Chapter Text
Aziraphale stared at the manor in front of him. It seemed nice enough, he supposed, the lawns were nicely kept, the road was lined with trees. The place itself was Grade II listed, apparently, although it looked like it had seen better days. It was rather imposing, anyway, as French Renaissance work tended to be, but he supposed that suited its reputation.
He squinted.
He could see the traces of green gunge smeared down the façade from one of the upper windows.
Well.
No use dilly-dallying when there was work to be done.
He stepped out from under the porte cochère (where the taxi driver had politely dropped him off, no doubt pleased with the extortionate fee and generous tip she’d earned during the journey from London), and was promptly hit in the face with a barrage of bullets.
Aziraphale gasped and stumbled backwards, hands flying up to his chest and patting over the entry points in his waistcoat. He promptly fell over his trunk, and landed on the softly sanded drive.
He groaned.
He never wanted to come to blasted Berkshire.
All around him the peaceful countryside was suddenly filled with war cries, and when he pushed himself up off the ground he saw at least 20 young children sprinting towards him, some holding up guns and some hefting various pieces of wood and plastic as makeshift shields. He had the sudden thought that they looked rather like a bad roman army re-enactment.
“Now,” he said, pointing his finger at them, “now, see here. I don’t know what you think you’re all play-“
He tripped over his words and the children surrounded him. Ten of them dove for his trunk and he spun around, urging them away.
“-what you’re playing at-!” he desperately continued, but it was no use.
He felt the tip of a gun press against the small of his back and stiffened, raising his hands automatically. The children were working away at the lock holding his trunk closed. One of them had produced a hairpin from somewhere and was sticking their tongue out in concentration as they worked it inside the padlock. Aziraphale thought that children really shouldn’t know those sorts of tricks.
“State your name, rank, and intention,” the childish voice behind him demanded. It seemed to have a distinct Lancashire accent.
Aziraphale raised his eyes to the heavens. He would be having some strong words with Gabriel the next time he dropped in with some ridiculous command.
“What is this? A military interrogation?” he said, slightly hysterically.
The gun jabbed into him again and he jumped. He glanced down at his waistcoat, and saw it was covered in the wet fuzz of raw potato. The child with the hairpin whooped as the lock made a click.
“I’m in,” she said, conspiratorially. Aziraphale thought this must all be some great cosmic joke.
“State your name, your rank, and your intention!” the voice demanded again.
Aziraphale faintly heard another voice say “Is he stupid?”
“Aziraphale. I don’t really know what you mean by rank, and my intention is to offer my services here as a teacher!" Aziraphale's voice lowered to a mutter. "Although I'm rather rethinking that now."
He watched helplessly as the children hefted the lid of the trunk open, and immediately rummaged through his belongings, tossing his polished shoes out onto the lawn and curiously leafing through the books.
“Oh. Oh, please, be careful with those, would you.” he said, fervently hoping they hadn’t any sticky substances on their fingers.
“What kind of name is Zirefell anyway?” the voice behind him asked.
“Aziraphale. And it’s my name. I didn’t manage to catch yours.” Aziraphale could hear the frustration bleeding through his voice, and he swiftly turned towards the mystery child behind him so that he didn’t have to watch the desecration of his belongings anymore.
The owner of the voice was simply another young child like the rest. She had fairly long black hair and was holding a spud gun. All of the children had mock camouflage paint streaked over their cheeks.
“It doesn’t matter what my name is,” she said fiercely. “You’re the one being interrogated.”
“Isn’t there a teacher around here anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, hoping the mention of a higher authority would have some effect. He should have known better.
The child raised her eyebrows at him, and the two girls flanking her crossed their arms in unison.
“…perhaps the Headmistress? Miss…Fritton? She is expecting me and I don’t think she’d be pleased to know I’d been ambushed like this on my arrival.”
The girl snorted. Aziraphale rather thought that he may have misjudged the whole situation.
“What do you think, girls? Shall we let him go in?”
“He won’t even last five minutes here,” one voice piped up.
“Nah, Bev, he won’t even make it inside.”
“What kind of teacher is he anyway?” another asked.
“’E’s got a bible in his trunk, look!”
“I ‘aven’t seen one of those since I was at my old Cath’lic school.”
“Why’d you get kicked out of there again, Amanda?”
“Put a newt in my teacher’s flask. Like in Matilda, ‘cept it weren’t see through so she didn’t know.”
Aziraphale shut his eyes and shook his head.
“Children, please. Can I have some order here!”
Incredibly, the noise died down, and the children looked at him. He stared at the leader and lowered his arms slowly.
“Now,” he said in his best strict tone of voice as he turned around, “return my books to my trunk if you would be so kind. That Bible has been in my possession for forty years and it’s most likely worth more than the most valuable artwork any of you have ever seen.”
The girl holding it considered it for a minute, and then dropped it back in the trunk.
“Right. Thank you ever so much.” He turned back to the girl in charge. “Now. I’m going to gather my belongings and attend my meeting with your headmistress.”
“Hold up one second,” said the girl. She was still aiming the spud gun at his belly. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not in charge yet. You’re just some rando.”
“Right!” a few of the others chimed in.
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
The girl smiled. “Let me make a proposal. We’ll let you go, but we keep the trunk.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Alright,” the girl said, smiling sweetly and stepping forward. The gun pressed into his belly, pushing him backwards. “Let me be clearer. It’s not a request. You take it or you leave it.”
Aziraphale sighed.
“Alright. Alright, fine.”
The girl smiled.
“Alright you lot, put ‘is stuff back in the trunk and take it up.”
Aziraphale felt his face twist in frustration as he watched the children cart his trunk up the steps and into the school.
The girl lifted the gun up, resting it against her shoulder in a gesture of amity. She stuck out her hand.
“Anathema Device,” she said.
Aziraphale squinted, and then took her hand gingerly. Her handshake was more confident and self-assured than any adult human he’d ever met.
“May we get on, Miss Device?” he asked, and she grinned at him, and led the way.