Good Omens: The Convoluted and Entertaining Shenanigans of a Fallen and an Angelic Time Lord, a Fanfiction Chapter One
“Well, naturally we’ve got to interfere, it’s only right! Look how much humanity has changed and grown, and they are only just getting started! There is no need for them, no need for any of these beautiful creatures, great and small to suffer, for the whims of angels and demons!”
The Doctor was adamant, the Doctor was impassioned, the Doctor was drunk.
Wherein the Aziraphale is Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor and Crowley is Sacha Dhawan’s Master, among some other substitutions.
Disclaimer: Yelling “not it!” like I’m playing tag except instead I’m not claiming that I own the copyright to Good Omens or Doctor Who.
Author’s Note: I know I should be working on A Trio of Tricksters right now, but life is hard and I was inspired by this when all of my other creative juices had died out. An update for Eclipse the Past Usurp the Future will probably be out by May, but don’t hold me to that *hides under table*
In the meantime enjoy some azcrow/spydoc madness! Thanks to my best friend & beta cyborg_goddess
Chapter One: I have a plan… or at least I will
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. Crowley, or the Master as he was calling himself now, would have preferred it if it were, but controlling the heavens really wasn’t his thing these days. He didn’t want to be meeting Hastur and Ligur, he wanted to be at the Ritz with the Doctor and watching her try to figure out how he had single handedly destroyed the functionality of every mobile phone tower in Greater London, but instead he had to listen to these buffoons recount the ‘deeds of the day.’ And then there was that. The child. First the child, then the end of the world. Absolutely brilliant. Perhaps he would take the Doctor to Alpha Centauri and they could laugh at the ashes of Earth together.
Nah. She’d protest at the lack of crepes.
—
Doctor Azira Fell wasn’t really what you would expect from an Angel. She wasn’t really what you’d expect from a Doctor either. She owned a bookshop in Soho, and was known to be very friendly, all rainbows and pants that don’t reach, up until someone actually wanted to buy a book, at which point the smiles and prices became rather fixed at high and non-negotiable points. She was known to open and close at odd hours, and rumor had it that her doctorate was in 17th century french cuisine. Although the majority of her books were quite old, the back room of her shop was a technological marvel, as the Doctor was also an engineer and a mechanic, fascinated with how humanity had grown and was using technology to come aspirationally close to her very own miracles.
She was rather put out when, on the day our story starts, her cell phone cut out just as she was about to call up the Master about an exciting (and dreadfully wrong) assertion someone had made about salads.
—
“Well, naturally we’ve got to interfere, it’s only right! Look how much humanity has changed and grown, and they are only just getting started! There is no need for them, no need for any of these beautiful creatures, great and small to suffer, for the whims of angels and demons!” The Doctor was adamant, the Doctor was impassioned, the Doctor was drunk.
“Yes, and humans suffer enough based on what they do to each other anyway, it’s hardly any work for me, besides, the arrangement —” the Master began.
“Doesn’t exist.” Apparently the Doctor wasn’t that drunk.
“If we adjust the arrangement we can just work against each other. I can sway the child toward hell, you can sway them toward heaven, if it all works out, they’ll just be like any other well-adjusted rich kid.” He flashed her a smile. “Don’t you think I’d make a handsome tutor?”
“I need to be more sober for this,” The Doctor rubbed her temples and the wine bottle refilled. “If you could skip the housewife seduction portion of your Shakespeare portfolio and focus on our mission regarding the Antichrist, that would be lovely, dear.”
“Darling, I am a demon. My fall may have been more of a saunter, but here I am to stay. No housewives for me though. I prefer partners with age gaps of less than multiple millenia.”
The Doctor, who was now humming and adjusting an invention of hers — a neural multitool — was oblivious to the coy eyes aimed her way.
“Whatever you say, dear.”
—
Sister Francis was a fantastic gardener in Harriet Dowling’s opinion. She just had a way with the plants that Harriet had never been able to manifest herself. And the way that she took to Warlock was incredibly sweet. She often found that when Warlock wasn’t in his private lessons with the tutor they had hired for him, Mr. Ashtoreth, he was often in the garden with Sister Francis.
Harriet had been wary of nuns, ever since she found out that the place she had given birth to Warlock had been burned to ash mere hours after they had left. But Sister Francis was far different from any kind of clergy Harriet had ever known before, her references including Beyonce, the landscaper responsible for the upkeep of the Kensington Palace Gardens, and Queen Elizabeth the First, though she wondered if the last one might be a typo.
Mr. Ashtoreth was also a fantastic tutor for Warlock, as her son seemed to be thriving under his teachings. Harriet knew that no son of her and Thaddeus would be unintelligent, but Warlock was shaping up to be an incredibly clever young boy. It didn’t hurt the case for keeping Ashtoreth around that he was very easy on the eyes, especially with the cut of his suit and the very particular shape of his beard that was just…
Harriet was snapped out of her musings about the two members of her staff, who had shown up unexpectedly, and on the same day too, come to think of it, when in a rare moment, Warlock came to her to ask for something.
“Yes darling?”
—
“He’s too normal!” the Master hissed into the Doctor’s ear, settling in the seat behind hers on the mildly populated bus.
“Oi. Isn’t he supposed to be? That’s the point, isn’t it?” she replied, turning the page in her copy of Beano.
“No, but I don’t get the slightest shiver off him. It’s not natural. One of us should have influenced him by now.”
“We both did. We struck a balance. That was the goal yeah?” She leaned over the back of the seat to show him the page of her magazine. “What do you make of these funny little cartoon pepper shakers? I reckon those plunger things are a bit rubbish.”
“There’s a lot of damage that can be done with rubbish,” the Master sniffed, annoyed at her dismissal of his worries. “This is our stop if you still want to get lunch.”
—
“So the dog never came,” the Doctor said unhappily, cake still sliding down the front of her rainbow striped magician suit.
“No dog, no.” the Master ground his teeth, gripping the steering wheel of his Bentley.
“That was the wrong boy,” the Doctor continued calmly, miracling away the cake and smoothing her ruffled hair.
“Wrong boy!” the Master shouted, in a kind of rage as he hit the steering wheel in anger.
“Start driving,” the Doctor said firmly.
“I hope you have a plan.”
“I will have by the time you hit the highway.” She said confidently.