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Title: Finding A Way Home – A Quick Escape
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katherine_b
Rating: G
Summary: Can the Doctors escape a potential disaster with their lives – or at least their dignity – intact?
Word Count: approx 2,200 words
Characters: Both Doctors
A/N: Clearly my time in England has had more of an influence than I realised. Hopefully those non-Brits reading the fic will be able to understand at least some of what’s happening.
It takes the two Doctors a combined total of ten seconds to decide that the Noble house during a baby shower that had been planned and organized by Dona’s mother and is now being hosted by Sylvia is definitely not the place for them. The Doctor’s mother-in-law made threatening noises about having them hand around drinks and nibbles that showed why Wilf made himself scarce before they arrived.
“TARDIS?” the man in blue murmurs as Donna is whisked away and they find themselves backed into a corner of the kitchen.
“Yes!” comes the urgent reply from the Time Lord, and they bolt for the door, getting there just as Sylvia’s voice becomes audible in the hallway, presumably coming with a list of things for them to do. Clearly they’ve got out just in time.
“Doctor!” Donna’s voice calls as they reach the street, and although the half-human Doctor is all for continuing their escape, the other man stops and looks back.
Donna is leaning out of an upstairs window, so it’s clear she isn’t about to run after them.
“Be back by five,” she orders, adding, “Coming, Mum!” as she disappears back inside the house.
“Doctor, let’s go!” the half-human Doctor urges as the other man hesitates. “Unless,” he adds meaningfully, “you want to be at the beck and call of Sylvia and her friends from now until five o’clock – or most likely even later.”
“Good point,” the other Doctor agrees hurriedly, and they dive for the safety of the blue box, making sure to send the TARDIS into the vortex before they finally allow themselves to slump against the console in exaggerated poses of relief.
“I’ll tell you something, Doctor,” the man in blue declares as he pushes himself upright again. The Time Lord quirks a curious eyebrow as the half-human man continues, “If by some miracle there’s ever another Dalek or Cyberman invasion of Earth in Donna’s era, I’m all for sending your mother-in-law out to face them and wandering in a few hours later to clean up the mess while Sylvia watches us do it.”
The man in the brown suit chuckles somewhat weakly and drops onto the jumpseat, which creaks beneath him.
“How is it possible,” he complains, “that the most wonderful woman in the world has the worst mother?”
“Hey, she hasn’t slapped you!” the half-human Doctor points out cheerfully. “You got that from both Martha’s mum and Rose’s, if you recall. And while Jackie might have begun to like you, I don’t think you’ll ever be in Francine’s good books.”
The original Doctor rolls his eyes. “You’re not helping.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” the other man asks reasonably. “That you should whisk Donna away somewhere that neither of you will ever have to see Sylvia again?”
There’s a mumble in reply that sounds suspiciously like “It’d be nice.”
The man in blue snorts. “And how did Donna react to this genius idea of yours?”
“I’m not that daft,” the Time Lord tells him witheringly. “Of course I didn’t say that to her! I’d like to live a little longer, thank you.”
Silence falls, broken only by the gentle sound of the TARDIS carrying them safely through the vortex.
“You know what’s weird,” the brown-clad Doctor says.
“I don’t really want to go anywhere either,” the other man finishes for him. “Not without Donna.”
“Maintenance?” comes the suggestion.
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Rassilon forbid that we should clean or something,” the Time Lord jokes.
“We’re not that desperate,” his counterpart replies, although honesty forces him to add, “not yet anyway.”
“Hey!” The other man’s brown eyes sparkle with life as he suddenly sits upright. “We never got around to watching that semi-final of the Eighth Galaxy Rachtaball series. Oh, yes,” he adds scornfully. “you and Donna were too busy watching EastEnders, weren’t you?”
“Don’t try to pretend you weren’t watching too!” is the half-human Doctor’s prompt riposte as they leave the console room. “You were just as interested as we were, especially in Lucas John.”
“Johnson,” the other man corrects, only to swear under his breath as he realises he’s been caught out.
For once, the blue-clad Doctor is merciful and restricts his victorious action to a smirk.
“You can’t blame Donna for hating Lucas as much as she did,” he says as they enter the living room. “Considering he was the spitting image of Lance, I don’t know how she could bring herself to watch the show after that character came along.”
“Maybe she was waiting for him to get his just desserts,” Donna’s fiancé suggests quietly. “They seem to be good at that on soap operas. Good guy wins. Bad guy loses.”
