Happy Holidays, Rhombal!
Title: Under Cover
For:
rhombal
From:
maggiebloome
Recipient's Request: your choice of rating; Aziraphale/Crowley, humor! And snark.
Rating: PG-13
The idea was Aziraphale’s, but to be fair, it was Crowley’s paranoia that sparked it.
“Hormones,” he said, dropping into Aziraphale’s favourite armchair like he was picking up a conversation that had been interrupted by a telemarketer[1], rather than rudely barging into his friend’s bookshop after three months with no contact.
“What about them?” Aziraphale replied curtly, as his current customer[2] suddenly remembered a pressing appointment elsewhere.
“Have you noticed the world is getting more violent lately?” Crowley slipped off his sunglasses and focussed serpentine eyes on his counterpart. “Venereal disease is on the rise, too.”
“Yes, it is rather unfortunate,” Aziraphale said dryly. “I expect you’ve been off contributing, as usual? You could have dropped me a note.”
Crowley leaned forward in his chair. “That’s the thing, though, I haven’t. It’s always mostly taken care of itself, you know that, but in the past few years the human race seems to have gotten more… irrational, unstable. Pubescent, if you will.”
“What are you getting at?” Asked Aziraphale, puzzled.
“Oh, come on, even you aren’t that thick. Fill in the blanks - humanity, collectively is acting like a…”
“…Runaway train? Emu? Kettle?” Aziraphale guessed wildly. “Annoying demon that disappears for three months without a word and comes back in the middle of a conversation about the state of the human race like nothing happened?”
“I was doing research.”
“On rising rates of sex and violence?”
“I think it’s Adam.”
At this Aziraphale paused, doing a remarkable impression of a goldfish in a wineglass. He sat down, removed his spectacles and polished them with the air of one attempting to phrase a question so that it doesn’t come out “Have you been drinking?”
“Have you been drinking?” He said.
“Hear me out,” Crowley said hurriedly. “Just before the… you know, Thing That Never Happened… he started affecting the world.”
“By summoning Tibetans, and, and Atlantis! Not by doing YOUR job.”
“What date is it?”
“First of December…”
Crowley nodded in satisfaction. “Eight months since Adam’s fifteenth birthday. Eight months of rapid increase in human sexual activity, safe or otherwise, argument and people generally being emotional at each other. What about that G8 meeting last month? You didn’t think it was odd that six different pairs of government aides were caught having it off in extremely public places, and the meeting degenerated into name-calling on three separate occasions?[3]”
Aziraphale replaced his technically unnecessary glasses on his nose and peered at Crowley over them as a mild-mannered bookshop owner was wont to do. “I think,” he said slowly, “That perhaps we should investigate.”
***
Lower Tadfield was beginning to feel the bite of frost (surely a harbinger of one of the perpetually beautiful snowy winters it had been experiencing for the past fifteen years). The trees were bare, orange leaves long since burnt by delighted children who knew an excuse to play with fire when they saw one, thankyouverymuch, and the air rang with the sound of tardy birds deciding it was probably past time to migrate and supernatural entities having a bit of a tiff.
“Are you kidding? Why do I have to be the janitor?”
“Because these were the only two positions available. I told you, if we make teachers quit it will attract his attention. We can’t make him not notice us if he’s, how do they say it these days? ‘Checking in’ the new teachers.”
“But why do I have to be the janitor?” Crowley demanded, in a tone that suggested he was about to start yelling about rum.
“My dear, would you look at me.” Aziraphale replied rationally, “I simply happen to LOOK like a librarian.”
Crowley looked at him for a long moment. He smirked. “You know, you’re right, angel. Nobody could possibly take you for anything other than a… librarian.”
“Quite right,” the angel said serenely. “Now be a dear and put on this uniform.”
***
There is something common to all schools nearing a snowy holiday - the inability of teachers to keep order among even the most studious children, the constant longing glances out the window, the urgent listening to the radio in case of a snow day…
“You could just make it snow.” Brian whined. “It’s practic’ly criminal, staying inside when you could be havin’ fun in the snow.”
