carmen_lj | Fic: Martha Jones, Angel of Death!

Title: Martha Jones, Angel of Death!
Characters: Ten/Martha, more or less, the Black Guardian
Rating: PG for swears
Summary: Deep, theological...thing. Possibly vaguely offensive, to someone, somewhere. Maybe.

A/N: Very sorry about this, only not really.

Martha Jones, Angel of Death!

"Oh dear," said Adeola as she floated somewhere above her body. "Am I dead?"

"Yes," said a disembodied voice. He spoke with gravitas. The sort of gravitas the Judeo-Christian god might have. And he had an English accent. Not one of those fake Mancurian ones either, this was a real English accent, right from the heart of the Home Counties.

Adeola was suddenly and impressively enveloped by some very dodgy mid-eighties CSO. She felt vaguely queasy. God would have much better taste, she decided.

"Bugger," said the voice, which was no longer disembodied, but now belonged to an old geezer in a black cape who just so happened to be The Lord of All Evil and Darkness in the Whole Freakin' Cosmos. Otherwise known as the Black Guardian. Capitals mandatory.

He'd bought the cape in Woolworths; they'd had a sale on after Halloween.

The Black Guardian snapped his fingers and the gaudy swirling background colours melted into a far less shaming starscape.

"Neat," said Adeola. "Who're you?"

"Black Guardian," said the Black Guardian. "Lord of Death, Chaos, General Mayhem. Here's my card."

Adeola looked at the card. It was black. Very.

"Now, Adeola," he said. "As you might have noticed, you're in a bit of a jam. First of all, you're floating around in the middle of space, with absolutely no protection and not a hope in heck of any sort of rescue. Were it not for my awesome and impressive power things would be pretty painful for you right now."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt the awesome rhetoric!" The Black Guardian took an impressive breath of nonexistent air. "Secondly, you're dead. Very dead. So, all in all, this hasn't been a good day for you."

"No, but-"

"So what I'm going to do, Adeola, don't mind if I call you that, do you? What I'm going to do, Adeola, is offer you a deal. A fantastic deal. Good for you, good for me, good for the whole freakin' cosmos. You get to be alive, I get to be evil, and a lot of governments get to go on governing."

"Nice governments?" asked Adeola. She had a social conscience, you know.

The Black Guardian gritted his teeth. "You want to live or not?"

"Er, sure," said Adeola. Sadly, Adeola hadn't been made to read, then write screeds of tediously long, not-very-insightful essays on Faust at university. She'd done Media Studies.

"Excellent." The Black Guardian slapped her on the back. Adeola coughed. The Black Guardian ignored her, and said, "All you've got to do is kill this guy." He handed her a glossy eight by four, out of which peered the face of a grinning lunatic.

"Isn't this the guy that killed me?" asked Adeola.

"Well, technically the Cy-" began the Guardian, before he cut himself off, and smiled. It was an evil smile; Adeola didn't notice. He said, "Yes, yes it is. See? It's ironic justice too. Good stuff that. Full of vitamins. You want the job?"

Adeola shrugged. "Yeah, alright."

The Black Guardian sighed. It was a cosmic sigh. The sort of sigh that caused several planets in one of the outer galaxies to spontaneously explode in a display of special effects that blew the budget for half the season. "Couldn't summon up a bit more enthusiasm, could you?" he said.

Adeola leaned forward and squinted. "D'you know there's a dead bird on your head?"

The Black Guardian glared. "I like birds."

"Oh."

He sniffed. "Taxidermy is a perfectly legitimate hobby."

Adeola nodded slowly, then said: "Isn't that what the guy in Psycho did? He wasn't very good at being evil. He got caught."

"Adeola?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

+++

Adeola, no, Martha, she was Martha now. Though she wasn't going to ask how that had happened. It would probably be full of fanwank and make her all queasy again. About as queasy as having to work a night shift in a hospital when all she'd ever learned about medicine came from early morning reruns of Holby City.

