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Chapter Text

The ceremony was going quite well really. Osgood was quite comfortable with ceremonies - they were another form of routines and processes that made up her life.  She was part of the onlookers. A group of humans that had been handpicked by Kate after almost two weeks of tense negotiations with an alien race called the Klistos, a large species that seemed like a pterosaur only more upright and feathered, with a short, wide face that made them look like they had a constant grim smile. 

In the centre of the chamber, Kate was moving in sync with one of the terrifyingly majestic aliens, her arms spread wide and moving in slow circles to mimic the swooping motions by the Klistos priest.

This ceremony was to confirm the validity of the treaty that had been reached and nothing could go be allowed to go wrong. 

Over the beautiful movement was the almost hypnotic singing of a small group of Klistos, the only other beings in the large cave the aliens had landed their ship and designated their meeting place. The huge domed ceiling of the cave made their sound reverberate, to the point it seemed to penetrate right into Osgood's soul. She focused on standing still, mirroring the singing group of Klistos warriors opposite. She held a broadsword, and they held long emerald green spears with brutal black tips. A sign of power not to be used, as the Klistos had put it.  

Osgood's arms shook slightly under the weight of the sword as the ceremony dragged on,  shoulder to shoulder with the group of scientists and generals who had been vital to the operation. Finally Kate and the Klistos stopped, facing each other and only an arm's length apart, heads bowed in mutual respect, the final low note of their song ringing out. Despite the burn in her arms, Osgood didn't dare move until the spell of the ceremony broke and they could all begin the twenty minute trek out of the cave. 

However, beside her, General Garnet had no such qualms. He had been twitchy throughout the proceedings and now he stepped out of line and let his broadsword drop. This may have even been alright, but instead he strode towards the still figures in the centre of the chamber and said briskly, “Now that's over and done with, I request we return to headquarters, not waste time here.” The blasé authority in his voice and utter lack of care was the cause of what happened next.

All heads in the room snapped to him, the Klistos’ reverent noise sharpening into a shriek of rage. Osgood barely registered as it rapidly swept round to the side, its wing swinging out and flinging Kate off of her feet as it rounded on the general.

Then all hell broke loose. 

Osgood let her sword fall as she dived for Kate as the other Klistos began to close in on the general, screeching about disrespect for the prayers of their ancestors. Half the humans bolted for the exit as the other half froze in indecision to help the general.

Osgood was immune to this, she bound over the bare rock, where Kate had not moved from where she landed. Her skin was horribly pale but her eyes flicked open as Osgood's ponytail brushed against her cheek as she leant over her fallen friend. 

“Oh good you're still alive.”

“Just.” Kate coughed out, blood starting to seep from under her head, slickening the rough stone. 

“Have to stop them-” she started, lifting a hand towards the crowd of furious aliens, but Osgood shook her head grimly.  Kate was too weak to raise her head, she couldn't see it was already too late for General Garnet. The smiling mouths of the Klistoses had ripped him apart, his crimson entrails strung between their toothed beaks.

“Not now.” Osgood braced herself, her already fatigued arms pulling Kate into a sitting position as her head lolled dangerously. “You're my priority now. Let's just get out of here, yeah?” She didn't have time to assess if the other UNIT personnel could help, so she heaved Kate to her feet and pulled her arm around her shoulder. Kate was unsteady and sagged against her, blood splashing as it dripped onto the floor. 

Other than the bleeding from the back of her head, she seemed alright, and if she wasn't there - well was nothing she could do about it deep in a cave, so Osgood made for the exit. 

Kate's hair was in her face, the smell of her coconut shampoo tainted by the breath of the Klistos and the reek of blood. Kate was taller than Osgood and though she was clearly trying to walk, her clumsy, limp steps were making it even harder to keep going. 

Osgood couldn't tell if they were being chased, or if Garnet's life had been enough to repay the transgression, but she kept them moving regardless. She could hear something, something so deep it was a feeling more than a sound, making the entire tunnel tremble. It must be their ship leaving, she could only hope.

Osgood pressed them against a wall, shielding Kate as best she could if it disrupted the cave's structure. The other woman barely reacted as her bruised, scraped back was forced against rock, but Osgood just cradled her head and waited for it to end. 

And it did. The rumbling stopped suddenly, the Klistos ship partly working by dematerialising, and thankfully the cave remained intact.  

“You are an incredible scientist Osgood. And friend.” 

Kate said it so softly, her breath shallow and skin cool where it touched Osgood's, sheltered against her shoulder. At those words, Osgood felt the bite of tears. The aliens leaving didn't solve her biggest problem of helping Kate, who was now heavy in her arms, her grey coat sleeves dark with her blood. 

