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."

"Read? But they're plays. They're meant to be performed. It's all about the beauty of the spoken word. I can't believe anyone would want to read them rather than hear them."

And that was the genius of Alibi's idea. Students centuries hence would suffer through reading words meant to be performed, thus gaining a distaste for one of the most talented playwrights Earth had produced.

The idea stuck with Crowley, to use the inventions of humans to torment them in new ways. Why focus on tempting one person at a time, when this new technology opened the door to making hundreds or even thousands of people miserable through a single publication?

Poets, he thought. He'd inspire the most unhappy of the lot and make them famous, granting them the opportunity to share their pain for untold generations.

More than a century passed before their next encounter. It started with a visit from Aziraphale, who had tracked down Crowley to complain. "Beethoven! He's losing his hearing. Is this the doing of your Alibi fellow? He's back from whatever he was doing in China, and he's been toying with composers recently. Handel, Mozart, Bach. I noticed him when I visited each of them. This is going too far, I tell you. Something must be done!"

"Calm down, Angel," Crowley said. "I'll talk to him."

###

Alibi was surprised to see Crowley, but he reacted smoothly. "Ah, my namesake uncle has arrived. Uncle Nicolaus, how delightful to see you."

"Right," Crowley said, picking up on the heavy-handed clue. "Nephew Nicolaus. Can I steal you away?"

In an empty corridor, Alibi asked, "What brings you here?" He wasn't particularly worried about the answer. Like himself, Crowley had emerged as an independent demon, the ones trusted to think up evil plans on their own and to sow appropriate levels of discord. Neither of them received assignments from the home office anymore, and if the dukes of Hell were unhappy with Alibi's recent actions, Crowley wouldn't be their messenger.

"Nice work with Shakespeare, I have to say. I didn't fully appreciate your plan at the start, but it's turned out just as you described."

"Thank you," Alibi said, pleased with the compliment. There were so few entities who appreciated his vision.

"Mind you, it worked both ways, didn't it? The school children are tormented, no doubt about that. But the plays are still performed, and that's led to happiness, as well. Not sure you can count it as a win."

"The point isn't to win," Alibi objected.

"Excuse me?"

"I spent a few decades focused on philosophers and theologians, and I see things differently now," Alibi explained. "The important thing is to maintain balance. If one side or the other wins before the final battle, then what's the point of that battle? A victory only counts if we go into Armageddon on even ground."

"Indeed," Crowley said. He didn't sound at all scandalized, or even surprised.

"You already knew."

"There's an angel, someone I've known since Creation, and we've debated the question of the ineffable plan over a few millennia. It's the only argument that makes sense, when you think about it."

"I hardly ever torment individuals anymore," Alibi admitted. "I focus on the long term, and how something that seems innately good and uplifting, like art or music, can also lead to strife. Already fans of today's great composers clash with one another instead of simply enjoying the music. I can turn that into a trend that will become even worse over time."

"I'm sure you can. But in the meantime, I need to talk to you about Beethoven. Word is that he's losing his hearing."

"It's true, unfortunately," Alibi said. "I'd hoped to have a longer run with him." His eyes widened as he took in Crowley's expression. "Oh, you thought I caused it? No. It came down to nature and the effects of being in the midst of too many loud performances. By the time I realized, it was too late."

"You could fix it," Crowley suggested.

"I could, and it would be hailed far and wide as a miracle. You know I can't be associated with something that benevolent. The home office would never understand, much less forgive me."

"What about something more subtle? Suppose he could still hear music, in his imagination I mean, so he could keep composing."

"Potentially a greater miracle, but far less discoverable."

"Then you'll do it?"

"Seriously? This isn't just a hypothetical discussion?"

"Seriously," Crowley confirmed. "It's not like you'd ever be caught."

It was a tantalizing prospect. "The allure of the forbidden," Alibi murmured. "It's incredible. I had no idea how intense the experience is from this side. I've only been the tempter."

"Then you are tempted?"

Alibi had to admire Crowley. "I knew you were diabolical, but this takes my breath away. You're actually tempting a demon."

"Trying to, anyway."

"Well, it would be rude not to give in. Consider me tempted." Alibi turned his attention to Beethoven. "There. It's done." He shuddered in pleasure. "This is what it was like, wasn't it? In the garden, I mean. For Adam and Eve." He was aware that he was less eloquent than usual, but the sensations were too overwhelming for him to care. "You were there."

"Yes," Crowley said. Oddly, he looked uncertain. "You'll be all right? I mean, you won't go overboard with empathy for humans now, will you?"

"Of course not."

###

Crowley tried to check in with Alibi a few times after that, but it seemed the demon was avoiding him. It wasn't until 1890 that Crowley caught up with him. Alibi was in the French countryside, gazing up into the night sky. Tears ran down his face.

