The Glove Box, Tenth Doctor/Jack (Music)
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Challenge: 06 Music
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Pure silliness --- Now with slashy subtext!
Spoilers: None, I don't think. It's really just a funny interlude assuming the Doctor doesn't mind popping in TW to say hello.
Note: I kept writing all these serious Doctor/Master blurbs. Then I thought, no. Light-hearted is what I need right now. Many thanks to two Englishmen (you know who you are) who observed this very phenomenon. Points for those of you who know their names. :) Oh, and, not a crossover. Not really.
The Glove Box
“A cassette player? All the technology of the twenty-first century, the knowledge of the fifty-first century, and some smatterings of miscellaneous other centuries thanks to the Rift, and your top-of-the-line above-the-government-issue vehicle is equipped with a cassette player?” The Doctor beamed.
Jack frowned. “Don’t.”
The Doctor did, laugh, that is. “Brilliant, that is. Just brilliant. Where’re your tapes?” He didn’t wait for Jack to answer. Instead, he dove right in to the glove box and began rifling through the mess.
“Hey!” Jack was torn between watching the motorway and its many other vehicles, or the Doctor’s deft hands rummaging through the junk.
“It’s a lot bigger on the inside. Have you taken any circuits from me?”
“No, it’s just . . . packed. Would you mind not,” Jack nearly escaped colliding with a little red compact, “touching that. It’s . . .”
“Sonic,” the Doctor grimaced, holding it up, “And covered in goo. Jack? Where’s this been?”
“You don’t want to know.” He shivered just at the memory.
“Smells like . . .” The Doctor held it to his nose, then licked it. “Blech! Pears! It’s pears. Oh, that’s . . . Ugh!” Jack watched in horrid fascination as the Doctor, gagged, convulsed, and tossed the device out the window. Behind them, a car blared its horn.
Jack never exactly found out what it was, or what that goo had really been (besides sweet and sticky.) Where it had been was enough to tell him he didn’t want to touch it. Ever. And the Doctor had licked it.
“Pears?” He asked. “Really?”
“Yes. Do you have a . . . sweet on you or a mint or something?” The Doctor was still grimacing.
“No.”
“Well give me your hand, then.”
“What for?” Instinctively, Jack tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“To get this blasted taste out of my mouth.”
“You want my hand?” He tried to concentrate on the road as certain images appeared in his head.
“The pheromones. They’re sort of, hmm, like a musky honey flavour. Most certainly a million times tastier than a pear. Now hand it over. Your neck would technically be the prime licking spot, what with all the glands and sweat and all, but well, you’re driving, and I don’t feel like wasting a good regeneration just because of a pear-tasting object. Mind you, a pear is that bad. But I don’t quite like the idea of you dying, either, even if you get back up. What started this, anyway?” He paused, licking his lips, “Right, the thing that tasted of pears. Give me your hand.”
“Doctor,” Jack warned, mentally reciting the licence plate of the van in front of him to get certain distracting things out of his head.
“Yes, I’m well aware of the connotations of me licking your neck and your hand, Jack, but this is an emergency. Be mature, Captain. I hate pears.”
It took a lot of concentration, but for a little while (twenty-seven seconds), Jack managed to forget he ever had a left hand, or a left wrist, for that matter. For twenty-seven seconds after the first twenty-seven seconds, Jack tried to ignore the feeling of saliva drying on the left hand that magically reappeared after the Doctor let go of it. He also was having a hard time coming up with an excuse to suck on his fingers (and his palm, his thumb, his wrist, and a little ways up his forearm. He really wasn’t thinking how it was possible for the Doctor’s tongue to reach that far without pulling up his coat sleeve.)
“Do I want to know where that’s been?” The Doctor asked after a moment of extremely awkward silence.
“That would depend. How far back do, uh, certain tastes last on human skin?” He took the appropriate exit - or what he hoped had been the appropriate exit. For some reason, he didn’t trust GPS systems too well just yet - for the little village overrun with Weevils.
“That would depend.”
“On?”
“How much I really want to know. Right, then. Where were we before that unfortunate pear incident? Ah, the cassette player!” The Doctor dove into the compartment again.
“You know, Doc, you could do something useful, instead of searching for old cassette tapes.”
