A/N: This is the work of pure nonsense. Inspired by a Tumblr thread with pandasaurio-espacial. Takes place some time after events of the book/show. Thanks aini nufire for the beta read and also to tessseagull for reviewing the Scottish dialect for me so I'm not *that American* getting everything stereotypically wrong XD

Have a light-hearted and pointless oneshot to hopefully brighten your day!

The Strange and Extraordinary Emergence of Witchfinder Major Saucepan

Major Saucepan's childhood had been a most peculiar thing, in that it hadn't happened. At least there was no part of it that he could actively recall. Mostly there was nothing but a huge blank in his mind where childhood memories ought to be, if they were anywhere, and that was a bit unsettling. His earliest memory, in fact, was from two days prior. A Thursday. Somewhere around teatime, to be precise. If he stopped to think too hard about things he was left with an air of unease, and so Major Saucepan was extraordinarily careful not to think too hard about things.

That was alright though. His purpose in life wasn't to have a childhood that he could remember. It was to find witches.

And Witchfinder Major Saucepan was very good at what he did.

(At least, he was pretty sure he was. He could only remember finding the one, just now. But that made his success rate 100%, which he reckoned wasn't bad at all.)

o.O.o

:::Thursday, somewhere around teatime:::

Crowley was pretty sure they were ineffably screwed.

"I don't know why I let you talk me into these things," he snapped, glowering at anything but the angel to his right. From his periphery, he saw Aziraphale shoot him what was probably a look of pure indignation.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Could have left it to the experts, couldn't we? I said let's wait for Shadwell's lot, but you wanted to go hunt down a witch. Now look at us."

Aziraphale huffed. "Well, I would remind you that I quite firmly said this wasn't the sort of thing we should get involved with at all. Did I not also state, dear boy, that without knowing what precisely we were going up against that we might just be out of our league?"

"Out of our- what happened to 'the righteous will always prevail over evil', isn't that what you said?" Crowley shot back, mimicking the angel's overly confident and far too self-righteous reassurance. His eyes narrowed when Aziraphale harrumphed. "Don't risk the humans, you said, we'll take care of it ourselves, you said. So where's all that prevailing now, you… you… righteous prevailer?"

"And I did not talk you into a single thing," the angel went on. "This was your idea. Should have known not to answer the phone when you called, this is just like you to get us into this sort of mess." Aziraphale pushed against the cage bars hemming them in to no effect. "I do hope you're pleased."

"As punch."

"This is no laughing matter, Crowley! What if we never get out of here? Worse yet… what if we're stuck like this permanently?"

"What, you mean in a cage?"

"I mean as birds, you clotpole!"

The dark raven rubbed his beak into one ebony wing with an uncomfortable twitch. Yeah, this wasn't how he'd imagined everything going down either. Aziraphale (a thoroughly disgruntled turtle dove) turned his tail-feathers in Crowley's direction to signify the conversation was over.

"Don't be like that," Crowley protested. "Shadwell did say he'd send a squad along to investigate."

"Do you suppose it'll do any good?" the turtle dove asked glumly, forgetting to be sore with the raven. "Not that I don't have the highest respect for his organization, but this witch is ever so strong, after all."

"Ngh. It'll be fine. These are the best. He said the new guy is away on holiday, what's-his-name, the one with the computers. Reckon he'll send some of the more experienced lot instead. Who was that Major?"

"Odd name, wasn't it? Saucepan, I believe."

"That's the one. He'll be here. Trust me, angel. This guy is the best, a master witchfinder. Shadwell says he can tell a witch just by looking at 'em and could kill one with nothing but a few buttons, a matchbook, and a bit of string."

Aziraphale didn't look mollified but then again bird faces weren't designed to be inordinately expressive. "You really think so?"

"I know it."

o.O.o

Unfortunately, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had ever figured out that there was no Witchfinder Army. There was no squad. There wasn't even a Major Saucepan; Sergeant Shadwell had totally made him up.

But this was Crowley's reality, so that detail didn't matter nearly as much as it should have.

The funny thing about Crowley was, if he was really convinced that things worked a certain way, then that tended to be how things worked for him. He took after his Mother in his ability to create things from nothing. Though, in his case, it was most often unconsciously done. So strong was his certainty that Sergeant Shadwell was sending a squad of witchfinders led by none other than the great Major Saucepan himself, that of course was what would happen.

This would prove to be a huge surprise for both Sergeant Shadwell and Major Saucepan.

o.O.o

It took two days to track down the elusive witch, but Major Saucepan knew what she was just by looking at her.

"Right then," he whispered hoarsely to the squad at his back. "This is it, lads, nae turnin' back now."

The squad nodded back at him and brandished their weapons bravely. Major Tin held up a regulation-issue witchfinder's pin. Major Cupboard had the bell, carefully keeping it as still as possible so as not to give their position away. Corporal Milkbottle (no relation to the tragically deceased Major) was ready with the matches in case they needed to do some old fashioned burning. Behind this group were Privates Table, Chair, and Dinnerplate, the triplets from some small Scottish village that a wealthy sponsor wasn't likely to have heard of (and hadn't, because it wasn't a real place).

"Right then," Major Saucepan said again. "HAVE AT YE, CURSED WITCH!"

o.O.o

Aziraphale had assumed when Crowley said Major Saucepan could kill a witch with a few buttons, a matchbook, and a bit of string, that he was speaking in hyperbole, but that was indeed exactly how things worked out. It was actually quite the dramatic and impressive display by the brave Witchfinder Army squad.

And thank goodness killing the witch had broken the spell on himself and Crowley, the birdcage breaking as two full-sized man-shaped beings appeared inside of it and crashed to the floor.

