Work Text:
Paris, 1793 AD
Azra tugged fruitlessly at the manacles holding him in place, frowning. The executioner was prattling on, but Azra tuned him out in favour of studying the chains. He wouldn’t be able to escape without performing a miracle, but if he miracled himself out of this particular bind, then he’d never hear the end of it from Satan, and Azra really couldn’t afford to spend too much time with Him, not with how irritated Hastur and Ligur had been since Vienna. On the other hand, if Azra let himself be discorporated–
“… the nine hundred and ninety-ninth person–” the executioner was saying in French.
“Oh, for the love of Satan, shut up!” Aziraphale snapped, whirling on the hapless man, only to see that he’d frozen. Completely.
“Need a hand, bunny?” Crowley’s voice was sarcastic and sharp and oh so very welcome.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, turning to face the angel where he was lounging by the cell door, a vision in cream and red as always, even if his hair did look a little absurd at the moment. “Goodness. What do you want?”
“Thought that was obvious,” Coriel said, tilting his head.
Azra sighed. “Well. Laugh if you must, but please do be quick about it. Although, I suppose, there’s not much I can do to stop you if you took your time.”
“Laugh? Why would I– actually, never mind, I can’t deal with punching someone right now. So you aren’t gonna miracle yourself free?”
Azra sighed. “I would, but… well. He’d see.”
Crowley grimaced. “Guessing that you getting locked up in the Bastille wasn’t part of His plan.”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t part of mine,” Azra said, sitting back on the little stool with a frown. “And if He finds out that this happened, and I couldn’t get out of it on my own, I doubt I’ll be allowed topside for a good few decades.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Crowley said. He snapped his fingers, and the chains on Azra’s wrists fell away with a clatter.
“Ah,” Azra said, rubbing at his wrists where the cuffs had chafed at them. “I suppose I should say thank you, for the… rescue.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said, waving his hand dismissively. “How’d you end up locked up in the Bastille, anyways? Thought you were meant to be helping all this along.”
“Well, I was,” Azra said. “Maximilien is getting… ah… a little carried away, I suppose. And, this isn’t technically the Bastille–”
“Yeah, this is not getting carried away, this is cutting off lots of people’s heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “How’d you get caught up?”
“Ah. I expect young Max had help, in my case. I haven’t been able to figure out from whom, however… I was actually hoping you might be able to shed a bit more light on that?”
“Hadn’t heard anything from Upstairs, but it’s not like they keep me in the loop if they can help it,” Crowley said. Then he stood, holding his hand out towards Azra. “C’mon, let’s get out of here, yeah? Though you probably shouldn’t leave still dressed like that, don’t wanna get picked up again because you couldn’t bear to part with your coat.”
“I have never been happier to lose a coat,” Azra mumbled, swapping the horribly itchy monstrosity he’d been forced to wear for the executioner’s clearly-stolen wardrobe. “Though I do think I’ll keep these gloves, I like the extra mobility that comes with not having the fingers, and they’re not quite so warm–” He noticed Crowley’s sideways smirk, then, and frowned. “Oh, come now, it’s not like He’d even notice that sort of a miracle from me.”
“How someone as fussy as you survived nearly six millennia in Hell, I’ll never know,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers to unfreeze time and chain up the hapless executioner in one.
“Thank you, again,” Azra said, letting Crowley lead him out of the cell and through the labyrinthine halls of the prison. “Can I buy you some lunch?”
“I’ve got nothing on,” Crowley said, grinning back at him. “What’re you in the mood for, bunny?”
Azra pursed his lips, then asked, “What would you say to some crêpes?”