Police Boxes and Improbability Drives - Crossover (Chapter 2)
Title: Police Boxes and Improbability Drives (Chapter 2)
Fandoms: Doctor Who; Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
Characters/pairings: In this chapter, Nine, Trillian, Zaphod, Arthur, Ford and (briefly) Marvin.
Warnings: Crack and bad language. The usual fare, in other words.
Disclaimers: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. HHGTTG belongs (/ed?) to Douglas Adams.
Summary: Nine ends up crash-landing in the cabin of the Heart of Gold.
A/N: I need to learn self control, and that fic-writing =/= revision. I also need a canon update, I think, because Nine is turning out far too Ten-ish. =/
Dedicated, once again, to insaneslasher, masterfedora, and my semi-beta yarukage.
Chapter 1
-----
“So… Trillian, right? That’s not an English name, is it? Are you English?” The Doctor was sitting in one of the plastic-covered seats, his feet up on the control panel, and sipping delicately from a polystyrene cup of a hot liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.
“Islington,” she nodded, then stood up and swatted at his legs. “Don’t put your feet there! Jesus Christ, you’re as bad as Zaphod!”
“You know you love me, babe.” Zaphod left head smirked; his right head would no doubt have joined in, had it not been having its teeth picked at that precise moment in time. “Everyone does. I can’t help myself.”
Trillian ignored him. She’d got very good at ignoring him.
“So,” she said, giving the Doctor a glare that dared him to put his feet up again. “A rakidon generator, huh? Where do you go for one of those?”
The Doctor shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, he’s one sassy frood,” Zaphod commented, and giggled.
“I’ve never needed a spare before you came along,” the Doctor shot back, taking another mouthful of mostly-un-teaish liquid. “I got that one on Gallifrey. Not really an option any more.”
Trillian frowned. “Gallifrey? I’ve never heard of any Gallifrey.”
“It never existed.” The Doctor looked downcast for a moment, then shrugged and leapt to his feet, stretching. “Well, that’s beside the point. Do my sharp ears detect the grumbling of an irritable robot?”
Turning to look at the displays, Trillian nodded. “Quite possibly,” she agreed, as the Doctor leant over her shoulder to see the displays better. Behind them, Zaphod rolled his eyes, making the universal flapping-hand gesture which symbolises somebody who will not bloody well shut up.
Ahhhhhh… the door whispered contentedly. The Doctor and Trillian looked up sharply. Zaphod, on the other hand, who was still absorbed by his toothpick, simply took the chance to kick his own feet up onto a control panel and relax.
“I suppose you’ll want to see the aliens now,” Marvin said, in a tone of, if such a thing were possible, dedicated apathy. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?”
“The second one,” Trillian muttered under her breath, wandering over to another control panel at the other end of the bridge.
“Yeah, just show them in, Marvin,” Zaphod drawled, rather louder, and shot Trillian a Look which said I agree with you totally. Well, maybe not totally, falling apart on the bridge would be messy, and then we wouldn’t have a Marvin to clear it up. But I agree with you on the sentiment of the thing. You know. Mostly. (Zaphod was noted for his expressive Looks, which had won several intergalactic awards)
The Doctor sat down again, picking up the not-really-tea-at-all, just as the hitchhikers stepped onto the bridge. By peeking around the TARDIS, which he had inconveniently managed to crashland right between his seat and the doors, he could just make out the newcomers.
“Ford,” Zaphod drawled, raising a hand as though he couldn’t be bothered at all, in any way, and continuing to pick his teeth, “hi, how are you? Glad you could…”
The Doctor spat his drink out, choking. “Ford? Ford Prefect?”
All three of the men (although only one of them was technically a man, he was also the one who would be least inclined to deck you for implying otherwise) looked up sharply. Both of Zaphod’s jaws dropped at once.
“You?” Ford said disbelievingly, as the Doctor bounded out from behind the TARDIS. “I thought I’d seen that bloody blue box somewhere!” He looked the beaming Doctor up and down, and added thoughtfully, “Have you had a haircut?”
“You know this guy?” Zaphod demanded, abandoning all attempts at suave sophistication.
“You know this guy?” Arthur echoed, looking from Ford to the Doctor and back again with a face that resembled nothing more than a fish out of water - which, to be honest, was pretty much how he felt.
“Oh, we met ages ago,” the Doctor said breezily, “while he was reporting on Tjaden Six. Twenty years, right, Ford? I get confused.”
“Twenty years,” Ford agreed, nodding, “and have you got young! Did you have Botox?”
“Do I look like I had Botox?” the Doctor retorted, pulling at his face. “No, really, do I? I haven’t looked in a mirror for a while. I’m not used to this face yet.”
Arthur had gone, by now, rather pale. “You change your face?” he whimpered, sounding rather as though he would have preferred to be outside, drowning in the endless vacuum of space.