Crowley dusted himself off and clambered to his feet, smirking fit to bust. "There you see? Like I told you. Really nothing to it."

"Nothing to it?" Aziraphale demanded as he spat a stray feather out of his mouth. He wanted to say more, but even more than that he just wanted to go home and have some tea and forget this entire ordeal.

"And who might you be?" one of the squad-members demanded, brandishing what looked like quite a large pin. "More witches?"

"Away wi' ye," the one in charge snapped before Aziraphale could answer. "They're no witches."

"Thank you," Aziraphale gushed, extending a hand. "Major Saucepan, I presume."

"Aye, that's me. What are ye, birds or men?"

"Men," Aziraphale quickly assured him at the same time that Crowley deadpanned,

"Birds."

"Men," the angel repeated with a pointed glare at his demon compatriot. "And frightfully tired ones, at that. How ever can we thank you, Major Saucepan?"

The Major gave him a smart salute, then pulled a card from inside his breast pocket. "If ever you're in need of a Witchfinder Army, ye know where to find us."

"Yes, that's why you're here," Crowley grumbled. "Come on, angel. Let's go home."

"Oughtn't we ring Sergeant Shadwell and give him the good news? Do lend me your phone, there's a dear boy. His quick response and organization did save us, after all."

Crowley retrieved his cell phone and handed it off to the angel while the Army made quick work of destroying any lingering evidence of a witch and disappeared again with the same smart efficiency with which they had arrived.

"Oh, Sergeant Shadwell," Aziraphale said when the cantankerous old man finally answered the phone. "It's me, Aziraphale. Just wanted to pop in and say what an excellent job the Witchfinder Army did here. All's well, the witch is quite dead, and thank you for moving so quickly to alert the troops. Major Saucepan and his squad just left on their way back."

The other end of the line filled with dead silence.

Aziraphale frowned. "Hello? Sergeant Shadwell?"

o.O.o

Sergeant Shadwell stared at the phone. He must have misheard the southern pansy, that was all there was to it. Surely he hadn't just said…

"Say again, laddie?" he finally stammered. "I know ye said there was a witch to be dealt with…" But honestly when that demon Crowley hadn't been able to tell him whether the supposed witch had any nipples at all, let alone more than two, he'd assumed the two were just being daft and there was no actual witch. He'd only said he'd send a squad out to investigate in order to appease them and collect the fee, reckoning he could just tell them later that the investigation had turned up no evidence of witchcraft.

Further, and probably more importantly, there was no Major Saucepan. There never had been. If there was one fact Shadwell was very sure of, it was this. He'd invented the Major, as he had the majority or all of the Witchfinder Army's current members.

So the logical explanation was that he'd misheard the pansy. Probably the accent.

"Major Saucepan," the pansy repeated cheerfully. "He did splendidly. I imagine they'll be back at headquarters within minutes. Pip pip, then."

He hung up, and Shadwell dropped the phone from nerveless fingers. His poor mind kicked into overdrive to figure out this particular puzzle. By the time the door opened some time later, he was no closer to determining what sort of trick this might be from the odd pair.

"Sergeant," a man said as he walked right into the Witchfinder headquarters, bold as brass.

Shadwell raised a trembling hand. "N-nipples," he choked out. "For god's sake, how many nipples have ye got?"

The man frowned. "What're ye on about? Just the two."

"And… who are ye?"

With a snort, the man shrugged out of his coat while several more men filed in behind, also divesting themselves as though they belonged there. Each wore a uniform with varying symbols on the sleeves, denoting their various rank. The man at the lead had a crown on his. A major. A coincidence…

"Been nippin' at the bottle, Sergeant?" he asked with disapproval. "Major Saucepan, an' I'll thank ye to stay sober on the job."

"But there is no Major Saucepan! Never was!"

"Of course there is. I'm right here. Always have been."

"Have not."

"Have so. Really, Sergeant, what's gotten into ye?"

"An' the others?" Shadwell demanded, still not entirely believing this was happening but determined to do things properly if it was. "The lot of ye! Name, rank, and number of nipples, if y'please!"

One by one, the squad dutifully identified themselves, each remarkably only having the standard two nipples. Each name had Shadwell's eyes flicking furtively back over to his ledger, where he kept track of the various active members of the Witchfinder Army. It couldn't be.

And yet… there they were. Every name that he had written down, each soldier he'd invented for the sole purpose of collecting their pay from those daft enough to believe him, standing there in his living room.

Somehow—and Shadwell didn't know how—he had brought them to life.

The sergeant stared down at his finger, the one he'd found out not long before held incredible power. Could it be even more than that? He eyed his ledger again, on which he'd inscribed the names of men he would later call to life. Incredible…

o.O.o

"Do you know, he sounded almost surprised when I told him Saucepan had been here?" Aziraphale asked with a perplexed furrow to his brow.

Crowley shrugged. "I mean, he's not exactly stable, is he? Besides, I reckon the Army is big enough he can't be expected to remember all of them."

"Still. Rather an unusual group of men. You're quite right though, next time we really would do better to wait and let them sort out the witches. You and I will have to stick to the usual. Demons, angels, hellhounds, Armageddon…"

With a side-eyed smirk, Crowley nodded. The witches, he'd leave up to Shadwell and his strange little Army. He believed in them.

o.O.o

Major Saucepan stared ruminatively into his drink, trying not to think too hard. He really did wish he could remember anything from before Thursday.

Ah well. Best not to dwell too heavily on it. His purpose was to find witches, after all.

And Witchfinder Major Saucepan was very good at what he did.