DOCTOR WHO: No Exit
Title: No Exit
Characters/Pairing: Yvonne Hartman, Harriet Jones, and some OCs
Word Count: 1377
Rating: PG
Summary: Things don't always go according to schedule at Torchwood One. Shocking, we know.
Notes: Who's too fond of her random minor characters? Yes, it's totally me. And my OCs. And I can't be blamed if they all talk like they belong in a Sorkin show. Written for my West Wing prompt table, posted on my Torchwood One journal... I also have too many journals.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who, Torchwood, and all characters belong to the BBC. I am not affiliated with the BBC, and am not making any money from this.
Noon
"Marcus, I'll be leaving tonight at six - I need you to make certain my schedule is clear."
Marcus eyed Yvonne with a faint smirk, still standing in the doorway to her office. Not that he didn't possess an ever-present smirk, but this one seemed more immediate and specific than usual. "Date night, ma'am?"
She arched an eyebrow at him, attempting to look reproving. It was usually effective on her subordinates but, as usual, Marcus remained unfazed. "I don't believe that's any of your business. Just make sure it's done."
He nodded shortly. "Yes ma'am."
Yvonne glanced down at the paperwork on her desk, then up again just as Marcus started out of the door. "I mean it. If aliens are laying claim to Manchester, you are going to be handling it without me if it happens after six o'clock."
Marcus stopped, and turned back to face her for just a moment. "I understood, ma'am. It's date night."
He walked out before she could answer, and she kept watching after him for a minute before sighing, shaking her head, and turning her attention back to the paperwork on her desk. "One of these days," she murmured to herself, shaking her head a little.
Less than five minutes later, the phone on her desk rang. She hit the speakerphone button and answered, "Yvonne speaking. What is it?"
"Yvonne." It was Maurice Dreissen's voice that answered, head of linguistics and not someone who called her for no good reason. She'd usually get nothing but concise reports from him unless she purposely sought him out... unless there was something extremely wrong. Which, of course, he confirmed with his next words. "We might have a situation."
Yvonne sighed, and resisted the urge to just fall forward and plant her forehead against her desk. She really shouldn't have said that bit about aliens in Manchester. The universe never passed up a chance to call her bluff.
1 PM
"We're going to have this wrapped up by six o'clock. I want to make that clear right now."
Maurice eyed her over the top of his glasses, and didn't say anything for a moment, just watched her, deeply critical. It would have been unsettling if she weren't so used to it from him. "Absolutely, ma'am, I'll make certain our crises conform to your schedule."
Yvonne decided to brush off the sarcasm and carry on. "Just as long as that's understood. Now, this message of yours. What ex-"
"Well, it isn't my message. It's not as if I sent it, nor was I the intended recipient."
Now, Yvonne decided, she might hurt him. What she meant when she said she wanted to be done with this by six was, of course, that she wanted him to make as many nitpicking comments as possible. "The message, then. The transmission you intercepted, whatever phrasing you find an acceptable alternative, Maurice - what is it?"
Maurice took a breath before answering, and glanced down at the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying around. "We're finding it a little difficult to translate, but at first glance... it appears to be a declaration of war."
Yvonne stared at him, waiting for more. There had to be more, some sort of "but" or clarification or reassurance not to panic... Not that she needed the reassurance, but it was nice to have after someone said the words declaration of war. "Excuse me?"
"Or a love poem."
She stared a little longer.
"It's very difficult to tell the difference in some languages."
2 PM
"Yes ma'am. Ms. Hartman. Ma'am." Declan Argall wasn't one of those she spoke with regularly - she'd met him once or twice before - but Yvonne remembered his face and name without much trouble. Declan was like a human-shaped puppy, mop of unruly curls and big dark eyes and all tumbling over himself, eager to please. Also with roughly the same attention span as a puppy.
Yvonne smiled at him, a little more tightly than usual, but under the circumstances, she thought that a little curtness wasn't entirely out of line. "You'll have it translated in a few hours? I'd very much like to know if I'll be able to leave at six, or if we're going to be planning an interstellar war."
"Six o'clock? Oh, absolutely," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "No problem."
3 PM
"Declan?" Yvonne asked, sticking her head into his... she hesitated to call it an office. It was really more a tiny room filled with several computers and a collection of equipment that, now that she thought of it, she wasn't sure had been properly requisitioned so much as abducted in the confidence that no one would notice it was gone. She would have to check on that when all this was over.
Declan didn't seem to hear her - he was wearing headphones, and his head bounced along with some barely audible music. Yvonne sighed and stepped forward to tap him on the shoulder. "Declan."
He yelped and flailed, nearly falling out of his chair before tearing off his headphones and spinning to face her. Yvonne smiled, trying to look as benign and unthreatening as possible. He still looked at her like he thought she was some kind of alien. "Ms. Hartman! Ma'am."