“And it’s all forgotten about and life goes on the following week as if it had never happened,” the other Doctor finishes for him as he turns on the screen in the room and begins hunting through the stored programs for the Rachtaball games.
“Yeah,” the man in brown agrees almost beneath his breath as he slips out of the room.
Since the half-human Doctor can guess that their conversation has reminded the other man of his own actions in relation to Donna, he says nothing, merely clearing the abundance of cushions off the couch so that there’s room for both men to stretch out the way they really like to, and which Donna’s presence usually prevents.
The Time Lord returns with two beers, passing one to the other man and dropping on to the couch, his actions accompanied by a muffled groan. Two pairs of converse come to land on the coffee table with a thud and the Doctors exchange conspiratorial grins. Forbidden luxuries.
“You know,” the man in brown says after his first swig, “I’m thinking Donna’s family might have their uses after all.”
“You,” the other man replies as he wriggles himself into a comfortable position, “are one of the most hen-pecked husbands I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“I notice you jump pretty high when Donna says the word,” his counterpart replies meaningfully, not bothering to drag his gaze away from the action on the screen in front of them, “and you’re not even married to her.”
“Well, considering I know even better than you what she’s capable of,” he shrugs, “I’m not that silly.”
“Then you know why I react the way I do,” the original Doctor says triumphantly. “I might not have her mind inside mine like you, but I have certain other advantages.”
“True,” the half-human Doctor agrees. “I mean, she’s never going to be able to make me sleep on the couch, is she?”
“Oi!” comes the resentful reply, and the man in blue, satisfied with the response he has receives, chuckles and doesn’t bother to pursue the conversation any further.
They turn their attention to the game, getting as involved with it as men of any species are always inclined to do, cheering on the different teams, arguing with the umpire (useless when the game is pre-recorded, of course, but somehow that doesn’t stop even individuals as intelligent as Time Lords) and debating the finer points of the rules.
Rachtaball is one of the most complicated games in any Universe, a fact that doesn’t prevent billions of beings across more than half of the galaxies in the present Universe from arguing every minute interpretations of the rules. This includes the various sub-clauses and sub-sub-paragraphs that have had to be added in order to find people who are willing to be umpires despite the raging controversies that every single decision creates across nations and planets.
This complicated game becomes the next topic of conversation for the two Doctors.
“I decided not to bother trying to explain the rules to Donna,” the Time Lord says, in somewhat patronising tones that makes the other man bristle.
“Well, of course you didn’t,” he replies quietly, but with great meaning in his voice, “considering you don’t understand them yourself.”
His neighbour bolts upright, arms and legs flailing. “That’s not fair!”
The half-human Doctor chuckles benignly, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen where the game is continuing. “Truth hurts.”
“And I suppose you do understand them,” the other man grumbles as he settles himself back in the corner of the couch.
“Well, naturally.” He swigs his beer and continues, ignoring the openly doubtful expression on the face of the other Doctor. “After explaining the off-side rule to Pete Tyler one night in that parallel universe,” he adds, “everything else was a doddle.”
There’s a snort and then aggrieved silence from the man beside him.
“Liar,” he says at last, presumably for want of a better comeback.
“You’ll never know for sure,” the half-human Doctor says smugly.
He receives a cushion in the face for his trouble, only saving his beer from spilling by a miracle. Grinning, he tucks the cushion behind his back and squirms until it’s in a more comfortable position.
As if to relieve the tension, at this moment the TARDIS produces new beers. Focus shifts back to the game, and the Time Lord recovers a bit of dignity when the team he’s been supporting wins by four points.
“Hah, told you so!” he announces gleefully, switching off the screen just in time to silence the painful screeching of the team song being wailed rather than sung by the victorious players.
“Yeah, just luck,” the half-human Doctor grumbles as he gets up. “Oh, and that absolutely rubbish decision by the umpire at the start of the second half. If they’d capitalised on that, rather than standing around like a bunch of bloody loonies, we would have scraped home.”
“Whatever,” the other man retorts with a scornful look. “You lost, just accept it.”
“I bet your lot get done in the final!” he shoots back.
The man in brown arches an eyebrow. “Go on then,” he challenges. “What’s your bet?”
His neighbour has to think about this for a minute. “Solitary dishes for a week,” he says at last. “And,” he adds quickly, “no getting the TARDIS to help.”