“You can’t do that!” Wensleydale gasped in horror. “You’ve got to use your powers for good, not evil. Like in issue 58 of Uber-Penultimate Superhero League!”
“That’s rubbish,” yawned Pepper, sprawling across her desk. “He used his powers to get Annie Hopkins to kiss him at the party last night. And Jessica Small.”
“Well,” Adam said guiltily, “That’s different… I mean, that’s not exactly what you’d call evil, is it? It’s more just makin’ myself look good, like girls wearin’ make-up. How come they’re allowed to wear make-up and we’re not? Besides, Tadfield only has such nice weather in the first place cos of me.”
“It’s not about the weather!” Wensleydale cried. The much-put-upon English teacher, Mr Hitch, gave him a token glare but clearly decided it wasn’t worth the effort. “It’s about interfering with our learning. Skipping school is much more serious than kissing girls! Although you shouldn’t have been doing that either.”
Brian snorted. “Just cos your mum thinks a proper young man ought to wait for marriage…”
“Well, maybe she’s right,” Wensleydale sniffed. “All you lot aren’t concentrating on your schoolwork cos you’re too busy flirting with girls!”
“And boys!” Chorused Pepper and Brian. Mr Hitch, or Clove as he was known to the unwashed masses, shot them a look over the top of his newspaper and stared desperately at the clock.
“It’ll serve you right if you all have to repeat tenth grade, is all I’m saying.”
“Nah,” Brian said, “Adam would never let us have to repeat a grade, would you Adam?”
“Uh.” Adam looked worried. “But that wouldn’t really be fair…”
“Wouldn’t be fair to have Old Battleaxe for science again, either!” Pepper smirked.
“That’s… no, look, I can’t do that. Girls is one thing - and boys, yes Pepper, but don’t think I didn’t see you and Josie Wilkins on that trip to the art museum - but you’ve got to earn, you know, real things. Like grades.”
“Which is why he can’t make it snow all the time so we can skip school!” Wensleydale added.
“Spoilsports.” Brian grumbled.
The recess bell rang. The Them stood up, still bickering amiably, and wandered out into the corridor, where a group of girls was milling around and a janitor mopped up a leak with a scowl on his face.
“Adam Young!”
Adam looked up guiltily. The sight of three girls advancing upon him simultaneously with expressions of wrath was enough for the rest of Them to hastily make themselves scarce.
“Rather you than me, mate,” said Brian, clapping him on the back before edging around the corner, waving cheerfully at a group of boys with a soccer ball.
“Look, Annie…”
“Jessica.” The first girl said with a withering look.
“Jessica…”
“We,” Added Annie, catching up, “Have nothing to say to you.”
“We’re just here to make sure you don’t weasel out of it again. If you think you can toy with us like that, well…” Said Jessica, smirking. They stepped aside to block the exits, revealing the third girl, who was tapping her foot.
“Uh. Terry.” Adam looked worried. “Now that’s just not fair.”
“Really?” Terry asked scathingly. “Not fair? And I suppose you think not speaking to me for a week and then kissing two other girls at a party is fair?”
“Well, what was I supposed to think when you-“
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“Then whose fault is it!?”
“You’re changing the subject! You always-”
(Out on the soccer field Brian found himself the victim of a flying tackle by Greasy Johnson, who had been unsuccessfully campaigning for the introduction of American football to the sports curriculum. The rest of his team took objection and piled on.)
“Listen, for all I knew we weren’t even-“
“OH, that is just-”
(Two blocks away a vicious dogfight broke out over rights to Mr Tyler’s poodle. “The Times will hear of this!” He shouted, hitting out with his cane.)
“Adam Young, you are without question the slimiest, most arrogant, lowest worm in this entire school!”
“That’s rich, coming from Mother Theresa - you do know that’s sarcastic, what they call you, right?”
(In the streets of London a drunken French chef stumbled into a fish and chips store and began loudly berating the staff for their poor hygiene, failure to understand good cuisine and general incompetence. Despite having a minimal knowledge of French, the fry-cook and the dishwasher both got his point, rolled up their sleeves and set about him with a skillet and a wire thingy for cooking chips in.)