"How's the translation going?" she asked gently.
"The... translation?" he asked slowly, eyes wide. "Oh, it's... going." His hand stretched out to hit a key. He probably thought he was being subtle.
"Declan?"
"Hmm?"
"You forgot to start the translation, didn't you?"
4 PM
"I'm going to fire them," Yvonne growled into the face of an entirely unimpressed Maurice. He blinked a few times, and then let out a breath.
"'Them,'" he repeated. "So you don't just mean Mr. Argall?"
"No, the entire department. Everyone, they're fired."
"You think you can manage to defend the Earth from alien invasion without a linguistics department? Of course, you don't need to understand them to blow them out of the sky, however-"
"Yes, yes, I know," she muttered, and turned away, jaw clenched. "But I swear, if this doesn't get sorted soon..."
"We're all fired. Yes, ma'am. I'm sure that will take."
5 PM
"If anyone sights an alien warship, someone will tell me, right?" Yvonne asked as Marcus set a mug of tea on the desk in front of her. "If they start firing on Buckingham Palace, I will be informed?"
"I doubt any of that is going to happen in the next hour or so, but yes, I assume someone will tell you."
"Just like you would assume an entire department devoted to linguistics would be able to make some progress on translating a relatively short transmission in six hours?"
"Yes, exactly like that." He stepped back from her desk, though he didn't look like he was going to leave the room entirely. "You should have some tea, ma'am."
6 PM
"Ms. Jones."
"I think we've known each other long enough that you can call me Harriet."
Yvonne could hear the smile in Harriet's voice over the phone, and smiled faintly to herself. "I just called to let you know that I'm not going to be able to get out tonight," she said. Marcus appeared in the doorway of her office, waving to get her attention, and she held up a finger, signalling for him to wait a moment.
Harriet paused, and then asked, "Business?"
"Yes."
"Aliens?"
"Classified."
Another pause, and finally a sigh. "And I suppose you can't know when you'll be free. Well, I could have used a quiet night in anyway."
Yvonne might have apologised, were she someone else. As it was, she drummed her fingers on the table, glanced up at Marcus, who looked like he might implode if he didn't get her attention soon, and rolled her eyes a little at him before turning her attention back to the phone.
"If it helps, I may be able to offer you a translation of a love poem when I'm done."
"May?" Harriet asked, after a pause, and thankfully sounded more amused than annoyed.
"If we're all very lucky."
"And if we're not?"
"I'll get back to you on that."
Characters/Pairing: Yvonne Hartman, Harriet Jones, and some OCs
Word Count: 1377
Rating: PG
Summary: Things don't always go according to schedule at Torchwood One. Shocking, we know.
Notes: Who's too fond of her random minor characters? Yes, it's totally me. And my OCs. And I can't be blamed if they all talk like they belong in a Sorkin show. Written for my West Wing prompt table, posted on my Torchwood One journal... I also have too many journals.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who, Torchwood, and all characters belong to the BBC. I am not affiliated with the BBC, and am not making any money from this.
Noon
"Marcus, I'll be leaving tonight at six - I need you to make certain my schedule is clear."
Marcus eyed Yvonne with a faint smirk, still standing in the doorway to her office. Not that he didn't possess an ever-present smirk, but this one seemed more immediate and specific than usual. "Date night, ma'am?"
She arched an eyebrow at him, attempting to look reproving. It was usually effective on her subordinates but, as usual, Marcus remained unfazed. "I don't believe that's any of your business. Just make sure it's done."
He nodded shortly. "Yes ma'am."
Yvonne glanced down at the paperwork on her desk, then up again just as Marcus started out of the door. "I mean it. If aliens are laying claim to Manchester, you are going to be handling it without me if it happens after six o'clock."
Marcus stopped, and turned back to face her for just a moment. "I understood, ma'am. It's date night."
He walked out before she could answer, and she kept watching after him for a minute before sighing, shaking her head, and turning her attention back to the paperwork on her desk. "One of these days," she murmured to herself, shaking her head a little.
Less than five minutes later, the phone on her desk rang. She hit the speakerphone button and answered, "Yvonne speaking. What is it?"
"Yvonne." It was Maurice Dreissen's voice that answered, head of linguistics and not someone who called her for no good reason. She'd usually get nothing but concise reports from him unless she purposely sought him out... unless there was something extremely wrong. Which, of course, he confirmed with his next words. "We might have a situation."
Yvonne sighed, and resisted the urge to just fall forward and plant her forehead against her desk. She really shouldn't have said that bit about aliens in Manchester. The universe never passed up a chance to call her bluff.
1 PM
"We're going to have this wrapped up by six o'clock. I want to make that clear right now."
Maurice eyed her over the top of his glasses, and didn't say anything for a moment, just watched her, deeply critical. It would have been unsettling if she weren't so used to it from him. "Absolutely, ma'am, I'll make certain our crises conform to your schedule."
