[oncoming_storms] - Oi, stop that this instant!
As it turns out, the best place to recuperate after facing down a horde of Zerugian Fire Beasts bent on your destruction is the secondary lot of a car dealership. Strange, but true! The thing about car dealerships is that an immense amount of vehicles come and go, and many (particularly the shady second-hand dealers) litter their business with odds and ends to draw attention to themselves. So a blue police box circa the Earth’s 1960s suddenly appearing in the secondary lot of one of these businesses didn’t amount to much hubbub and barely caused a lash to bat.
Which was good, because the spatial dampeners that usually made this blue police box almost unnoticeable to a great many people was currently on the fritz. It had, after all, just been through a rather epic mid-space fight with the aforementioned Zerugian Fire Beasts bent on its destruction.
Which, of course, was all the fault of the man who peeked his head out the front door to get the lay of the land.
“There, see?” he said to no one in particular, patting the exterior of the box as he drew in a long draught of fresh air. “Perfect landing! I told you there was nothing to worry about!”
The police box looked nonplussed.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he said. “I got us here safely, didn’t I?”
The police box all but radiated displeasure.
With a manic grin and then a long sigh, the Doctor pet the box’s exterior once more before giving it a wave. “Just need some spare parts and then I can start the repairs. Don’t worry, old girl, I won’t be a mo’.” He didn’t wait to see how the police box would look at that and scurried off, disappearing into the distance.
By the time he returned, it was late into the evening. His hair was singed and he looked a right mess, mud coating the bottoms of his trousers, stains all about his suit and a waterlogged coat, but he grinned all the same. A rucksack swung lazily from his back in that way rucksacks tend to swing, bulging in spots from oddly-shaped trinkets. Fishing into his pocket for the key - he discarded a banana peel, three forms of currency, a yo-yo, a pack of interstellar gum from the planet Trinule Zet where chewing gum was a method of communication and a homing beacon before producing the key - he made his way back inside the police box, which was still radiating displeasure, only in a slightly more subtle and nondescript way. (If one looked closely, they could see its windows were darker than usual.)
As was wont to happen after a fight in the middle of space, the console room looked a mess, with bits and pieces of circuitry lying about or scorched from a laser blast or six, wiring hanging from the ceilings and the grating rattled loose right around the captain’s chair. (It is interesting to note that the grating wasn’t actually the fault of the Zerugian Fire Beast’s weapons, but of the currently damaged ship itself, which was waiting for its pilot to attempt to sit in said captain’s chair so that he would fall into the opening left behind when above said grating collapsed under his twiggish weight. The fight with the Fire Beasts had been his fault, after all, and he rather deserved a knock to the noggin for it. But alas, the Doctor made no effort to sit.) Dropping his rucksack on the ground near the console, the Doctor cracked his knuckles and dove in, spending the next several hours reattaching wires, fixing broken circuits and repairing damaged panels.
By the time he took a break, it was well and truly dark outside. Time Lords don’t often need sleep, but it’d been a long day and an even longer flight - being attacked can do that to a ship - and if he was going to repair his beloved TARDIS within the next few days, he’d need to forgo sleeping at all. Which meant he needed caffeine. Amazing thing, caffeine. One of the only substances actually capable of staving off a Time Lord’s tiredness. Had something to do with it confusing the molecular layout of the synapses in their mind and re-wiring the need for sleep into the need to cluck like a chicken, which was far easier to ignore than drooping eyelids.
At any rate, the Doctor wanted some coffee and took a moment out of his repair schedule to hop into the kitchen for some.
And promptly tripped over a random kettle on the floor.
Mumbling to himself that ow, that hurt and hmmm, it must have fallen during the fight, the Doctor pushed himself to his feet, brushing down his ruined suit and walked over to the stove, kettle in hand. He set it down on the burner, leaning against the oven, before yelping in pain and jumping away. Well that was odd; it was on. He was absolutely certain (he thought) that he hadn’t left it on last time he was in here and it definitely wouldn’t have turned itself on.
