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The Theory

Summary:

Aziraphale and Crowley make it back to Paris for more than just crepes...

Notes:

Written for the prompt "Paris" for the GOFWW's guess the Author game.

Work Text:

“We're here,” Aziraphale announced excitedly. They stopped abruptly in front of a small cafe, and like the gentleman that he was, he held the door open for Crowley. “This is one of the oldest restaurants in Paris. It’s been renovated many times and doesn’t quite have the old world charm, but believe me when I say they make the most exquisite crepes you’ve ever tasted!”

Crowley hummed in enthusiastic agreement. There was no stopping the angel when he got like this. You just had to enjoy the ride. 

They chose a table near the back and Aziraphale eagerly perused the menu. The angel ordered crepes with banana, chantilly, and salted butter caramel. Crowley, who rarely indulged in anything other than watching Aziraphale eat, ordered a glass of port. They were on holiday in Paris, and after settling into the small airbnb that they’d rented just outside of the city, Aziraphale had insisted that they visit his favourite place so that he could savour some authentic Parisian crepes. For all the hype, Crowley had expected the restaurant to be a fancy affair, with pristine white tablecloths and elegant lighting. Instead, it was a simple hole-in-the-wall with five tables and a modest art-deco vibe.

“When did you say you were here last?” he asked once they were alone.

“Oh, it was perhaps a few months ago?” Aziraphale replied. “It was still quite chilly as I recall, so it must have been springtime...”

“Still popping across the channel for a nibble, are we?” 

“Yes well, the crepes really are that good! And the brioche…” he made a delighted face. 

The food arrived, and Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. He daintily cut a slice of the crepe and tucked it into his mouth, humming with pleasure. “Oh, it's simply delicious,” he sighed.

“It’s to die for, I know,” said Crowley teasingly.

Aziraphale blushed. “I thought perhaps you’d forgotten about that.”

“Getting yourself locked up in the Bastille because you were peckish, but couldn’t be caught in anything other than a frilly frock and sassy little white satin pumps?” Crowley lowered his voice. “How could I forget?”

“Hmm. As I recall, you were quite the spectacle yourself when you appeared in my jail cell.” He took another bite. 

“You mean you thought I looked good,” said Crowley. The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks spread higher, and he decided to double down. “Right. Come on. Let’s hear it. You weren’t really going to allow yourself to be executed, were you?” 

“I… had really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I admit I may have been testing a theory.” Aziraphale sliced another piece of crepe and popped it into his mouth, staring Crowley down. “I mean, it wasn’t like I was trying to get myself into trouble. But once I did find myself chained up, I did hope that, er, someone might…well…

“You were hoping a certain demon might come along and rescue you,” Crowley grinned, finishing the sentence. The words tingled against his tongue.

“I had hoped you might,” Aziraphale said, flashing that bastard smile. “And I was truly grateful that you did.” There was a pause. “You know, I kept the outfit.”

“Did you?”

“Thought I might find another opportunity to wear it. Perhaps tonight?”

Crowley downed all of his drink in one go. “Angel, let’s get out of here.”



He traced the well-worn marks on the stone floor of the Bastille. The air thrummed with the boisterous cries of the crowd outside. Another step forward and Crowley felt his clothes transform on his body. Suddenly, he wasn’t wearing his jeans, henley, and jacket anymore, but instead a pair of black leather boots that went up to his knees, tight black breeches, a waistcoat with two rows of silver buttons on the front, and a wine-red frock coat. 

There, in an open jail cell, sitting primly atop a wooden stool, was Aziraphale. True to his word, the angel was dressed in the very same white frock and silk shoes from that day so long ago. Two heavy iron chains attached to the wall to converge into a set of manacles clasped about his wrists. Crowley swallowed thickly. Oh, he’d definitely had this dream before.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of recreating as much as I could remember of that day, including your own outfit,” said Aziraphale. He gave Crowley a lingering once-over, and loosened his cravat. Then his fingers traveled downwards to trace the buttons of his breeches, but the chain was too short and he couldn’t quite reach. 

The sound of the guillotine falling and screams from the crowd jolted Crowley out of his fantasy. “Er, perhaps a little too realistic, do you think, Angel?”

“Shh. Don’t spoil the mood, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Now, lend me a hand, will you?”