Fic: Instant Grounds, for theanonsisters
Title: Instant Grounds
Author: dak
Word Count: 756
Rating: white cortina
A/N: For theanonsisters who asked for this prompt: "There was apparently an unfilmed acene in 1x01 with Sam complaining about a broken down brand new vending machine and Ray making Meaningful Remarks about the new replacing the old and not being up to the job. Would love a ficlet inspired by this." I hope you like it!
All he wanted was a coffee. He had a coffee this morning, true, and he strictly limited his caffeine intake to one cup per day for obvious health reasons, yes. However, that had been this morning. This morning had been much different than this afternoon. This morning he hadn’t had the headache to end all headaches, for one thing. He’d also been in the correct decade, for another.
Considering he limited his coffee intake for his health, yet he was currently listening to John Timpson discuss Brezhnev’s upcoming visit to the USA, DCI Tyler made the executive decision that a second cup of coffee would be the least of his health issues.
He was, however, mistaken, (yet again), when he attempted to purchase said second cup of coffee from the antiquated vending machine he’d discovered in the hall.
Standing in front of the brazen behemoth - which was more a cross between his grandmother’s old refrigerator and the Hubble telescope than his beloved Keurig - he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He came up with nothing. DCI Tyler then remembered he kept his wallet in his custom-tailored trousers, not in too small flared jeans.
He scowled at his current garments. Either he possessed a hidden desire to dress in ill-fitting polyester or he should have subjected his psyche to more than one session with the station’s resident psychiatrist. Possibly both, now that he remembered he was wearing Cuban heels as well.
DCI Tyler closed his eyes and attempted to focus. All he had done since arriving in this place was attempt to call Maya, an action which resulted in his being told off by an operator.
An operator, he mentally sneered. At least her job would be obsolete in ten years.
He opened his eyes and checked his other pockets. His mind wouldn’t abandon him in this time capsule with nary a pound, certainly.
“Need a hand, Boss?”
DCI Tyler nearly leapt out of his skin as the moustached detective appeared by his side.
“Oh, erm, Carling, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Here,” the detective handed over a pound. “Should give you change.”
“Cheers.” He acknowledged the gesture with a nod, then willed Figment Number Three of his imagination to leave him be.
“Gorgeous, ain’t she?” The man whistled, staring at the machine. Apparently, DCI Tyler needed greater control over his mind.
“Hm? Yes. Wonderful,” he muttered, then slipped the proffered coin into the slot.
“Only arrived last week. Guv made a big to-do ‘bout getting us better equipment than those RCS poofters.”
DCI Tyler winced. He hadn’t heard such offensive language in his station since they’d arrested several members of the NF, and he certainly never heard it from any of his officers. He simply did not tolerate it.
“Right,” he responded succinctly, deciding against politically correcting his own mind.
He looked over his coffee options. The machine offered only one - regular.
“Don’t care for it meself.” The offensive detective was still standing beside him.
“Really,” he sighed, relenting to the fact that his brain wanted him to finish a conversation he wasn’t aware he was having.
“Sure, all sleek and shiny and new. Loads of bells and whistles.”
“Yes,” he replied, contemplating his options - regular or nothing. “Plenty of variety,” he mumbled, then pressed the button for the second time.
“But the damn thing always kicks up a fuss.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Always overflowing cups.”
“Really.”
“Not giving the proper change.”
“Right.”
“Causes more trouble than it’s worth, really.”
“Fascinating.” He pressed the button for a third time.
“I prefer the old one, meself. Sure, it weren’t the best around, but it were dependable. Solid. Reliable.”
“I’m sure it was quite a hardship to lose it,” DCI Tyler said, then smacked the side of the bastard machine.
“Just can’t buy that kind of loyalty. No matter what new toy you bring in from the outside. Hm, looks like the sign fell, again.” Carling bent down and picked up a fallen piece of cardboard, and slapped it back on the machine.
“Out of...’oder?’” DCI Tyler read.
“Best get some better sellotape on that. No matter. Won’t be long ‘fore the bloody thing’s shipped off. Knew it would never last.”
The detective smacked his gum. DCI Tyler winced.
“Oh, by the way, Boss. You owe me a quid.” He pat him on the back. “And I charge interest.” Figment Number Three walked off, leaving him alone with the broken down machine.
He sighed.
