Happy Holidays, crowoxy!

[goe_mod]

Title: Enough Silly Buggers
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (PG-13)
Word Count: 3,000
Recipient: crowoxy
Summary: However undignified it may be, participation in one’s local haunted house fundraiser in the lead-up to All Hallows’ Eve is compulsory.

Crowley blinked at Aziraphale, stupefied. He set down his champagne flute and squinted, wondering if he had understood. Mimosas with mint from the garden, that one last hanger-on of a plant as autumn’s chill gave way to winter, had seemed like a nice idea as he was making their version of a shamelessly French-influenced full English breakfast. Turned out that it wasn’t, because now he was hearing things.

“There’s a what?” Crowley asked tipsily. “Where? Nobody celebrates that out here except for pagans, and I don’t mean Anathema’s ilk.”

“A haunted house,” Aziraphale repeated, mumbling it into his glass, “at the theater.”

“Theater as in, the place where you spend all of your evening hours from September through April, and sometimes even May through August?” Crowley scoffed, trying to disguise the faint trace of panic that made his heart start to hammer. “Count me out.”

“The children worked ever so hard on it,” Aziraphale sighed, finally cracking his hard-boiled duck egg with a spoon. “I promised young Robert I’d stay away while it was under construction—and that you would, too. We’re to be thoroughly surprised.”

You might be in for a nasty one, Crowley thought, squeezing his eyes shut as he blessed under his breath. “Oh, don’t you dare use that boy to guilt trip me. Don’t you dare.” He paused for a moment, belatedly processing the rest of what Aziraphale had said. “Since when does it take any effort at all to keep me away from that amateur-run, dust-infused house of ill repute?”

“Since you recently got involved in a production or two right along with me,” Aziraphale replied smugly, examining his nails. He blew on them, looked up at Crowley, and beamed. “Besides, I can tell that your guilt has been thoroughly tripped. We’re going.”

“You’re tempting me to revoke breakfast, angel,” Crowley warned halfheartedly even though he knew it was a losing battle. “I’ll un-cook that egg and send it to the girls out back straight away. I’ll miracle the crêpes out of your stomach if that’s what it takes.”

“Ducks shouldn’t be laying this time of year. You’d waste such a precious resource? The heat lamps in the shed throw off their circadian rhythms.”

“They’re thoroughly domesticated now. A few are second-generation domesticated, even. Taking the lamps away would be cruel and unusual.”

“There’s no turning back now,” Aziraphale said, throwing back the rest of his mimosa. He vanished the egg with a snap of his fingers, collected the plates, and bent to kiss the top of Crowley’s head before heading to the sink. “Besides, it’s tonight.”

“All Hallows’ Eve isn’t for another week!” Crowley complained, but Aziraphale had already popped in his earbuds, turned on the tap, and put on the washing-up gloves. “Fine,” he grumbled, rounding the table to open the sliding glass door that led out to the garden. “I’ll just be out here reminding the uppity Mistress Mint that her days are numbered.”

The rest of the day passed quietly. Crowley split his time between winterizing the garden and whinging to the ducks about Aziraphale forever springing eleventh-hour social outings on him. He knew the girls likely didn’t understand a thing he was saying, but the mealworms and diced mango he offered went a long way to making them eager listeners.

Aziraphale came outside around four o’clock to scold Crowey about sitting in the straw and God knew what else (Duck shit, he responded cheerfully). Early dusk had begun to set in already, and it would creep ever earlier over the next few weeks. He came inside and changed his clothes, already ruminating on a notion that had occurred to him at breakfast.

If Aziraphale wanted a frightfully good time, then that was exactly what he was going to get. Never mind the community theater volunteers’ kids; Crowley was the one who had a better shot at keeping an element of surprise in his corner. He had to allow that Aziraphale might already suspect his plans. Low-hanging fruit and all that. Still, he’d give it a go.

“Why the long face, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. He set a hand on Crowley’s knee as he drove them to the high street, a tantalizing gesture that would have been more effectively deployed at breakfast. “Save it for when we’re there. The children will adore you for it.”

Crowley thumped the steering wheel, exasperated at how even Aziraphale’s most annoying attempts at cajoling could make him flush from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. It was unfair that they’d be somewhere other than their bedroom for the next two hours, maybe even longer if Aziraphale waxed talkative with his own bevy of adoring hens.

The tiny car park a few blocks from the theater was full, so Crowley circled back and took his chances with parallel parking in the street. There was a table set up outside the entrance, where two middle-aged women that Crowley didn’t recognize were selling tickets.

“Geraldine, good evening! How lovely to see you,” Aziraphale said, so cloying that Crowley was tempted to let go of his arm as an incentive against using that tone in future. “You must have had your hands full with the little ones these past few weeks. Two please.”

“Oh, good evening yourself, Mr. Fell,” Geraldine said with mock scandalization, winking at Crowley as she handed Aziraphale two tickets in exchange for his tenner. “Who’s this, then? Your wayward young botanist whose cooking we’ve heard so much about?”

