Fic: The TARDIS Initiative (1/1)
Title: The TARDIS Initiative (1/1)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Locke/Kate (sort of, but not really)
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: “Do you think this has anything to do with the polar bears?” For the 15pairings Prompt #14 - Kiss. Lost/Doctor Who Crossover; Spoilers through Lost Season 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Written for 30_rock_office, who requested "Locke/Kate, TARDIS (LOST/Doctor Who)" at my Request-A-Drabble Meme. This is probably the crackiest thing I’ve written in a long time. Yeah.
The TARDIS Initiative
The strange wooden phone booth looks oddly at home where it sits, slightly off-kilter atop a fallen log but otherwise no more out of place than anything else on the Island; the alien blue caught up in the shadows of towering foliage, downplaying the hue and bringing it into the color scheme. What stands out most, really, is the thick layer of rapidly-melting snow lacing the flat surfaces of the structure - what with the absolutely hellish few days they’ve gone without rain or even a decent sea breeze, Kate is sorely tempted to grab at the precipitation and press it to her sun-flushed skin, but she refrains. Assuming that it’s really snow, and not some nuclear fallout or something equally absurd is giving this godforsaken place too much credit.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the polar bears?” she asks hesitantly, poking at the clearish-white compound with the barrel of her rifle; it starts to dissolve, and she’s reassured that maybe, for once, this fucking jungle’s going to give them something to work with, no strings attached. She’s getting dehydrated out here, damnit.
“I’ve learned not to think too hard about much of anything on this Island, Kate.” Locke’s heavy baritone booms behind her, the weight of his footfalls echoing, crunching in the underbrush. She feels his presence approach from her left shoulder before he passes her, palming open the door to the big blue box in front of them and sparing a glance back at her before walking through. “Gives me a headache, and we’re running low on Tylenol.”
She rolls her eyes at his cheeky grin - she remembers vaguely that he’s worked with boxes before, so maybe he’s in his element with this one, maybe he know what the hell it is - but when they’re both standing in front of what looks like a big glowing cylinder, reminiscent of those imported 90’s shows with putty people and the aliens, she figures that even Locke isn’t quite that bizarre. A glance in his direction confirms it, as he stares wide-eyed at the gold-and-teal color scheme, neither of them bothering to note that the single room they’re standing it, not to mention the corridors that branch out from it, is far too large to fit inside that little booth of a thing they’d found in the middle of their path from the Hatch.
“Maybe it’s another station?” Kate suggests, her tone low as if something, someone might overhear as she stands still and tilts back her head, taking in the latticework that hangs overhead in gleaming copper tones.
John, however, seems unimpressed with the splendor, simply inclining his head towards the winding halls that seem to stretch farther than the mind can fathom, a mischievous glint in his eyes that confirms Kate’s glaring suspicion that this Island is the old bastard’s wet dream come true. “Shall we take a look?”
“Right then,” a pitchy sort of voice interrupts suddenly, calling out haphazardly from behind them, and they both spin quickly on the balls of their feet to train their guns on the intruder. “This is most certainly not - blimey,” the man blinks as he stops short in surprise at the sight of them, and Kate takes in the doe-eyed expression, the lanky frame, the powder-blue button up rolled at the sleeves, the tawny suit jacket draped over his elbow, a mud-splattered pair of Chuck Taylors, and perhaps most incongruently, the banana clutched in his left hand. “Hello!” he grins jovially, seeming not to notice that two rifles are being pointed straight at him. “And who might you be?”
“Put you hands where I can see them!” Kate calls, too loud, but it makes her point clear as she cocks her gun, the stranger’s gaze finally registering the threat she and Locke pose from the entranceway of the strange and inexplicable box.
The intruder’s face seems to fall a bit, scrunching in a cross between annoyance and disappointment as accusing eyes turn sharp on the two of them. “Guns?” he squeaks a bit, with clear distaste. “Really?” He shakes his head, and Kate’s ready to pull the trigger then and there as he comes up to run a somehow judgmental finger across the barrel. “I don’t much care for guns,” he comments nonchalantly before his countenance brightens a bit. “Not to mention it’s the holidays!” he exclaims suddenly, and Kate, who hasn’t been keeping track of dates very well, figures it does have to be close to December by now. “Isn’t the order of the day peace on Earth, good will towards men?” he protests earnestly, before straightening the tie hanging loose around his neck with something like indignance. “I look like a man, at the very least.”
