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The boardroom was blinding. All of Heaven was, of course, but it didn’t usually give Gabriel such a pain behind his eyes. Around the table the other archangels were slumped in various stages of exhaustion. Even Michael’s tightly controlled curls were beginning to come loose.
“Well, it’s obvious that something must be done,” Uriel snapped, slamming a fist on the table. “It’s been three days!”
“And what do you suggest we do?” Saraqael asked, looking at the table loaded with mountains of surveillance from the scriveners that continued to race in and out of the room. “They aren’t hurting anyone.”
“That’s not the point,” Gabriel reminded her tersely. “This debauchery cannot be allowed to continue. Aziraphale must be disciplined. And harshly.” He reached out and grabbed several of the hastily written reports and began flipping through them. “Drunkenness, gluttony, carousing with a demon, frivolous miracles!”
“Angels perform miracles!” Saraqael insisted. Her voice was firm, uncowed by the dark look that crossed Gabriel’s face.
“How does flooding Whickber Street with rose petals progress the Ineffable Plan?”
“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be Ineffable,” Saraqael replied coldly, but Gabriel ignored her.
“Fountains pouring wine instead of water.” He held one up, viciously shaking it as though he had Aziraphale by the lapels. “All of the radios in Soho spontaneously turning on and playing nothing but ‘Unchained Melody’!”
Before Saraqael could reply, a harried-looking scrivener rushed into the room, another report held tightly in his hand. “Sir,” he panted, clutching a stitch in his side. “The ducks… the ones in St. James’…”
“Do I look like I have time to bother with ducks?” Gabriel snapped.
“No, sir! It’s just, all the ducks have turned pink. They’re parading through the park, led by a black and a white swan.” Gabriel’s hand clenched. “And the white one is wearing… a tartan bowtie,” the scrivener finished in a whisper.
Gabriel froze for a moment and then turned away from the cowering scrivener. “I’ll be right back,” he said tersely as he began walking towards the doors.
“Supreme Archangel!” Michael exclaimed furiously, rising from her chair. “This must be dealt with now!”
“I said, ‘one moment,’” Gabriel repeated with terrifying deliberateness, and after a moment puffing silently, Michael slowly sat back down, and Gabriel swept from the room.
He walked, hands shoved in his pockets and head down, until he reached the stairwell. He descended a few floors and then, looking around to make sure he was alone, he pulled out his phone.
“Beez,” he sighed in relief when the other side picked up. “I am having a day.”
“Oh, schmoopsiekins… I can’t talk now.” Beelzebub sounded tired. “Bit of a situation here. Demon’s gone rogue, spreading good cheer and such. I’ve got the Dark Council breathing down my neck.”
“Oh?”
“Crowley’s been ‘uplifting the public’ for the last few days. He even gave a bunch of roses to that walking mustache from the carpet place. ‘No hard feelings,’ he said. No hard feelings? A demon? If he ruins the plans I had for you this weekend, he’ll regret it.”
“Plans?” Gabriel felt his spirits – and another part of himself – perk up. “What did you have in mind?”
Beelzebub’s voice dropped low, taking on a husky rasp. “I’ve got a huge vat of melted chocolate,” they said, and Gabriel shivered at their tone. “And I was planning on spending several days dipping you in it and then licking it off again.”
“As the leaders of our respective sides,” Gabriel blurted out, feeling his cheeks flush, “I think it’s time for us to… delegate. Certainly those two aren’t important enough to require our attention.”
Beelzebub purred. “I’ll see you at yours, then, schmoopsie,” they hissed, and the line went dead.
With a new spring in his step, Gabriel hurried back to the boardroom to let Michael know that he had to attend to an unavoidable, delicate negotiation with Below, and she, as the Duty Officer, was now in charge of the Aziraphale situation.