Through the Years (Ineffable husbands...kind of)

7. 1793, Paris

I was minding my own business over in America, which was still trying to get its bearings, having only become a country a few years ago, sitting in a restaurant and having dinner when I got a very, very bad feeling.

The food was better than I expected, it was turkey with spiced apples and a beer, but even so, America was still in its infancy, and consequently still developing its food, so the food was not great, especially compared to all of the things I'd had before. It was more the beer I wanted, I don't know why I got food. Maybe it reminded me of the angel, whom I hadn't seen in quite some time.

Anyway, a terrible feeling washed over me. I scrambled to think what could have possibly caused it. I had been doing all of my tempting well enough, there was lots of that to be done in America, and I had done it. No, it couldn't be hell after me, or any other demons. It probably wasn't Heaven, they didn't concern themselves with the likes of me. That meant it was the angel.

I hurried out of that tavern so quickly, to get in the woods where no one would see me, and concentrated, trying to find Aziraphale, who must've been in grave danger. It took some time, but I eventually found her to be in Paris. Paris. PARIS! Oh, god! Without a moment's more notice, I miracled myself away to Paris, wherever the angel was.

I appeared in a dark cell. I had made myself invisible, giving me the upper hand, so I could observe the situation before making any calls.

There was a big, fat man standing in front of Aziraphale, obstructing my view of her. He had finished speaking to her in French, and then surged forward towards her, getting too close for my comfort; I balled my fists.

Aziraphale brought her hands up, trying to push the man away, and began speaking laughably poor French. "C'est un grand...mistake-uh, erreur." She corrected. "Bit out of practice at the French." She muttered. "Um..." Were it not for the gravity of the situation, I would have burst out on the floor, laughing with tears, considering the fact that Aziraphale had learned French several times over the years, but it never managed to stick for more than a few centuries. She was better at languages like Chinese and Japanese.

Mercifully, the fat man cut her off, saying, "I speak English." I could hear Aziraphale breathe a sigh of relief. They were interrupted by the crashing and slicing of the guillotine outside.

"Listen to that." The big man said. "The fall of the guillotine blade. Is it not terrible?" He asked cynically. Aziraphale stared in disbelief, dumbfounded that the man was on her side. "Yes. Yes! Cutting off that poor woman's head, terrible!"

Unfortunately, the man, the executioner, did not share the same concerns as the angel. "It is Pierre. An amateur. Always he let go of the rope too soon. You are lucky that it is I, Jean-Claude, who will remove your traitorous head from your shoulders." Aziraphale looked horrified, but nevertheless persisted.

"Look, this is all a terrible mistake." She tried again. "I don't think you understand-" But 'Jean-Claude' did not give her the time of day.

"I have good news for you. You are the 999th aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand. But the first English." What an arrogant bastard, I thought idly. Aziraphale tried to smile and look grateful, but not even she could pull it off.

"Now..." Jean-Claude said, going to stand behind Aziraphale, who stood up indignantly. "Please, no!" She insisted. "Dreadful mistake, discorporating me." She cried, staring off into the distance very sadly, beginning to accept her fate.

"Oh, it'll be a complete nightmare." She muttered. The sound of the guillotine resounded off the dungeon walls. Jean-Claude turned to the window, smiling, probably about to make some dumb comment about how wonderful the guillotine was, when I decided I'd had enough. I made him freeze in his idiotic position, although Aziraphale didn't seem to think anything was wrong, merely that he had stopped for a moment.