Head wounds bleed a lot. Doesn't mean she'll die. 

It had to be true. Osgood carried on as best she could, but her own adrenaline reserves had all but burnt out. The weight of Kate pressing on her shoulder made it even harder to breathe. She didn't know how far she got by the time her knees gave way and she just held Kate to her chest.

 Just until she found her strength.

She didn't know how long it was until the rescue party arrived. It was all far away as the medics took Kate, hurried her along the passage to the open air, their instructions underwater. Osgood followed, a soldier's arm around her waist to keep her steady. 

They hadn't been far from freedom from the cave, but now Kate was in a helicopter and Osgood broke away from the young solider trying to help her, fighting through a crowd of UNIT personnel until she reached the dreaded vehicle thaf would carry Kate the rest of the way to safety. 

They didn't argue as she clambered in, and stared at the machine monitoring Kate's vitals. The steady beat of her defiant heart.

She would live. Everything was routine once again. 

Chapter Text

Audrey's day had started horribly

The sky was clear, the sun was glinting off of the immaculate windows of the manor but there were thirteen segments in her grapefruit.

“It won't do Brabinger.” She declared, beginning to eat the grapefruit anyway, no point wasting it after all.

Brabinger had tutted sympathetically, he  knew it was a sign Audrey would be rather - well nervy was the wrong word, she was too forthright to be nervy - but definitely on her guard for the rest of the day. 

Brabinger knew it wasn't his place to comment so he didn’t. But he did resolve to thoroughly check everything at the lodge was in order. Just in case.

After she had finished the offending citrus, Audrey headed off into the grounds, eyes peeled for mischief or calamity. She had left through the french doors, a distinctly preoccupied look on her face. 

Audrey didn’t really have a plan, but she in the end decided to head up to the manor, as she often did. She rang the bell and walked in, past the maid who had long given up formally announcing her.

Mrs Poo was wrestling with some flower arranging, and dropped her stems to fling herself at Audrey in her usual greeting.

“What a lovely day it is Audrey, and to have you visit makes it better.” The little woman smiled up at her, and happily abandoned her arrangement, leading Audrey to the sitting room. 

“I'm not convinced it is a lovely day, Mrs Poo. There were thirteen segments in my grapefruit this morning. It's a prophecy of something dreadful, you mark my words.” Audrey sat heavily on the sofa, her anxiety manifesting in a real pain in the centre of her stomach. 

“The English are so quaint. There is a saying in Old Czechoslovakia, ‘the hedgehog that worries is always a ball’.” She patted Audrey's tweed covered knee, as if this nugget of wisdom had solved all life's problems. “Bedriech will be back soon, it is his first flight alone in the helicopter since he qualified.”

The slightly confusing wave of relief at the thought of that blonde slip of an instructor being gone was quickly dwarfed by the tsunami of realisation. The grapefruit prophecy - it must be about Richard and the helicopter. Something might fail, or crash, or explode!

Audrey tried to pull herself out of her spiraling thoughts, but these little omens had never deceived her before. 

Mrs Poo was insisting Audrey keep her company until Richard came back, an idea which quickly bloomed into her staying for lunch, which then extended to inviting Marjory over too. Throughout this Audrey tried to engage with Maria, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling in her stomach.

By the time Marjory arrived, their little lunch plan had sprawled into dining outside and enjoying the glorious British summer time al fresco, it was almost like that disastrous advert that had earnt Richard an impromptu swim. Despite it all, Audrey was now feeling dreadful, the pain had shifted and it was awfully hard work to not grasp her right side when she moved too quickly.

I never felt this ill worrying about Marton she mused, as she continued to aid Mrs Poo's production line constructing a picnic, after the headstrong Czech woman had shooed out the cook.  She persevered through her trembling hands and still packed the hamper admirably, no longer thinking she could stomach anything in it.

Mrs Poo was clapping her hands in satisfaction, when they heard the unmistakable sound of the helicopter approaching. Audrey felt an almost overwhelming nausea at the thought, but Marjory linked arms with her and led them up onto the lawn, wittering on about the joys of school picnics and how it was a jolly nice way to spend a Saturday. 

The sun pierced her eyes as she stepped out, and she staggered slightly into Marjory, who gave her an odd look. Audrey didn't notice, her gaze fixed on the ever nearing silhouette of the helicopter. Closer and closer, it looked fine - perhaps the prophecy was wrong after all.

