Seeing Double

A Good Omens and Doctor Who fanfiction

"And you said I couldn't make a dimension-defying time machine out of a car!" The meta-crisis Doctor turned and smiled – perhaps a smidgen too pleased with himself – at Rose in the passenger seat.

"For the last time, I never said you couldn't," sighed Rose, shaking her head. "I said 'maybe you shouldn't'." Wincing, she added, "Oh, I just knew that Back To The Future marathon was a bad idea," under her breath. Then, more audibly, "What I don't get is why you had to nick this old car from the motor museum in the first place – why didn't you just use the minivan?"

"The minivan?" He actually shuddered, his voice rising in pitch and warbling melodramatically. "That's like asking why Leonardo da Vinci couldn't just use finger-paint from Poundland. And it's not just an 'old car'!" The meta-crisis Doctor patted the steering-wheel lovingly, dragging his little finger along it with lingering affection. "This, Rose, is a 1926 Bentley!"

"You still just got in it and drove it off the lot without permission."

"The other me stole his Tardis," he pointed out, reaching up to straighten the black fedora he was wearing. "A little piece of which, I might add, is currently powering this engine. Same thing, really."

Rose shrugged and looked out at the colours in-between universes speeding past the window. To his credit, he didn't bring up the other version of himself – the one Rose had begun her adventures with – very often, but every once in a while, with such innocent enthusiasm that she couldn't even be cross with him, he'd mention her first Doctor and – despite all the years, despite all they'd been through – a sort of sadness would wash over her.

It was no longer unduly distressing, but the feeling which sprang up, a dull sort of wintry ache that had a double pulse like a Time Lord's heart, was still very real.

Although, to be fair, she sometimes thought it must be far worse for him.

Imagine being in his head, remembering all those amazing things, and knowing – all the while – that it wasn't really you, that all your memories up to a certain point properly belonged to somebody else.

Pity is not always the best – or most enduring – way to beget love, but it certainly had worked as a good starting point for Rose.

"Besides," he added, gently changing the subject and shifting the car into another lane of the multi-dimensional, metaphysical highway, preparing to get off on his exit very soon, "your people from Torchwood blew up that museum. You could just as easily make the argument I rescued this poor, defenceless Bentley from a fiery demise."

Rose reached over and touched his hand. "Did you tell the kids where we're going yet?"

"No." He glanced into the extra-large, flashing-blue-light enshrouded rear-view mirror he'd installed when he put the finishing touches on, and smiled at the quartet of pretty blonde children sitting in the back seat.

If Margaret Keane and V.C. Andrews had got together in a pub to plan it all out, and Keane did the eyes, all big and wistful, and Andrews got free, unrestricted license over the hair and skin, making them all Dresden Dolls in the flesh, they couldn't have been any lovelier to look at.

This version of the Doctor was extremely proud of them. He beamed, grinning widely. "We're going to the world your mother was born in."

The oldest child, a serious boy of twelve or thirteen, who – unlike the other three – was not actually one of theirs, but rather Jackie and the alternate-world Pete's son, Tony, asked, "Why?"

"Day trip," answered the meta-crisis Doctor, stepping down hard on the gas so as to not miss the now imminent exit. "Little family Holiday. It'll be fun."

"Hello?" Aziraphale cradled the handset between his neck and shoulder. "Is this Intimate Books? I'm your next-door neighbour – A.Z Fell and Co., yes, that's the one, well done. Anyway, I'm calling to inquire as to if you mightn't mind turning down that theremin music you've been playing for the last minute or so; it's rather loud." He paused, a dense furrow embedding itself between his eyebrows as he listened to the reply from the other end. "Steady on, my good man. There really is no need for that kind of language. Or, might I add, to bring my weight into this."

The ensuing dial-tone shrilled pointedly and Aziraphale, shifting and freeing his hands, gingerly placed the handset back onto the cradle with a sigh. He closed his eyes and removed the reading-glasses which had been perched on the end of his nose.

Then he remembered.

He was meant to phone Crowley as well – they were going to the British Museum today.

