Chapter Text
The first thing Aziraphale noticed when he entered the staff room was the thick blanket of smoke that tried its best to suffocate him to an early discorporation. He hadn’t been so engulfed in the gross tang of tobacco since his old gentleman’s club had finally closed its doors, but even then, at least that was quality imported fare.
Camilla and Aziraphale’s arrival was only noticed by one inhabitant of the room. She was dressed in a rather outdated matron's outfit, and she bustled towards him (cigarette in tow) and immediately ushered him towards the bar. (1)
(1: If it could be called a bar, as it was so well stocked that even the most lucrative public house would have given a year’s profit to obtain it. In fact, the more Aziraphale looked around, the more he thought the staff room resembled a sports bar, or perhaps one of those pubs with the same few regulars which fancies itself a bit upscale by offering both a dart board and a pool table.
“Welcome. Welcome,” the matron said enthusiastically, and began pouring spirits into two tall cocktail glasses. “Now, tell me your name and we’ll have a natter.”
“Oh. Ah. Actually I’m not entirely sure that vodka and vermouth are meant to be mixed together-“
“Oh, yes. It’s my own creation. Fantastic stuff really. A couple of these in the morning and you’ll get through a teaching day no problem.”
Aziraphale swallowed, and when the matron pushed the glass into his hand he looked at it as if it would spontaneously discorporate him on the spot. Anathema had taken up a similar position against the door as she had in Camilla’s office, and when Aziraphale glanced at her she smiled conspiratorially. He rather suspected they might get on.
The third thing Aziraphale noticed was the rest of the teachers: a short man in glasses, a lady in horse riding gear, and a woman with impossibly straight black hair sat at one table jotting down numbers. There was at least one person fast asleep on a sofa with tea dripping from a mug and soaking into their trousers. Five people crowded around a small circular table stacked with notes and poker chips. Camilla had fetched herself a drink and had sat down with the matron on an empty sofa. She didn’t seem to care that all of her staff were slacking or gambling. Aziraphale rather thought this was the kind of school where the teachers probably did sleep in their classrooms.
The matron patted the last seat on the sofa, but before Aziraphale could join her Camilla flapped her hands and stood up.
“Oh. Attention everyone! I’d like to welcome our new member of staff!”
“Ah! Fresh meat!”
The exclamation had come from the poker table. No-one else had so much as stirred. The person on the sofa slept on. The tea was slowly spreading towards their crotch. The black-haired woman tapped on her cigarette and regarded him over her glasses while the short man and the horse-rider bickered with each other.
“Yes, well,” Camilla said, with humour, “don’t go too hard on this one, I rather like him.”
Aziraphale blushed. He didn’t like the feeling of being patronised, but he suspected that he was already too far under Camilla’s wing.
“Oh, come on, don’t spoil my fun!” the man protested, swinging himself out of his seat. There was something familiar about his voice. Aziraphale turned to look just as the man righted himself and leaned back against the table.
Crowley.
Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and peered at Aziraphale. “Oh…really?” he whined. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Aziraphale huffed and haughtily replied, “Of course it’s you Crowley, I should have known. Wherever there’s mayhem you’re never far behind.”
“And you’ve come to, what? Thwart a bunch of schoolgirls?”
“Well perhaps I have! I can’t imagine they’re flourishing under your devilish influence!”
Aziraphale crossed his arms. He was going for ‘stern’ but instead gave the impression of a rather endearing teddy bear.
“What do you even do here anyway?” He noticed his voice sounded unbearably petulant, but decided it was better than revealing how his heart had leapt at the sight of Crowley.
“He’s a teacher,” Camilla said, raising her eyebrows over her glass. She seemed utterly fascinated by the exchange. “May I ask how you two know each other?”
Aziraphale couldn’t get any words out. “Oh, erm…” he said eloquently.
He looked at Crowley desperately. Camilla looked at Crowley too.
“Ahh…well…er….” Crowley trailed off.
“Oh, I see,” Camilla replied in a lascivious tone and with a quick wink at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale blushed fiercely, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t suppose the truth would go over so well.
“Well, seeing as you know each other so well, perhaps Anthony could help you settle in.”
Crowley smirked and raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale was glad he couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses.
“Oh, yes, fine,” he huffed.
