Book I: Avi's Angel

A Day in the Life of a Guardian Angel

When Avi woke the next morning, he was momentarily shocked to see a wispy woman standing next to his bed. Her countenance was ordinary, but her gown--robe--was not.
He mumbled "I thought angels wore all white."
"It lives," she quipped dryly, avoiding mention of the robes she'd designed herself.
Despite her tone of voice, she was quick to bring him a tray of food.
"I do not know what you like to eat for breakfast, aside from bananas. We brought you a little of everything." It was arranged neatly, and there was indeed a wide variety. Great care was taken with the banana, the only breakfast-type food she'd ever seen him eat. She knew that he disliked the "bad part" of the banana, so all of the stringy ribs had been discarded, along with the peel and the brown bit on the end.
He took note of the precision and forethought that went into something as simple as breakfast.
She spoke into the silence, nervous and eager to please. "You are not expected to eat it all, of course."
He looked up, too quickly for her polite mask to fall into place. The bright blue light flashed in her eyes, and the rounded features settled into an expression of angelic courtesy.
Nettled for no reason he could name, he asked if all Guardian Angels brought their charges breakfast in bed.
Answering annoyance flashed in its eyes, but as ever, the woman intervened.
"One should begin the day on the right foot, else one risks tripping."
It felt like she was quoting someone, but he'd never heard that particular truism before.
In truth, she'd made it up on the spot. Aside from being an artist, she'd also been a writer. Her works had never been published, else she would never have chosen to become a Vessel.
Having placated both angel and man, the woman relaxed and watched the mortal eat. Ostensibly, she was learning his food preferences, but it gave her a rare opportunity to observe this fascinating person at close range.
The closest she'd ever come as a human had been balcony seats at one of their concerts. He was just as untouchable now, three scant feet away, as he had been on that stage; though for different reasons.
His hands, as they manipulated fork and knife, were as graceful as they were when he was lost in a melody. Something as mundane as filling one's stomach should not resemble a ballet. 'Twas unfair to the fairer sex!
The plate was half empty when she took up his brush. He continued to eat, but kept a wary eye on them. They perched where his torso had so recently rested.
He turned to look behind him, but they firmly (and with surprising strength) turned him back round.
"Eat," they commanded.
"What are you doing?" He asked, twisting again.
They sighed. "We do not beat people with brushes. Eat, and we shall tend your mane."
They would brook no argument. She knew her way around long hair, no matter which way the body was turned. If he refused to eat, so be it, but he would be properly coifed while his stomach growled. He laughed when they said as much.
"We begin with the ends furthest from your mouth. It is hoped that your belly will be full by the time we reach your scalp."
The logic of it, and the time it saved, finally percolated through his sleep-fogged skull.
As it turned out, he did finish everything on the plate, and before the brush reached his shoulders. He set it aside with the clack of ceramic on wood, and gave himself over to her ministrations.
It had been a while since someone other than a professional stylist brushed his hair, and even longer since such care was taken with it. He didn't know how she managed, but he barely felt the brush strokes.
She had to keep a tight rein on her emotions. The angel was a great help, though even he could not fully dampen the joy she felt, running the bristles through silken locks. Her touch was infinitely gentle upon the brown-black strands. She grasped handfuls of it above the brush, lest it tug painfully on his scalp. With every bounce of her fist, she knew she'd spared him unnecessary pain.
After all, was that not her duty?
When she reached his roots, it took even greater willpower to keep from running her fingers through the fine waves. She could see his skin through the curtain of hair, which made him seem somehow more vulnerable. He did not have the protection that her own thick mass of bronze offered.
He tilted his head back and made a happy sound. The brush massaged his scalp; it tingled with every pass over sensitive skin. For an angel, she really knew her way around hair! His head lolled back until it rested on her ample bosom, not that he noticed.
Had she been mortal, her voice would have cracked when she asked "How will you wear your hair today? Shall I braid it, or will you stick with the usual?"
She couldn't know how he wore his hair, because she wasn't entirely certain when she was, in his timeline. She had never seen his hair braided, but perhaps 'twas only because he'd never learned how.
He dragged his head upright, looked over his shoulder, and shrugged. "If you can braid it, go ahead. I don't think we're being filmed today."
Translation: No one was likely to notice his hair today, so it didn't much matter what she did with it, as long as it was neat. It stung a little, but it was also a relief.
She brushed his hair straight back, separated it into thirds, and carefully wove them into the tightest braid he could comfortably wear for an entire day. A headache would impede his work, which was the opposite of her job.
The task complete, they rose and opened the suitcase he had yet to unpack. "What will you wear today? Black slacks, of course, but which shirt do you wish?"
He looked at her strangely. "How do you know I usually wear black pants?"
She covered her gaffe wonderfully, to her mind. She gestured to the open suitcase. "I see naught but black slacks."
He relaxed against the pillows, hands laced behind his head. "That's not true," he argued, a smile playing about his lips.
"Oh?" They inquired archly.
"Nope." He swung his feet to the floor and stood, from relaxed lion to bounding gazelle in a flash. She hastily averted her eyes, in case he slept solely in a nightshirt. He laughed as the bathroom door closed.
She tried not to listen to his morning ablutions, searching instead for pants in any color besides basic black. She found none. Not even a dark blue, or grey.
When the bathroom door opened, they were perched on the freshly made bed, next to a randomly chosen outfit. They were carefully looking at a poster on the wall. Without preamble, they informed him that angels could not lie.
"Pardon?"
"We cannot lie. There are no slacks in colors other than black in your suitcase."
He grinned. "It's true enough that all of my pants are black, but," he paused with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He swept the outfit into his arms and nodded at the pants they'd selected. "These are jeans."
He ducked back into the bathroom before they could throw anything at him, chuckling to himself.
In truth, 'twas only the angel who was vexed, and angels did not hurl objects about like primates. The vessel giggled quietly, trying not to let on that it was as much at the angel's discomfiture as Avi's deliberate word play.
:I did warn you,: was all she would say on the matter.