“Prat!”
“Liar!”
“Cheater!”
(Scarlett hadn’t known she was capable of sleepwalking, but she woke up from a well-deserved nap to find herself on a small Pacific island near Australia (population 1647 as of Mrs Little’s youngest last Monday), surrounded by a crowd of rebels apparently bent on overthrowing the hitherto-peaceful regime. War shrugged, picked up a pitchfork and hollered a revolutionary slogan[4] at the top of her voice.)
“Harpy!”
“Scum!”
“Hey, kids, I hate to break up a perfectly good argument, but I need to mop there.”
The teenagers turned to the janitor, panting slightly. He grinned and shrugged, pointing at the puddle of water that they were suddenly standing in. “Must be a leak in the roof.”
“We’ll finish this later.” Spat Theresa. “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me!”
Adam watched helplessly as she stalked away, followed (with a perfectly synchronised glare) by the other two girls.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Hang on, do I know y- oh.”
The cleaner was gone. So was the puddle.
***
“I’m simply saying you haven’t got any supporting evidence!” Aziraphale said crossly. His tweed jacket was looking the worse for wear, and he’d lost his spectacles in that last bookslide. “And I for one am quite sick of those, those…” He visibly drew himself up and came out with the harshest name in his repertoire: “Those young hooligans in the library! They have absolutely no proper respect for books!”
“Supporting evidence?” Crowley cried in exasperation. “I was right there! I could literally feel the anger coming off him in waves! I’m surprised they weren’t rioting in Siberia!”
“Well they were certainly rioting in my library! And one girl actually put chewing gum on a bookshelf. It reminds me why I own a bookstore.”
“So you can stop humans from getting their paws on your lovely books, yes, yes, you sodding bibliophile, will you listen to me?”
The silence that followed rang loud as Crowley paused. “Listen…”
Aziraphale cocked his head to one side. “Good heavens, you’re right. Quickly, in there!”
“But that’s a-” Crowley protested in vain as he was tugged into what he’d been about to helpfully point out was, in fact, a broom closet.
This fact appeared to have occurred to Aziraphale once they had squeezed into the tight space and he had put his foot in a mop bucket, but at that point the voices they’d heard turned the corner, apparently coming to a stop right outside the closet. “Bugger,” he said, very very quietly.
“Nah, it’s like, it’s okay… I just wish you’d told me that earlier, you know?” said Adam.
“That’s him!” Crowley hissed redundantly, trying to find a place to stand that wasn’t more or less in Aziraphale’s lap. “And wossname!”
“I thought you might get the wrong idea,” ‘Wossname’ replied.
“Terry, about how often do I get the wrong idea about people?”
“Yeah… that’s really odd, now that I come to think about it. I can’t believe even you could possibly be quite this… charismatic.”
“Oh, I’ll show you how charismatic I can be…”
A high-pitched giggle, and then a muffled thump slightly to the right of the closet door. “Oh, for the love of, um, er, oh, fuck.” Said Crowley, with feeling.
“What?” Aziraphale whispered, puzzled. “My, isn’t it hot in here.”
“I’ll wager it’s hotter out there,” Crowley muttered - indeed, the sounds from outside the closet sounded more or less wet. And he was more conscious than ever of Aziraphale’s arbitrarily warm body pressed against him.
“Oh dear.” Crowley would have given much to see the look on his celestial companion’s face as he realised what exactly the lovebirds were up to. “I don’t suppose we could get out of here without them, ah, noticing… no, I suppose…” He did, however, sound somewhat flustered. “It is awfully cramped in here, you know.”
“It’s called a broom closet because we keep brooms in it, angel,” Crowley snapped (quietly). He was beginning to sweat. “Brooms aren’t very demanding. It’s more or less zero stars.”
“Quite,” said Aziraphale distractedly.
“Why I had to wear this blasted uniform…” Crowley tugged at his collar.
“Erp.” And he could have sworn he could feel the angel’s blush. “Actually I quite like uniforms.”
“Then why couldn’t you have worn it?”
