Crossover meme fic: the end
I've been so bad about writing (aside from long things, for some reason) lately that I was sadly going to pull out on my last two crossover fics, but then decided to aim for 300 words each and go for it, and stop being so stupid, and lo, there was fic. I'm sorry if they weren't worth the wait for the remaining patient two on my flist, but here goes:
For paranoidangel42, who asked for Vila (B7) meeting Kenny Phillips (Press Gang).
(B7/Press Gang, All ages, no spoilers, 348 words.)
A Matter of Business
*
“So,” said Vila, finishing his inventive proposition with a flourish. “What do you think?”
His latest acquaintance (or victim, as he liked to think of him) shrugged. “It sounds reasonable. Might even be worth us covering it in the Gazette.”
“We’ll talk about that,” Vila said, hastily. “But you see my problem here: it’s going to take money. Investment, that’s the word, and I’m already putting in all I’ve got.” Admittedly, all he had was the clothes on his back, and a currently defunct transporter bracelet that had unbelievably dumped him in the wrong century before packing in, but he wasn’t about to say that.
(Typical, and it’d have Avon muttering about how appropriate for a backward sort like him; trying to be funny, which he should know by now wasn’t his strong point. If he had any, of course, which was debatable.) So he had to get hold of some of the local dosh if he was going to be stuck here. Pickpocketing had only got him a notebook, a pen and a folded piece of card containing what looked like those small, square, perforated things stuffy, rich old blokes sometimes still tried to collect for their rarity. Trouble was, they’d only be valuable back home, not here.
“I don’t need very much - a few donations here and there, and it’ll soon build up. What do you say?” Vila tried his most engaging smile.
Kenny Phillips - his new-found friend - paused. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Go on.”
“I tell you what,” said Kenny, putting a hand on his arm. “You come back to the newsroom with me and explain it again.”
“Oh?” Vila wasn’t entirely sure about that. “Why?”
Kenny smiled at him. “Well, I’ll make you coffee, and I’ll won’t let Lynda eat you. More importantly, if you’ve got a business proposition, there’s someone you really have to meet - just the guy for you to speak to about investments.”
“Oh?” Vila brightened instantly. “Sounds great.”
Kenny led the way to the newsroom. “I can’t wait,” he said, “to see what happens when you meet Colin.”
***
For persiflage_1, who wanted Martha on the Grid, meeting Harry Pearce.
Martha Jones, Harry Pearce, Malcolm Wynn-Jones; DW/Spooks (S6, no spoilers), All ages, 538 words.
***
Calling Dr Jones
*
Sir Harry Pearce entered the grid in Thames House through the revolving pods, Dr Martha Jones close behind him.
“Very hi-tech,” Martha murmured, glancing back at them, though a smile was lurking in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.
“When it works.” Harry moved forward, past anonymous officers sitting at desks. “The - ah - the item in question is in the briefing room. Malcolm Wynn-Jones is keeping an eye on it. He’s what you might call my own expert on the subject - or the nearest I’ve got. It’s not the kind of thing MI5 are generally called on to deal with. You, I understand, are eminently qualified to do so.”
“Qualified, maybe,” Martha said. “I don’t know about the ‘eminent’ part.”
Harry’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile. “You are now.”
“So, where’s your little green man, then?”
MI5’s Head of Section D gave her a pained look.
“Sorry.”
“This way. Even here, this matter is confidential - what we’d call eyes only. And, as a point of fact, it’s a piscine-like, blue creature and it’s failing fast. Whether or not that’s good or bad is more than we know, but you may be able to brief us on that.”
“I see,” said Martha. “I’ll do what I can - either way.”
Harry nodded. “I’m only relieved we managed to get hold of someone from UNIT - anything but bloody Torchwood. If you’ll pardon my French.”
“Oh, they’re not so bad these days - not some of them, anyway.”
Harry only raised an eyebrow, and held open the door for her. “Behold, our chamber of delights. Better known as the briefing room.”
Martha walked in, and then moved straight across to the small alien, lying on the table, resting on someone’s dark coat. There was a man sitting beside - unmemorable, but he glanced up, midway through talking to the creature, and coughed.
“Poor thing,” said Martha instantly. Then she looked back over at the two men. “Did it attack anyone?”
Harry shook his head. “Not as far as we can gather. Got on the wrong side of a dog, and then someone else wondered if it wasn’t some sort of genetically altered creature, part of a complicated plot to use biological warfare -.”
“Highly unlikely,” said the other man, as if he couldn’t help himself. “I blame the tabloids.”
“The long and the short of it is,” continued Harry, “that Special Branch were called in; we were called in. Malcolm deduced its origins were non-terrestrial and brought it back here under wraps. Which, by the way,” he added, “is something we shall have words about presently. In the meantime, Dr Jones, I suggest you do your duty.”
Martha sat down beside the alien, and opposite Malcolm. “Anyone thought of giving it water? Fish-like, you know?”