Crowley sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, yawning broadly. As he slithered out of his room and meandered his way past his houseplants and into the office with his desk and ansaphone, smoothing out his rumpled appearance as he walked, he had the nagging feeling he'd forgotten something.

The little red eye on his machine was blinking. Yawning again, he reached down to play his messages.

Crowley, do stop saying the same things over and over – you were meant to be here twenty minutes ago, is everything all right? A static-filled pause. Then two full minutes of Aziraphale breathing heavily and rather confusedly (the angel didn't quite understand the concept behind talking to ansaphones and thus his messages were always distinctly, for lack of a better description, off). British Museum today, did you forget? Then a muttered, Humph, idiot.

"Ugggh," groaned Crowley, because – of course – he had forgotten.

Oh, wait, there you are, I see you – you seem to be giving directions to a rather charming little family. Only, wait a moment, who've I been talking to – if you're here? Hmm. Well, no matter. No harm done. Pip pip for now, dear fellow. I'll just be grabbing my coat popping out to see you. Getting into the Bentley, what.

"Wot?" Suddenly uncommonly chilled all over, down to the very bone, Crowley felt his snaky eyes widen.

There was clearly some mistake – he was still here, in his flat, and he could see his parked Bentley from the nearest window.

Click.

Earlier:

"I still can't believe all of you need to use the lavatory at the same time – I told you to go at home," said the meta-crisis Doctor as he stepped out of the souped-up Bentley. "This isn't exactly the best, most sanitary dimension for going potty in – we talked about this in the debriefing I gave before take off!"

"I think," Rose put in, getting out on the other side and helping the whining children, "it may have more to do with the fact that there's a sweet shop on this street." She sighed. "You'll all rot your teeth."

"Aw, let them enjoy it, it's a special occasion," the meta-crisis Doctor cooed, changing his tune and taking money out of his jacket pocket, which he pressed into Tony's already outstretched hand. "Get them all a little something on your way out."

"I'd better go with them," said Rose. "Tony's as bad as the little ones sometimes." She looked at him askance. "Babe, why are you wearing those sunglasses?"

"I told you, I'm not supposed to expose my eyes to direct sunlight for another week."

"You got hit in the face with a Nerf Blaster." She tilted her head him. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but this seems a bit excessive."

"Better safe than sorry." He reached up and lifted up his fedora, revealing a head of dark red hair.

"You know, I still can't believe you really went and dyed your hair."

"You told me to!" he exclaimed.

"I did no such thing," she laughed.

Two nights earlier, in the parallel universe:

Slightly sloshed after a few glasses of wine, the meta-crisis Doctor draped himself over the side of the couch Rose was perched on. She had a large pillow in her lap and was clutching the television remote like it was a life-support device.

"D'you know what would be great?"

"What?" she said absently, her eyes still fixed on the telly.

"If I dyed my hair – went ginger – always wanted to be ginger." He lolled forward in a jerky, tumbling motion, almost falling over. It seemed like he was attempting to sort of roll himself into her lap but missed – by a lot. "What'dd'ou think, Rose?"

"Uh-huh," she said, only half-listening and currently in the process of turning up the volume. "Yeah. I think that's a good idea. Whatever you say, babe." She might have just agreed to a murder spree or – worse – spending next Christmas with their Torchwood co-workers for all she knew.

"And I woke up the next morning like this," the meta-crisis Doctor said, waving his hat up and down emphatically, then tossing it aside – which technically was littering, but he was trying to make a point so that was all right.

"Rude and ginger, you mean?"

"It doesn't wash out – I'm going to be a redhead forever."

"Well, that's what happens when you get drunk and try to talk to me while I'm watching 90 Day Fiancé."

"Keep it up, Rose, and you're going to be on that show."

"Very funny – what does that even mean? You're going to leave me and I'm going to get engaged to someone from Tanzania?"

"Could happen," he muttered very unconvincingly, turning away because he was unable to keep a straight face; he knew Rose was going to be with him forever.

"Mummy!" wailed one of the boys, jiggling back and forth.