Beneath the sound of the rotors, Audrey suddenly became aware she could hear her pulse thundering in her ears - her nausea now uncontrollable since walking up from the kitchen. She weakly shoved Marjory away and staggered forward where she dropped to her knees on the lawn, retching until she vomited up the bright acid pink grapefruit remnants. She realised how hot she felt and shaky, her abdomen feeling like it was on fire. 

She felt hands on her shoulders, brushing her hair out the way, laying her down on her side as she curled up like the hedgehog from Mrs Poo's phrase. Then the sun was blocked and through the blur of pain she realised it was Richard, standing over her.

“The grapefruit!” Was all she managed to get out before she descended into shaky sobs just wishing for the pain to stop. Unexpectedly, she felt herself be scooped off of the ground, his cotton suit jacket cool against her clammy skin as he held her close. He ran across the grass, his jolting steps sending agony through her guts, then he was bundling her into the helicopter and taking flight again. She was too out of it to figure out why, not until she reached the hospital. 

Later, recovering from her appendectomy, Audrey wouldn't admit she was wrong about her grapefruit prophecy. Something had gone wrong, and the helicopter was involved. It had only damaged her lavender plants instead of becoming a towering inferno, that was all. And if finding thirteen segments in her grapefruit led to Richard visiting her every day while she recuperated, maybe it wasn't such a terrible thing to happen after all.

Chapter Text

The castle was cold at night, even in the summer. Constance had never really minded the cold before, but she had never really slept on her own either. All her school life she had boarded, sharing a room with three other witches, and at university she had had housemates and lived with her girlfriend in the second year. In all the chaos of close quarter living, she had never appreciated the cold stillness of the night. Not until now that thick stone walls isolated her from anyone else.

She'd been at Cackle's for almost half a term now, her students were doing well and Miss Cackle seemed kind. Miss Bat was somewhat unsettling - loud, unpredictable and given to bursting into song. Miss Swoop was very warm, but there was a pity somewhere deep within her eyes that Constance didn’t like. 

Despite nothing being wrong and her colleagues more than adequate, Constance could never sleep at night. Miss Cackle had insisted she not do nightly rounds for the first few months, until she settled in and grew accustomed to the castle. 

However, this little kindness meant that Constance spent every night sitting up until her eyes felt gritty, marking and planning her lessons, stroking Morgana, replanning those lessons and honing her craft. Most mornings found her slumped over her desk with a crick in her neck or sprawled awkwardly over the top of her duvet.

Nobody noticed - Constance was much too careful for that.

 She had a constant supply of Wide Awake potion, and it had been years since she had learned to carefully apply concealer in order to not look tired. Asides from that, even if someone had noticed, her work was outstanding and despite being much younger than all the other staff members she almost definitely outranked them in power and strength. If they were going to complain, there was little to complain about.

 Amelia had been forced to fire the last young teacher who had just finished her teacher training after one first period lesson hungover too many. And there was no way Constance could be accused of that.

It was a Saturday, daylight had trickled into evening and the staff had all eaten dinner together, as was tradition. Miss Cackle had mentioned that after half term Constance would begin evening rounds, at the suggestion, Constance had politely asked to start right away. 

Well, if Amelia Cackle would refuse people asking for an unpopular job, then she would be a foolish witch indeed. 

So, when it turned eight o'clock, Constance donned her dressing gown and stroked Morgana on the head, in a grateful gesture that she could finally have her evenings back, without having to keep her mistress company. Constance had found an old lantern on a chain and placed a wide, stubby candle in it. She passed silently, her high heeled boots having been left for the night. In her thin satin pyjamas and dressing gown, she felt quite vulnerable, her hair down her back and casting shadows on the walls. 

As she walked, she didn't notice the cold, descending from the teachers quarters, and into the winding corridors of the castle. 

The girls were suspiciously well behaved - not wanting to risk being forced to stay behind from a proposed broomstick trip the next day. But Constance kept on walking. Four times around each corridor, but she wasn't tired and she wasn't cold, so she kept going, her candle gently burning down.

She walked past every classroom, then went in every one. Then she descended to the dungeons, pulling open doors and walking through cobwebbed spaces not explored for years. 

It made her think of something silly the girls wittered on about when they should have been working. There was a ghost story, similar to Sir Walter, shared in low tones to scare the first years, about a woman who would roam the corridors. 