There’s a look of disgust on the other man’s face. “Why didn’t you pick something you knew I’d really hate?” he complains.
“We-ell,” the Doctor grins, “I could have said vacuuming...”
“Fine, dishes it is then,” comes the rapid reply, and they settle down to watch the game to find a winner of their bet as much as the series.
One of the quirks of Rachtaball is that it is the only game in the Universe where a draw is possible in the final. In such cases, scores from previous games are tallied and the team with the highest total number of points for the season wins. Should that also be a tie, then to find an overall winner there is a complicated mathematical formula, which makes the Duckworth-Lewis system look like basic arithmetic. A week or two later, by which time everyone is sick of the whole business, the trophy is awarded to whichever team’s sponsors have raised the most money in the interim. In other words, everybody wins.
The two Doctors are unsure whether to be relieved or aggravated when the game is, perhaps predictably, a draw.
“We could flip a coin,” the Time Lord suggests.
“Or we could just forget the whole thing,” the other man offers. “I mean, with three of us helping, it’s not like the washing-up takes that long anyway.”
“I suppose not,” comes the rather grudging admission from the man in brown, who casts as suspicious glance at the man beside him. “You’re being surprisingly generous about this. Worried you might lose?”
“You’ve got just as much chance of losing as me,” he points out.
A grin cracks the features that mirror his own. “I suppose I do,” he agrees. Then he gets to his feet and looks down at the other man, a light in his eyes that gives a clear indication of where his thoughts are headed. “Bit hard for three of us to do the dishes when there’s only two of us here,” he suggests in a manner the reverse of subtle.
Rolling his eyes, the half-human Doctor stands up and switches off the screen. “Come on then,” he says knowingly. “Let’s go and get your better half before she decides that you’ve done a runner.”
“Never!” the Time Lord exclaims, but it’s clear from the look on his face that he knows the other man is joking, and also that the thought of returning to Donna is rapidly driving most other thoughts out of his head.
He turns, unable to conceal his obvious eagerness, and has left the living room before the other man can say anything else. With a shrug and a knowing grin, the man in blue makes sure that the living room is spotless – including wiping the marks of shoes off the coffee table – before following his progenitor to the console room.
Bouncing Bundle of Joy
Author:
katherine_b Rating: G
Summary: Can the Doctors escape a potential disaster with their lives – or at least their dignity – intact?
Word Count: approx 2,200 words
Characters: Both Doctors
A/N: Clearly my time in England has had more of an influence than I realised. Hopefully those non-Brits reading the fic will be able to understand at least some of what’s happening.
It takes the two Doctors a combined total of ten seconds to decide that the Noble house during a baby shower that had been planned and organized by Dona’s mother and is now being hosted by Sylvia is definitely not the place for them. The Doctor’s mother-in-law made threatening noises about having them hand around drinks and nibbles that showed why Wilf made himself scarce before they arrived.
“TARDIS?” the man in blue murmurs as Donna is whisked away and they find themselves backed into a corner of the kitchen.
“Yes!” comes the urgent reply from the Time Lord, and they bolt for the door, getting there just as Sylvia’s voice becomes audible in the hallway, presumably coming with a list of things for them to do. Clearly they’ve got out just in time.
“Doctor!” Donna’s voice calls as they reach the street, and although the half-human Doctor is all for continuing their escape, the other man stops and looks back.
Donna is leaning out of an upstairs window, so it’s clear she isn’t about to run after them.
“Be back by five,” she orders, adding, “Coming, Mum!” as she disappears back inside the house.
“Doctor, let’s go!” the half-human Doctor urges as the other man hesitates. “Unless,” he adds meaningfully, “you want to be at the beck and call of Sylvia and her friends from now until five o’clock – or most likely even later.”
“Good point,” the other Doctor agrees hurriedly, and they dive for the safety of the blue box, making sure to send the TARDIS into the vortex before they finally allow themselves to slump against the console in exaggerated poses of relief.
“I’ll tell you something, Doctor,” the man in blue declares as he pushes himself upright again. The Time Lord quirks a curious eyebrow as the half-human man continues, “If by some miracle there’s ever another Dalek or Cyberman invasion of Earth in Donna’s era, I’m all for sending your mother-in-law out to face them and wandering in a few hours later to clean up the mess while Sylvia watches us do it.”
The man in the brown suit chuckles somewhat weakly and drops onto the jumpseat, which creaks beneath him.
