Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Jeanne d'Arc belongs to the French.
Rating: PG for drinking, blasphemy, some language, anachronisms(there's got to be at least one), and general mucking about with history.
Other: Sincere apologies to the French. Especially since I briefly contemplated putting the bits that would be said in French en français, but very quickly realized that my French isn't good enough…unless I wanted to have dialogue that translated as "Today is Tuesday. Where is my pen? My uncle is a Pisces." And G—Sa—Someone forgive me, but I just couldn't resist the freedom jokes.
Jeanne d'Arc looked up. A dark haired man was standing over her, smiling benevolently. She would have screamed if not for the wings. "Mon Dieu!" she gasped.
"Nay, I am but a humble angel," he said. "But I am quite parched from my flight. Lo, might there be any wine lying around?"
"Yes, of course," Jeanne replied.
"Lo, be not afraid," said the angel. "And bring some wine unto me."
Jeanne quickly went to the cupboard. She was feeling something that definitely wasn't fear. While she believed there was a God, she had never expected him to bother with her. She certainly hadn't expected him to send an extremely handsome angel while her family was out…
"Joan," the angel continued once the wine had been brought unto him and he'd seen that it was good.
"Jeanne," she corrected.
"Oh. Er, Jeanne?"
"Yes."
"Jeanne, you have been chosen to lead the armies of France to victory."
She stared at him. "Yes, if God wills it, but what can I do?"
Before the angel could answer, a bright light filled the room. "Don't listen to him, Joan," said another angel. This one wasn't as attractive, and his wings were a bit ratty looking.
The first angel glared at him. "He's a demon," he said quickly. "Cast him out with your faith!"
Jeanne looked at the new angel. He was definitely glowing with a holy light, but the state of his wings was really bothering her. "Demon, be gone," she said without much certainty.
"Oh, that never does anything," said the dark haired angel. It was almost a hiss.
"Angels don't drink," said the other one. The first angel started laughing, and the other one looked like he was trying to repress a smile.
"Lo, be gone, foul fiend and tempt this girl no more," the dark haired angel said once he'd gotten a hold of himself.
"Why don't you be gone?"
"Because you're obviously not a proper angel. You haven't said 'Lo, be not afraid' at all."
"Oh, yes, because that's all we ever say. I should slap you."
The dark haired angel smirked. "He's obviously a fake," he told Jeanne. "Angels don't slap people."
Something had been bothering Jeanne. Their French was perfect, but… "Why do you have an accent?" she asked.
"My dear girl, I suggest you look at his eyes," the other angel said carefully.
"Lo, you have passed Heaven's first test, Joan—"
"Jeanne."
"Right, right."
"Excuse us for a moment, dear," the other angel said politely. He pulled the dark haired angel aside and said in English, "What do you think you're doing?"
"At the moment I'm enjoying an excellent merlot and wondering how you found me."
"You're helping the French!"
"I thought you said that we only cared about souls and that nationality was unimportant because all people deserve our attention."
"Not the French! Well," he amended, "maybe your attention. But I want to know what you're up to."
"If you're angels, why are you speaking English?" Jeanne asked. "No offense, but I thought angels would speak a proper language."
They glared at her. "Can you understand this?" the dark haired angel asked her in Latin.
"Mais oui. Je ne suis pas stupide."
"Look, it's not as if a girl can lead an army," the dark haired angel continued in a language Jeanne didn't recognize. She also didn't know was that if she continued to lead a good life, she'd never have to hear it again.
The other angel answered him in a completely different language. "Now, Crowley, you know as well as I do that women can do anything—"
"Yes, yes. I'm not actually helping her. Or the…the…people who live in this area of the world."
"What are you doing then?"
"Tempting."
"Tempting her to lead an army?"
"Look," Crowley said, lowering his voice, "it's not official business. This war's just taking too long, and I want to muck up the…I really don't understand why no one's bothered to update this bloody stupid language."
"They're not all bad," said Aziraphale, looking at the bottle in Crowley's hands. "We drink their wine."
"Why are you—oh." He passed the bottle. "I thought angels didn't drink."
"It's very hard to discredit you without killing you, dear."
"And Freedom wine is one thing—"
"Stop doing that. You're never going to convince anyone to replace…the word for these people with 'freedom.'"
Crowley glared at him. "Patience is a virtue," he hissed, taking back the wine. "And with a little more time—"
"No one's that stupid."
Jeanne was becoming increasingly suspicious. Even in whatever he was currently speaking, one of the angels had a distinct English accent and that didn't seem at all divine. She knew that angels existed, but she was damned if Heaven was in England. And neither one of the limey angels could pronounce her name correctly. She pulled out a small flask.
"She's not going to get hurt, is she?" asked Aziraphale before the tangent they'd gone off on could get any worse.
Crowley shrugged, then noticed the look he was getting. "No one's actually going to—bloody hell!"
"Yes, you will lead your people to victory," Aziraphale said in heavily accented French. "But we've been called back to Heaven and must go."
"Yes, but…" They vanished. Jeanne placed the empty bottle of holy water on the table and sat down to think about this.
Once they were outside and Crowley was no longer in danger of dying, Aziraphale said, "It's a good thing you didn't drop the wine."
"Yes, well, hand it over," snapped Crowley.
"I wish you hadn't sworn quite so much…"
"Oh, pardon my freedom—"
"Please stop doing that."
Jeanne didn't notice them as she ran by. All she knew was that she had to get to the priest and ask a few questions about angels. Specifically, if they drank, slapped people, or spoke with English accents.