The legend said that once, when the castle was lived in by a noble witching family, a plague struck the area. It was a horrible illness that drained people of their magic, leaving them in an enchanted sleep until they faded away. The plague was so contagious, you could not touch the skin of someone infected. The daughter of the wizard who owned the castle was beautiful and powerful, just recently an adult and making a reputation for herself as a healer. She ventured into the village to help the humans suffering from the illness, only to discover its horrible effect on magical folk. She locked herself in her room, and let the disease run its course, refusing anyone entry who would get ill themselves. However, at night when the castle was still, she would walk around and around the corridors, pressing her ear to doors to hear the ever so faint sounds of life through the heavy oak. The young witch was sustained by listening to the life of others, giving her a hope that meant she lived for two months rather than dying within a week. Of course, the inevitable day came when she was found in the middle of the corridor in the morning, having finally succumbed to the illness. The legend says that after she died, whenever someone was ill, footsteps were heard, circling the castle and wistful sighs outside doorways, admiring the life within, to give hope. 

Constance found the story sad rather than spooky, it didn't make her shriek like it did the first years. She had been so lost in her drifting thoughts she hadn't realised her candle was almost burnt out. Now the cold felt intense, as the sky was just beginning to lighten outside the windows. Shivering, she hurried upstairs guided by her dying candlelight. As she rounded the corner onto the teacher's corridor, she staggered into the wall, exhaustion rendering her clumsy and her lantern slammed into the stonework. She swept a hand over her face, and continued more slowly to her room. 

Her slender pale hand had just turned her key in the lock, when the next room's door swung open to reveal Miss Cackle door swung open. The older woman had a fleecy dressing gown on, and she squinted slightly in the low light. She seemed less pinched somehow, as she looked up at Constance with a small smile.

“I was waiting up to see how your first rounds went, but it appears I dozed off.” 

Constance looked down to disguise her blush at being caught out, but the headmistress continued, 

“I think it would be lovely if next time you came and knocked on  my door when you finished, and we could have tea. And perhaps when I have rounds, I'll knock on your door. How does that sound?” 

It was definitely her tiredness to blame, but Constance nearly cried at the brusque woman's gentle tone and genuine care, so delicately expressed. “Lovely, Miss Cackle.” she whispered.

“I think, if we are going to be having tea, Amelia will do perfectly my dear.”

Chapter Text

There is very little deliberate wickedness in the world. The stupidity of our selfishness gives much the same results. It was a phrase Imogen had heard once, and since being employed by Cackle's Academy, it had become a very necessary mantra, for when enchanted shite inevitably hit the enchanted fan. 

Said mantra was circling round her head as Zari Thistle and Amanda Stonecrop stood shaken in front of her trying to explain what had happened in their potions class.

It had been the middle of Imogen's free period, when the girls had appeared, frantically knocking on the staffroom door. The fact there had been an incident didn’t surprise Imogen, more the fact that Constance had specifically asked for her.

The notion that Constance was hurt made Imogen feel ill, but she managed to ask the girls to explain without her voice shaking. Zari began to explain, a quaver in her voice.

“Well, we hadn't quite finished our potions homework-”

“Because we were practising for Miss Bat's chanting rehearsal.”

“So we thought we could cast a spell to stop Miss Hardbroom from wanting it. We found this spell to make someone repelled from magic.”

“I really thought it was right too.” Amanda grumbled, earning a glare from Zari and Imogen alike.

“We cast the spell  and nothing happened for a bit. Then she suddenly went really pale and looked like she'd throw up.”

“She then just shouted at us all to get out and send me and Za to fetch you specifically to make a potion or something.” Imogen felt like she'd been hit when Amanda said that, she prayed the girl was wrong. Unaware, she continued, “She must have figured it was us and she's going to put us in detention for ages.” Amanda actually had the audacity to fold her arms stroppily.

Imogen took a moment to repeat her mantra. Shouting at the kids wouldn't help, Zari seemed genuinely frightened even if Amanda didn't understand the magnitude of what she did. Amelia could handle it later.

“Well girls, head to your rooms. I'll sort it out.” Again, Imogen had mastered sounding confident in the face of calamity.

Amanda had already gone, but Zari lingered in the doorway, asking in a small voice, “Will HB be alright?”

Imogen forced herself to smile, “Don't be scared, I've done this sort of thing before. She'll be fine.” She lied reassuringly, waiting for the young witch to turn the corner before setting off at a sprint to the lab.

When she got there, she flung the door open and could see Constance standing by the front bench, her back turned. “What the fucking fuck is going on and how do I fix it?”  At the flurry of words, the witch turned around and Imogen gasped at the sight of Constance.

She was cadaverously pale, rather than her usual ethereal ivory tones, making the blood gathered on her top lip from her nose look even more violently bright. She had clearly cried, her mascara smudged. Imogen didn't wait for a response, she crossed to Constance and held her in an embrace, feeling her racing heart and panicky breaths start to slow. Over the witch's shoulder, she could see a cauldron and ingredients set up.