Frowning, but figuring he’d deal with it later, the Doctor turned off the stove and made his way to the coffee maker, pouring in some water and setting it to percolate while he found himself some biscuits. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes for it to finish. But when those couple minutes passed and the timer hadn’t gone off, the Doctor peeked back over to check, only to find the coffee maker unplugged. Well, that was odd, but he hadn’t made coffee since Mel travelled with him, so maybe she’d unplugged it and he just hadn’t noticed. No matter, just pop it into the outlet and there, coffee in a couple minutes! He could scoot out and changed while it brewed and come back to a nice hot cup.
There was no coffee when he returned, the power cord lying stubbornly on the counter, unplugged. Now that was very odd - not to mention annoying - and the Doctor narrowed his eyes, plugging it back in. Maybe it was weighted wrong and unplugged itself. Stranger things had happened. So he figured he’d just watch it while it brewed. Which worked for about forty-five seconds until he realised he needed crème and sugar. That wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to grab, he figured, and definitely not enough time for the cord to unplug itself from being unbalanced. He’d just nip off and-
It was unplugged. Again. Setting the crème and sugar down on the counter, the Doctor shoved the plug back into the outlet, folding his hands beneath his chin. It was two minutes. He could sit and watch for two minutes. Even he wasn’t that lacking in an attention span.
And, sure enough, just when the coffee was about to really start brewing, the cord began pulling out.
“Gotcha!” he cried, reaching out to hold it in place. He felt it tug against him and he grinned manically in triumph. “Oi, stop that! You’re not keeping me from my coffee!”
A nearby blender begged to differ and shot across the room at him, clipping his shoulder, but the Doctor refused to let go, giving his ship a general disapproving glare. Which intensified when the potato peeler - all seven of them - bounced off the wall a couple feet from his head. Followed by a rolling pin and, finally, a saucepan. “I said stop that! This instant, even!”
The drawers to the silver rattled and he felt himself growing nervous, but then the coffee maker dinged and he grinned triumphantly, letting go of the cord. “Hah! Told you.”
The ship didn’t reply, but neither would it open its cupboards when he went to grab a cup. The Doctor grimaced. He really should have snagged one earlier.
“Look, I know you’re upset about the fight, but it really wasn’t my fault!” The cupboard remained firmly lodged in place. “Really! How was I supposed to know that ‘How are you’ was Zerugian for ‘This is war?’” A pause. “No, you did not translate that properly! I should know, I-“ Another frustrated release of breath. “Oi, that wasn’t my fault, either! Would you just let me have my coffee?” he grunted, tugging on the door.
It flung open at the last minute, sending him sprawling on the ground and covering his head as a shower of tea cups rained down on him. Well, the ugly, chipped ones at any rate. The nice Chinawear went untouched, sitting pristine on the topmost shelves, which had suddenly moved higher than they were previously so even the stringbean of a Doctor couldn’t reach them.
The man in question sat on the glass-strewn floor and scowled petulantly. “My own ship turned against me, what next?” he muttered, standing carefully and moving to another cupboard, rummaging around for some Tupperware. It wouldn’t be the first time he used something unorthodox for a simple matter, and the plastic would hold coffee as well as any cup. He grabbed the pot and made to pour it, but then stopped, thoughtful.
“I’m sorry, old girl,” he said, setting the bowl down and replacing the coffee pot. The ship groaned from somewhere deep inside and he gave it a little pat. “You really were brilliant, though, keeping going the way you did. Absolutely brilliant. And I’ll have you in tip-top shape in just a few days, promise. You’ve just gotta bear with me, okay?” There was a soft sigh and the air warmed; the Doctor grinned. “That’s my girl,” he cooed, making his way back over the broken bits of glass and pottery to the cupboard, pulling down a nice cup. He grinned and poured himself some coffee, taking a long drink before giving her one last pat and walking back out to the console room.
Where he sat down on the chair and promptly fell through the floor. The ship hummed contentedly as he groaned in pain and crawled back out, looking forlornly at his chipped and empty cup. So much for coffee. Not that he’d need it anymore, he figured. He was more than wide awake now.