“How is it possible,” he complains, “that the most wonderful woman in the world has the worst mother?”
“Hey, she hasn’t slapped you!” the half-human Doctor points out cheerfully. “You got that from both Martha’s mum and Rose’s, if you recall. And while Jackie might have begun to like you, I don’t think you’ll ever be in Francine’s good books.”
The original Doctor rolls his eyes. “You’re not helping.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” the other man asks reasonably. “That you should whisk Donna away somewhere that neither of you will ever have to see Sylvia again?”
There’s a mumble in reply that sounds suspiciously like “It’d be nice.”
The man in blue snorts. “And how did Donna react to this genius idea of yours?”
“I’m not that daft,” the Time Lord tells him witheringly. “Of course I didn’t say that to her! I’d like to live a little longer, thank you.”
Silence falls, broken only by the gentle sound of the TARDIS carrying them safely through the vortex.
“You know what’s weird,” the brown-clad Doctor says.
“I don’t really want to go anywhere either,” the other man finishes for him. “Not without Donna.”
“Maintenance?” comes the suggestion.
“Nah.” He shrugs. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Rassilon forbid that we should clean or something,” the Time Lord jokes.
“We’re not that desperate,” his counterpart replies, although honesty forces him to add, “not yet anyway.”
“Hey!” The other man’s brown eyes sparkle with life as he suddenly sits upright. “We never got around to watching that semi-final of the Eighth Galaxy Rachtaball series. Oh, yes,” he adds scornfully. “you and Donna were too busy watching EastEnders, weren’t you?”
“Don’t try to pretend you weren’t watching too!” is the half-human Doctor’s prompt riposte as they leave the console room. “You were just as interested as we were, especially in Lucas John.”
“Johnson,” the other man corrects, only to swear under his breath as he realises he’s been caught out.
For once, the blue-clad Doctor is merciful and restricts his victorious action to a smirk.
“You can’t blame Donna for hating Lucas as much as she did,” he says as they enter the living room. “Considering he was the spitting image of Lance, I don’t know how she could bring herself to watch the show after that character came along.”
“Maybe she was waiting for him to get his just desserts,” Donna’s fiancé suggests quietly. “They seem to be good at that on soap operas. Good guy wins. Bad guy loses.”
“And it’s all forgotten about and life goes on the following week as if it had never happened,” the other Doctor finishes for him as he turns on the screen in the room and begins hunting through the stored programs for the Rachtaball games.
“Yeah,” the man in brown agrees almost beneath his breath as he slips out of the room.
Since the half-human Doctor can guess that their conversation has reminded the other man of his own actions in relation to Donna, he says nothing, merely clearing the abundance of cushions off the couch so that there’s room for both men to stretch out the way they really like to, and which Donna’s presence usually prevents.
The Time Lord returns with two beers, passing one to the other man and dropping on to the couch, his actions accompanied by a muffled groan. Two pairs of converse come to land on the coffee table with a thud and the Doctors exchange conspiratorial grins. Forbidden luxuries.
“You know,” the man in brown says after his first swig, “I’m thinking Donna’s family might have their uses after all.”
“You,” the other man replies as he wriggles himself into a comfortable position, “are one of the most hen-pecked husbands I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“I notice you jump pretty high when Donna says the word,” his counterpart replies meaningfully, not bothering to drag his gaze away from the action on the screen in front of them, “and you’re not even married to her.”
“Well, considering I know even better than you what she’s capable of,” he shrugs, “I’m not that silly.”
“Then you know why I react the way I do,” the original Doctor says triumphantly. “I might not have her mind inside mine like you, but I have certain other advantages.”
“True,” the half-human Doctor agrees. “I mean, she’s never going to be able to make me sleep on the couch, is she?”
“Oi!” comes the resentful reply, and the man in blue, satisfied with the response he has receives, chuckles and doesn’t bother to pursue the conversation any further.
They turn their attention to the game, getting as involved with it as men of any species are always inclined to do, cheering on the different teams, arguing with the umpire (useless when the game is pre-recorded, of course, but somehow that doesn’t stop even individuals as intelligent as Time Lords) and debating the finer points of the rules.
Rachtaball is one of the most complicated games in any Universe, a fact that doesn’t prevent billions of beings across more than half of the galaxies in the present Universe from arguing every minute interpretations of the rules. This includes the various sub-clauses and sub-sub-paragraphs that have had to be added in order to find people who are willing to be umpires despite the raging controversies that every single decision creates across nations and planets.