"Okay, I'd better take this lot before they go in the middle of the street." Rose glanced over her shoulder. "Hang on a sec." She brushed a lock of hair away from her face. "Where's the shop?"

"Let me see. Errr..." He squinted. "Ah, right. Honey Sweets, right there." He leaned forward and pointed.

"See you later, then." She kissed him goodbye on the cheek.

He waved her and the children off, calling for 'Uncle Tony' to behave and not make any extra trouble for Rose, insisting he'd know if he did, then slid back into the Bentley.

To his complete astonishment, a plump blonde man was sitting in the passenger seat smiling at him. "Um, hi there."

"Hello."

"Not to be rude, but have you got the wrong car?"

"Oh, do come off it, my dear." His smile shrank and he looked rather put out with him. "Just drive, please – I've had rather a frustrating morning."

"Yeah, okay, but–"

"Crowley you promised we'd go to the British Museum today." He shifted in his seat. "Then you turn up late and refuse to start your locomotive. Why must you be so difficult?"

Despite the fact that his name wasn't Crowley, and this was clearly a case of mistaken identity, the meta-crisis Doctor found himself feeling rather guilty, chided and duly reprimanded by this no-nonsense man wearing a camel hair coat. Usually he was the sort to tell people where to go – came from sharing a significant amount of DNA with Donna Noble, he supposed – but something about this fellow took the wind right out of his sails. His will was too strong.

"Right. Well, sure, I guess I could drive you to the British Museum – I think I remember where it's at."

So long as he was back in plenty of time to pick up Rose and the children, it should be all right, shouldn't it?

Now:

Crowley sped at ninety miles to the damned hour down the street, rushing towards Aziraphale's bookshop. He'd tried calling the angel, several times, using the Bluetooth system in the Bentley, but there was no answer.

When he arrived in front of the bookshop, the Bentley skittering to a halt, he rushed out, only to be immediately blocked by a blonde woman and four sticky-fingered children eating sweets like there was no tomorrow.

"And where the hell did you go, then?" The woman's hands were on her hips.

The youngest of the children, a little female toddler built like a golden-haired football, grabbed onto his legs and started crying that the other three were being mean to her and to tell them not to do that.

Awkwardly, Crowley bent over and patted the child on the head. "It's all right – don't cry – I'll tell them to be nice to you. There, there."

She hugged his legs tighter, mumbling something damp and incoherent into his leather trousers.

"She's just being dramatic," sighed the woman. "Uncle Tony bought her a chocolate bar without asking which kind she wanted first and she started screaming her pretty little head off."

Crowley gently attempted to pry the blotchy-faced child from his calves, but she had a grip like a monkey holding onto the last banana in the known universe and her dripping nose was pressed firmly against one of his kneecaps. "Uh..."

"Well, come on, everybody, back in the car." The woman reached for the Bentley's passenger-side door handle and Crowley – from pure reflex – snaked out and slapped her wrist to shoo her away from it.

"Oh, excuse me, I'm not allowed to touch the stolen car now?" She didn't say it nastily, but there was a lingering sting in her tone.

"Ssssstolen? Thisss isss my car – I've had it from new!"

Scowling, the woman folded her arms across her chest and leaned in so close their noses nearly touched. "Listen, you. I'm hardly in the best of moods. I've just gotten out of a sweet shop with three kids who were screaming and kicking, and one who literally tried to wee on the floor." One of the little boys – maybe six years old – started whining, loudly yet pretty much unintelligibly, about how it wasn't really his fault, that he'd had to go, before Tony gave him a toffee to make him stop. "If these children aren't in that car in the next two minutes, I'm going to call my mother and tell her you lost Tony in an interdimensional wormhole" – Tony blurted 'Cor! A wormhole, wicked!' – "and I will let you spend the rest of this trip on the mobile trying to calm her down. We understand one another, yeah?"

"All right. Don't go mental. There's really no need for that." Crowley didn't even know who this woman's mother – or Tony, for that matter – was, or what a bleeding wormhole in another dimension had to do with anything, and he still didn't want to risk it. "Where'm I taking you?"

