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katherine_b at 10:39pm on 27/07/2009 under dw, fan fic, ockham's razor, the sharpening of ockham's razor, whump
katherine_b at 10:39pm on 27/07/2009 under dw, fan fic, ockham's razor, the sharpening of ockham's razor, whumpTitle: The Sharpening of Ockham’s Razor
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katherine_b
Rating: PG (bit of not-very-nice language, but nothing too serious)
Characters: The Doctor (Ten) and Jack Harkness
Word Count: 1,270 approx.
Summary: The Doctor’s had a big night. Shame he can’t remember any of it.
A/N: Written for my current Timestamp meme fordrakochi, who asked for: “a) A prequel to the story [Ockham’s Razor]. What did exactly happened at this "party" they attended too? Or b) A sequel where the Doctor, worried and curious, tries to find out what happened. So he goes to Jack for information. Of course, Jack tells the Doctor his version (lies) about what took place.” I hope this satisfies...
A/N 2: As the original piece was written for the tenth weekly drabble challenge, it seems fair and reasonable that its sequel should be done for the seventeenth weekly drabble challenge with the prompt word ‘touch’.
“You look like you’ve had a bad night,” a voice says from the doorway.
From anyone else, that might have been taken as a token of sympathy, but Captain Jack Harkness knows better.
“Go to Hell,” he suggests rudely, covering his eyes to block out the fluorescent light that the visitor has so unkindly turned on after Martha considerately switched it off, having left a steaming cup of tea on the desk.
“Nice.”
“Yeah, you with your damned time machine.” Jack raises his elbow off his right eye and peers at the man in the brown suit, his upper lip curling into a sneer as he notes the other man’s impeccably turned-out appearance. “Wait until your own hangover wears off, and then come and torment me during mine.”
The Doctor arches an eyebrow, but there’s a sparkle in his dark eyes that tells the immortal Time Agent that he’s hit on the truth.
“You’re disgusting,” Jack snarls.
The Doctor spreads his hands out innocently, his dimples appearing intermittently, revealing the struggle he’s having not to smile. “What did I do this time?”
“Oh, get out!”
“You know, I’d have thought the hangover would fade when you got over the broken neck.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t work like that.” Jack lies back in his chair and places an ice pack, covered in a towel, over his eyes. “Gotta suffer with the rest of you.”
“Have you noticed you’re whispering?”
“Yeah, Martha told me.” He lifts the ice pack to glare at the Doctor again. “Might be nice if you did the same. Or left.”
“Are you going to drink your tea?” The Doctor points at the cup. “It’ll help.”
“Caffeine and a hangover – great combo.”
“Oh, Rassilon, you’re like a whiny baby!” Standing up, the Doctor fishes out the sonic screwdriver and somehow manages to separate the tea from the water, sending a stream of damp tea-leaves into the saucer and leaving warm water behind in the cup, which he hands to the suffering man. “Happy now?”
“Neat party-trick,” Jack says with somewhat reluctant admiration, cautiously sipping the water. “Can you do that with wine, too? Preferably in reverse.”
“Only at weddings.” The Doctor sits down again. “And I would have thought you’d have suffered enough that the thought of more drinking really wouldn’t appeal. Not yet anyway.”
“Hair of the dog.” Jack grins, feeling more like himself as he puts down the empty cup. “So,” he goes on, replacing the ice pack on his head, but at least able to sit upright without the room spinning, “to what do I owe the pleasure? I presume it’s not another invitation to a party like last night’s.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” The Doctor rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. “Just wanted to clear up a few things. Which part of the evening exactly did you spend with us?”
“Ooh.” Jack cocks an eyebrow, a wave of interest rising in him. “You mean you don’t remember?”
“Only a few little things,” the Doctor says in dignified tones. “Most of it’s there just fine, thank you! The ball that Donna and I went to, and the visit to the fair. Mind you, after that there’s a few gaps and I think that’s where you come in.”
Jack can’t help feeling that the Doctor is doing what he always does – making things up as he goes along – but he decides to play the game and see if he can’t find ways to get his revenge for the Doctor being there to mock him during his suffering.
“Yeah, it was a good evening,” he says with a contented sigh, slumping back into his chair again. “And I did come to that ball with you. That masked one, you mean? You looked damned good with a cat’s head on your face - and you always look pretty fine in your tux.”
“Birthday party?”
“Mmm hmm.” Jack nods. “Balloons and streamers and everything.”
The Doctor nods as well, as if this has confirmed something. “I don’t suppose – well, you’d remember if I said anything really inappropriate, wouldn’t you? Especially to Donna.”
“Has she slapped you?”
“Not lately.” The Doctor rubs his chin. “Not since the party.”
“Then you know you didn’t.”
“Praise be for small mercies,” the Doctor mutters to himself, Jack only just catching the words. “Did we go anywhere else I might have missed?” he asks. “Just, you know, popped in somewhere on the way to drop you back here?”