“Bad idea,” commented Malcolm briefly. “Didn’t seem to take to H2O - could be part of its problem.”
“Yeah,” Martha agreed, her humour resurfacing instantly. “The stuff’s everywhere. Sounds like we need a handy spaceship - have you got one of those hidden here as well?”
Harry paused, on the point of exiting, and shutting the door behind him. “And we were just about to ask you that, Dr Jones. Isn’t that what UNIT is for?”
***
During fic_rush, I talked about my tendency to write missing scenes for the UNIT fics, and lolmac said something about, yes, how writing smutty 'missing' scenes was much fun. I went : 8-o at the idea, and, um, couldn't help writing this very daft scene:
DW, OCs, Colonel Ashcombe, Private Kingsley, All ages, 275 words.
***
“Right,” said Colonel Ashcombe, emerging back out into the main office before Private Kingsley had a chance to leave. “Kingsley, everyone else is busy, and I’m afraid there’s this damned rubbishy extra scene someone wanted.”
“Sir?”
The Colonel turned. “Smutty inserts, I gather, apparently, and everyone else is in mid life-or-death peril, except us, and the Sergeant and Tilly, and you know how she is. We’ll have to see to it.”
“Sir?” said Kinglsey, hoping there was a problem with his hearing.
“So,” continued Ashcombe, folding his arms, “if you’d oblige with an off-colour joke, I’ll reprimand you, and that should see us through. Should count as smut, wouldn’t you say? Well, go on, man!”
Kingsley swallowed. “Er,” he began, and then stopped, not entirely reassured yet. Then he took a deep breath, and managed: “Okay, sir. What has eleven heads, twenty-two legs and goes crunch, crunch, crunch?”
Now it was Ashcombe’s turn to look worried. “Do I want to know?”
“A football team eating crips, sir.”
The Colonel surveyed him after a brief pause. “Tell me, Kingsley, in what sense is that off-colour? Come off it, man, you’re a soldier and you can’t manage a crude joke?”
“My mind went blank, sir,” muttered Kingsley. “Only one I could think of.”
Ashcombe put his hand on the door. “Just as well, I expect. That’ll do, Kingsley. I’m sure we’ll all be free to move onto the next scene by now - and let’s hope no one else gets such a ridiculous idea in their heads again.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Kingsley with more enthusiasm than at any other point of the exchange. He left at a run.
***
(Moral: never suggest smutty scenes to me.)
Thanks to everyone for their lovely prompts for the crossover birthday meme I held, and I wish it hadn't been such an odd summer, and I'd written them all sooner for everyone.
For paranoidangel42, who asked for Vila (B7) meeting Kenny Phillips (Press Gang).
(B7/Press Gang, All ages, no spoilers, 348 words.)
A Matter of Business
*
“So,” said Vila, finishing his inventive proposition with a flourish. “What do you think?”
His latest acquaintance (or victim, as he liked to think of him) shrugged. “It sounds reasonable. Might even be worth us covering it in the Gazette.”
“We’ll talk about that,” Vila said, hastily. “But you see my problem here: it’s going to take money. Investment, that’s the word, and I’m already putting in all I’ve got.” Admittedly, all he had was the clothes on his back, and a currently defunct transporter bracelet that had unbelievably dumped him in the wrong century before packing in, but he wasn’t about to say that.
(Typical, and it’d have Avon muttering about how appropriate for a backward sort like him; trying to be funny, which he should know by now wasn’t his strong point. If he had any, of course, which was debatable.) So he had to get hold of some of the local dosh if he was going to be stuck here. Pickpocketing had only got him a notebook, a pen and a folded piece of card containing what looked like those small, square, perforated things stuffy, rich old blokes sometimes still tried to collect for their rarity. Trouble was, they’d only be valuable back home, not here.
“I don’t need very much - a few donations here and there, and it’ll soon build up. What do you say?” Vila tried his most engaging smile.
Kenny Phillips - his new-found friend - paused. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Go on.”
“I tell you what,” said Kenny, putting a hand on his arm. “You come back to the newsroom with me and explain it again.”
“Oh?” Vila wasn’t entirely sure about that. “Why?”
Kenny smiled at him. “Well, I’ll make you coffee, and I’ll won’t let Lynda eat you. More importantly, if you’ve got a business proposition, there’s someone you really have to meet - just the guy for you to speak to about investments.”
“Oh?” Vila brightened instantly. “Sounds great.”
Kenny led the way to the newsroom. “I can’t wait,” he said, “to see what happens when you meet Colin.”
***
For persiflage_1, who wanted Martha on the Grid, meeting Harry Pearce.
Martha Jones, Harry Pearce, Malcolm Wynn-Jones; DW/Spooks (S6, no spoilers), All ages, 538 words.
***
Calling Dr Jones
*
Sir Harry Pearce entered the grid in Thames House through the revolving pods, Dr Martha Jones close behind him.