“I need you, Im.” She said heartbreakingly softly, before pulling away and donning the HB armour. 

“The girls’ spell created an extreme reaction to magic in my system. The power of the girls made me nearly collapse. I tried a reversal spell and earned the nosebleed and a migraine from my own magic. I need you to make a neutralising potion, you're the only one who can, Imogen.”

Imogen nodded, her head a mess of emotion, the sting of Constance pulling away, fear for her and the blind panic.

“I can't make a potion!” It was the only thing that could come out. 

“This one's simple. No magic infusion. It's just like making those pre-run smoothies you like, really it-” she had been closing the distance between them, but her knees went out from under her, Imogen still too dazed to catch her before she slammed to the stone floor. 

“Please. My own magic it - it hurts, j-just please, the recipe.” Constance was overcome, a trembling hand pointing up to the awaiting cauldron, as a sob burst out through her pain.

This display was enough to rouse Imogen to action, she went to Constance's side, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Of course.” She would not give in to the stupidity of selfishness, just because she was scared.

Imogen rolled her shoulders and got to work. The recipe was hand written, the script matching the neat flow of so many love letters stored in Imogen's room.

She measured out everything precisely, even as her hands shook with surging adrenaline. As she finely chopped something, the blade sank into her finger, but she didn’t have time to stop. It didn't take long to prepare, and only needed to flash boil for thirty seconds. But the last step read, ‘Place three drops of fae nectar on the cauldron fire before adding the crushed bladder wrack.”

 Non-witch or no, Imogen knew that sounded like magic, which would hurt Constance terribly. She sucked in a breath, and then dropped the nectar onto the flame. 

Constance's shriek of pain was horrible.

Imogen tossed in the seaweed then immediately went to the poor witch. She dragged her into her lap, stroking the side of her face as blood had begun to flow from her nose again, mixing with salt tears. She whispered quiet comforts, counting down the time. With five seconds left to boil, she carefully moved them both to stand, Constance hanging onto her neck for support. 

Imogen didn’t let go as she shifted to put some of the potion into a cup. She helped Constance lift it to her lips and drink a measure of the glistening turquoise liquid. 

She didn't dare even breathe as Constance stilled and closed her eyes for a moment. If she had failed she didn't know how long Constance's body could last while attacking her own magic. 

The witch raised a slender hand to her mouth and for a long second Imogen thought she was about to vomit. But then she put her first and little finger to her skin and vanished the blood from her face. Imogen shrieked with relieved laughter, and pressed a desperate kiss of relief to  Constance's lips, still sour with the taste of her potion.

“I knew you'd be brilliant.” Constance breathed in thanks, and Imogen just smiled.

Chapter Text

The Worst Witch - Flying/Aerophobia

When the 1999 Witching Teachers’ Conference was announced to be held in Toronto, Constance had actually found herself excited at the prospect for once. This year she wouldn't be making a hideously long broomstick ride alone, presenting her research paper and flying home again, because for the first time she had someone to go with. Imogen would be flying out with her and then they were going to visit some national parks and go skiing, to really make a romantic trip of it. 

When Imogen had first asked if she could come, they had rapidly gotten swept up in the planning and fantasies of travelling together, and it wasn't until two weeks before, it occurred to them that Imogen hadn't ever been on a broomstick before. The flight to Canada, even with speed enhancing spells and warmth charms was no picnic, especially for amateur flyers. 

When Constance had presented her worries, Imogen had shrugged them off. It was cheaper than an aeroplane and she was as hardy as any witch. It wasn't like she'd be flying her own broom after all. Nevertheless, Constance insisted she showed Imogen what it was truly like to fly on a broomstick, by taking her on a half hour ride above the forest surrounding the castle.

Imogen was cocky as she strode out into the courtyard, her posture easy as she approached Constance, whose face was grave. She tried to go into the briefing that she gave all of her first years, but Imogen had heard it enough times to hop onto the already hovering broom with full confidence and surprising grace. 

“On your head be it if you won't listen to instructions…” She muttered, casting an anti-falling spell behind her back. She climbed on elegantly and tried not to look too pleased when Imogen wrapped her arms around her waist.

They rose into the air steadily, Constance's eyes focused on the sky as she guided them up. They were almost level with the north tower, when Imogen's grip tightened round her like a snare, nearly crushing the air from her lungs.

“Imogen, what-” she turned around as much as she could in the awkward embrace, to see the gallant PE teacher grimacing with her eyes squeezed shut.