Martha now. Martha Jones. Doctor Jones, Doctor Jones, calling Doctor Jones...

She hadn't had much sleep. And she'd already seen the daft git once that morning and been half-convinced he was going to start stripping in front of her. And she'd had to look at way, way too much blood. And ill people. And nauseous people. And the end results of nauseous people.

Bugger. Morning rounds.

Double-bugger. The daft git again.

He was putting her off. Martha was certain that, deep down, real deep down, she could be a brilliant pretend doctor. She just need less googly eyes, mad grins and weasel faces watching her.

Heh, he had two hearts. Cool. She tried to look suitably impressed.

It seemed to work; he winked at her. Wink? That was like flirting, wasn't it? The mad-eyed psycho alien was flirting with her. That had to be gross.

She thought about it a bit more. Yeah, definitely gross. Yucky aliens. With their yucky alien...bits. They were probably all green and knobbly.

She remembered that she was meant to be killing him, not thinking abut his bits and looked around for some sort of stabbing weapon.

Then she remembered that it was broad daylight, that she wasn't really going to be able to sneak up on him right now and that there was a large group of proper student doctors currently surrounding the bed, not to mention the professor...who seemed to be talking...and looking at her...

"...rather failed basic techniques by not first consulting the patient's chart."

Oh. Yeah. That. They definitely did that on Holby.

+++

"But it was really clever," Martha protested. "A brilliant riposte to throw him completely off the scent."

"I was, I admit, counting on a certain amount from common sense from you. I was rather under the impression that Torchwood recruited intelligent and highly-qualified individuals." The Black Guardian threw a disgusted look at the flat screen TV and turned over from BBC3. "After this little incident I can see I was very much mistaken. So, for future reference, do not suggest, hint or explicitly tell the Doctor that you are anybody but Martha Jones. And that includes any and all mentions of Adeola."

Martha saluted. "Aye-aye, kep-tun."

"And no stupid pseudo-Russian accents either." He narrowed his eyes, stared somewhere over her left shoulder. "We're not Star Trek..." he muttered.

+++

Martha started to get used to being lifted out of space-time to have a quick conversation with her new employer. And she really tried to pay attention to what he said, but he was usually very angry, angry enough for the raven attached to his head to be bobbing at a tremendous rate, and Martha found she just couldn't tear her eyes away from the thing.

"Mmhmm," she said.

"ARE YOU LISTENING?" he capslocked.

"Er, yeah," said Martha. "Kill the Doctor; don't kiss him again."

It had been a very nice kiss. Nice enough that she was willing to forgive the googly eyes, and perhaps even the weasel features, but if his bits were green and knobbly, no chance.

The Black Guardian slammed his hand against his forehead, and the raven slid halfway down his head. "Don't save his life again, you...you... Look, killing is easy. Just find a big rock and drop it on his head." He thought about that for a moment, and then he frowned. "On second thoughts, don't do that. It turned out rather badly last time. Can't you get hold of a gun or something?"

Martha shrugged. "I dunno. Seems a bit complicated in Britain...now, if we were in America..." Her eyes brightened and she looked alarmingly cute.

"Yeah, right," said the Guardian. "I'm not paying for a flight to the US. You any idea of the taxes they're slapping on those things just now? Besides," he added, "you should take better care of your planet."

Martha frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be all evil and the like?"

"Yes," said the Guardian, speaking painfully slowly, "but since evil is an abstract concept, one tends to need the little sentients to be all alive and thinking clever little thoughts in order for it to exist. And they can't do that if they've gone and buggered up their atmosphere." He straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster. "Now," he said, "would you please go and kill the Doctor?"

"Guess so," said Martha.

"And vote Green," he added.

+++

"I totally saved the planet," said Martha. "You should be well-pleased."

"Do I look well-pleased?" asked the Guardian, looking ever so slightly like a god-like being of immense powers who was in the mood for a spot of violence for cheap kicks.