The meta-crisis Doctor had intended to drop the fussy little blonde man – whose name was apparently Aziraphale – off outside the museum and speed away as fast as the Bentley would take him in order to make up for the fourteen minutes he'd have lost going there and back again.

Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way.

The meta-crisis Doctor wanted to make sure his unexpected passenger was okay. He'd been slightly worried about this strange man's sanity and – despite himself – was rather strongly liking him, as the mad humans were always the best ones when you got right down to it, and who was he to judge, really.

So he got out of the car and accompanied him to the British Museum's front steps. And this gave Aziraphale enough time to snag his arm, which he then proceeded not to let go of, dragging him along eagerly, chattering on about some book he'd read the day before.

Somewhere in his rambling, the meta-crisis Doctor hooked onto something he understood, relieved that his mind – which was usually much better at keeping up than this – had clicked with anything Aziraphale had been saying. "Oh, you've read that one, too, have you? I love that one, made me cry. And the mystery! Nearly had me fooled – man, was that good."

Aziraphale gaped at him, stopping in his tracks. "My... My dear fellow. I must say I'm astonished. Simply shocked. I didn't expect you'd have been familiar with the text at all."

"Oh, on the contrary, I found it a most enlightening read." He straightened up proudly as they started moving again.

"Well, then," – and the angel couldn't remember the last time he'd been so utterly excited – "I don't suppose you've also had the pleasure of reading–"

"What the bloody hell are we doing at the British Museum?" demanded Rose as she stomped sulkily up the steps ahead of the man she believed to be the meta-crisis Doctor.

She was feeling rather put out, since – despite her best efforts to make up with the meta-crisis Doctor after their little quarrel outside the Bentley – he'd been shrinking from any affection she attempted to show him and had slapped her hand again when she tried to adjust the rear-view mirror to see why the flashing lights weren't working.

She'd noticed he had changed his clothes (for no reason she could work out) and tried to offhandedly compliment how the raggedy goth fashion he seemed to be going with really flattered him, but he just frowned at her like she was some sort of headcase.

On top of all this, he hadn't taken her to a Fish N' Chips shop so she could get the kids fed, as she'd asked him to, but had driven to the museum saying he needed to stop there first, to make sure his friend – a mysterious friend he wouldn't elaborate on, which made Rose feel a smidgen jealous and left out – was all right.

"He called me this morning, and he's gone missing – we were supposed to spend the day at the British Museum. I'm hoping he'll turn up there, if he's all right."

"Well, this is the first I've heard of it! I didn't know you even had friends in this universe." Apart, of course, from their mutual ones – such as Mickey and Martha and Donna.

"The heaven is that supposed to mean?"

Rose glared. "Fine, be that way – see if I care." She snagged the hands of her two little boys, but the little girl latched onto the man she thought was her father with another death grip. "It's no good. You know how stubborn she gets. You'll have to look after her, then – we'll meet you in the cafeteria after you find your oh-so-important friend – come along, Tony."

"I'll catch up," said Tony.

"Up, up!"

"I think," Tony told Crowley, "your daughter wants you to pick her up. You know she's not gonna stop begging until you do."

He bent down obligingly to lift the whining child into his arms, which mercifully seemed to soothe and quiet her at once, as she happily played with the silver tassel on the end of his tie, but – sounding rather baffled – he said, "I'm not her father."

Tony's eyes widened. "Really? That's not what Rose says."

"Wot?" Crowley didn't know what he'd just gotten himself into – the poor unsuspecting demon hadn't the foggiest clue until it was too late.

"Hey, big sis, you're never going to believe what I just heard!" Tony raced ahead, waving his arms to get Rose's attention.

"Hang on. He said what?"

Crowley – utterly terrified by her furious tone, as even the most hellish creature would be, and heedless of the fact that he was still holding the little girl who was not his but did inexplicably have a nose very like his own – fled.