“Nature’s librarians?”
“Right, right.”
“And… it’s more that I like uniforms on, er, other people…”
“!?” Crowley spluttered, unwisely turning towards Aziraphale and hitting his head on a shelf in the process.
There was a momentary pause in activity outside the broom closet, as Adam’s voice (slightly hoarse) said “Did you hear…?” and Terry answered, “Don’t be paranoid. The teachers have better things to do than hiding in closets to listen to us make out, you know. They’ve all gone home to pray for a snow day just like the rest of- mmph!”
Crowley suppressed the urge to giggle hysterically. And then abruptly frowned as he felt something against his thigh that definitely shouldn’t be there…
“Ngk. Aziraphale, are you making an effort!?”
“No I’m n- oh. Certainly not on purpose!” The angel squeaked, shifting hastily as far away from the demon as he could, which, given their location, meant a few inches away until his back was against the other wall.
“Oh, G- S- A[5]- bless it all, I told you he was projecting!” Crowley whispered fervently. “Argh! Are you using aftershave? You don’t even need to shave!”
“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale muttered, “This isn’t going to end well.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Crowley answered, managing to sound dry despite the fact that he was quite obviously sweating. “That if we have explosive sex in a broom closet in Upper Norton High School it might be sort of difficult to square it with Upstairs and Downstairs, not to mention the principal.”
“Ulp, now that you mention it… Actually, I just meant that you’ll be telling me you told me so for the next few hundred years. But, ooh, do you think they’d notice?”
“Well,” Crowley panted, abandoning caution to the winds, “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? Do you suppose a horny Antichrist without any mental blocks counts as mitigating circumstances?”
“After That Thing That Didn’t Happen? Odds on they’d, oh dear, whatever are you doing?”
“Want me to stop?” Crowley breathed hotly in his ear.
“Well, oh, I suppose you’re right about the, ah, mitigating circumstances…”
“If you can still pronounce that, I’m clearly not doing it right…”
***
A few days later, Adam got a discreet phone call while his parents were out.
“Hello, Radio Adam?” The voice was instantly recognisable - after all, it had spoken to him while he was lying in a crib with nothing better to do than listen[6] as well as more recently in the period Adam privately referred to as “When Dad Was Right Royally Ticked Off.”
“Crowley?”
“Damn. I thought I sounded anonymous. Anyway, this is the equivalent of the neighbours politely knocking on your door to tell you to turn it down.”
“What?”
“Your emotions. You’re leaking like a sieve.”
“Oh. That.” Adam said innocently. “That’s all sorted.”
There was a dangerous silence on the other end of the line, through which Adam could hear the faint sound of rustling sheets. “Sorted?”
“Oh, yeah. Um, Anathema came round the other day, actually, and, you know, taught me a thing or two.” Seven months ago is close enough to the other day, anyway, he added privately. He heard Crowley’s breathing hitch and grinned.
“Oh.” Crowley said, with some more rustling. “Well then…”
“How’s Aziraphale doing?” Adam asked, smirking.
“Er, fine,” Crowley said distractedly. “Well, if you’ve… ngk, sorted all that out, I’ll just… be going then.”
Adam smiled secretively as he put down the receiver. Some people just needed a little prodding…
[1] The poor bugger… it really hadn’t been nice what Crowley did to him. Actually he’d simply teleported him into a nearby convention of Mormons, which he figured was a fitting punishment.
[2] If by customer one means a person whom Aziraphale is subtly trying to prevent from buying a book.
[3] Not that the latter was particularly unusual. The president of America calling someone a dorkwad hadn’t been seen before, but you never knew these days…
[4] “I won’t forgive what you said about our Helen,” as a matter of fact, which was quite hard to say in Polynesian, and almost nobody ever got the glottal stop right.
[5] It occurred to him that invoking an entity who was currently in the throes of teenage lust within a metre of him may not be the brightest thing to do at this juncture.
[6] “Aren’t you a cute little… demonspawn, you? Who’s going to ask daddy for a commendation for old Crowley, eh? I’d offer you an apple if you had any teeth.”