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 1,703
Prompt: Caught in a Trap
Written for rude_not_ginger based off this request. Please forgive my fail writing of Ten. He's very hard to write D:
Which was good, because the spatial dampeners that usually made this blue police box almost unnoticeable to a great many people was currently on the fritz. It had, after all, just been through a rather epic mid-space fight with the aforementioned Zerugian Fire Beasts bent on its destruction.
Which, of course, was all the fault of the man who peeked his head out the front door to get the lay of the land.
“There, see?” he said to no one in particular, patting the exterior of the box as he drew in a long draught of fresh air. “Perfect landing! I told you there was nothing to worry about!”
The police box looked nonplussed.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” he said. “I got us here safely, didn’t I?”
The police box all but radiated displeasure.
With a manic grin and then a long sigh, the Doctor pet the box’s exterior once more before giving it a wave. “Just need some spare parts and then I can start the repairs. Don’t worry, old girl, I won’t be a mo’.” He didn’t wait to see how the police box would look at that and scurried off, disappearing into the distance.
By the time he returned, it was late into the evening. His hair was singed and he looked a right mess, mud coating the bottoms of his trousers, stains all about his suit and a waterlogged coat, but he grinned all the same. A rucksack swung lazily from his back in that way rucksacks tend to swing, bulging in spots from oddly-shaped trinkets. Fishing into his pocket for the key - he discarded a banana peel, three forms of currency, a yo-yo, a pack of interstellar gum from the planet Trinule Zet where chewing gum was a method of communication and a homing beacon before producing the key - he made his way back inside the police box, which was still radiating displeasure, only in a slightly more subtle and nondescript way. (If one looked closely, they could see its windows were darker than usual.)
As was wont to happen after a fight in the middle of space, the console room looked a mess, with bits and pieces of circuitry lying about or scorched from a laser blast or six, wiring hanging from the ceilings and the grating rattled loose right around the captain’s chair. (It is interesting to note that the grating wasn’t actually the fault of the Zerugian Fire Beast’s weapons, but of the currently damaged ship itself, which was waiting for its pilot to attempt to sit in said captain’s chair so that he would fall into the opening left behind when above said grating collapsed under his twiggish weight. The fight with the Fire Beasts had been his fault, after all, and he rather deserved a knock to the noggin for it. But alas, the Doctor made no effort to sit.) Dropping his rucksack on the ground near the console, the Doctor cracked his knuckles and dove in, spending the next several hours reattaching wires, fixing broken circuits and repairing damaged panels.
By the time he took a break, it was well and truly dark outside. Time Lords don’t often need sleep, but it’d been a long day and an even longer flight - being attacked can do that to a ship - and if he was going to repair his beloved TARDIS within the next few days, he’d need to forgo sleeping at all. Which meant he needed caffeine. Amazing thing, caffeine. One of the only substances actually capable of staving off a Time Lord’s tiredness. Had something to do with it confusing the molecular layout of the synapses in their mind and re-wiring the need for sleep into the need to cluck like a chicken, which was far easier to ignore than drooping eyelids.
At any rate, the Doctor wanted some coffee and took a moment out of his repair schedule to hop into the kitchen for some.
And promptly tripped over a random kettle on the floor.
Mumbling to himself that ow, that hurt and hmmm, it must have fallen during the fight, the Doctor pushed himself to his feet, brushing down his ruined suit and walked over to the stove, kettle in hand. He set it down on the burner, leaning against the oven, before yelping in pain and jumping away. Well that was odd; it was on. He was absolutely certain (he thought) that he hadn’t left it on last time he was in here and it definitely wouldn’t have turned itself on.
Frowning, but figuring he’d deal with it later, the Doctor turned off the stove and made his way to the coffee maker, pouring in some water and setting it to percolate while he found himself some biscuits. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes for it to finish. But when those couple minutes passed and the timer hadn’t gone off, the Doctor peeked back over to check, only to find the coffee maker unplugged. Well, that was odd, but he hadn’t made coffee since Mel travelled with him, so maybe she’d unplugged it and he just hadn’t noticed. No matter, just pop it into the outlet and there, coffee in a couple minutes! He could scoot out and changed while it brewed and come back to a nice hot cup.