Jack grins. “Did you get a chance to return that confessional box you took from St Peter’s?”
The Doctor sinks his face into his hands. “Not yet,” he mumbles.
“You ate pears,” Jack says, breaking the silence that follows this admission.
“I hate pears,” the Doctor retorts immediately.
“Only when sober.” Jack grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Apparently.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that I drank pear liqueur or something.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Jack waves his hands in a gesture of demonstration or innocence; he’s not sure which. “But I was sure you’d remember that since it happened at the start of the night.”
“And you didn’t stop me?!” the Doctor demands, his voice climbing high in his apparent indignation. “You know I hate pears! Or, no, wait, that’s Rose. Well, Donna knows, too. At least, I think she does.”
Jack shrugs, palms turned to the ceiling. “I can’t help that, my friend. You did what you did.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, you took the TARDIS to pieces again, but I think that’s just a nervous habit, rather than something you do when you’re drunk.”
“And that was it? You promise?” There’s a hint of desperation in the Doctor’s voice that summons Jack’s most evil tendencies
“We-ell,” he grins at the Doctor’s growing uneasiness, “there was that game where you had to guess a person’s species while wearing a blindfold. I only used my hands. You used your tongue!”
“I bet you did,” the Doctor mutters under his breath, before asking curiously, with apparent disregard for his own behaviour, “Did you at least get it right?”
“Well, considering Donna was the person chosen as my ‘person of species’, and with where my hands ended up – let’s just say that it could probably have done with your sense of touch rather than mine, considering how you’ve got those heightened senses and all. I was a little – distracted.”
“You what?!” the Doctor explodes at this point, bounding out of his chair, every part of him, including his hair, bristling with indignation. “No! Just – no! There is no way I would have let you – do – that! Never!”
Jack chuckles softly as the door slams shut behind his departing visitor, and then winces at the vibrations in his head. However he frowns at the sight of something he doesn’t recognise hanging on the back of the office door and gets up to examine it, the ice pack sliding to the floor.
It had been hidden by the Doctor’s body and his own inability to focus on anything at that distance, but now he can make out something that is bright green and orange.
The combination of colours in that interlinking pattern makes him feel ill.
And he feels even more queasy as he gets closer to the object.
Wonders precisely what he was doing to get fluffy toy.
Because if there’s one thing he hates, it’s fluffy toys.
Particularly in the shape of spiders.
Suddenly, as he flings open the office door and heads down the hallway at a run, he really, really, really wishes he could remember what happened last night…
Author:
katherine_b Rating: PG (bit of not-very-nice language, but nothing too serious)
Characters: The Doctor (Ten) and Jack Harkness
Word Count: 1,270 approx.
Summary: The Doctor’s had a big night. Shame he can’t remember any of it.
A/N: Written for my current Timestamp meme for
drakochi, who asked for: “a) A prequel to the story [Ockham’s Razor]. What did exactly happened at this "party" they attended too? Or b) A sequel where the Doctor, worried and curious, tries to find out what happened. So he goes to Jack for information. Of course, Jack tells the Doctor his version (lies) about what took place.” I hope this satisfies...A/N 2: As the original piece was written for the tenth weekly drabble challenge, it seems fair and reasonable that its sequel should be done for the seventeenth weekly drabble challenge with the prompt word ‘touch’.
“You look like you’ve had a bad night,” a voice says from the doorway.
From anyone else, that might have been taken as a token of sympathy, but Captain Jack Harkness knows better.
“Go to Hell,” he suggests rudely, covering his eyes to block out the fluorescent light that the visitor has so unkindly turned on after Martha considerately switched it off, having left a steaming cup of tea on the desk.
“Nice.”
“Yeah, you with your damned time machine.” Jack raises his elbow off his right eye and peers at the man in the brown suit, his upper lip curling into a sneer as he notes the other man’s impeccably turned-out appearance. “Wait until your own hangover wears off, and then come and torment me during mine.”
The Doctor arches an eyebrow, but there’s a sparkle in his dark eyes that tells the immortal Time Agent that he’s hit on the truth.
“You’re disgusting,” Jack snarls.
The Doctor spreads his hands out innocently, his dimples appearing intermittently, revealing the struggle he’s having not to smile. “What did I do this time?”
“Oh, get out!”
“You know, I’d have thought the hangover would fade when you got over the broken neck.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t work like that.” Jack lies back in his chair and places an ice pack, covered in a towel, over his eyes. “Gotta suffer with the rest of you.”
“Have you noticed you’re whispering?”
“Yeah, Martha told me.” He lifts the ice pack to glare at the Doctor again. “Might be nice if you did the same. Or left.”
“Are you going to drink your tea?” The Doctor points at the cup. “It’ll help.”
“Caffeine and a hangover – great combo.”