“Button it, monkey-man,” Zaphod told him shortly, rubbing at his gum where he had driven the toothpick into it.
“You button it,” Arthur snapped, and added snidely, “Phil.”
“Phil?” Ford turned away from the incessantly complex secret handshake he was developing with the Doctor, and blinked at Arthur. “Nonononono, that’s not Phil. Who the fuck’s Phil? That’s Zaphod. Za-phod. Zaphod Beeblebrox, my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeblebrox.”
“Phil,” Arthur persisted, glaring at Zaphod.
“What?” Zaphod demanded, as Ford and the Doctor both turned to stare at him. “I don’t know what he’s on about. I’m Zaphod, not Phil. Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, sex magnet and all-around hoopy frood.”
“Formerly known as Phil,” Arthur agreed. “We’ve met.”
“We have?”
“At a party.”
Zaphod laughed. “Well, that narrows it down.”
“Earth,” Arthur persisted, “England.”
Zaphod continued to look aggravatingly blank. Ford’s face was rapidly darkening, and he looked about ready to strangle somebody.
“London. Islington.”
“Oh,” Zaphod said, nodding sagely, “that party.”
This was too much for Ford. “You were on the bloody planet? The same bloody country? What the hell were you doing?”
“Looking around,” Zaphod replied calmly, at exactly the same time as a trembling Arthur snarled, “Gatecrashing parties.”
“I was stuck on that planet for fifteen bloody years!” Ford shouted, shaking with rage.
“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”
“What happened at the party?” the Doctor asked Arthur, by way of intervention.
“It was a fancy dress party,” Arthur started, still furious.
“Of course it was,” Ford muttered, looking Zaphod up and down. “Is that a new arm, by the way, Zaphod?” By way of reply, Zaphod waved his third arm sulkily, and went back to picking his teeth.
“It was a fancy dress party,” Arthur repeated, “and there was this girl, Tricia. Tricia McMillan. Hell, she was something. Gorgeous, intelligent, absolutely bloody charming…”
“It’s always nice to meet an admirer,” Trillian remarked, wandering into view and over to another control panel.
For the second time in as many minutes, Arthur’s jaw dropped.
“Tricia McMillan, I assume?” the Doctor said, when it became obvious that Arthur had been rendered functionally speechless. “Well, I suppose that explains the weird name, right? Isn’t coincidence fantastic?”
“Most people’s lives are governed by telephone numbers…” Trillian said quietly, and whistled. “Well, whaddaya know?”
“A lot, actually,” Zaphod replied, and grinned.
Fandoms: Doctor Who; Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
Characters/pairings: In this chapter, Nine, Trillian, Zaphod, Arthur, Ford and (briefly) Marvin.
Warnings: Crack and bad language. The usual fare, in other words.
Disclaimers: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. HHGTTG belongs (/ed?) to Douglas Adams.
Summary: Nine ends up crash-landing in the cabin of the Heart of Gold.
A/N: I need to learn self control, and that fic-writing =/= revision. I also need a canon update, I think, because Nine is turning out far too Ten-ish. =/
Dedicated, once again, to insaneslasher, masterfedora, and my semi-beta yarukage.
Chapter 1
-----
“So… Trillian, right? That’s not an English name, is it? Are you English?” The Doctor was sitting in one of the plastic-covered seats, his feet up on the control panel, and sipping delicately from a polystyrene cup of a hot liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea.
“Islington,” she nodded, then stood up and swatted at his legs. “Don’t put your feet there! Jesus Christ, you’re as bad as Zaphod!”
“You know you love me, babe.” Zaphod left head smirked; his right head would no doubt have joined in, had it not been having its teeth picked at that precise moment in time. “Everyone does. I can’t help myself.”
Trillian ignored him. She’d got very good at ignoring him.
“So,” she said, giving the Doctor a glare that dared him to put his feet up again. “A rakidon generator, huh? Where do you go for one of those?”
The Doctor shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, he’s one sassy frood,” Zaphod commented, and giggled.
“I’ve never needed a spare before you came along,” the Doctor shot back, taking another mouthful of mostly-un-teaish liquid. “I got that one on Gallifrey. Not really an option any more.”
Trillian frowned. “Gallifrey? I’ve never heard of any Gallifrey.”
“It never existed.” The Doctor looked downcast for a moment, then shrugged and leapt to his feet, stretching. “Well, that’s beside the point. Do my sharp ears detect the grumbling of an irritable robot?”
Turning to look at the displays, Trillian nodded. “Quite possibly,” she agreed, as the Doctor leant over her shoulder to see the displays better. Behind them, Zaphod rolled his eyes, making the universal flapping-hand gesture which symbolises somebody who will not bloody well shut up.
Ahhhhhh… the door whispered contentedly. The Doctor and Trillian looked up sharply. Zaphod, on the other hand, who was still absorbed by his toothpick, simply took the chance to kick his own feet up onto a control panel and relax.
