#who are being excellent testers of Stan and Angie's ability to maintain their covers

[thelastspeecher]

Mission: White Picket Fence - PTA

Last night, I was in a Spy AU mood (specifically, Mission: White Picket Fence), so I asked for suggestions, and both @mythomagically-delicious and @nour386 suggested Stan and Angie going to a PTA meeting.  So here it is.  Stan and Angie going to a PTA meeting and hating every second of it.  Enjoy.

              Stan unbuckled the car seat and picked Fiddleford up out of it.

              “I still think this is ridiculous,” Fiddleford hissed at Stan. “I don’t need to be in a car seat.” Stan carefully set Fiddleford on the ground.

              “Angie and I agree,” Stan whispered.  “But that the decision was from the higher-ups, so we have to follow it.” Fiddleford scowled.  “Are you just grumpy because you had to change out of your comfortable clothes for this?”

              “That’s a factor, fer sure,” Fiddleford muttered.  He tugged at his polo shirt.  “I hate these formal clothes.  They’re itchy.”

              “We all have to wear stuff we don’t wanna,” Stan said.  He gestured at himself.  “Do you think I enjoy wearing sweater vests and button-downs?” Fiddleford frowned.

              “Do those belong to Stanford?”

              “…Maybe.”

              “I don’t see why I have to dress up fer this PTA meetin’,” Fiddleford continued. “I ain’t a parent or a teacher. It ain’t school hours.  Do the folks ‘round here just assume that children are dressed like they’re headin’ to the country club 24/7?”

              “…Yes,” Stan said after a moment.  Fiddleford huffed.  “Look, we’ve gotta keep up appearances.  That means dressing nice in public.  Like I said, you aren’t the only one who hates it.”

              “Enough gripin’, gents,” Angie said, getting out of the passenger seat. She stumbled slightly.  Stan reached out to grab her.

              “Babe?”

              “I’m fine.  Just got a bit dizzy fer a second.”  Angie shook her head.  “All right. That’s better.”  She grabbed her large purse out of the minivan. “Remember, once we step inside, any business relatin’ to the mission has to be said in Spanish.”

              “Are we sure that we won’t be understood?” Fiddleford asked.  

              “Well, we’ll be whisperin’ in addition to speakin’ in a dif’rent language,” Angie said.  “But yes.”

              “I’ve met some of these parents,” Stan muttered.  “There’s no way any of them know Spanish.  Pretty sure they’re of the ‘Speak English or get out’ mindset.” Fiddleford frowned at Stan.

              “Stanley, will ya be able to keep yer cover in there?”

              “I get paid to do this shit, Fiddlesticks,” Stan said.  “Yeah, I will.”  Angie handed him a tray of brownies.  “All right.  Let’s go…do whatever you do at a PTA meeting.”

----- 

              The second they stepped into the school, Angie grabbed Fiddleford’s hand. Fiddleford immediately attempted to wriggle free.  Angie tightened her grip and frowned at Fiddleford.

              “Ryan, I know you want your dad to hold your hand, but he’s got to carry the treats we brought,” she said, dropping her accent and adjusting her voice to a lower pitch.

              “We’re inside, I don’t need to hold your hand,” Fiddleford whined, abandoning his accent as well.  Angie’s frown deepened.  “…Mom.”

              “Well, I don’t want you wandering off, okay?  This is a big school.”

              “But-”

              “Listen to your mom, kiddo,” Stan said.  Like Angie and Fiddleford, he had lost his accent, and like Angie, adjusted his voice.  Instead of the usual gravelly tone, it was warm and jovial.  Fiddleford sighed quietly.

              “Okay,” he said.  Angie’s death grip loosened slightly.  Fiddleford looked around the hallway.  St. Luke’s was an inviting school during the day, but at night, something was eerie. Maybe it was the harsh fluorescent lights juxtaposed against the dark sky, or the complete silence so strong a pin drop would be audible.  Either way, the hairs on the back of Fiddleford’s neck stood up.  Finally, they rounded a corner and could make out faint conversation.