Yvonne decided to brush off the sarcasm and carry on. "Just as long as that's understood. Now, this message of yours. What ex-"
"Well, it isn't my message. It's not as if I sent it, nor was I the intended recipient."
Now, Yvonne decided, she might hurt him. What she meant when she said she wanted to be done with this by six was, of course, that she wanted him to make as many nitpicking comments as possible. "The message, then. The transmission you intercepted, whatever phrasing you find an acceptable alternative, Maurice - what is it?"
Maurice took a breath before answering, and glanced down at the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying around. "We're finding it a little difficult to translate, but at first glance... it appears to be a declaration of war."
Yvonne stared at him, waiting for more. There had to be more, some sort of "but" or clarification or reassurance not to panic... Not that she needed the reassurance, but it was nice to have after someone said the words declaration of war. "Excuse me?"
"Or a love poem."
She stared a little longer.
"It's very difficult to tell the difference in some languages."
2 PM
"Yes ma'am. Ms. Hartman. Ma'am." Declan Argall wasn't one of those she spoke with regularly - she'd met him once or twice before - but Yvonne remembered his face and name without much trouble. Declan was like a human-shaped puppy, mop of unruly curls and big dark eyes and all tumbling over himself, eager to please. Also with roughly the same attention span as a puppy.
Yvonne smiled at him, a little more tightly than usual, but under the circumstances, she thought that a little curtness wasn't entirely out of line. "You'll have it translated in a few hours? I'd very much like to know if I'll be able to leave at six, or if we're going to be planning an interstellar war."
"Six o'clock? Oh, absolutely," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "No problem."
3 PM
"Declan?" Yvonne asked, sticking her head into his... she hesitated to call it an office. It was really more a tiny room filled with several computers and a collection of equipment that, now that she thought of it, she wasn't sure had been properly requisitioned so much as abducted in the confidence that no one would notice it was gone. She would have to check on that when all this was over.
Declan didn't seem to hear her - he was wearing headphones, and his head bounced along with some barely audible music. Yvonne sighed and stepped forward to tap him on the shoulder. "Declan."
He yelped and flailed, nearly falling out of his chair before tearing off his headphones and spinning to face her. Yvonne smiled, trying to look as benign and unthreatening as possible. He still looked at her like he thought she was some kind of alien. "Ms. Hartman! Ma'am."
"How's the translation going?" she asked gently.
"The... translation?" he asked slowly, eyes wide. "Oh, it's... going." His hand stretched out to hit a key. He probably thought he was being subtle.
"Declan?"
"Hmm?"
"You forgot to start the translation, didn't you?"
4 PM
"I'm going to fire them," Yvonne growled into the face of an entirely unimpressed Maurice. He blinked a few times, and then let out a breath.
"'Them,'" he repeated. "So you don't just mean Mr. Argall?"
"No, the entire department. Everyone, they're fired."
"You think you can manage to defend the Earth from alien invasion without a linguistics department? Of course, you don't need to understand them to blow them out of the sky, however-"
"Yes, yes, I know," she muttered, and turned away, jaw clenched. "But I swear, if this doesn't get sorted soon..."
"We're all fired. Yes, ma'am. I'm sure that will take."
5 PM
"If anyone sights an alien warship, someone will tell me, right?" Yvonne asked as Marcus set a mug of tea on the desk in front of her. "If they start firing on Buckingham Palace, I will be informed?"
"I doubt any of that is going to happen in the next hour or so, but yes, I assume someone will tell you."
"Just like you would assume an entire department devoted to linguistics would be able to make some progress on translating a relatively short transmission in six hours?"
"Yes, exactly like that." He stepped back from her desk, though he didn't look like he was going to leave the room entirely. "You should have some tea, ma'am."
6 PM
"Ms. Jones."
"I think we've known each other long enough that you can call me Harriet."
Yvonne could hear the smile in Harriet's voice over the phone, and smiled faintly to herself. "I just called to let you know that I'm not going to be able to get out tonight," she said. Marcus appeared in the doorway of her office, waving to get her attention, and she held up a finger, signalling for him to wait a moment.
Harriet paused, and then asked, "Business?"
"Yes."
"Aliens?"
"Classified."
Another pause, and finally a sigh. "And I suppose you can't know when you'll be free. Well, I could have used a quiet night in anyway."
Yvonne might have apologised, were she someone else. As it was, she drummed her fingers on the table, glanced up at Marcus, who looked like he might implode if he didn't get her attention soon, and rolled her eyes a little at him before turning her attention back to the phone.
"If it helps, I may be able to offer you a translation of a love poem when I'm done."
"May?" Harriet asked, after a pause, and thankfully sounded more amused than annoyed.
"If we're all very lucky."
"And if we're not?"
"I'll get back to you on that."