“Useful? I’m getting us some music. That’s useful. I forgot how long road trips could be. I used to hate having to buzz about in a car. Fun times, I suppose. But awfully boring when it came to traffic.”
“You drive?”
“Yes!”
“Any better than you drive the TARDIS?”
“What you are implying?”
Jack shrugged.
“Anyway,” the Doctor glared, “I’m getting music, or trying to at least. You’ve got everything in this box except, well, gloves. And cassettes, apparently. What kind of help did you have in mind?”
“Oh, you know, the kind you offered when you waltzed in the Hub, looking extremely bored.”
“Well what was I supposed to do for forty-eight hours while the TARDIS was refuelling? Honestly, she never used to take so long. You might think she liked being parked in Cardiff.”
“Maybe she likes me.”
“Yes, well. I had to do something or I'd be terribly bored.”
“And help Torchwood was at the top of the list?”
“Actually no, but apparently that little sweet shop has closed since the last time I was there. Sixty-nine, was it? Seventy, maybe. Shame. Really nice pastries.”
“But you did offer to help us.”
“Nope. Offered to help you. There is a difference. And please, not another of your ‘built in your honour’ speeches. I’m flattered, Jack. Thank you. Ooh! What’s this?” His hand reappeared with an old manual. “Well, I found a manual for the cassette player. We’re getting warmer.”
One hundred twenty kilometres of scenic route ahead. Jack sighed. “I really don’t think you want to find them.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Jack started but didn’t exactly know how to finish.
The Doctor took out another interesting (to him at least) bit from the glove box. It was a piece of paper that Jack, had he glanced at, would’ve snatched away from the Doctor in a fraction of a second. But Jack didn’t glance. He was driving, still thinking of the best way he could explain the cassettes.
The Doctor was quiet. This finally got Jack’s attention after five minutes. Jack glanced. Jack saw the paper in the Doctor’s hand. He saw his own scribbling. Better late than never, Jack figured as he snatched the paper up and stuffed it in his pocket the best he could.
The Doctor was still quiet.
“You never saw that,” Jack stated evenly.
“But I did. I think I always did, just . . . never seen it in writing.” The Doctor smacked his lips absentmindedly, and Jack looked out at the green hills which were beginning to roll.
“Do you really . . . Never mind.”
With no one else on the road, Jack risked taking his eyes away from in front, “Listen, I wrote that when I . . . before I found you again. It’s just a . . . I was bored. Just thoughts, is all. Just thoughts. I was a bit uncertain I'd ever . . . Just forget you read it, will you? I don't go around reading your personal notes.”
“But you kept it in the glove box.”
“I . . . forgot about it.”
“Thanks. You know, anyone could’ve found it.”
“Apparently.” He smiled, watching amusement spark across the Doctor’s face.
“Well,” he said, and dove back in to the box. “Who’s got the pen fetish? Lots of pens in here. How many pens does one team of intergalactic crime fighters need?”
“Intergalactic crime fighters? Excuse me?”
“What do you call yourselves then?”
“Torchwood!”
The Doctor simply shrugged. “Lot of pens for Torchwood. Are they suspected of alien activity?”
“I will turn this car around, old man.”
“Who are you calling old, old man>”
“Stop it.”
“Nah. I read the note, remember?”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
From the Doctor’s expression, he wasn’t fazed. His hand dipped back into the glove box. “Napkins. Cards. Straws. You take this thing to a drive-up window?”
“Maybe.”
“Show-offs.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Well,” he smirked and Jack found it very difficult not to stare. His left hand screamed to be noticed again.
The Doctor pulled out a pile of papers. “How many phone numbers have you collected and how many of them weren’t for business?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“How many have you called back?”
“None!” Jack put on his best offended expression. “Is that how highly you think of me?”
“When you leave a very personal and a very detailed note like that in the glove box of your company car, then, well what do you want me to think of you?”
“That I’m not the kind of guy who’ll just call random people who’ve handed me their phone numbers!”
“You’re very open about ‘Hello’ I just thought you might say ‘Hello again’ sometimes.” He tried to turn so Jack wouldn't notice him writing down his own phone number (Martha's mobile, actually) on a napkin with one of the many pens. Just to be sure Jack actually didn't call back, that is. He stuck it back in the pile and returned to rummaging.
