The Man from the Television
Today, London is boiling. Even for August, it's uncomfortably warm. Sweat has clung to Jack's hairline and gathered in the small of his back since early morning, when he was cruelly woken by James shoving all of the covers on top of Jack in his sleep. It felt like being smothered by an elephant who had the mistaken assumption that Jack was a peanut
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He doesn't notice the man queuing behind him, though, until he makes a remark about the color or the mint chocolate chip ice cream, which he seems to think is slightly off. The Doctor suggests it might be an optical illusion caused by the lighting, and they end up arguing about the importance of food display, which then leads to a debate about ice cream flavors. The Doctor sticks around after getting his cone, and notices with satisfaction that the man orders a double cone. Cookie dough simply is the best flavor.
They sit on a bench, and the Doctor enjoys the conversation they're having. The man is proving to be a very entertaining conversationalist; so entertaining, in fact, that they've gone half-way through their ice cream by the time the Doctor remembers to introduce himself. He's slightly puzzled, though, when the man - whose name seems to be Jack - tells him that he watches him almost every Saturday night on television.
That's just intriguing.
It doesn't seem to be a misunderstanding, so when Jack offers to show him some tapes back at his flat, the Doctor is too curious to decline. He walks with Jack back to his apartment and follows him into a neat living room that has book shelves lining the walls all the way around the room. When Jack tells him to make himself at home and leaves the room, the Doctor gets out his glasses and inspects the titles stacked on the shelves.
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He hates days like this.
So the thing to do, it seems, since nobody else is home, is to strip off his pyjama bottoms, eat a bowl of cornflakes, and step into the shower. The cool water feels wonderful, and James spends probably more time than is justified with his head tipped back under the spray, just letting the coldness seep under his skin.
When James finally gets out, he feels infinitely better. He towels his hair dry, wrapping himself in a robe and padding out of the bathroom- once he's dried himself sufficiently to assure he won't leave wet footprints all over the flat, something he's had to talk to Jack about multiple times. He's expecting the flat to still be empty, or perhaps to find Jack sprawled in the living room, complaining about the heat. What he most decidedly is not expecting is a strangely familiar-looking man crouched at the foot of one of the shelves in the living room, inspecting some of Jack's old betamax tapes.
James blinks, taken aback, and clutches his robe somewhat closer around himself. The clearing of his throat is crisp and precise, though not yet disapproving; wouldn't do, after all, to assume things. This man... could be a friend of Jack's. Theoretically.
'Ah... hello?'
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Jack is investigating the study, spinning in James' chair to get a complete view of the room (investigation can be difficult on a sugar high), when he hears the shower cut out and the bathroom door wrench open. Jack pokes out of the study (by leaps and bounds) and smacks into James' back at the mouth of the hall.
James smells soapy and freshly clean, and his hair is wet and curling at the nape of his neck, so that Jack has no choice but to wrap his arms around James' hips, hugging him and the cool of the shower closer.
"Ooph," Jack says, perhaps a little belatedly. "Didn't know you were up."
The Doctor crouches by the arm of the sofa, watching them. Jack throws an arm out to gesture to him, then thumps James in the chest. "I had ice cream. This is James."
Jack never promised he was ever any good at introductions.
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He makes his way around the room, until he spots a row of video tapes on one of the bottom shelves. He crouches down to take a closer look, but before he can pick one of the tapes up, someone behind him clears his throat.
When he looks around, he sees a man standing in the doorway who is very definitively not Jack. For one thing, he looks different. For another, he's wearing a bathrobe and has wet hair. The Doctor gets to his feet and reaches out to shake the other man's hand, but before he can say anything, Jack appears behind the robe-wearing man, introducing him as James. The Doctor gives James a smile.
"Hello, I'm the Doctor. Jack was so kind as to invite me to watch some video tapes."
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'Jack. Darling.' His voice is heavy with sarcasm as he detaches Jack's hands from his hips, turning to give him an aggrieved look. 'Who exactly is this man?'
Even besides the fact that the man's dressed up as a fictional character, James really does prefer to be fully dressed when meeting other people. There are a few exceptions to this, of course- Andrew, Theo, Elizabeth, obviously Jack- but complete strangers are very far down on his list of people to be seen half-dressed, dripping wet, and with Jack pressed up against his back.
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Which should be obvious and unhelpful, so Jack smiles at that clarification. It's a neat trick, this, meeting the Doctor, and James doesn't seem to understand what it is that Jack's done for him by bringing the Doctor here.
He tips sideways to look past James' shoulder, giving the Doctor an apologetic expression. "Bit slow in the mornings, need to forigve him." Then turns back to James. "Taller in person than he looks, isn't he? Doesn't know he's a television programme. Thought we could watch some?"
It's not really that he's asking James' permission exactly. It's more than James keeps doing that thing with his face, that none too pleased thing. That thing that means Jack would be better off taking the Doctor elsewhere and quick. But it's his flat too, and James will eventually come around. Jack will make him.