“Oh, Rassilon, you’re like a whiny baby!” Standing up, the Doctor fishes out the sonic screwdriver and somehow manages to separate the tea from the water, sending a stream of damp tea-leaves into the saucer and leaving warm water behind in the cup, which he hands to the suffering man. “Happy now?”
“Neat party-trick,” Jack says with somewhat reluctant admiration, cautiously sipping the water. “Can you do that with wine, too? Preferably in reverse.”
“Only at weddings.” The Doctor sits down again. “And I would have thought you’d have suffered enough that the thought of more drinking really wouldn’t appeal. Not yet anyway.”
“Hair of the dog.” Jack grins, feeling more like himself as he puts down the empty cup. “So,” he goes on, replacing the ice pack on his head, but at least able to sit upright without the room spinning, “to what do I owe the pleasure? I presume it’s not another invitation to a party like last night’s.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” The Doctor rests his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers. “Just wanted to clear up a few things. Which part of the evening exactly did you spend with us?”
“Ooh.” Jack cocks an eyebrow, a wave of interest rising in him. “You mean you don’t remember?”
“Only a few little things,” the Doctor says in dignified tones. “Most of it’s there just fine, thank you! The ball that Donna and I went to, and the visit to the fair. Mind you, after that there’s a few gaps and I think that’s where you come in.”
Jack can’t help feeling that the Doctor is doing what he always does – making things up as he goes along – but he decides to play the game and see if he can’t find ways to get his revenge for the Doctor being there to mock him during his suffering.
“Yeah, it was a good evening,” he says with a contented sigh, slumping back into his chair again. “And I did come to that ball with you. That masked one, you mean? You looked damned good with a cat’s head on your face - and you always look pretty fine in your tux.”
“Birthday party?”
“Mmm hmm.” Jack nods. “Balloons and streamers and everything.”
The Doctor nods as well, as if this has confirmed something. “I don’t suppose – well, you’d remember if I said anything really inappropriate, wouldn’t you? Especially to Donna.”
“Has she slapped you?”
“Not lately.” The Doctor rubs his chin. “Not since the party.”
“Then you know you didn’t.”
“Praise be for small mercies,” the Doctor mutters to himself, Jack only just catching the words. “Did we go anywhere else I might have missed?” he asks. “Just, you know, popped in somewhere on the way to drop you back here?”
Jack grins. “Did you get a chance to return that confessional box you took from St Peter’s?”
The Doctor sinks his face into his hands. “Not yet,” he mumbles.
“You ate pears,” Jack says, breaking the silence that follows this admission.
“I hate pears,” the Doctor retorts immediately.
“Only when sober.” Jack grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Apparently.”
“Next you’ll be telling me that I drank pear liqueur or something.”
“Well, yes, of course.” Jack waves his hands in a gesture of demonstration or innocence; he’s not sure which. “But I was sure you’d remember that since it happened at the start of the night.”
“And you didn’t stop me?!” the Doctor demands, his voice climbing high in his apparent indignation. “You know I hate pears! Or, no, wait, that’s Rose. Well, Donna knows, too. At least, I think she does.”
Jack shrugs, palms turned to the ceiling. “I can’t help that, my friend. You did what you did.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, you took the TARDIS to pieces again, but I think that’s just a nervous habit, rather than something you do when you’re drunk.”
“And that was it? You promise?” There’s a hint of desperation in the Doctor’s voice that summons Jack’s most evil tendencies
“We-ell,” he grins at the Doctor’s growing uneasiness, “there was that game where you had to guess a person’s species while wearing a blindfold. I only used my hands. You used your tongue!”
“I bet you did,” the Doctor mutters under his breath, before asking curiously, with apparent disregard for his own behaviour, “Did you at least get it right?”
“Well, considering Donna was the person chosen as my ‘person of species’, and with where my hands ended up – let’s just say that it could probably have done with your sense of touch rather than mine, considering how you’ve got those heightened senses and all. I was a little – distracted.”
“You what?!” the Doctor explodes at this point, bounding out of his chair, every part of him, including his hair, bristling with indignation. “No! Just – no! There is no way I would have let you – do – that! Never!”
Jack chuckles softly as the door slams shut behind his departing visitor, and then winces at the vibrations in his head. However he frowns at the sight of something he doesn’t recognise hanging on the back of the office door and gets up to examine it, the ice pack sliding to the floor.
It had been hidden by the Doctor’s body and his own inability to focus on anything at that distance, but now he can make out something that is bright green and orange.
The combination of colours in that interlinking pattern makes him feel ill.
And he feels even more queasy as he gets closer to the object.
Wonders precisely what he was doing to get fluffy toy.
Because if there’s one thing he hates, it’s fluffy toys.
Particularly in the shape of spiders.
Suddenly, as he flings open the office door and heads down the hallway at a run, he really, really, really wishes he could remember what happened last night…
sick