“Husband,” Crowley said, much to his own chagrin. “He made an honest man of me, thanks.”

“Don’t believe that for even a moment,” Aziraphale whispered behind his hand to the other ticket seller. “He was far too honest to begin with.”

Crowley released Aziraphale’s arm, making a beeline for the doors. He held one of them open until Aziraphale stopped wittering and joined him.

“Huh,” Crowley said as the door slammed shut behind them, plunging the space in darkness. There wasn’t even a canned soundtrack of ghosts wailing and crows cawing. Instead, there was just dim blue lighting and ominous silence. “How’s that for immersive—”

“Wooo!” shouted a short figure in a plague doctor’s mask as it popped up behind the till where tickets were usually sold. “I mean…wooo-elcome!”

Crowley’s heart was hammering for the second time that day. If he hadn’t been so startled, he would’ve recognized Robert’s voice right away.

“How positively dreadful,” Aziraphale said, attempting to cover his delight with a faux frightened quaver. “Isn’t he just ghastly, Crowley?”

“That’s enough silly buggers out of you,” Crowley sighed, reaching out to tweak the slender plastic beak of Robert’s mask with a sincere fondness that he’d never been able to quell. “It’s nowhere near long enough, by the way. Ought to be made of linen, too.”

“Spoilsport!” Robert giggled, the word muffled by his mask. “I know it should be. This isn’t the—” he counted to ten using one hand after the other, and then three more on the first hand “—thirteen hundreds, so we call it one more? This isn’t the fourteenth century.”

“I’m well aware,” Crowley said dourly, trying to ignore the fact that they were both laughing at him. “Okay, which way to more silly buggers?”

“Through there,” Robert said, pointing to the doorway that led into the passage that circumvented the auditorium and then spilled into the musty warren of dressing rooms and supply storage areas below the stage. “Do the stops in whatever order you want.”

“Much obliged, Doctor,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley’s wrist to lead him along. “May your next victi—er, visitors arrive soon!”

With Robert cackling behind them, they descended into the long, curved stretch of hall they needed to clear before they reached whatever pale attempts at devilry came next. Crowley wondered if there would even be anything he could properly work with.

“Onward to more mediocre horrors, angel? Shall we sleepwalk through?”

“Hardly! That was only just the beginning, and I thought it was perfect.”

“I suppose we’ll have to hope they can improve upon perfection, then.”

“If you’re just going to be a spoilsport about it, you might as well—”

Crowley sputtered as they walked face-first into some fake cobwebs that had been hiding just around the bend. His only consolation was that Aziraphale’s glasses snagged in them and got pulled right off his face. Laughing, Crowley disentangled the glasses and handed them back to the angel. He took Aziraphale’s hand, determined to make the best of things.

The first dressing room was lit similarly to the lobby. They had to let go of each others’ hands to enter through the narrow doorway. The chair in front of the mirror bordered with antique light bulbs had been removed, and a series of booths reminiscent of the Punch and Judy shows in Covent Garden had been set up. However, the sets of black curtains were closed.

“I know how this works,” Aziraphale whispered. “You stick your hand in to feel what’s there.”

“Charming,” Crowley said, approaching the first booth. He was determined not to startle as easily as he had in the lobby. Fingertips first, he stuck his hand through the curtains and felt around for something, anything. And that something was wet spaghetti noodles.

“The director’s guuuts!” intoned whichever kid was back there. It didn’t sound like anyone Crowley had met while dabbling in Aziraphale’s hobby.

“Which director?” Crowley asked, withdrawing his hand, his course decided. “You’ve got lots.”

“I dunno!” sputtered the kid. “Any director, you great tosser.”

“Language,” Aziraphale said primly, sticking his hand through.

Crowley blinked, his intent focused on the bowl of spaghetti.

Aziraphale made a disgusted sound and withdrew his hand. There was bolognaise on it, which had not originally been a feature of the noodles.

“You must think you’re very clever,” Aziraphale sighed, licking his fingers off.

“I didn’t put sauce on these,” said the kid, disgruntled. “All right, wankers, who—”

“What sauce?” Crowley asked guiltily. He reverted the noodles to their previous state.

“We’re supposed to be messin’ you about,” said another kid. “Not the other way around!”

“Thank you, how utterly terrifying this has been!” Aziraphale said, hastily dragging Crowley back into the hall. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Nothing I do is in God’s name,” Crowley replied. “Isn’t the name of humanity enough?”

“Listen to me, Crowley. If you don’t behave yourself, we’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

“You could try some one-upmanship to make things interesting. Best of three? Five?”

“I don’t follow,” Aziraphale said, his tone betraying the fact that he did, indeed, follow.

“Sure you do, angel,” Crowley drawled, heading for the next dressing room without him.

The next room was set up to resemble a graveyard, its cardboard gravestones spray-painted silver and written on with blacklight-reactive markers. The names looked like they’d been cribbed right from the medieval slabs over tombs on the floor of the parish church.

The illusions of half a dozen blank-eyed specters rose from behind the stones, rushing at Crowley a beat before children dressed as zombies leapt out. Crowley had to give Aziraphale credit, but he dissipated the apparitions as quickly as they had appeared.