“Ah, what have we here?” He brandished a cassette tape. “Glenn Miller! Ah, good times, those. My feet were aching by the time you finally yawned and asked about a bed. Well, you technically asked about my bed, then Rose’s, then mine and Rose’s, until you finally settled for a guest room.”
“That was after you threatened to boot me out while you were in the Vortex.” Jack ignored his left hand, which was now recalling the feel of worn leather.
“Good times.” The Doctor smiled and popped in the tape. “Ooh, this isn’t Glenn Miller.”
Jack winced. “Yeah, I tried to warn you.”
“This - this is -” the Doctor ejected the cassette and placed it back into the cover without looking at it. “Are you that unorganized?”
“Uh . . . Doctor, I don’t think you understand.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I think I’ll just try another one. Not that there’s anything wrong with . . . I was just expecting Miller, is all. Hey, look! Tchaikovsky.” He hummed a little bit of a piano concerto while placing the tape in the player.
“I don’t think you want that one, either.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time I . . . oh.” The Doctor frowned again. “That’s not Tchaikovsky.”
He quickly ejected the tape and inspected it. “Is there any tape in here that is what it says on the tin?”
He rummaged in the open compartment.
“I should explain . . .”
“What are these doing in a glove box?”
“Well,” Jack was trying not to laugh, “They are a kind of glove.”
“But! But! Um . . .” The small foil squares seemed to confound the Time Lord. “Why are they in your vehicle? And by your vehicle I mean, I mean, Torchwood’s vehicle.”
“Well, Doc, we’re prepared for anything.”
“And by ‘we’ you mean . . .”
“Well,” Jack smirked and silently told that left hand of his to shut up. “Sometimes things get a bit . . . hot.”
“In the car?”
“Well . . .”
“Was it in the passenger’s seat? Tell me it wasn’t the passenger’s seat!” The Doctor all but leapt out of his seat.
“No,” Jack took this as an opportunity to touch the Doctor, using his left hand to ease him back into the seat. “There’s lots of room in the boot. The seats fold down.”
“On the job?”
“Hunting Weevils can get . . . tedious. And have you ever seen that man handle a stun gun? Believe me, even you would be tempted.”
“But . .. but . . . in the glove box?” He seemed to struggled with words.
“You can’t say it, can you?”
“Say what?”
“Condoms. Yeah a bit dated, but so twenty-first century. They used to have entire pleasure planets themed after certain centuries. I guess they still do. It's been a while. Remember the Victorian one I managed to convince you and Rose to visit?”
The Doctor blushed.
“Cheeky and shy. My my, we just get more tempting with each visit.”
He didn’t comment. He threw the pseudo-gloves back into the mess and searched about for another cassette.
“You’re not going to find much in there.”
“Well I can’t very well travel with you for an extended period without any music. That would mean we would have to talk, and frankly all of conversations in some manner end up either loaded with innuendo or are innuendo.”
“So you admit to flirting with me?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe, but that’s all I’ll consent to. How about the Velvet Underground?” The Doctor fished out another cassette.
“No.”
“Metallica?” He held up another.
“No.”
“George Michael?” Another.
“No.”
“What’s wrong with all of them? Is it some sort of prank?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it then?”
Jack could only shrug. Well, he would have had he not been taking a corner at the moment. “Don’t know. It just sort of happens.”
“What? They just change like that?”
“Yeah. I think Tosh tried to figure it out once, but no one has ever got close to an answer.”
“So all the tapes, when you buy them, are what they say they are?”
“Oh, yes. They’re fine for a couple of weeks, and then foop! Best of Queen. Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ with additional vocals by Mercury. Wasn’t so great the first time I heard it, and it didn’t get much better afterwards. Eventually, I just learned to shove them in the glove box and forget about them.”
The Doctor nodded. “So . . . foop?”
“Yes.”
“Funny word, that. Foop Huh. Why Queen?”
“Don’t know. You have any thoughts?”
“No, not really. Queen, huh. Fitting.”
Jack glared from the corner of his eye. “You could always just turn on the radio.”
“Nah. Never anything good on. Are we there yet? Road trips are dreadfully boring.”
"Soon."
The Doctor twittered in his seat for a bit, staring out the window. “Jack, what exactly are we doing out here?”
“Hunting Weevils?” It was supposed to be a statement, but it sounded much more like a question.