“Very hi-tech,” Martha murmured, glancing back at them, though a smile was lurking in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.
“When it works.” Harry moved forward, past anonymous officers sitting at desks. “The - ah - the item in question is in the briefing room. Malcolm Wynn-Jones is keeping an eye on it. He’s what you might call my own expert on the subject - or the nearest I’ve got. It’s not the kind of thing MI5 are generally called on to deal with. You, I understand, are eminently qualified to do so.”
“Qualified, maybe,” Martha said. “I don’t know about the ‘eminent’ part.”
Harry’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile. “You are now.”
“So, where’s your little green man, then?”
MI5’s Head of Section D gave her a pained look.
“Sorry.”
“This way. Even here, this matter is confidential - what we’d call eyes only. And, as a point of fact, it’s a piscine-like, blue creature and it’s failing fast. Whether or not that’s good or bad is more than we know, but you may be able to brief us on that.”
“I see,” said Martha. “I’ll do what I can - either way.”
Harry nodded. “I’m only relieved we managed to get hold of someone from UNIT - anything but bloody Torchwood. If you’ll pardon my French.”
“Oh, they’re not so bad these days - not some of them, anyway.”
Harry only raised an eyebrow, and held open the door for her. “Behold, our chamber of delights. Better known as the briefing room.”
Martha walked in, and then moved straight across to the small alien, lying on the table, resting on someone’s dark coat. There was a man sitting beside - unmemorable, but he glanced up, midway through talking to the creature, and coughed.
“Poor thing,” said Martha instantly. Then she looked back over at the two men. “Did it attack anyone?”
Harry shook his head. “Not as far as we can gather. Got on the wrong side of a dog, and then someone else wondered if it wasn’t some sort of genetically altered creature, part of a complicated plot to use biological warfare -.”
“Highly unlikely,” said the other man, as if he couldn’t help himself. “I blame the tabloids.”
“The long and the short of it is,” continued Harry, “that Special Branch were called in; we were called in. Malcolm deduced its origins were non-terrestrial and brought it back here under wraps. Which, by the way,” he added, “is something we shall have words about presently. In the meantime, Dr Jones, I suggest you do your duty.”
Martha sat down beside the alien, and opposite Malcolm. “Anyone thought of giving it water? Fish-like, you know?”
“Bad idea,” commented Malcolm briefly. “Didn’t seem to take to H2O - could be part of its problem.”
“Yeah,” Martha agreed, her humour resurfacing instantly. “The stuff’s everywhere. Sounds like we need a handy spaceship - have you got one of those hidden here as well?”
Harry paused, on the point of exiting, and shutting the door behind him. “And we were just about to ask you that, Dr Jones. Isn’t that what UNIT is for?”
***
During fic_rush, I talked about my tendency to write missing scenes for the UNIT fics, and lolmac said something about, yes, how writing smutty 'missing' scenes was much fun. I went : 8-o at the idea, and, um, couldn't help writing this very daft scene:
DW, OCs, Colonel Ashcombe, Private Kingsley, All ages, 275 words.
***
“Right,” said Colonel Ashcombe, emerging back out into the main office before Private Kingsley had a chance to leave. “Kingsley, everyone else is busy, and I’m afraid there’s this damned rubbishy extra scene someone wanted.”
“Sir?”
The Colonel turned. “Smutty inserts, I gather, apparently, and everyone else is in mid life-or-death peril, except us, and the Sergeant and Tilly, and you know how she is. We’ll have to see to it.”
“Sir?” said Kinglsey, hoping there was a problem with his hearing.
“So,” continued Ashcombe, folding his arms, “if you’d oblige with an off-colour joke, I’ll reprimand you, and that should see us through. Should count as smut, wouldn’t you say? Well, go on, man!”
Kingsley swallowed. “Er,” he began, and then stopped, not entirely reassured yet. Then he took a deep breath, and managed: “Okay, sir. What has eleven heads, twenty-two legs and goes crunch, crunch, crunch?”
Now it was Ashcombe’s turn to look worried. “Do I want to know?”
“A football team eating crips, sir.”
The Colonel surveyed him after a brief pause. “Tell me, Kingsley, in what sense is that off-colour? Come off it, man, you’re a soldier and you can’t manage a crude joke?”
“My mind went blank, sir,” muttered Kingsley. “Only one I could think of.”
Ashcombe put his hand on the door. “Just as well, I expect. That’ll do, Kingsley. I’m sure we’ll all be free to move onto the next scene by now - and let’s hope no one else gets such a ridiculous idea in their heads again.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Kingsley with more enthusiasm than at any other point of the exchange. He left at a run.
***
(Moral: never suggest smutty scenes to me.)
Thanks to everyone for their lovely prompts for the crossover birthday meme I held, and I wish it hadn't been such an odd summer, and I'd written them all sooner for everyone.