All Sam wanted was a coffee, but right now he’d settle for a time machine.
Author: dak
Word Count: 756
Rating: white cortina
A/N: For theanonsisters who asked for this prompt: "There was apparently an unfilmed acene in 1x01 with Sam complaining about a broken down brand new vending machine and Ray making Meaningful Remarks about the new replacing the old and not being up to the job. Would love a ficlet inspired by this." I hope you like it!
All he wanted was a coffee. He had a coffee this morning, true, and he strictly limited his caffeine intake to one cup per day for obvious health reasons, yes. However, that had been this morning. This morning had been much different than this afternoon. This morning he hadn’t had the headache to end all headaches, for one thing. He’d also been in the correct decade, for another.
Considering he limited his coffee intake for his health, yet he was currently listening to John Timpson discuss Brezhnev’s upcoming visit to the USA, DCI Tyler made the executive decision that a second cup of coffee would be the least of his health issues.
He was, however, mistaken, (yet again), when he attempted to purchase said second cup of coffee from the antiquated vending machine he’d discovered in the hall.
Standing in front of the brazen behemoth - which was more a cross between his grandmother’s old refrigerator and the Hubble telescope than his beloved Keurig - he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He came up with nothing. DCI Tyler then remembered he kept his wallet in his custom-tailored trousers, not in too small flared jeans.
He scowled at his current garments. Either he possessed a hidden desire to dress in ill-fitting polyester or he should have subjected his psyche to more than one session with the station’s resident psychiatrist. Possibly both, now that he remembered he was wearing Cuban heels as well.
DCI Tyler closed his eyes and attempted to focus. All he had done since arriving in this place was attempt to call Maya, an action which resulted in his being told off by an operator.
An operator, he mentally sneered. At least her job would be obsolete in ten years.
He opened his eyes and checked his other pockets. His mind wouldn’t abandon him in this time capsule with nary a pound, certainly.
“Need a hand, Boss?”
DCI Tyler nearly leapt out of his skin as the moustached detective appeared by his side.
“Oh, erm, Carling, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Here,” the detective handed over a pound. “Should give you change.”
“Cheers.” He acknowledged the gesture with a nod, then willed Figment Number Three of his imagination to leave him be.
“Gorgeous, ain’t she?” The man whistled, staring at the machine. Apparently, DCI Tyler needed greater control over his mind.
“Hm? Yes. Wonderful,” he muttered, then slipped the proffered coin into the slot.
“Only arrived last week. Guv made a big to-do ‘bout getting us better equipment than those RCS poofters.”
DCI Tyler winced. He hadn’t heard such offensive language in his station since they’d arrested several members of the NF, and he certainly never heard it from any of his officers. He simply did not tolerate it.
“Right,” he responded succinctly, deciding against politically correcting his own mind.
He looked over his coffee options. The machine offered only one - regular.
“Don’t care for it meself.” The offensive detective was still standing beside him.
“Really,” he sighed, relenting to the fact that his brain wanted him to finish a conversation he wasn’t aware he was having.
“Sure, all sleek and shiny and new. Loads of bells and whistles.”
“Yes,” he replied, contemplating his options - regular or nothing. “Plenty of variety,” he mumbled, then pressed the button for the second time.
“But the damn thing always kicks up a fuss.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Always overflowing cups.”
“Really.”
“Not giving the proper change.”
“Right.”
“Causes more trouble than it’s worth, really.”
“Fascinating.” He pressed the button for a third time.
“I prefer the old one, meself. Sure, it weren’t the best around, but it were dependable. Solid. Reliable.”
“I’m sure it was quite a hardship to lose it,” DCI Tyler said, then smacked the side of the bastard machine.
“Just can’t buy that kind of loyalty. No matter what new toy you bring in from the outside. Hm, looks like the sign fell, again.” Carling bent down and picked up a fallen piece of cardboard, and slapped it back on the machine.
“Out of...’oder?’” DCI Tyler read.
“Best get some better sellotape on that. No matter. Won’t be long ‘fore the bloody thing’s shipped off. Knew it would never last.”
The detective smacked his gum. DCI Tyler winced.
“Oh, by the way, Boss. You owe me a quid.” He pat him on the back. “And I charge interest.” Figment Number Three walked off, leaving him alone with the broken down machine.
He sighed.
All Sam wanted was a coffee, but right now he’d settle for a time machine.