“I know I climb and everything, but this is far too high. I - I can't.” Her voice was strained, and she punctuated her sentence painfully by tightening her grip further as they gently swayed in the breeze.

“Fine, I'll get us down, but I have to tilt the broom for us to descend.” Constance had had a few students be nervous with heights, but Imogen was almost hyperventilating as she clung on for dear life. She couldn’t apparate them without the broomstick dropping several feet while she channeled her magic, and that might just send Imogen over the edge.

At the idea of tipping towards the cobbles, all colour had drained from Imogen's face even though she didn't protest. 

This is no good. Constance turned her head and caught sight of the nearest rooftop, it had a little-used trapdoor to the rest of the castle. Without asking Imogen and panicking her further, she gently turned them and slowly flew to the roof ledge. Imogen had squealed when they started to move, but when less than ten seconds later they were over safe ground she gratefully hopped off the broom. After a few seconds to recover herself, she looked down to the courtyard below, now unbothered by the height. 

“So how do you feel about aeroplanes, Con?”

The answer, as it turned out, was worse than Imogen felt about broomsticks. As they sat on the plane, Constance felt sick to her stomach. She had gripped Imogen's hand tightly as the machinery had dragged them into the air, and since then she had done her best not to look out the window or think about where she was.

Imogen was rambling about volleyball or lettuce or something to take Constance's mind off of the fact they were in a metal tube, that didn't feel like it was flying but was most certainly very high in the air, relying on complex machines that could fail or blow up or malfunction at any moment and there was nothing she could do to fix it -

Imogen's hand was on her shoulder, and her mouth near her ear as she softly told her to,

“Breathe in slowly, it's ok.” 

Constance hadn't even realised she was gasping for air, until Imogen had pushed her over so her head was between her knees. She waited for the black fuzz at the edge of her vision to go away, trying to catch her breath as Imogen gently stroked her back.

After a few minutes, Constance had her breathing more under control, but still felt no better about their suspension in the air. Imogen lent in very close, away from the stranger in the aisle seat and softly told her, “I know we both agreed to no magic here, but if you have a calming potion or spell, or just something to make you sleep, for the love of the gods just use it. We have over six hours left on board and there's no point torturing yourself.”

Constance wanted to object, to protest, but her anxiety was so all consuming she just nodded. She had a light sleeping draught in her bag, as a precautionary antidote in case of a Wide Awake Potion overdose. With a furtive glance to confirm the man on the other side of Imogen was absorbed in a book, she uncorked the small bottle she'd summoned from her hand luggage and drained it.

Imogen let out a small sigh of relief as Constance drifted off, grateful the witch was unaware as the pilot announced they were heading for heavy turbulence. 

It was still better than a broomstick ride though.

Doctor Who/Osgate - Needles/Trypanophobia

Lab six was not Osgood's favourite. It was small and somewhat underwhelming, and she would rather get on with disemboweling and rebuilding alien tech. 

However, in UNIT, flexibility is key, as the obnoxious HR campaign said.

There had been a sudden atmospheric entry of a small Grexon probe, and the wreckage had been returned to the lab. Osgood and Kate were the most high ranking personnel to have dealt with the Grexons before, so had taken the job, and it had been assigned to lab six.

The job was fairly simple really. The Grexons had a natural enzyme that caused a fatal inhibition of the human nervous system. All of their probes, which were about the size of a coffee table, had a small organic core containing Grexon tissue, to identify itself to foreign species, or to signify which planetary outpost it originated from. The core had to be removed and denatured, then dissolved in particular acids. 

It wasn't really a two person job, but protocol required it, so Osgood and Kate were alone in a lab, both covered in PPE, performing open heart surgery on a coffee table.

Kate was leaning against a workbench, very content to watch Osgood do her thing. Osgod kept glancing up at Kate and smiling, it was nice for them to work together closely, while not in the middle of a crisis.

However, as she opened the capsule around the core, something burst from a rubbery tube and landed on her lab coat sleeve. She flinched as it fizzed, and ate through the fabric but it stopped when it contacted her skin. Kate raised an eyebrow, but Osgood shook her head briefly. The capsule looked damaged, but not severely. 

The core came loose readily enough, but instead of being a smooth sphere, the bottom was deformed and liquid was spitting from the ragged tear in it. 

A tiny drop was all that landed on Osgood's skin.

She hissed in surprise and carefully placed the core into the bath of acids, and it began to degrade. She placed a lid on the container, and ignored Kate as she clapped lightly at a job well done.

“We have the antidote for that inhibitor right?” Her voice was steady, and she carefully cut away the lab coat sleeve to fully expose the small angry crescent where it had landed on her flesh.