By this point, Kate’s sorely threatened to shoot him for simply being too fucking strange, and talking too damn much.
“Blast, it’s hot here,” the annoyingly loquacious man sighs as he steps toward the side of the box, stroking it almost affectionately, as if it could feel his touch. “Where exactly did we land, anyway?” he glances back at them, unfazed enough by the guns to make them seem just as ineffectual as he seems to think them, useless now in Kate’s sweating grip. “Never seen the likes of this place before,” he marvels a bit, glancing up at the canopies of the trees and around at the strange flowering plants that line the soft soil of their trail to and from the Hatch. “Completely unplanned, this - whisking off to the Isle of Man, would you believe it? Mid-fifty-seventh century. Excellent truffles, absolutely divine with a good banana daiquiri, don’t ask why, but-”
A shot rings out, and Kate turns to see Locke holding his firearm to the sky, the subtle anger that settles over his features as he takes one, two steps towards their awkward adversary bringing a grin to Kate’s lips - the fucker was doomed, now.
“Oi!” the odd man shouts, clearly offended. “Was that necessary?”
“Who are you and what do you want?” Locke barks gruffly as he pokes his rifle against the stranger’s chest.
“Well, I’m the Doctor, of course,” comes the answer with a frown that lasts only the span of an instant, an easy smile hurrying to take its place as he walks towards the entrance of the Box, forcing Locke and Kate back as well, just into the doorframe. “Hello there,” he waggles his fingers at them with lightening speed. “And who might you... wait, just wait one moment.” He pauses, considering them shrewdly where they stand, flabbergasted for the barest of instants as he whips out a pair of glasses and stares for just a second before cracking a grin that nearly breaks his face. “Look at the two of you! Caught beneath the mistletoe!”
The pair of them are stunned still for an instant before they instinctively peer upwards, noting the inconspicuous leaves of the cursed plant with matching frowns. Kate swallows hard before piercing the so-called “Doctor” with a venomous glare. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Well,” the Doctor tilts his head in dire consideration, “you can’t possibly ignore the tradition, can you? It’s quite important.”
Locke and Kate just stand still, watching as the man bounds happily closer. “Here,” he offers, his hands resting against the back of their necks in tandem. “Let me help.”
And Kate’s lips are pressed into Locke’s with an overwhelming force before she can so much as duck away, her mouth open in protest against his, parted similarly, their saliva tangling and she wants to run, wants to hide away and never think about the reality of her kissing Locke, of all people - John fucking Locke - but she’s stuck, they both are, because this “Doctor” is deceptively strong, and he seems determined to keep them lip-locked until the necessity for oxygen makes the situation hazardous.
There’s a split-second pause between the moment he removes his bracing grasp against the backs of their necks and the point where their lips are wrenched mutually away from their convergent point; both breathing heavily, John looks as shell-shocked as any soldier, and Kate’s trying to decide whether it would be completely terrible of her to wipe the taste of him away from her mouth even if he’s still looking in her direction.
She settles for spitting inconspicuously into the already damp soil at her feet. Repeatedly.
“Excellent,” the strange Doctor exclaims through the awkward silence cropping up around them with a clap of his hands that speaks of finality, somehow; like he thinks he’s going somewhere, that he’s not stuck on this shithole scrap of land like the rest of them. “It’s been quite fun,” he adds as he slowly maneuvers them a safe distance away from the Box before bounding happily into it, swinging back around the door jamb only to yell out a quick “Happy Christmas!” before closing the doors.
Kate jumps at the sound that follows, and Locke’s eyes widen, and they’re both thinking only one thing, she’s sure of it: monster. But the fear is short lived, as Kate’s pretty sure what happens next is the result of malnutrition and possibly heat stroke. She blinks twenty-seven times, in a row, before she finally succumbs to the obvious truth.
The Box is gone, and she is certifiably insane.
“We should,” Kate coughs a bit as she stares into the empty space where the Blue Box has disappeared without warning. “We should probably never speak of this,” she says grimly, turning to Locke. “Ever.”