"This appears to be a statue of the Roman goddess Fortuna," Aziraphale said, pointing to the shiny plaque placed at the front with his free hand – the other still held the arm of the man he believed to be Crowley. "Holding a cornucopia – also called a horn of plenty. Dates back to second-century Rome, they say." The angel considered the sculpture, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Though, between ourselves, if I didn't know any better, I'd say the influence of your old friend Michelangelo was most prevalent – most particularly in the way the ears are sculpted – despite the fact their works would of course be several centuries apart. What do you think?"

"Looks a lot like my wife," said the man at his side, matter of factly but not without obvious affection. "They've got the same face."

Reading books that weren't about astronomy or gardening, and were unabashedly novels, was one thing – Aziraphale encouraged such broadening of horizons in his friend, thrilled for the fresh life it breathed into their 6,000 year old routine conversations – but having a wife, presumably human, was stretching those horizons so that they rose so steeply they approached the perpendicular and all common sense slid right off the slope. The world no longer made sense. The angel could not have been more stunned – and vaguely repulsed – if Crowley had casually announced a deep fondness for illegally betting on kangaroo races.

He opted to give him a chance to explain. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I mean, technically we're not legally married – Jackie's really been riding me about that, not making an honest woman of her daughter – because Torchwood and UNIT got into a bit of a tussle – first with each other, and then with a three-headed alien that kept vomiting up molten lava – before Rose could say I do, and for some reason my birthday was documented as being in 2008 – right bloody mess, you know. Goes to show what a big fancy wedding is any good for – we would've just done the thing at City Hall and gotten chips afterwards, if I'd had it my way." He grimaced at the memory. "But for all intents and purposes, yeah, she's my wife." Shrugging one shoulder, he added, good naturedly, "What were we talking about again?"

Aziraphale, still and unblinking as the statues they stood in front of, looking wholly petrified, stared.

"You want to see pictures of my kids? I've got a whole bunch of them on my mobile," he offered brightly, thinking it might be a good ice breaker.

Letting go of his arm, Aziraphale, now blinking rapidly like he was making up for lost time, sputtered out, "Y-y-you have children? Actual half-human spawn?"

"Three – two boys and a little girl. Her name's Victoria. After the queen. Nice lady, you know, apart from the whole banishment thing."

"That's all well and good, but the implications, Crowley!"

"Implications? Oh, right, listen – been meaning to bring this up since you got into my car – my name's not Crowley."

Aziraphale made little chocking noises, pressing a hand to his heart dramatically. "And the secrets just proceed to parade ever-onward, don't they? You've changed your name again? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, come now, I think you're mistaking me for–"

Sinking down in front of the Fortuna statue, Aziraphale groaned, "Do be quiet, dear, I think I need a minute to absorb all this." He mumbled, to himself, sliding his hands over his face, "Nephilim in modern day London. Good Heavens."

"I really am running late to pick up my wife and kids, you know..."

"Shush."

His will was still too strong. Sheepishly, the meta-crisis Doctor stuffed his hands into his pockets. "All right – molto bene."

Crowley set the female child down and pointed towards the cafeteria. "You know what to do, small human."

Toddling forward, the little girl skipped into the middle of the room, turned her head in both directions, and – ascertaining that her enraged mummy was not present – waved Crowley on in.

"So. You said you were hungry. What'd you want to eat?"

She grabbed his hand, tugged, and pointed with vigour at a large slice of chocolate cake.

"Yeah, well – eggs, milk, flour – guess I can't see the harm in that. Sounds wholesome enough." The demon – who really was a soft-touch when it came to kids, partly the reason he'd once made such a damn good nanny for young Warlock – pulled out a shimmering credit card. "Why don't you just find us a table, then? Sound good to you, dear?"

"There you are!" Rose fumed, stomping forward with her two boy-children trailing doggedly behind her and Tony nowhere in sight (the tweenager knew when it was time to make himself temporarily scarce).

The meta-crisis Doctor turned, beaming at his boys and wife. "Hello! How'd you get here?"

"Oh, don't you 'hello' me! And how t'hell did you have time to change your clothes again?"

"This is about my taking off without you, isn't it?" He pointed – rather helplessly – over at Aziraphale, who was still slumped by the statue. "Listen, love, I'm very sorry about that, but I had to give this extremely confused man a lift and time sort of got away from–"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!"