There was no coffee when he returned, the power cord lying stubbornly on the counter, unplugged. Now that was very odd - not to mention annoying - and the Doctor narrowed his eyes, plugging it back in. Maybe it was weighted wrong and unplugged itself. Stranger things had happened. So he figured he’d just watch it while it brewed. Which worked for about forty-five seconds until he realised he needed crème and sugar. That wouldn’t take more than a few seconds to grab, he figured, and definitely not enough time for the cord to unplug itself from being unbalanced. He’d just nip off and-
It was unplugged. Again. Setting the crème and sugar down on the counter, the Doctor shoved the plug back into the outlet, folding his hands beneath his chin. It was two minutes. He could sit and watch for two minutes. Even he wasn’t that lacking in an attention span.
And, sure enough, just when the coffee was about to really start brewing, the cord began pulling out.
“Gotcha!” he cried, reaching out to hold it in place. He felt it tug against him and he grinned manically in triumph. “Oi, stop that! You’re not keeping me from my coffee!”
A nearby blender begged to differ and shot across the room at him, clipping his shoulder, but the Doctor refused to let go, giving his ship a general disapproving glare. Which intensified when the potato peeler - all seven of them - bounced off the wall a couple feet from his head. Followed by a rolling pin and, finally, a saucepan. “I said stop that! This instant, even!”
The drawers to the silver rattled and he felt himself growing nervous, but then the coffee maker dinged and he grinned triumphantly, letting go of the cord. “Hah! Told you.”
The ship didn’t reply, but neither would it open its cupboards when he went to grab a cup. The Doctor grimaced. He really should have snagged one earlier.
“Look, I know you’re upset about the fight, but it really wasn’t my fault!” The cupboard remained firmly lodged in place. “Really! How was I supposed to know that ‘How are you’ was Zerugian for ‘This is war?’” A pause. “No, you did not translate that properly! I should know, I-“ Another frustrated release of breath. “Oi, that wasn’t my fault, either! Would you just let me have my coffee?” he grunted, tugging on the door.
It flung open at the last minute, sending him sprawling on the ground and covering his head as a shower of tea cups rained down on him. Well, the ugly, chipped ones at any rate. The nice Chinawear went untouched, sitting pristine on the topmost shelves, which had suddenly moved higher than they were previously so even the stringbean of a Doctor couldn’t reach them.
The man in question sat on the glass-strewn floor and scowled petulantly. “My own ship turned against me, what next?” he muttered, standing carefully and moving to another cupboard, rummaging around for some Tupperware. It wouldn’t be the first time he used something unorthodox for a simple matter, and the plastic would hold coffee as well as any cup. He grabbed the pot and made to pour it, but then stopped, thoughtful.
“I’m sorry, old girl,” he said, setting the bowl down and replacing the coffee pot. The ship groaned from somewhere deep inside and he gave it a little pat. “You really were brilliant, though, keeping going the way you did. Absolutely brilliant. And I’ll have you in tip-top shape in just a few days, promise. You’ve just gotta bear with me, okay?” There was a soft sigh and the air warmed; the Doctor grinned. “That’s my girl,” he cooed, making his way back over the broken bits of glass and pottery to the cupboard, pulling down a nice cup. He grinned and poured himself some coffee, taking a long drink before giving her one last pat and walking back out to the console room.
Where he sat down on the chair and promptly fell through the floor. The ship hummed contentedly as he groaned in pain and crawled back out, looking forlornly at his chipped and empty cup. So much for coffee. Not that he’d need it anymore, he figured. He was more than wide awake now.
Muse: The TARDIS
Word Count: 1,703
Prompt: Caught in a Trap
Written for rude_not_ginger based off this request. Please forgive my fail writing of Ten. He's very hard to write D: