wouldn’t want to change anything too drastically.

(Crowley, for his part, largely considered the Plan a bit rubbish, honestly. Regardless of his thoughts towards Her, he never really thought that it was all fair or even always made sense. In Mesopotamia, he had once whisked some small children away to protect them from the incoming flood. A few centuries later, a writer’s minor wrist injury had largely resolved itself as if by magic. Even later, a young man had run into a rather familiar face, long having convinced himself that there was no way the other had survived a terrible battle. If Crowley was ever questioned, he was more than ready to respond with some half-baked lie about wanting to give everyone a chance to foment chaos - and they needed all the help they could get.)

  “So, Leonardo?” Crowley spoke up. “What do you plan to do when all that is fixed up?” He gestured again to the wrist tucked into the other’s lapel.

  “Well,” the artist hummed. “I’m looking to finish the last few bits on these paintings. Then, probably just helping Melzi finish up some studies. Anything beyond that is not of immense importance to me.”

  “I’d be careful about the second one there, Leo,” Crowley joked, his eyes twinkling behind his characteristic glasses. “Help him too much and he’ll outsell you in a heartbeat.”

  Both Leonardo and Melzi laughed, looking towards each other with a sort of mutual understanding unspoken. Aziraphale, from his place looking at a painting on the wall, could feel love emanating from the two without even having to look.

  “Poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master.”

  Crowley smirked. The sentiment was familiar to the demon, though any similarities to the ideology of a certain fallen angel were lost on the two mortal men in front of him. Comparing Melzi to Lucifer didn’t exactly seem appropriate for the conversation, anyways.

  Sensing his opportunity and stepping forward, Crowley gestured for Leonardo to lean in and whispered towards Melzi.

  “Keep talking like we’re having a conversation. I don’t want him to hear,” he murmured, tilting his head towards Aziraphale.

  Melzi nodded and started up a talk about how Leonardo really should not be painting with his left hand, but was sure the artist had more ability in his nondominant hand than the former would ever have in his life.

  For his part, Leonardo leaned in and prepared himself to listen to Crowley, who whispered a bit in his ear, trying not to take more than a moment or two. After hearing the request, Leonardo nodded his head and smiled towards his long-time supporter and friend.

  “Anyways,” Crowley said, entirely louder than necessary to get Aziraphale’s attention. “We ought to get going. Leave you two to your painting exercises, yes? Angel, shall we get going to lunch?”

  Finally having turned his eyes away from the painting of the young woman with the mysterious smile, Aziraphale perked up, adjusting his tunic before nodding enthusiastically.

  “Yes! We shall.”

  Gesturing up the stairs, Crowley motioned for Aziraphale to go first. Giving the artist and his mentee a wink and a smirk, snapped his fingers. He then made his way up the stairs to follow his companion to a mid-afternoon meal. Behind the two in the basement, a dark red velvet bag of more than fifty florins had appeared on a table. Paying artists was necessary, after all.

FLORENCE, 1519

  Though the house was not to be his permanent “home,” the demon had made the place recognizable and comfortable for the time he would be generating evil in the vicinity. A few plants hung from the window frames, soaking in the afternoon sun, their vines trailing downwards towards the ledge. In the yard, a small olive tree had taken root and was miraculously thriving despite little attention given to it. It was quiet and it was tranquil, which is, ironically, the perfect atmosphere for one certain demon to do his best work.

  Needless to say, Crowley hadn’t been expecting a messenger, so the young man arriving on his temporary doorstep was a bit of a surprise. There had come several brisk knocks on the door before Crowley had interrupted his afternoon glass of wine to answer.

  “Yes? What is it?” he asked, pulling the door open.

  The young man was holding a small parcel wrapped in canvas and tied with twine, which he held out towards Crowley. Cautiously, the demon accepted, thankful it hadn’t burned him with any blessed energy or anything of the sort.

(The Catholics had been exceptionally bothersome in the past few decades, especially after the Plague. Their constant presence and patronage to others was somewhat of a concern, as it meant Crowley was more likely to run into religious devotees unintentionally and during inopportune moments. Though, Crowley could admit, he didn’t really find any moment opportune if he was running into one of the various angels around the city.)

  “Melzi sends his regards,” the young man commented, nodding his head in respect before walking off to return to the town square.

  Crowley turned and closed the door, wondering why on earth Melzi would be sending him anything. He was friends with Leonardo, yes, but that hardly meant he expected his apprentice to be sending Crowley anything.

  Unwrapping the twine, the canvas unfolded to reveal two tightly rolled tubes of paper and a note. On the front of the note was a familiar handwriting and then a bit of scribbling. Translated, it approximately read:

To my friend Antonio from your friend Leo da V.

I hope these are to your liking. If not, let Melzi know. I’m sure he would be happy to help you.

  Underneath the writing had been an addition, done in a less recognizable handwriting but Crowley was smart enough to determine who had written it. It read:

To Ser Antonio

Leo has returned to his Creator, but we both thank you for your endless support and patronage. Unfortunately, I cannot make it to visit but I had to make sure you received these.

May your days be long,

Melzi

  Crowley’s eyebrows raised. Leonardo had died? He had just seen the man a few years ago. But, he supposed that was the problem with humans after all - they had a tendency to disappear after a handful of decades. They (or at least the ones he had acquainted himself with) never did stick around long enough for his liking.

  Unrolling the two tubes of paper, Crowley was careful not to smudge the chalk or crease the paper. He already knew what these were, but he wanted to see them before he could tuck them away for safekeeping.

  Though he had no need to breathe, Crowley let out a sad sigh. It wasn’t everyday Crowley made friends with artists (or made friends at all, for that matter). Even rarer was the time he spent asking others for things. But he was thankful that Leonardo had been able to finish his request.

  Tucking away the drawings, Crowley took a deep breath and poured the red wine into a cup on the table. Leaning back into his lounging position, he refilled his own drink. It was an afternoon ritual, certainly, but today’s drink would be dedicated to a friend.

  Looking out the window, Crowley watched the breeze push and pull the leaves in the trees. An unoccupied seat next to him was unmoving, accompanied by a newly poured drink. The quiet was not unsettling, but rather unfamiliar.

  “Didn’t let you barter with me on that one, huh?” he smirked, raising his glass in a mock toast. He clinked glasses with his ghost and took a drink, letting the afternoon sun shine through the window.

LONDON, 1941

  “So,” Aziraphale started, cautious he might be shut down or the conversation may be diverted as quickly as it began. “Why Anthony?”

  “Hm? What’s that?” Crowley responded, hands on the Bentley’s steering wheel. One of his eyebrows quirked in that way it did when he was more or less unsure as to where a conversation was going.

(If Crowley liked one thing, it was control. If he liked two things, he liked to know the trajectory of any conversation he was in. Unpredictability made him uneasy. Too many variables meant too many possibilities for bad outcomes. Though he was generally a pessimist, there were limits to his negative expectations.)

  “I was wondering why you chose the name ‘Anthony,’” Aziraphale restated. “I know St. Anthony is usually for lost things but you don’t seem one for symbolism.”

  Crowley stayed quiet while he thought for a moment. The sounds of Spread Your Wings played over the radio, the sound vibrations hummed throughout the car and resonated through the soles of Aziraphale’s loafers. Soft bass guitar filtered through the speakers, surrounding the two supernatural beings and seemingly insulating the interior of the car.

(Though he wouldn’t admit it, Aziraphale had managed to pinpoint one of the reasons Crowley had considered the name. What irony it was that a Fallen angel, lost to Heaven would be named after the patron saint of finding lost things.)

  “Well, it just seemed appropriate.” Crowley settled on. “After all, it’s not like I can just ask Leonardo to change the name.”

  “What?” Aziraphale was thoroughly confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “He signed that drawing for me,” the demon explained.

  Seeing the angel’s confused look out of the corner of his eye, Crowley continued.

  “It’s done in red chalk. Certainly I’ve shown it to you at some point.”

  Aziraphale seemed to think about it for a minute, searching through his mind for any memory of a drawing Crowley possessed. The closest he could recall was an intentionally poor drawing of a horse the demon had done around the mid-tenth century.

(It had looked like a sausage with toothpicks sticking out of it.)

  “I’ll show it to you at some point,” Crowley replied flippantly, switching lanes as he drove through the burning streets. “Promise.”

SOHO, 2015

  “See, I told you.”

  “About what?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from the potted monstera that had occupied his attention until that point.

  Crowley gestured at the wall and the sketch of the Mona Lisa, a stark spot of brightness against the dark grey wall.

  “The drawing.”

  “What about it?” the angel prodded, confused as to what point the demon was trying to make.

  Crowley sighed dramatically before walking over to the angel and directing him to stand in front of the drawing. After making sure Aziraphale could see the whole thing, he tilted his head downwards and gestured to the left arm of the figure.

  “Read it,” Crowley prompted.

  “I did earlier.”

  “No. Read the whole note.”

  Aziraphale leaned closer to the drawing, taking in the tilted and delicate script. Whomever had written the note clearly led their penmanship with flicks of the wrist.

  Translating aloud, the angel read, “‘To my friend Antonio from your friend…’” His words trailed off into quiet awe.

  “I told you,” Crowley said, offhandedly, inspecting the nails on his right hand casually.

  Aziraphale looked up in disbelief and looked at his partner with a slight air of frustration.

  “What?” Crowley asked, sensing the irritation radiating from the other. “What did I do? It’s not like I didn’t tell you I had a drawing from Leonardo.”

  “You didn’t tell me it was THIS one!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

  “It’s not anything special.”

“ Crowley . This is the Mona Lisa , for God’s sake!”

  The demon looked at the art and shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. It was as if it had never occurred to him that the sketch on his wall had been the precursor to one of the most famous pieces of art ever created.

(He would decidedly not be mentioning the two additional drawings he had purchased off the artist, both of which were occupying a certain corner of his office that he exclusively saved for items he had collected over the years. It was next to a stone offered to him by a small child in Mesopotamia and a pressed flower from the Garden.)

  “You know… at the time, it was just a drawing I bought off a friend for a handful of coins.”

  Aziraphale sighed, exasperated, looking towards his companion with a look of combined affection and irritation - the kind of look that can only exist between two individuals that had known each other for years. Suddenly, the angel straightened up and looked towards the demon.

  “Wait, is this why you said your name was Anthony that one time in 1941?”

  Crowley tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck before responding, “Well, clearly. Couldn’t very well say my name was ‘Antonio.’ Would’ve been expecting an Italian.”

  “I don’t think Nazis are that smart, dear.”

  Crowley shrugged again, adjusting his posture and the way he supported his weight.

(He had taken pains to not be mistaken for a Blackshirt. A name was absolutely not going to ruin all that effort. He was a demon, of course, but he had standards.)

  “You never know.”

  Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, thinking back to the night the demon had hopped into that church and saved his very corporation. It had been one of the kindest things another being had ever done for him.

  “It’s a nice name,” the angel finally said. “I quite like it, whether English or Italian.”

  Crowley’s cheeks flared with heat, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal wide golden eyes full of affection.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, pushing his sunglasses back up like a shield between the dangers of his emotions facing the world.

  “Any time,” Aziraphale responded, straightening out his waistcoat. “We should go see the painting next time we’re in Paris for lunch.”

  “We should,” Crowley affirmed, opening the door to his flat with a swift snap of his fingers and gesturing towards the hallway. “After you, angel.”

  “Thank you, Anthony ,” the angel responded, tone a mix of teasing and genuine kindness.

  Both man-shaped beings looked to one another, each smiling a kind of smile that can only exist between two individuals that had known each other for years , stepping through the threshold back out into the world.

“It had long since come to my attention that people of accomplishment rarely sat back and let things happen to them. They went out and happened to things.”