His brow furrowed, dipping below his sunglasses. "You...don't...?"

"You've got about five seconds to explain what you said to Tony before I slap you right here in public."

"What?" He paused, considering, then – just as confused – added, again, "What?"

"Hang on..." She cast a quick glance about them, took in the fact that the only person accompanying the meta-crisis Doctor was a plump blonde man who looked a touch comatose, actually, and panic gripped her – because her daughter wasn't there. "Where's Victoria?"

"I thought Vicky was with you." He seemed, too, to realise for the first time the absence of one of their children. He felt a passing twinge of hope, adding, "Or with her Uncle Tony?"

"But you took her with you when you ran off – I saw you."

"Rose, I haven't seen her since you went to Honey Sweets."

Aziraphale, for all his continued confusion, registered from the commotion only that Crowley had a daughter and she was now horribly lost somewhere – presumably – within the vast walls of the British Museum. And a lost child – even a half-demon one who was an abomination against the laws of nature – must be found. It was a simple fact of life. He was so busy planning out what must be accomplished in this desperate search it didn't even occur to him that 'Crowley's' boys were remarkably normal-looking for alleged Nephilim children.

So the angel rose from his place and began to clap his hands together to get everyone's attention. "A child has been lost. Here's what we're going to do. We will split up and begin looking for the wayward tot at once."

"Who is that man again?" asked Rose, in a lowered voice.

"Isn't he great?" sighed the meta-crisis Doctor. "You know, I'm actually thinking of taking him back to our universe and making him my new companion."

She whacked him on the arm. "Oi, I'm your companion."

"What, I can't have more than one? It's a big Bentley – there's plenty of room."

She sucked in her lips and inhaled heavily through her nose. "Babe, I think I've been very tolerant of your erratic behaviour on this trip thus far, don't you?"

"You're missing the point."

"And that is?"

"That he's so cute and plumpy!"

She looked at him for a long, awkward moment. You could hear the dust motes in the air moving. "Yeah. We're definitely gonna talk about this later, okay? Let's just find our daughter."

"Ahem," said Aziraphale. "Let's get started – I'll need to see a photograph of the lost child."

The meta-crisis Doctor obligingly showed him a rather precious-looking snapshot of her on his mobile.

"Oh, Crowley, I don't believe it – she's got the same nose as you!" Then, pulling back, "Ah, jolly good." He cleared his throat. "So, I'll go one way, you all go the other. We meet back here in twenty minutes."

As they walked off, Rose whispered, "Who's Crowley?"

The meta-crisis Doctor shrugged. "I have no idea – but I'm starting to think I am. Possibly."

In addition to the big slice of chocolate cake for the little girl, Crowley had also purchased tea and buns. The child looked like she could put away rather a lot (as he recalled, Warlock was very fond of eating copious amounts of food when he was only a little older than her), and it wasn't as if he could leave without finding a way to return the child to its mother without getting his own head ripped off in the process, so he concluded it would be all right if they took their time and had a very nice tea together.

She seemed comfortable with him, at any rate, poor little blonde mite.

"So," he said amiably, folding his hands on the table, "what happened after that boy in nursery school called you a bogey-head? Did you smite him with your wrath?"

The little girl giggled, then cheerily babbled on – with limited intelligibility – while Crowley nodded and 'Mmm-hmm'ed and 'uh-hum'ed and looked suitably outraged on her behalf in all the right places.

She really was having a most wonderful time and her stomach was full of chocolate cake and tea with as many lumps of sugar as she'd wanted. It's doubtful whether, if she suddenly learned this was not her father but rather a supernatural being who had once been an angel and was now a demon, she'd even have blinked.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale spotted him across the cafeteria with the little girl and fast-walked over to him. "You found her! Jolly good!" He waved at the child, wagging his fingers. "Hello, dear. I'm your Uncle Aziraphale."

"No you aren't!" exclaimed Crowley, irritable from all the worry Aziraphale – who seemed to be perfectly all right after all – had put him through with that blasted ansaphone message from earlier. "And what the heaven have you been playing at today?"