This complicated game becomes the next topic of conversation for the two Doctors.
“I decided not to bother trying to explain the rules to Donna,” the Time Lord says, in somewhat patronising tones that makes the other man bristle.
“Well, of course you didn’t,” he replies quietly, but with great meaning in his voice, “considering you don’t understand them yourself.”
His neighbour bolts upright, arms and legs flailing. “That’s not fair!”
The half-human Doctor chuckles benignly, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen where the game is continuing. “Truth hurts.”
“And I suppose you do understand them,” the other man grumbles as he settles himself back in the corner of the couch.
“Well, naturally.” He swigs his beer and continues, ignoring the openly doubtful expression on the face of the other Doctor. “After explaining the off-side rule to Pete Tyler one night in that parallel universe,” he adds, “everything else was a doddle.”
There’s a snort and then aggrieved silence from the man beside him.
“Liar,” he says at last, presumably for want of a better comeback.
“You’ll never know for sure,” the half-human Doctor says smugly.
He receives a cushion in the face for his trouble, only saving his beer from spilling by a miracle. Grinning, he tucks the cushion behind his back and squirms until it’s in a more comfortable position.
As if to relieve the tension, at this moment the TARDIS produces new beers. Focus shifts back to the game, and the Time Lord recovers a bit of dignity when the team he’s been supporting wins by four points.
“Hah, told you so!” he announces gleefully, switching off the screen just in time to silence the painful screeching of the team song being wailed rather than sung by the victorious players.
“Yeah, just luck,” the half-human Doctor grumbles as he gets up. “Oh, and that absolutely rubbish decision by the umpire at the start of the second half. If they’d capitalised on that, rather than standing around like a bunch of bloody loonies, we would have scraped home.”
“Whatever,” the other man retorts with a scornful look. “You lost, just accept it.”
“I bet your lot get done in the final!” he shoots back.
The man in brown arches an eyebrow. “Go on then,” he challenges. “What’s your bet?”
His neighbour has to think about this for a minute. “Solitary dishes for a week,” he says at last. “And,” he adds quickly, “no getting the TARDIS to help.”
There’s a look of disgust on the other man’s face. “Why didn’t you pick something you knew I’d really hate?” he complains.
“We-ell,” the Doctor grins, “I could have said vacuuming...”
“Fine, dishes it is then,” comes the rapid reply, and they settle down to watch the game to find a winner of their bet as much as the series.
One of the quirks of Rachtaball is that it is the only game in the Universe where a draw is possible in the final. In such cases, scores from previous games are tallied and the team with the highest total number of points for the season wins. Should that also be a tie, then to find an overall winner there is a complicated mathematical formula, which makes the Duckworth-Lewis system look like basic arithmetic. A week or two later, by which time everyone is sick of the whole business, the trophy is awarded to whichever team’s sponsors have raised the most money in the interim. In other words, everybody wins.
The two Doctors are unsure whether to be relieved or aggravated when the game is, perhaps predictably, a draw.
“We could flip a coin,” the Time Lord suggests.
“Or we could just forget the whole thing,” the other man offers. “I mean, with three of us helping, it’s not like the washing-up takes that long anyway.”
“I suppose not,” comes the rather grudging admission from the man in brown, who casts as suspicious glance at the man beside him. “You’re being surprisingly generous about this. Worried you might lose?”
“You’ve got just as much chance of losing as me,” he points out.
A grin cracks the features that mirror his own. “I suppose I do,” he agrees. Then he gets to his feet and looks down at the other man, a light in his eyes that gives a clear indication of where his thoughts are headed. “Bit hard for three of us to do the dishes when there’s only two of us here,” he suggests in a manner the reverse of subtle.
Rolling his eyes, the half-human Doctor stands up and switches off the screen. “Come on then,” he says knowingly. “Let’s go and get your better half before she decides that you’ve done a runner.”
“Never!” the Time Lord exclaims, but it’s clear from the look on his face that he knows the other man is joking, and also that the thought of returning to Donna is rapidly driving most other thoughts out of his head.
He turns, unable to conceal his obvious eagerness, and has left the living room before the other man can say anything else. With a shrug and a knowing grin, the man in blue makes sure that the living room is spotless – including wiping the marks of shoes off the coffee table – before following his progenitor to the console room.
Bouncing Bundle of Joy
lazy