“Right here, hang tight.” Kate's tone was equally professional as she retrieved a clearly labelled metal case.

Osgood could already feel herself start to sweat, her vision blurring as the nerve agent began to work. Stay calm, the antidote is 97% effective.

That all went out the window as Kate pulled out the large syringe loaded with said antidote. Osgood scrambled back at the sight of the needle, glinting viciously in the fluorescent light.

“Osgood.” Kate's tone was warning, her fear for her partner clear in her eyes. But Osgood shook her head, her chest tightening. 

“Maybe I'll be alright without it.” She declared, stepping further back.

“Then you'll get studied within an inch of your life because if that doesn't kill you, you're not human.” Kate lowered the syringe but kept on moving towards her, trying to look non-threatening.

Osgood's knees gave out and she slammed to the floor, and Kate hurried to her side. When she reached up though, Osgood's hand shot out and held her wrist in a vice grip, using all her strength to keep the needle away.

“Please.”

Kate shook her head. Tears had begun to pour down Osgood's face, it was a symptom of nerve agent poisoning, but she knew it was equally due to her profound fear.

“Fear is temporary. Death is forever. I'm not having you die in sodding lab six  Osgood!” 

Kate plunged the needle into Osgood's thigh and she screeched, throwing a weak punch at her as she depressed the plunger. Kate pulled it out as gently as she could and reached up to place it on the bench. After a few minutes Osgood turned to face her. 

“Thank you. But next time please just let me die of the horrible neurotoxin.”

Agatha Raisin - Snakes/Ophidiophobia

It was difficult for Agatha not to interfere with police business. Only, she was rather good at it, she thought and the Carsley Ladies society only met every other week. She had to pass her time somehow.

She hadn't expected an exotic animal show to visit Carsley, but if she had expected any of the goings on in Carsley, she probably wouldn't have moved there in the first place.

The owner, Mr Ross, was a fairly unattractive man who kept a tarantula in a large jar always on his person. James has gone practically translucent at the sight of it (and Agatha had to try very hard not to laugh.) 

The whole thing had caused quite a lot of fuss and a flock of animal rights activists had descended upon them. So, when the damned event finally opened there was a very large turnout. Bill Wong was floating around, ensuring no spats broke out between the protesters and Mr Ross as people gawked at the creatures sitting in their cages and tanks.

The event was being held in a country house (though not Charles’, even his sense of adventure didn't stretch that far.) And each room had a different type of animal. Agatha was admiring the lizards, some of them being surprisingly cute. Strangely enough, for all the publicity he'd been doing, Mr Ross was nowhere to be seen. 

Agatha drifted into the final room, and her heart stabbed harshly in her chest as she jumped out of her skin. Every tank contained a large snake.

Of course it made sense for an exotic animal show to have snakes. It was only natural. But they were all looking at her, with their calculating eyes and horrible hissing noise like sandpaper on her brain. She shivered and put her head down. It was a straight shot to the exit and James would just have to catch up to her once he tore himself away from the stick insects. 

She was almost at the door when her gaze fell upon a boot. Her eyes flicked up and she screamed at the sight of Mr Ross on the floor. Dead. A huge boa constrictor around his neck. The sound had barely left her mouth when she fainted dead away.

A little while later, Agatha came back to herself, propped up opposite a cage containing a parrot that looked a bit like Roy. In front of her, the faces of James and Bill swam into focus. After a few seconds of dazed blinking, she grasped the lapel of Bill's jacket and pulled him closer.

“Bill Wong, I'll probably never say this again, so enjoy it. I will absolutely not get involved in this murder investigation.” As he stood up and walked away  she was fairly sure she heard him mutter a prayer of thanks for ophidiophobia.

Waking The Dead - post ep ‘Substitute’

Eve had turned the water up so high it was almost scalding. When she’d heard what happened, Grace had insisted on taking her home and was now sitting on her sofa downstairs.

She'd showered briefly at the station, changing into scrubs because they were the only spare dry clothes she had, but still didn't feel clean. She’d felt disconnected as she showed Grace into her home for the first time, just muttering, “Make yourself comfortable. I need a shower.” Eve had left so quickly she hadn't even registered Grace's concerned critical gaze. 

The feel of the pond water was still there on her skin as she stepped into the shower, and she turned it up to full power hoping to obliterate any remnants of Stefan on her skin. 

The water felt safe, a barrier around her that he could never cross. The steam spread and made everything damp, and she cried, disguised by its glittering curtain.