“I see. And ‘hunting weevils’ that’s some sort of euphemism, is it? That’s why that rude man rolled his eyes, and why that nice man in the suit shot daggers at you, and that nice girl blushed, and that other nice girl smiled. It’s a euphemism, isn’t it? For . . . other things. That . . . that would explain the . . . gloves.”
Jack thought about lying, but decided against it. “Sometimes.”
“This time?”
Once again, he decided against lying. “It’d sure be nice.”
“Mm,” was all the Doctor said.
After a bit, he continued, “How exactly does one, er, two ‘hunt a weevil’?”
“You don’t . . . know?”
“Well I - There are - How do you - Well, this is going to be an uncomfortable ride back, isn’t it?”
“You could always zap my Vortex Manipulator.”
The Doctor frowned and put in a Velvet Underground tape. “Has it ever occurred to you what would happen if you put in an actual Queen album after a couple of weeks?,” he asked once Freddie Mercury had reached the bridge.
“You know, it hasn’t.”
“Stop by the next shop.”
“The next shop? We’re in the middle of . . .” Jack then noticed the little shop just above the hill. “Did you put that there?”
The Doctor just shrugged.
It took them ten minutes to decide just which Queen album to buy. It took another ten for the Doctor to pick out a sweet, mostly for the reason that he encountered pear-flavoured hard candy and launched into a rather convincing argument with the teenager behind the counter why she shouldn’t stock the vile foodstuff. He decided against the sweet because of their proximity to the pear candies and went with a bag of crisps instead.
“Anything else?” She seemed a bit frightened of the Doctor standing right next to him. Jack knew exactly how she felt. He could have made a comment along the lines of “Try sharing a car with him from Cardiff,” but the Doctor probably would’ve been offended, then comment on how Jack seemed to quite enjoyed the hand-licking. On second thought, Jack grinned. He might like the flirtatious banter.
The Doctor distracted. “Condoms! Hey look, I said it! Condoms.” He beamed. “Oh, wait, we didn’t make a bet yet, did we?”
Jack and nice shop girl stared at one another for a moment. With a slight raise of his left eyebrow, he dared her to ask “Latex or not?”
“Er, excuse me, I didn’t mean - We’re not - Well,” The Doctor scratched the back of his head, “Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
“Just the cassette, thank you.” He offered a ten-pound note and told her to keep the change.
“You know, I think I have a terrible habit of saying things at the worst of times.”
“I don’t know,” Jack grinned, “I enjoyed your timing.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Jack caught the Doctor staring. “Hey, Jack,”
“No, you can’t drive the rest of the way.”
“But -”
“Sorry.” Jack opened the driver’s-side door. “Though . . .”
“Yes?” The Doctor stopped, curious.
“You can sit on my lap if you’d like.”
“Careful, Captain,” The Doctor glared, “One day, I’m going to take you up on one of your exuberant offers.”
“Could it be today, please?”
“You don’t get to choose.”
Jack pouted, starting up the vehicle. “You’re a very cruel man.”
“No, Jack. Cruel is whoever roped me in to going Weevil hunting with you. By the way -”
“No guns, I know.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to fold the seats down now or later, actually. I think we might be a bit caught up in the moment if we do it later.”
When Jack turned to look at the Doctor, he honestly couldn't tell if the Time Lord had meant Weevil hunting or Weevil hunting. He found he liked it that way. “You can fold them now. Make sure to take your time, though. I want a good view of that pert bottom of yours.”
They both grinned, even as Freddie Mercury belted out his best rendition of “New Age,” which sounded a lot like “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.”
Challenge: 06 Music
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Pure silliness --- Now with slashy subtext!
Spoilers: None, I don't think. It's really just a funny interlude assuming the Doctor doesn't mind popping in TW to say hello.
Note: I kept writing all these serious Doctor/Master blurbs. Then I thought, no. Light-hearted is what I need right now. Many thanks to two Englishmen (you know who you are) who observed this very phenomenon. Points for those of you who know their names. :) Oh, and, not a crossover. Not really.
The Glove Box
“A cassette player? All the technology of the twenty-first century, the knowledge of the fifty-first century, and some smatterings of miscellaneous other centuries thanks to the Rift, and your top-of-the-line above-the-government-issue vehicle is equipped with a cassette player?” The Doctor beamed.