“What if the kids had seen those, eh?” Crowley prompted as they turned and left. “What then?”

“I suppose we’d have even more to answer for,” Aziraphale admitted reluctantly, half smiling.

“See? This is fun,” Crowley said, elbowing him lightly. “We’re one to zero now, aren’t we?”

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale said, scandalized. “The score is one to one, if anything.”

“I didn’t react much to yours,” Crowley countered, “but you sure as hell reacted to mine.”

“Are you lot going to keep bickering or move on?” one zombie asked, dropping the act.

“Er, we’ll move on,” Aziraphale said hastily, pushing Crowley out the door ahead of him.

The next few rooms were filled with utterly predictable nonsense. Crowley transformed the prop chainsaw being wielded by a stoned, stage-blood-splattered teenager into a real one for a split second, which actually did seem to give Aziraphale a fright. As for the mildly weed-addled teenager, they exclaimed “Wicked!” and then looked disappointed when the chainsaw reverted back.

“Crowley, this is dangerous,” Aziraphale said, yanking him out of the mass-murderer’s massacre as quickly as they’d left the other rooms.

“Says the arse who let a real gun fall into the hands of a kid on his birthday,” Crowley retorted.

“It wasn’t for very long!” Aziraphale protested as they approached the costume storage room.

“Well, there you are,” Crowley said amicably. “I didn’t leave the chainsaw very long, either.”

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Aziraphale said worriedly. “We should just head home before—”

Crowley turned the tables, shoving the angel ahead of him into costume storage. The room looked the same way it always had, four times the size of the largest dressing room with rows upon rows of racks on which hung moth-eaten garments from time immemorial.

“Let there be light,” Crowley whispered, borrowing one of Aziraphale’s tricks. The two of them were suddenly suffused in a soft, blue-white glow.

“No flashlights allowed!” shouted one of the kids hidden somewhere amongst the racks. “Didn’t my mum tell you when you bought tickets?”

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, dousing the light with a snap.

“Carry on with…whatever this is,” Crowley encouraged.

“No!” the kid shouted back. “You’ve ruined it. Get out.”

“As the youth put it these days, yikes,” Aziraphale said, beckoning Crowley to follow him out.

“You spend too much time on Reddit,” Crowley said with the fondest disdain he could muster.

It was clear Crowley’s game wasn’t working out, least of all for the haunted house denizens. The remaining dressing rooms contained everything from bats dangling from the ceiling and pint-sized vampires stalking in the shadows to mummies rising from sarcophagi.

The prop storage room came last, right before their last few steps would take them into the wings, stage right. Unlike the other hazily-lit rooms, it was pitch-black. Crowley hesitated on the threshold, wondering if they were even meant to go into this one.

“Go on,” Aziraphale hissed, nudging him forward into the chilly, damp smelling darkness.

“Who goes there?” demanded a low, shockingly effective voice. Had to be another teenager.

Crowley huffed, shrugging Aziraphale’s hand off his shoulder. “Yeah, whatever. I’m—”

The prop sword in the unseen bearer’s hand erupted in a semblance of flames, and Crowley remembered the thing to which he’d feared he might flash back in this particular place. It was exceptionally high on the list of things that he truly didn’t want to remember.

Once, not so long ago, they’d been trapped by someone who was not a fan of the life they’d built for themselves in this quiet corner of Eden. He’d done the only thing he could think to do, which was slide that sorry excuse for a weapon to Aziraphale. And Aziraphale had used it.

Crowley turned, his heart seizing with that icy recollection, and fled the room. He wasn’t running full tilt, but he was moving fast enough that he wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. Each impact of his boot heels went from hard concrete to resonant wooden boards.

The curtains, those fucking antique velvet curtains that could smother someone if they were ever to fall. They weren’t cobwebs, but they caught Crowley anyway. He shouldn’t have worn his sunglasses; they dulled his view in the dark. His distressed utterance as he disentangled himself and tripped through where the curtains parted drew Aziraphale’s footfalls to his side.

“Why didn’t you say something this morning?” Aziraphale demanded, dropping to kneel beside him. He hooked his arms under Crowley’s, pulling him up to rest with his back against Aziraphale’s chest, holding him tightly. “No, that’s not on you. Why didn’t I—”

“Keeps us humble, doesn’t it,” Crowley laughed shakily, clutching Aziraphale’s forearms.

“Reminders of what we once fought?” Aziraphale asked, casting about until he found Crowley’s sunglasses a foot away. “I’d rather they didn’t.”

“You and me both,” Crowley muttered as Aziraphale put the glasses back on his face. He struggled to turn around in Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Enough silly buggers for one night,” Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s lips.

“You had better pay up with a lot more than that once we’re home,” Crowley replied.

“What if I were to make us some mojitos?” Aziraphale suggested, helping Crowley to his feet. “All the better to show Mistress Mint who’s boss.”

“You’re a bastard,” Crowley said, sliding his arms around Aziraphale, “and I love you for it.”