"I'm going to ignore your tone, because I can imagine fatherhood is very stressful." He held out a small (and badly wrapped) parcel. "I got you something, by the way, to show that – even though I don't agree with your new lifestyle choice – I'm always here to support you. Little instructional video – that way you know what to expect."

"Did you?" One eyebrow arched, the demon tore off the paper. "This is a DVD of City of Angels starring Nicolas Cage."

"Well, yes, and I know he's bonkers," – he wrung his hands – "but it was the closest thing to a how-to manual for your current predicament I could obtain in the gift shop."

Crowley glanced down at the DVD case. "This isn't one of Nick's gloomy ones, is it?" He turned it over to read the back, then looked up at Aziraphale. "Angel, this is dubbed in Romanian."

The angel pointed emphatically. "E foarte bine!" It's very good!

"It's really not." The demon handed the DVD to the next person walking by their table. "Here. Happy Christmas."

Aziraphale shrugged. "No matter. Though, I suppose it is about time we go back to the oth–" He trailed off, noticing the dark cake crumbs on the uncleared plate. "Chocolate cake?"

"What, you wanted some too?"

"Crowley, you can't feed a growing child chocolate cake for a midday meal!"

"Why not?"

"It's irresponsible – as a parent you really should care more about the child's nutritional intake." The disapproving angel tutted, shaking his head. "Ah. Well, well. What's done is done. She'll just have to have something better for her next meal. Does this count as tea?" He shook his head again. "Oh, never mind. Don't worry, I've got a book at the shop I'll loan you all about it – we'll get through this parenthood lark together, one step at a time."

"The heaven are you on? I'm not a parent."

"It's a bit late for denial now, my dear."

"Sometimes you scare me, angel – just a little bit. D'you know that?"

There were, inexplicably, two Crowleys, and Aziraphale – who'd brought the Crowley he'd found along with little Victoria to the agreed rendezvous in front of the Fortuna sculpture – didn't know what to make of that. The astonished principality could only look back and forth between them pointing a single finger, going, "Er. Yes. Er. How? Er. I– Well, jolly good. Er."

"Well," said the Crowley Aziraphale was pretty certain had driven him there, "this explains a lot."

"Daddy!" Victoria waved at her actual father, apparently having no problem identifying him, yet remained happily at Crowley's side until the demon gave her a little nudge forward.

The little boys and Tony started talking all at once, but mostly amongst themselves, with no overlap between their conversation and that of the startled adults.

"Are you...?" Rose began, swallowing. "Doctor, is that you?"

Crowley showed no signs of comprehension. "Wot?"

"Which one of you," Aziraphale cut into the ensuing silence, "is my–" He turned a little red and petered off. "That is, I was wondering which one of you I–"

The Crowley who was dressed like Crowley – Crowley from the cafeteria – shot him an expression of such raw, withering scorn he didn't even need to remove his sunglasses and show his serpentine eyes for the angel's face to lighten up with jubilant recognition. "Oh, there you are, dear boy." Suddenly tranquil, he looked very much as if Crowley had just now walked into the museum and they'd met here by complete chance.

Rose, despite it being clear enough now which one of these men had driven her here and which one was her spouse (in both cases, the other one), was not satisfied. Her posed question remained unanswered.

So she asked it again, with less certainty. "You're not the Doctor, then?"

"He's not," said a thickly-accented voice behind them, making the whole group jump. "But I am."

It was a tall, white-haired man, also wearing sunglasses.

"Islington?" gasped Aziraphale.

"No, strange person I've never met before, I'm not Islington, I'm the Doctor, and I'll thank you never to mention that again."

"I'm just saying you look an awful lot like–"

"The Doctor," he insisted.

"Islington could be a doctor," the principality added in a quiet mutter, not quite ready to concede on the matter.

"I'm not Islington!"

"Right, sorry, do go on – I feel like I'm interrupting something very important here."

"I don't believe it," murmured Rose, rushing forward and throwing her arms around the gaunt, inexplicably Scottish doctor before pulling back and gazing at his aged face, marvelling. "You're not... You've changed your face again."