Crowley pushed himself away from the table, swaggered over, and clinked his wine glass against Aziraphale’s nuclear cocktail.
“Cheers, Angel.”
Neither of them noticed Camilla and the matron mouthing ‘Angel!?’ at each other in delight.
Aziraphale gave Crowley a quick once over. He was still wearing the same clothes Aziraphale had last seen him in a couple of decades before, which was out of character.
“I thought you’d have shaved that damnable moustache off by now, Crowley,” he grumbled. “And for that matter you need a haircut. It does nothing for you.”
“Oh, you’re preaching about style now, Angel?”
Aziraphale might not have been able to see Crowley’s eyes, but he knew they were giving him a meaningful once over. He defiantly adjusted his bowtie.
“Sit down, you two,” insisted Camilla. Aziraphale and Crowley settled down on the sofa opposite.
Now,” she began. “We’ll put you to work first thing tomorrow morning, Aziraphale.”
“Excuse me,” Crowley jumped in, leaning forward. The sofa was slightly too low to the ground for his long legs and they were bent rather awkwardly. “What exactly is Aziraphale teaching?”
Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Religious Studies,” he admitted.
Crowley’s face stretched in absolute glee. “Religious Studies?” he repeated. He could barely keep the elation out of his voice. “Really? You’re going to, what? Teach all the eleven year olds the Book of Revelation? The intricacies of God’s Ineffable Plan?”
“Well what do you teach?” Aziraphale shot back, embarrassed and desperate to change the topic. Crowley always ruffled his feathers.
“English,” Crowley said, in the tone of voice of someone who knows he’s about to cause some mischief.
“English?” Aziraphale repeated, “Crowley, you barely read!”
“Ah, but you don’t get it, Angel,” Crowley was shaking his head and he gulped down some of his wine. Aziraphale ignored the arm he stretched across the back of the sofa. “Plays are meant to be performed, not read.”
“Oh no. Please don’t tell me-“
“After all, the great Bard deserves that much, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, Lord help me,” Aziraphale whined. First potato juice all over his clothes, and now Crowley was teaching Shakespeare to troublesome teenagers. Truly, he thought, this must be outside of his jurisdiction.
“We’re doing Hamlet tomorrow,” Crowley gleefully continued. “Want to drop in?”
Aziraphale had his face in his hands. “Truly, this must be some form of divine punishment,” he whimpered. And really, he wasn’t far off the mark, since the orders had come from Gabriel, after all.
Suddenly the sofa dipped down next to him, and he looked up into Anathema’s sparkling bright eyes.
“None of this matters,” she stated. “How are you going to teach us Religious Studies without your books?”
Aziraphale glared at her, and she smiled winningly in response. He was beginning to understand that it was probably better to embrace the students’ authority at St Trinian’s.
“You came here without any books, Angel? That’s not like you.”
“He came here with several books actually,” Anathema corrected, “but lost them in battle.”
“Ah!” Crowley said. He placed his empty wine glass on the table. Aziraphale considered the nuclear cocktail in front of him, which he’d yet to sample. He took a couple of tentative sips.
“Shoes too, and his spare waistcoat. Although really Aziraphale you should buy some new clothes. They look like they’re gonna fall apart.”
Camilla tutted theatrically. “I hope that’s not what you’ll be calling him in class tomorrow morning, Anathema.”
“Mr Fell.” Anathema corrected.
Crowley snorted. “Alright. Tell you what, you give Mr Fell his belongings, and I’ll let you play Hamlet.”
Anathema raised her eyebrows.
Crowley grinned. “25% of my winnings.” He nodded at the poker table.
“40.”
“30.”
“Deal,” Anathema said, and stuck out her hand. Aziraphale had to lean back as Crowley stretched across him to shake it.
Anathema slid back off the sofa. “If Mr Crowley is going to help Mr Fell settle in, I might as well get on, Miss Fritton.”
“Hmmm. What?” Camilla turned around, roused from the intense, whispered conversation she was having with the matron, “Yes, yes, off you go.”
Aziraphale watched Anathema leave. She didn’t turn back.
“I suppose I ought to say thank you?” he said, reluctantly.
“I wouldn’t. Whatever they’ve done to your stuff doesn’t bear thinking about,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale sighed, and tried not to think about it.
Crowley sprang up from the sofa.
“Come on then, Angel. I’ll show you around.”