So he pulls away and wanders into the kitchen, opening the refridgerator for a drink. "Want a drink? For the heat?" Jack asks and pulls out a bottle.
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The Doctor will of course leave if it turns out that James really doesn't want him here - and there are reasons enough that James wouldn't; apparently, he lives here with Jack, and the Doctor can only too well understand reluctance to share one's personal space - but he does want to see those tapes. When Jack hustles back into the kitchen, the Doctor calls to him that he would love a glass of water, and then turns back to James, trying for a charming smile.
"So, you two live here together? That's brilliant! Lovely flat; I love the sofa."
That's not even untrue, it's a very appealing shade of bright orange.
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'We do, yes.' The comment about the sofa earns a wry smile; it's one of the few things of any substantial size Jack had insisted on dragging over from his flat when he moved in with James. The colour verges on the obnoxious- like Jack at times, in fact- but James has grown fond of it. 'Quite,' he says.
The Doctor- or whatever his name is, seems content to leave it at that, and James straightens himself somewhat, knotting the belt to his robe rather more firmly around his waist. 'You'll have to forgive Jack,' he says after a moment. 'He can be a touch... credulous at times. What's your name then, really?'
No harm trying to be friendly, after all. But if the man persists in claiming to be the Doctor, James just knows it's going to give Jack ridiculous ideas, and the last thing he wants is him trying to build a TARDIS in their living room.
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The sink is filled with dirty glasses, which leaves Jack to rummage in the cupboard for a spare one, coming up with a novelty glass with happy pink elephants dancing around the circumfrance. He fills that with water, then rinses two used glasses to fill with lemonade and ice tea -- the popular drink of choice during this heatwave in the Sparrow-Norrington abode. He spikes one liberally with rum and somehow manages to awkwardly balance the order into the living room.
He walks right into the middle of another one of James' awkward question. "And a touch weighted down at the moment," Jack adds, throwing a suspicious look to James. He really is getting rather repetitive. Jack nudges the two glasses to him, unsure which one has the alcohol. "Drink."
After James takes the glass, Jack moseys over to hand the Doctor his water. "Drink."
And then, because this should prove to be at least an amusing conversation, if not also painful and embarrassing, Jack flops onto the sofa to watch. He takes a sip of his drink and pulls a face. There is absolutely no rum in this glass. "Oops." He waves his fingers to catch James' attention.
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"My name's the Doctor," he repeats, his tone slightly more careful this time. He considers offering James the John Smith pseudonym - sometimes it makes people more comfortable to be able to call him by an actual human name - but then, James seems to be more the suspicious type, and the suspicious types usually react badly to a name like John Smith. Besides, with a Jack, a John and a James in the room, things might get confusing.
Before he can add anything, though, he's distracted by Jack trying to get James' attention.
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'The Doctor. Right, of course you are.'
Jack's wiggling fingers catch him a moment too late, and he grits his teeth against the taste of an Arnold Palmer decidedly more alcoholic than what he was expecting. That one earns two eyebrows, and he crosses to the couch to swap glasses with Jack. Even though he'd normally call it rather too early for anything stronger than beer or wine, the way this day is looking to shape up, he rather thinks that liquor might not be an entirely bad idea. Still, Jack gets his drink back, and James instates himself in a new position leaning against the wall by the couch. He feels slightly awkward in nothing but his robe; he'll have to remedy that soon.
All manner of sarcastic questions are making themselves known in his brain for this so-called 'Doctor,' but James quells them, instead settling on a fairly neutral, 'So, how did you two meet?'
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There's something still not quite right in James' tone, the sarcasm present if buried. Jack's learned how to listen for it, even when usually James is beating people blind over the head with it. He won't call James on it, mostly because it's his loss if he's going to be sour over strange turns of events, and also because it's easier to stay away from the particular pitfall until the rum has kicked in.
Jack reaches behind him to hook the tie on James' robe, a vaguely threatening gesture just in case spontaneous nudity is called for to levitate the mood. He swirls his drink around and gestures for the Doctor to sit on the chair behind him if he so wishes.
"He was in the queue. Strange, the type of people you can meet there. Or not people. Aliens? People?" Jack pulls a thinky face. "Are time lords people? With two hearts?" The questions tumble out quicker than Jack can catch them and stuff them back down his throat.
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The Doctor takes a sip of his drink and contemplates for a moment. "Of course, you can use 'people' as a word to describe beings that are not individuals, like the Glork, who are all part of a hive mind." He looks up at Jack, then over at James. "It's a matter of personal choice, perhaps?"
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The Doctor- because James doesn't have anything else to call him, and "the man" is both tiresome and vague- looks up at James as though seeking his opinion, and he really can't help himself. 'You both do realise,' he says, his voice pointedly calm and reasonable, 'that Doctor Who isn't real? As in, it's fictional. Good fiction, I'll give you, but that's no reason to dress yourself up as the main character and walk around pretending to be him.'
That said, he takes a sip of his drink, waiting with some degree of hesitancy for their reaction. He just hopes this man isn't actually some kind of lunatic, though he wouldn't put it past Jack.
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