"Twice since you last saw me, Rose."

"Remember me?" The meta-crisis Doctor smiled, his tight grin brittle.

"Honestly, I try not to, but you're rather hard to forget." He smiled back, a trifle uneasily. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"Day trip for the family – lovely little Holiday," he said, stepping forward and putting an arm around Rose's waist. "What are you doing here?"

He looked up at the statue, as if that explained everything (and perhaps it did), which was when the Doctor finally saw the children. "Oh my. You've been busy."

Rose moved a lock of hair behind one of her ears – she had a sad smile on her face, but it was also a well-contented one, and that said a lot, even to those present – like Aziraphale and Crowley – who hadn't the foggiest idea what was going on. "Yeah. Is Donna with you? I'd like you both to meet–" She reached behind herself for one of the boys' hands, but as she turned around, the Doctor was already leaving, his back to her.

She froze for a moment, blinked away unshed tears, then seemed to let it go.

The Doctor stopped and looked at her over his shoulder, then, as he turned partway. "Rose?"

"Yes?"

"I'm so happy for you – I want you to know that. So happy."

The meta-crisis Doctor nodded, answering for them both, "Thank you, Doctor."

"Doctor," Rose called out, "you're not... You're not on all your own, are you?"

"No. I have been," he admitted. "But not at the moment."

"What's her name?"

"Clara."

"Is she nice?"

"Very. Well, usually."

"Then I'm happy for you, too."

After the white-haired Doctor left, they could hear a scrapping, whirring noise coming – it sounded like – from the next room over. Rose closed her eyes and inhaled deeply until it stopped, like she was remembering something, her face gone so pale Aziraphale thought she'd taken ill. And then she opened her eyes and saw her children and seemed well enough again.

"This," said the meta-crisis Doctor, "has been a bit confusing for all of us – I think it's time my family headed back home."

"Yes, and good luck in Hell, mate," Crowley told the meta-crisis Doctor (the demon had not gotten a particularly favourable impression of Rose).

Aziraphale took a step forward.

"Where t'heaven do you think you're going?" hissed Crowley, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back.

He raised a hand uncertainly, waving at the departing meta-crisis Doctor. "I think perhaps I want to go with the you that reads more books."

"Don't you dare."

Suddenly, the meta-crisis Doctor whirled around and threw his arms around Aziraphale, yanking him free from Crowley's grasp. "I think I'll miss you most of all, scarecrow."

"Oh, for pity's sake," muttered Rose, rolling her eyes. "This is worse than trying to separate two toddlers after nursery school's over for the day."

Crowley just made angry hissing-snake noises.

"Dreadfully sorry about forcing you to drive me to the museum, old chap," Aziraphale murmured into the meta-crisis Doctor's shoulder.

"Don't be – I had fun. And if you're ever in my dimension, telephone me, we'll do something."

Aziraphale pulled away from the meta-crisis Doctor's embrace and, inching backwards again, nudged Crowley in the ribs. "Is anyone looking?"

The demon concentrated, slowly slipping his sunglasses off his face and staring into the middle-distance. "No one."

"That's very good. What do you say we give this lot a little surprise before they take off?"

"It would," Crowley reminded him, "take a real miracle to be certain everybody else remained 'not looking', you realise."

"Oh, a real miracle, you say?" he replied, untroubled. "That's all right, then. I should think we could manage that much between ourselves. What would be the point otherwise?"

As the meta-crisis Doctor, Rose, and the rest of the family turned to catch a last glimpse of the two men – one of which looked so much like their family patriarch it had caused rather a lot of confusion today – they gaped, watching two pairs of enormous wings – one set white and one set black – unfurling with respectively sleek and fluffy feathers filling up the space with reflected light.

Light which might have just as easily been infernal as it might have been heavenly.

Or, more likely, it was the in-between sort of light that is – when you really think on it – something else entirely.

A/N: I couldn't resist the Neverwhere reference. It was too easy a joke not to make.

Reviews welcome, replies could be delayed.