“Speak of what?” He tosses her a mango from his pack and grins, his smile covered by citrus peel as he sucks at the juice in his slice of orange and leads on towards the beach without another word.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Locke/Kate (sort of, but not really)
Word Count: 1,700
Summary: “Do you think this has anything to do with the polar bears?” For the 15pairings Prompt #14 - Kiss. Lost/Doctor Who Crossover; Spoilers through Lost Season 2.
Prompt Table: Here
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Written for 30_rock_office, who requested "Locke/Kate, TARDIS (LOST/Doctor Who)" at my Request-A-Drabble Meme. This is probably the crackiest thing I’ve written in a long time. Yeah.
The TARDIS Initiative
The strange wooden phone booth looks oddly at home where it sits, slightly off-kilter atop a fallen log but otherwise no more out of place than anything else on the Island; the alien blue caught up in the shadows of towering foliage, downplaying the hue and bringing it into the color scheme. What stands out most, really, is the thick layer of rapidly-melting snow lacing the flat surfaces of the structure - what with the absolutely hellish few days they’ve gone without rain or even a decent sea breeze, Kate is sorely tempted to grab at the precipitation and press it to her sun-flushed skin, but she refrains. Assuming that it’s really snow, and not some nuclear fallout or something equally absurd is giving this godforsaken place too much credit.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the polar bears?” she asks hesitantly, poking at the clearish-white compound with the barrel of her rifle; it starts to dissolve, and she’s reassured that maybe, for once, this fucking jungle’s going to give them something to work with, no strings attached. She’s getting dehydrated out here, damnit.
“I’ve learned not to think too hard about much of anything on this Island, Kate.” Locke’s heavy baritone booms behind her, the weight of his footfalls echoing, crunching in the underbrush. She feels his presence approach from her left shoulder before he passes her, palming open the door to the big blue box in front of them and sparing a glance back at her before walking through. “Gives me a headache, and we’re running low on Tylenol.”
She rolls her eyes at his cheeky grin - she remembers vaguely that he’s worked with boxes before, so maybe he’s in his element with this one, maybe he know what the hell it is - but when they’re both standing in front of what looks like a big glowing cylinder, reminiscent of those imported 90’s shows with putty people and the aliens, she figures that even Locke isn’t quite that bizarre. A glance in his direction confirms it, as he stares wide-eyed at the gold-and-teal color scheme, neither of them bothering to note that the single room they’re standing it, not to mention the corridors that branch out from it, is far too large to fit inside that little booth of a thing they’d found in the middle of their path from the Hatch.
“Maybe it’s another station?” Kate suggests, her tone low as if something, someone might overhear as she stands still and tilts back her head, taking in the latticework that hangs overhead in gleaming copper tones.
John, however, seems unimpressed with the splendor, simply inclining his head towards the winding halls that seem to stretch farther than the mind can fathom, a mischievous glint in his eyes that confirms Kate’s glaring suspicion that this Island is the old bastard’s wet dream come true. “Shall we take a look?”
“Right then,” a pitchy sort of voice interrupts suddenly, calling out haphazardly from behind them, and they both spin quickly on the balls of their feet to train their guns on the intruder. “This is most certainly not - blimey,” the man blinks as he stops short in surprise at the sight of them, and Kate takes in the doe-eyed expression, the lanky frame, the powder-blue button up rolled at the sleeves, the tawny suit jacket draped over his elbow, a mud-splattered pair of Chuck Taylors, and perhaps most incongruently, the banana clutched in his left hand. “Hello!” he grins jovially, seeming not to notice that two rifles are being pointed straight at him. “And who might you be?”
“Put you hands where I can see them!” Kate calls, too loud, but it makes her point clear as she cocks her gun, the stranger’s gaze finally registering the threat she and Locke pose from the entranceway of the strange and inexplicable box.
The intruder’s face seems to fall a bit, scrunching in a cross between annoyance and disappointment as accusing eyes turn sharp on the two of them. “Guns?” he squeaks a bit, with clear distaste. “Really?” He shakes his head, and Kate’s ready to pull the trigger then and there as he comes up to run a somehow judgmental finger across the barrel. “I don’t much care for guns,” he comments nonchalantly before his countenance brightens a bit. “Not to mention it’s the holidays!” he exclaims suddenly, and Kate, who hasn’t been keeping track of dates very well, figures it does have to be close to December by now. “Isn’t the order of the day peace on Earth, good will towards men?” he protests earnestly, before straightening the tie hanging loose around his neck with something like indignance. “I look like a man, at the very least.”
