Work Text:
Rein of Terror or Treason At Sea
A Good Omens AU fan-fiction
There was nothing fine or lovely about the day. The morning had been sunny and bright, but was stained with the blood of the aristocrats. It was 1793 and the revolution was in full swing. The square was full of spectators gathered to watch. The slice of the Guillotine blade and the cheers could be heard across Paris.
Sitting in a cold stone cell, a lady in fine dress cringed each time a thump reached her ears. The sun reflected on the blade each time it rose, casting a glint of light on the stone walls.
Aziraphale shut her eyes each time the blade fell, then opened them to stare once more at the walls of her cell. She looked down at the chains on her wrists. How long must she sit here? The sooner they got it over with, the sooner she could start the process of getting a new body. The angel was not looking forward to the paperwork.
A lock rattled and the huge door to her cell opened. Aziraphale looked up. It was the prison matron.
“Ah, la dame,” the matron said cheerfully. She then spoke rapidly in French.
Aziraphale only caught about three words. Her French was very basic, having spent most of her time on Earth in England. She eyed the ring of keys on the woman’s belt with a desperate sigh. Then the angel pulled herself together.
“Um, pardon me, madame, but there has been a great, no grand mistake, er- erreur-” the angel stammered.
The matron listened to this with amusement. “I do speak English rather well,” she said.
“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale cried, then shuddered as the blade again fell and the crowd cheered.
“Terrible,” the matron said, shaking her head. “Is it not terrible?”
“Yes, quite terrible, most horrible,” Aziraphale agreed passionately. “Cutting off people’s heads. Awful.”
The matron, however, was not talking about what the angel thought she was. “That is what happens when an amateur is at the Guillotine,” the matron said. “He lets go of the rope much too soon. There is no suspense. No heightened excitement.”
Aziraphale’s hope fell.
“Oh,” she said.
The matron was looking over the lacy collar of the angel’s elegant gown. “Soon Jean Claude will be back and he shall remove your treacherous head from your fine shoulders, mademoiselle!”
Aziraphale shrank away from the woman’s dirty hands. “Please stop! This is so ridiculous! Terrible mistake discorporating me.”
The matron shook her head. Imprisonment had driven this fine lady mad.
There was the creak of the door and Aziraphale was alone.
Aziraphale huddled on her little stool on the floor, poking at the straw with the toe of her shiny shoe. “I know it is my fault,” she mumbled. “I hope Gabriel won’t be too harsh. Oh, animals!”
The blade had crashed again, followed by a roar of voices.
Then another voice from behind her said, “Animals don’t kill each other for fun, angel. Only humans build clever machines for that purpose.”
A wave of joy spread over the angel.
“Crowley!” She turned.
A lanky figure dressed in dark clothing was leaning casually against the locked door.
Aziraphale tried to fake annoyance. “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?”
Crowley’s eyebrows appeared from behind his tinted spectacles.
“I was in the neighbourhood. How did you get yourself locked up in the Bastille?”
“Well…” Aziraphale blushed.
“Weren’t you going to open a bookshop in London or something?”
“I was, but I got a bit peckish.”
“Peckish?” Crowley repeated, seeming to be unfamiliar with the word.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “I had a strong desire for crepes and the ones in England are just not the same. So… I just popped over the channel.”
Crowley was trying with great difficulty not to smirk. This wasn’t the first time the angel’s earthly pleasures had landed her in a tricky spot. Not that Crowley was keeping track or anything like that. And he very much doubted it would be the last, unless Aziraphale’s stomach suddenly decided it hated all sustenance but bread and tea.
“Crepes,” Crowley said. “For the sake of a French delicacy, you decided to walk right into a bloody revolution-”
“It is getting awfully bloody,” Aziraphale interrupted.
“Dressed like Marie Antoinette herself?” Crowley declared.
Aziraphale looked down at her pale pink and gold gown with its frilly lace and bows, fitted bodice and yards and yards of skirt. It was a highly impractical ensemble, but most proper for a fine lady of the era. If you didn’t mind losing your head.
“Fancy getting a different body, angel?” Crowley was smirking, arms folded over his waistcoat.
Aziraphale’s pride swelled. “No,” she retorted. “I don’t wish to lose this body nor my head. I have standards and that is why I picked this gown. And I will have you know, it is most improper for a man to talk to a woman like this unless they happen to be married, Crowley.”
Crowley smiled in amusement, sharp teeth showing. Aziraphale was so easy to get flustered. He knew just what subjects would be the trigger. He enjoyed it.
“And we’re not married, is that your point?” he asked.
“Precisely.” Aziraphale huffed and tried to be upset, but she was really more worried about her present situation. She was still in the Bastille. She might be fetched any minute.
She fiddled with part of her skirt. “Do you think, maybe you could…?” she asked hopefully.
Crowley stopped leaning on the door and came over to where Aziraphale sat. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking down at her. She looked up at him. He walked slowly around her in a circle. He poked his boot at a speck of dirt on her dress. Then he snapped his fingers and the chains holding Aziraphale dropped away. Crowley held out a hand. Aziraphale stood, her dress puffing out around her due to the many petticoats and braces.