              “Sounds like we’re getting close,” Angie said.  Stan and Fiddleford nodded.  The three of them came to a stop outside a kindergarten classroom. Fiddleford noted, to his distaste, that it was the same classroom he had mistakenly been assigned to for two weeks. Angie beamed broadly at the woman standing at the door.  “Hello! I’m Laura Young.  This is my husband, Conner, and our youngest son, Ryan.” The woman smiled back.

              “Nice to meet you.  I’m Helen.” Stan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Of course you are”.

              “It’s lovely to meet you, too!” Angie chirped.  “We’re new, so that’s why we haven’t been to one of these meetings before.”

              “And that’s also why you brought your son, I assume?” Helen said.  Angie raised an eyebrow.

              “Pardon?”

              “We don’t allow children at our PTA meetings.”

              “Oh, well, we didn’t plan on bringing Ryan.  But both of us wanted to attend the meeting.”

              “You don’t have a nanny?” Helen asked.  A disgusted expression flashed across Angie’s face before she regained her composure.

              “Ryan is rather sensitive,” Angie whispered.  “He doesn’t do well without either myself or my husband around.”

              “I imagine he makes it through the school day somehow,” Helen said with a smile.  Angie straightened her back.

              “I knew you would understand,” she said brightly.  Helen blinked.  “Thank you, so much.”  Angie breezed past Helen and into the classroom, dragging Fiddleford with her.  Fiddleford looked back at Helen.  She seemed completely blindsided.

              “Hello, Youngs,” a chipper voice said.  Lisa, the neighbor Stan couldn’t stand, walked over.  She bent over to smile at Fiddleford.  “Hello, Ryan.”  Fiddleford hid behind Angie’s leg.  “Oh, right, he’s shy, isn’t he?” Lisa said, straightening up.  “He’s also not allowed to be here.”

              “He won’t be a problem,” Angie said smoothly.  She patted her bag.  “I brought plenty of things to entertain him with while the grownup business happens. We simply couldn’t leave him at home.” Angie lowered her voice.  “He’s still adjusting to the move, after all.”

              “Of course.”  Lisa’s gaze landed on the tray of brownies Stan was carrying.  “You brought pastries?”

              “Brownies,” Stan corrected.

              “Ah, well, brownies are a type of pastry,” Lisa said.  Fiddleford could hear Stan’s teeth grinding.

              “They’re homemade,” Angie said.  She smiled at Stan.  “Conner worked in a bakery to pay for graduate school.  He’s still quite the baker.”  Stan smiled back at Angie.

              “You flatter me too much, honey.”

              “I disagree,” Angie cooed.  “Now, go put those brownies somewhere while Ryan and I find a spot to sit.”  Stan nodded.  He walked over to a trestle table covered in various foodstuffs. Angie smiled at Fiddleford.  “Come on, Ryan.”  Fiddleford gladly let Angie lead him to a beanbag chair in the back of the room.  Angie let go of his hand, allowing Fiddleford to take a seat.  “Comfy?”  Fiddleford shifted slightly on the beanbag.  He nodded.  “Do you want your tablet?”  Fiddleford nodded again.  Angie took a tablet computer out of her purse and handed it to him.  “Whatcha going to play?”

              “Minecraft,” Fiddleford mumbled.  Angie sat on a short, brightly colored chair.  She smiled.

              “Sounds great.”  She dug around in her purse.  Fiddleford started up the tablet.  “Oh, here. You’ll need this.”  Angie placed a small piece of paper in Fiddleford’s lap. Fiddleford glanced down.  It was the Wi-Fi password, followed by a series of numbers.

              “Thanks, Mom.”

              “Of course, sweetie.”  Angie stroked Fiddleford’s hair.  Stan joined them.  “Anything on that food table look good?”

              “Looked like it was all weird, allergy-free, sugar-free, healthy stuff. So, no.”  Stan squatted next to Fiddleford.  He switched to speaking in Spanish.  “Remember, don’t bother trying to sift through the data yet.  Just grab it.  We’ll go over it at the house.”  Fiddleford nodded slightly.

              “Was that Spanish?” a voice asked.  Stan and Angie looked over at the speaker.  It was a woman with short blonde hair and an air of superiority. Like most of the people in the room.

              “Uh, yes, it was,” Stan said.  The woman’s eyes widened.