By this point, Kate’s sorely threatened to shoot him for simply being too fucking strange, and talking too damn much.
“Blast, it’s hot here,” the annoyingly loquacious man sighs as he steps toward the side of the box, stroking it almost affectionately, as if it could feel his touch. “Where exactly did we land, anyway?” he glances back at them, unfazed enough by the guns to make them seem just as ineffectual as he seems to think them, useless now in Kate’s sweating grip. “Never seen the likes of this place before,” he marvels a bit, glancing up at the canopies of the trees and around at the strange flowering plants that line the soft soil of their trail to and from the Hatch. “Completely unplanned, this - whisking off to the Isle of Man, would you believe it? Mid-fifty-seventh century. Excellent truffles, absolutely divine with a good banana daiquiri, don’t ask why, but-”
A shot rings out, and Kate turns to see Locke holding his firearm to the sky, the subtle anger that settles over his features as he takes one, two steps towards their awkward adversary bringing a grin to Kate’s lips - the fucker was doomed, now.
“Oi!” the odd man shouts, clearly offended. “Was that necessary?”
“Who are you and what do you want?” Locke barks gruffly as he pokes his rifle against the stranger’s chest.
“Well, I’m the Doctor, of course,” comes the answer with a frown that lasts only the span of an instant, an easy smile hurrying to take its place as he walks towards the entrance of the Box, forcing Locke and Kate back as well, just into the doorframe. “Hello there,” he waggles his fingers at them with lightening speed. “And who might you... wait, just wait one moment.” He pauses, considering them shrewdly where they stand, flabbergasted for the barest of instants as he whips out a pair of glasses and stares for just a second before cracking a grin that nearly breaks his face. “Look at the two of you! Caught beneath the mistletoe!”
The pair of them are stunned still for an instant before they instinctively peer upwards, noting the inconspicuous leaves of the cursed plant with matching frowns. Kate swallows hard before piercing the so-called “Doctor” with a venomous glare. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Well,” the Doctor tilts his head in dire consideration, “you can’t possibly ignore the tradition, can you? It’s quite important.”
Locke and Kate just stand still, watching as the man bounds happily closer. “Here,” he offers, his hands resting against the back of their necks in tandem. “Let me help.”
And Kate’s lips are pressed into Locke’s with an overwhelming force before she can so much as duck away, her mouth open in protest against his, parted similarly, their saliva tangling and she wants to run, wants to hide away and never think about the reality of her kissing Locke, of all people - John fucking Locke - but she’s stuck, they both are, because this “Doctor” is deceptively strong, and he seems determined to keep them lip-locked until the necessity for oxygen makes the situation hazardous.
There’s a split-second pause between the moment he removes his bracing grasp against the backs of their necks and the point where their lips are wrenched mutually away from their convergent point; both breathing heavily, John looks as shell-shocked as any soldier, and Kate’s trying to decide whether it would be completely terrible of her to wipe the taste of him away from her mouth even if he’s still looking in her direction.
She settles for spitting inconspicuously into the already damp soil at her feet. Repeatedly.
“Excellent,” the strange Doctor exclaims through the awkward silence cropping up around them with a clap of his hands that speaks of finality, somehow; like he thinks he’s going somewhere, that he’s not stuck on this shithole scrap of land like the rest of them. “It’s been quite fun,” he adds as he slowly maneuvers them a safe distance away from the Box before bounding happily into it, swinging back around the door jamb only to yell out a quick “Happy Christmas!” before closing the doors.
Kate jumps at the sound that follows, and Locke’s eyes widen, and they’re both thinking only one thing, she’s sure of it: monster. But the fear is short lived, as Kate’s pretty sure what happens next is the result of malnutrition and possibly heat stroke. She blinks twenty-seven times, in a row, before she finally succumbs to the obvious truth.
The Box is gone, and she is certifiably insane.
“We should,” Kate coughs a bit as she stares into the empty space where the Blue Box has disappeared without warning. “We should probably never speak of this,” she says grimly, turning to Locke. “Ever.”
“Speak of what?” He tosses her a mango from his pack and grins, his smile covered by citrus peel as he sucks at the juice in his slice of orange and leads on towards the beach without another word.