“I suppose you’ll want to see the aliens now,” Marvin said, in a tone of, if such a thing were possible, dedicated apathy. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?”
“The second one,” Trillian muttered under her breath, wandering over to another control panel at the other end of the bridge.
“Yeah, just show them in, Marvin,” Zaphod drawled, rather louder, and shot Trillian a Look which said I agree with you totally. Well, maybe not totally, falling apart on the bridge would be messy, and then we wouldn’t have a Marvin to clear it up. But I agree with you on the sentiment of the thing. You know. Mostly. (Zaphod was noted for his expressive Looks, which had won several intergalactic awards)
The Doctor sat down again, picking up the not-really-tea-at-all, just as the hitchhikers stepped onto the bridge. By peeking around the TARDIS, which he had inconveniently managed to crashland right between his seat and the doors, he could just make out the newcomers.
“Ford,” Zaphod drawled, raising a hand as though he couldn’t be bothered at all, in any way, and continuing to pick his teeth, “hi, how are you? Glad you could…”
The Doctor spat his drink out, choking. “Ford? Ford Prefect?”
All three of the men (although only one of them was technically a man, he was also the one who would be least inclined to deck you for implying otherwise) looked up sharply. Both of Zaphod’s jaws dropped at once.
“You?” Ford said disbelievingly, as the Doctor bounded out from behind the TARDIS. “I thought I’d seen that bloody blue box somewhere!” He looked the beaming Doctor up and down, and added thoughtfully, “Have you had a haircut?”
“You know this guy?” Zaphod demanded, abandoning all attempts at suave sophistication.
“You know this guy?” Arthur echoed, looking from Ford to the Doctor and back again with a face that resembled nothing more than a fish out of water - which, to be honest, was pretty much how he felt.
“Oh, we met ages ago,” the Doctor said breezily, “while he was reporting on Tjaden Six. Twenty years, right, Ford? I get confused.”
“Twenty years,” Ford agreed, nodding, “and have you got young! Did you have Botox?”
“Do I look like I had Botox?” the Doctor retorted, pulling at his face. “No, really, do I? I haven’t looked in a mirror for a while. I’m not used to this face yet.”
Arthur had gone, by now, rather pale. “You change your face?” he whimpered, sounding rather as though he would have preferred to be outside, drowning in the endless vacuum of space.
“Button it, monkey-man,” Zaphod told him shortly, rubbing at his gum where he had driven the toothpick into it.
“You button it,” Arthur snapped, and added snidely, “Phil.”
“Phil?” Ford turned away from the incessantly complex secret handshake he was developing with the Doctor, and blinked at Arthur. “Nonononono, that’s not Phil. Who the fuck’s Phil? That’s Zaphod. Za-phod. Zaphod Beeblebrox, my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeblebrox.”
“Phil,” Arthur persisted, glaring at Zaphod.
“What?” Zaphod demanded, as Ford and the Doctor both turned to stare at him. “I don’t know what he’s on about. I’m Zaphod, not Phil. Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, sex magnet and all-around hoopy frood.”
“Formerly known as Phil,” Arthur agreed. “We’ve met.”
“We have?”
“At a party.”
Zaphod laughed. “Well, that narrows it down.”
“Earth,” Arthur persisted, “England.”
Zaphod continued to look aggravatingly blank. Ford’s face was rapidly darkening, and he looked about ready to strangle somebody.
“London. Islington.”
“Oh,” Zaphod said, nodding sagely, “that party.”
This was too much for Ford. “You were on the bloody planet? The same bloody country? What the hell were you doing?”
“Looking around,” Zaphod replied calmly, at exactly the same time as a trembling Arthur snarled, “Gatecrashing parties.”
“I was stuck on that planet for fifteen bloody years!” Ford shouted, shaking with rage.
“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”
“What happened at the party?” the Doctor asked Arthur, by way of intervention.
“It was a fancy dress party,” Arthur started, still furious.
“Of course it was,” Ford muttered, looking Zaphod up and down. “Is that a new arm, by the way, Zaphod?” By way of reply, Zaphod waved his third arm sulkily, and went back to picking his teeth.
“It was a fancy dress party,” Arthur repeated, “and there was this girl, Tricia. Tricia McMillan. Hell, she was something. Gorgeous, intelligent, absolutely bloody charming…”
“It’s always nice to meet an admirer,” Trillian remarked, wandering into view and over to another control panel.
For the second time in as many minutes, Arthur’s jaw dropped.
“Tricia McMillan, I assume?” the Doctor said, when it became obvious that Arthur had been rendered functionally speechless. “Well, I suppose that explains the weird name, right? Isn’t coincidence fantastic?”
“Most people’s lives are governed by telephone numbers…” Trillian said quietly, and whistled. “Well, whaddaya know?”
“A lot, actually,” Zaphod replied, and grinned.