Eve couldn't even bring herself to move, just let the water turn her skin pink with its force and cleanse her of all of it. Of Olena, Bryony, Devlin, that bloody hospital. And of the look of pity on the faces of the team as they regarded her knowing it was inevitable. 

She had been deceived and doubled down until it nearly cost her her life. But the water stayed hot and she felt a little better.

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there, pummeling her skin and her water bill, when Grace knocked on the bathroom door.

“Eve, are you alright in there?” Her voice was muffled by the wood and the stream of the shower, but Eve just turned off the water, after savouring it for a final moment. 

“Yes. Thanks.” And when she emerged, face dewy and wrapped in a dressing gown, she could look Grace in the eye, and know it was true. She would not be drowned.

The Good Life - Abandonment/Autophobia

The traffic on London Bridge was terrible. Margo knew this, Jerry said it almost every night, but it made her feel no better. The music society had been cancelled that week, some crisis to do with Mrs Mountshaft that she had no desire to get involved with. 

So, she was sat alone on the sofa waiting for Jerry to return. She put the radio on, letting its inane chatter wash over her building anxiety. 

Jerry had been due back an hour ago, and still hadn't materialised. She went upstairs to change, trying three different outfits before going back to the one she started with. Her palms were clammy as she couldn’t help but wonder that this would be the evening Jerry would've found someone better to be around. The evening he'd leave her on her own.

She knew it was silly, that she was silly. But she'd often been left out at school, never quite the right fit, and it seemed she spent all her time waiting for Jerry to realise it. 

She flitted back downstairs and turned off the radio. He was now getting on for two hours late. She walked into her garden, she could pop over to Barbara and Tom's - only she could hear her silvery laughter and realised they must be making dinner. They probably wouldn't want to talk to her now. Or at all, they'd laugh at her for being so worried. Jerry loved her dearly. She knew it too, but it didn't help. 

In the end, Barbara and Tom came over to hers. Their generator had broken and could they use her oven? She was delighted. She shooed them indoors, insisting they all eat together, she had plenty of her casserole after all. 

With the Goods in the house, her fear subsided and when Jerry finally arrived home, she let him kiss her on the cheek and ignored him as he complained about the traffic on London Bridge, as she always did.

To The Manor Born- Ghosts/Phasmophobia

The manor wasn't haunted. It just wasn't. Audrey had lived there all her life and she had never come across an ancestor rattling chains at her in the middle of the night or ghostly shadows dancing in the moonlight.

That was why she had outright laughed when Richard asked her about it. He looked surprisingly hurt at her reaction, and she'd felt so guilty she just agreed to spend half the night ghost hunting with him. 

Also, alongside the guilt was the offer of dinner, it was a win-win really.

After dinner, Mrs Poo had rolled her eyes and gone up to bed, quoting a bizarre Old Czechoslovakian phrase about candles and goats or somesuch as she disappeared up the stairs. Richard was concerningly prepared for the whole enterprise. He had an instant Polaroid camera, a bottle of holy water from the rector and salt (for some reason.)

He hadn't drunk anything alcoholic at dinner to keep himself sharp, and he seemed jittery as they stood in the great hall. Audrey was completely at ease in her old home, as they waited for something to happen.

Eventually, with Richard so tense he might snap, Audrey suggested he take her round every room he thought he might have seen a ghost in. Each room was obviously empty, with the staff having retired for the night too. Some of the paintings looked a little sad after years of fading in the sun, but Audrey couldn't picture any of it being spooky. 

It was nearing one in the morning, and they had just completed their fourth circuit of the house.

Richard heard something. He went dead still, grabbing onto Audrey's arm, and she stopped in her tracks. It took her a moment to hear the soft footsteps nearing the corner. She nearly called out, but Richard violently shook his head, dragging them to the wall. He ducked, and pulled out his camera with trembling hands. Audrey rolled her eyes and stepped out into the middle of the hall, just as the being came into view. 

Richard screamed as it gasped in surprise, almost running into Audrey, the camera flash immortalising the moment. 

Audrey managed to stifle her laughter and bent down to pick up the fresh Polaroid from Richard, who had thrown himself down like a duck and cover drill. At the sight of the photo  she fully burst into peals of laughter. 

Mrs Poo in her nightie, hair in blue rollers, face shocked at Audrey's unexpected presence as she returned from the bathroom.

 Mrs Poo was also chuckling heartily, “Poor Bedreich has always been funny about spirits. In old Czechoslovakia we are not afraid of ghosts, but this country ruined him.” She shook her head grimly, but her eyes crinkled with mirth. 

Richard of course was less amused. He wrestled his jacket back into position, and stalked off to bed, still clutching his torch and holy water, just in case.