“Should I?…” the angel began.
“Better not,” the demon replied. “Only cause us trouble.”
“Lunch, perhaps?” she suggested. She hadn’t had a chance to eat since being imprisoned.
Crowley scrutinized her. “Looking like that?”
Aziraphale sighed. She would have to lose the dress. Even if it got her in even more trouble with Gabriel.
Aziraphale concentrated and gestured with her hand. The fancy gown and coiffed hairdo were replaced by a simple brown dress and apron, shawl and a modest bonnet. The angel felt naked.
But Crowley seemed to be satisfied. He unlocked the door, holding it open for her. She curtsied.
“So, lunch, you said.” Crowley shut the door, locking it in place.
“There’s a little place that makes wonderful crepes,” the angel said.
“Not too close to the square, I hope,” Crowley remarked as the Guillotine again fell and the spectators roared.
“No indeed,” Aziraphale shook her head.
The matron didn’t see the pair leave and soon they were out in the street. They turned down a quieter street, into a less enraged part of the city and before long Aziraphale had a plate of hot crepes in front of her. Crowley also had some, but he ate them far more slowly than she did, instead watching her.
Over the centuries, Crowley had discovered that one of the greatest enjoyments of Earth was watching Aziraphale eat. It was a spectacle which never failed to entertain. Since the days of Rome, she had yet to meet a food she didn’t like.
“Were you in Paris on a job?” she asked.
“Nope. Got sent a commendation. Came to see what all the fuss was about. Can’t say I was impressed.” Crowley stabbed at a crepe.
Aziraphale dropped her fork. “So you’re responsible for all this ghastly head-chopping?!” she cried in horror.
“NO! Absolutely not, angel! I don’t go around cutting off people’s heads or even suggesting it. The humans came up with it themselves. No help on my part.”
“Oh,” she said. “What about the commendation?”
“I don’t want it,” the demon said, “but if I tell the truth, they’re going to start checking on my activities. Then if those are found lacking…”
Crowley stopped picking at his crepes. He hated filing paperwork for Head Office, yet he had gotten very good at it. He didn’t want things to suddenly blow up in his face. However, he did have to admit this whole bloody French Revolution gave him the deep urge to go get drunk for a week. Or maybe for a month.
“You could lie about it,” Aziraphale suggested. “About the commendation. You are a demon. It’s what you do.”
“Suppose I could. So why didn’t you just miracle yourself out of the Bastille? Wouldn’t have taken an act of God.”
“Well…” Aziraphale’s pretty face was turning pink.
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t miracle myself out. I received a note form Gabriel. I’ve apparently been performing too many miracles. Too many frivolous miracles, he said. There were a few strong words thrown in, I might add.”
“Frivolous,” Crowley said. “Such as nipping across the Channel for some crepes?”
“Amongst other things,” the angel muttered, eyes downwards.
“Good thing I was around then,” Crowley said.
“Yes. I am grateful, Crowley.”
“Keep it to yourself. If word gets ‘round I’ve been rescuing an angel, there won’t be a rude note waiting for me. Something a bit more nasty.”
“Oh, you mean like-?”
“I do. They don’t like treason to their own.”
Aziraphale lost her appetite rather quickly, leaving a lonely crepe on her plate. She was feeling a little worried herself. What if Gabriel found out about Crowley and her? Would she be considered a Treasonist as well?
“By the way,” Crowley said in a brighter tone, “what happened to that gown? The one you traded for this?” Crowley’s finger tapped the sleeve of Aziraphale’s brown peasant dress.
“I really don’t know,” the angel admitted with a nervous smile.
Crowley smiled back. “Let’s hope it went somewhere less conspicuous,” he said.
“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, eating the last crepe, with only the slightest pang of guilt.
☼☼☼☼
Out in the French countryside, a young shepherdess had quite suddenly found herself without a dress.
A demon named Hastur had been literally hit over the head with a mountain of lace-trimmed satin. The temptation he had been engaged in was rudely broken. The shepherdess saw him for what he was and ran screaming across the fields, with only her shift covering her.
The demon untangled himself from the frilly thing, which turned out to be a dress, a very elegant one, innumerable petticoats and a pair of high-heeled shoes. How such strange items had dropped from the sky into a field scattered with sheep, Hastur couldn’t fathom.
But he could smell. He had a great sense of smell and the article of clothing smelled very strongly like an angel.
Hastur examined the fabric a little more closely, getting his dirty fingertips on it. Yes, an angel had definitely wore it.
And there was another scent as well, just a slight whiff, barely noticeable, but enough. Hastur recognized it.
Crowley.
The snake.
Hastur grinned wickedly.
The day had just reached a most wonderful and iniquitous conclusion.
There is a treason at sea
Is it me?
It is a wonder, supernatural cover of war
The dark ones who eternal in damnation grow
Set about me now
How they whine and crow
I am solo
In this world of wet
And bitter is my temperament…
☼☼☼☼