"Vincent Van Gogh died," Alibi said, when he saw Crowley.

"You're crying." Dread clawed at Crowley. This was his fault.

"Yes, and I understand the implications. Demons don't cry, not from sadness, anyway. We're more moved by anger."

"You're turning human. Because I tempted you like a human. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Alibi said.

And that was the problem. If Alibi had tried to fight it, perhaps it wouldn't have come to this, but he'd embraced the change.

###

A little over a hundred years later, Alibi sighed as he looked at the body in the morgue. Such a waste. The young man was not even twenty years old, with talents he'd only begun to explore. Alibi had been halfway in love with him. Romance was one of the newest human experiences to interest him.

"Your brother?" asked the medical examiner who was waiting for him to identify the body.

"Cousin," Alibi said absently. He preferred claiming a vague relationship.

"Looks a lot like you," she added.

Alibi paid more attention now. Neal Bennett did look a lot like him.

It would never be easier to step into a human life, and soon he wouldn't have a choice. He was rapidly losing his demonic powers. Why not live the life Neal Bennett should have had?

And so he signed the examiner's form with the name Neal Caffrey.

Seven years later, he smiled beguilingly when Peter Burke entered the interrogation room. "I don't suppose I could convince you to release me?" Neal asked. Most people were still susceptible to his demon-tainted charm, but Peter seemed to be an exception.

"Why would I do that?" Peter asked.

What was Neal supposed to say? That most of the artworks he'd stolen technically belonged to him, including a painting mistakenly attributed to Raphael? "What if I were to say that property is theft?"

"I'm not getting into a philosophical debate with you," Peter insisted.

Too bad. Neal suspected they would both enjoy it.

"You could save us both a lot of time if you'd confess," Peter said, in a voice that indicated how unlikely he thought that scenario was.

Neal shook his head.

"Tell me a story," Peter said, sitting across from him. "You're what, twenty-five? How does someone so young speak at least seven different languages that we know of so far, have the ability to forge the styles of innumerable painters and sculptors..." he went on to list what was, in fact, a ridiculous set of accomplishments for a human of Neal's purported age.

It had simply been such fun to make use of the accumulated skills and knowledge of a demon's lifetime while he still could. But all Neal said was, "I can't tell you."

Eventually Peter tired of the lack of answers and gave up. "Your attorney's here," he said on his way out.

Neal wondered if it would be Mozzie, but instead Crowley strolled into the room.

"Breaks my heart to see you like this," Crowley said. "For all of their suspicions, the only thing they can prove is bond forgery. When all's said and done, you'd spend about four years in prison. Or I could..." He flexed his hand, indicating his ability to wipe minds and records.

"No. I still have enough..." he flexed his hand in a gesture like Crowley's, "to protect myself in prison. And I need to take a break to think things through, to accept what's becoming of me." He'd be entirely mortal soon. He'd start aging. It was time to make a bucket list and plan his retirement.

"I've admired your work. You kept going as long as you could," Crowley said. "Money laundering, that was your idea?"

Neal nodded. He'd been proud of that. "One of the best and last innovations from my glory days. But that can't compare to your accomplishments. Averting the apocalypse? I'd love to hear how you did it."

"Well, I couldn't do it alone, obviously. Like you said, it takes balance."

"I'm surprised you had time to come see me," Neal admitted.

"Least I could do. I still feel responsible for your condition."

Neal laughed. "I call it Pinocchio Syndrome. Turning into a real boy."

"And you really don't mind?"

"No. But I've been wondering... There is a reverse, right? A person can become..." he trailed off.

"It has happened, but you couldn't... I mean, it's not a two-way street. You go one direction or the other, and you're done. Once you've turned human you can't be a demon again."

"I know. I was thinking of a friend of mine. He goes by Mozzie, and he's capable of believing six impossible things before breakfast. Very imp-like."

"A friend?"

"I know. Normally a person doesn't wish a friend entry into our crew. Your crew," Neal corrected, acknowledging his impending lack of demonhood. "But I heard you're starting a new crew. People who can help avert the next attempt at Armageddon."

"That's right. The time for true believers is behind us. We need true questioners, those who use reason to uncover threats instead of merely accepting what they're told."

"There's someone else I'd recommend. I think Aziraphale should recruit Peter Burke."

Four years later, near the end of Neal's prison sentence, Peter Burke visited him. "A demon, huh?" Peter said.

"Almost completely reformed," Neal assured him with a smile. "Just bad enough and knowledgeable enough to be useful to an FBI agent who wants to clean house."

Peter extended a hand. "Let's do it."

Neal accepted the hand and shook it. "Partners." This was going to be fun.