              “Wow,” she said.  “Are you teaching him Spanish so that he can communicate better with the help?  That’s so considerate.”  Stan’s wary expression settled into a carefully blank one.

              “No, we’re not,” he said shortly.  The woman frowned.

              “Then why?”

              “We don’t need to teach him Spanish.”

              “But-”

              “Ryan here was born in Costa Rica,” Angie interrupted.  “He’s fluent in Spanish already.  Sometimes we switch between languages, just so that he keeps up his fluency.”

              “He was born in Costa Rica?”  Stan and Angie nodded.  “Does he know that he’s adopted?”  The last word was spoken in a stage whisper.  Angie’s forced cheer evaporated.  She tensed visibly.

              “Penny, Dan wants to know if- oh!”  Lisa appeared behind the woman currently testing Stan and Angie’s acting skills.  “These are the neighbors I told you about.”

              “The world travelers?” the woman – Penny – asked.

              “Yes.  The Youngs.” Lisa beamed at Stan and Angie. “And their youngest son, Ryan.”

              “That explains why he was born in a different country,” Penny said.  “I mean, if you traveled the world-”

              “We didn’t,” Stan interrupted.  “What Laura and I did, it was just jumping around Central America for a while so that we could keep up our doctoral research.  We’ve never left the Western Hemisphere.”  Stan looked at Angie.  “I don’t consider that world traveling.  Do you, dear?”

              “Oh, no,” Angie said.  “We’re well-traveled, but only in regards to Central America.  When considering the whole world, we’ve barely left the neighborhood!”  She let out a light laugh.  Penny and Lisa laughed as well.

              “The meeting will start soon, so we’ll leave you alone,” Lisa said.  Angie and Stan nodded silently.  Lisa and Penny walked away.

              “How the hell do their faces not break?” Stan whispered in Spanish.  Angie frowned at him.  “The way they smile all the time.”  Angie rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

              “I agree,” she replied in the same language.  “Though it’s more like baring their teeth than smiling, in my opinion.”  She rubbed her forehead.  “Lord, I’m jealous of Ford.  He didn’t have to come to this.”

              “Yeah, but he’s stuck at that kid Clark’s house, being treated like a nine-year-old.”               “I suppose you’ve got a point.”  Angie sighed and leaned back in her chair.  “How’s it going, Ryan?”

              “Now that those ladies left, I can actually get started,” Fiddleford mumbled, speaking Spanish like Stan and Angie.  He tapped on his tablet furiously.  “They have good security here.  It’ll take me longer than I thought to hack in.”

              “Great,” Stan groaned.  He got up. “I’m gonna go get some brownies. Either of you want one?”

              “If you made them?  No,” Fiddleford said shortly.

              “I made them,” Angie said.  “Your ‘father’ completely destroyed his first three attempts, so I stepped in.”

              “I’ll figure out how to bake eventually,” Stan said with a shrug.

              “You’ll do it soon,” Angie said firmly.  “It’s part of your backstory.”

              “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stan said.  “So, Ryan, did you change your mind about a brownie, then?”

              “Eh, sure, I’ll have one,” Fiddleford said, still busily tapping.

              “Laura?” Stan asked.  Angie shook her head.

              “No, thanks.  I’m not feeling that well.”  Fiddleford and Stan looked at her.  “Oh, relax. It’s nothing.  Just a bit of an upset stomach.”

              “Do you feel nauseous?” Stan asked.  Angie nodded.

              “Yeah.”  She looked at Stan in an accusing manner.  “Maybe it’s food poisoning from those messed-up brownies you made.”  Stan put a hand over his chest in mock distress.

              “You wound me, wife,” he gasped.  Angie chuckled.  “You don’t get a brownie.”

              “I didn’t ask for one.”  Angie grimaced.  She bent over and gagged.

              “You all right?” Fiddleford asked.  Angie nodded.

              “Yes.  That was just a bad hit of nausea is all.”

              “Well, keep that puke inside you until Ryan’s done,” Stan said.  He eyed the gathered parents and teachers.  “You throwing up would be a great way for us to leave early without being questioned too much by these fucking asses.”  Angie nodded.

              “Anything to get out of here sooner.”