Martha considered. "You'd've liked the Empire of Blood and Bones and storybook witches?"

"Yes," nodded the Guardian, not looking the least bit calmer. "Yes, I would've."

"Um...well...I'll just be going now...going to kill the Doctor. Pronto-like."

"Yes," agreed the Guardian. "You do that. I'm going to go and kick some adorable puppies."

+++

"I thought I'd get him with hubris," Martha explained. "Hubris can be very deadly in large quantities." She nodded enthusiastically. "I saw it on Panorama once," she lied, then continued, "So I just sat him down, and drew it all out. But then he got all emo, cried on my shoulder in the painfully literal way and wanted to have a quick cheer-me-up go-on-Martha-just-this-once shag."

The Black Guardian ground his teeth. He was on his third set that week.

+++

"I sort of zapped him?" said Martha.

"He zapped himself," snapped the Guardian.

"I...um..."

"All you needed to do was give him a little shove. Just one little shove, and whoosh! There he goes and gets himself splattered all over the sidewalk."

"I didn't think of that," admitted Martha.

The Guardian loomed over her in a distinctly threatening way. The raven bobbed lazily atop his head. "I'm going to be keeping a closer eye on you," he said.

Martha stared at the dead bird. "Anyone ever tell you about Edgar Allan Poe?" she asked.

+++

Keeping a closer eye turned out to mean that the Guardian would pop in at random moments when his awesome and cosmic boredom got to be a bit much.

It was just that he seemed to get awesomely and cosmically bored in the middle of the night, and Martha liked her sleep. And he paced a lot, and ranted, and it was all very monotonous, so she generally dozed off.

The door crashed open. That woke her up.

"What's going on here then?" asked the Doctor, as he tried to put on his best The Oncoming Storm expression but failed dismally, in no small part due to the pink dressing gown and bunny slippers combo.

"Er," said Martha. "We're not doing sex."

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. After a suitably dramatic pause, he said, "Okay then." He turned to the Black Guardian, and said, "Whatever your foul scheme is, I'll be stopping you within the next three to six stories."

"Bugger," said the Guardian and promptly vanished into a plot hole.

"I can explain," said Martha.

And she did.

+++

"You tried to kill me," said the Doctor, as he strode into the console room, Martha at his heels. "You can't be my One True Love if you tried to kill me. It just won't do. You'll have to go." He shoved the door open. "Rose wouldn't have tried to kill me," he added with a sniff. "And Romana only tried it because she caught me playing with her special sonic screwdriver."

Martha folded her arms, and didn't budge an inch. "Exactly how many One True Loves do you have, Doctor?"

"That's beside the point."

Martha raised an eyebrow. A beautifully sculpted, very attractive eyebrow. The Doctor sighed, and tried hard not to think about how perfect Martha's eyebrows were. "You know," he said slowly, "you're not the first companion I've had who's tried to kill me."

Martha didn't know whether to be insulted, curious or thoroughly unsurprised. She settled for an uncommitted, "Oh."

"We ended up having an awful lot of hot sex."

"Are your bits green and knobbly?" she asked.

The Doctor gave his best pout. "No," he said. "They look just like yours...if you were a guy...they look just like a guy's. A human guy's."

Martha walked over to the Doctor and pulled the door shut. "I can live with that," she said as she began to unbutton his shirt.

His hands slipped under her t-shirt. "Take me, human," he murmured.

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From:

lizbee.livejournal.com

I was going to say, "Thank you for writing the greatest fic ever in the history of the universe", but then I remembered that I read the greatest fic ever in the history of the universe earlier this morning, and you can't have two in one day. Not before lunch, anyway. It's just tacky.

So, thank you for writing the second-greatest fic ever in the history of the universe. I laughed at all the bits I think were meant to be funny, whic seemed to be most of the fic. Especially the bird.

From:

i should like a hat like that

Fic: Martha Jones, Angel of Death!

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