Jack frowned. “Don’t.”
The Doctor did, laugh, that is. “Brilliant, that is. Just brilliant. Where’re your tapes?” He didn’t wait for Jack to answer. Instead, he dove right in to the glove box and began rifling through the mess.
“Hey!” Jack was torn between watching the motorway and its many other vehicles, or the Doctor’s deft hands rummaging through the junk.
“It’s a lot bigger on the inside. Have you taken any circuits from me?”
“No, it’s just . . . packed. Would you mind not,” Jack nearly escaped colliding with a little red compact, “touching that. It’s . . .”
“Sonic,” the Doctor grimaced, holding it up, “And covered in goo. Jack? Where’s this been?”
“You don’t want to know.” He shivered just at the memory.
“Smells like . . .” The Doctor held it to his nose, then licked it. “Blech! Pears! It’s pears. Oh, that’s . . . Ugh!” Jack watched in horrid fascination as the Doctor, gagged, convulsed, and tossed the device out the window. Behind them, a car blared its horn.
Jack never exactly found out what it was, or what that goo had really been (besides sweet and sticky.) Where it had been was enough to tell him he didn’t want to touch it. Ever. And the Doctor had licked it.
“Pears?” He asked. “Really?”
“Yes. Do you have a . . . sweet on you or a mint or something?” The Doctor was still grimacing.
“No.”
“Well give me your hand, then.”
“What for?” Instinctively, Jack tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“To get this blasted taste out of my mouth.”
“You want my hand?” He tried to concentrate on the road as certain images appeared in his head.
“The pheromones. They’re sort of, hmm, like a musky honey flavour. Most certainly a million times tastier than a pear. Now hand it over. Your neck would technically be the prime licking spot, what with all the glands and sweat and all, but well, you’re driving, and I don’t feel like wasting a good regeneration just because of a pear-tasting object. Mind you, a pear is that bad. But I don’t quite like the idea of you dying, either, even if you get back up. What started this, anyway?” He paused, licking his lips, “Right, the thing that tasted of pears. Give me your hand.”
“Doctor,” Jack warned, mentally reciting the licence plate of the van in front of him to get certain distracting things out of his head.
“Yes, I’m well aware of the connotations of me licking your neck and your hand, Jack, but this is an emergency. Be mature, Captain. I hate pears.”
It took a lot of concentration, but for a little while (twenty-seven seconds), Jack managed to forget he ever had a left hand, or a left wrist, for that matter. For twenty-seven seconds after the first twenty-seven seconds, Jack tried to ignore the feeling of saliva drying on the left hand that magically reappeared after the Doctor let go of it. He also was having a hard time coming up with an excuse to suck on his fingers (and his palm, his thumb, his wrist, and a little ways up his forearm. He really wasn’t thinking how it was possible for the Doctor’s tongue to reach that far without pulling up his coat sleeve.)
“Do I want to know where that’s been?” The Doctor asked after a moment of extremely awkward silence.
“That would depend. How far back do, uh, certain tastes last on human skin?” He took the appropriate exit - or what he hoped had been the appropriate exit. For some reason, he didn’t trust GPS systems too well just yet - for the little village overrun with Weevils.
“That would depend.”
“On?”
“How much I really want to know. Right, then. Where were we before that unfortunate pear incident? Ah, the cassette player!” The Doctor dove into the compartment again.
“You know, Doc, you could do something useful, instead of searching for old cassette tapes.”
“Useful? I’m getting us some music. That’s useful. I forgot how long road trips could be. I used to hate having to buzz about in a car. Fun times, I suppose. But awfully boring when it came to traffic.”
“You drive?”
“Yes!”
“Any better than you drive the TARDIS?”
“What you are implying?”
Jack shrugged.
“Anyway,” the Doctor glared, “I’m getting music, or trying to at least. You’ve got everything in this box except, well, gloves. And cassettes, apparently. What kind of help did you have in mind?”
“Oh, you know, the kind you offered when you waltzed in the Hub, looking extremely bored.”
“Well what was I supposed to do for forty-eight hours while the TARDIS was refuelling? Honestly, she never used to take so long. You might think she liked being parked in Cardiff.”
“Maybe she likes me.”
“Yes, well. I had to do something or I'd be terribly bored.”
“And help Torchwood was at the top of the list?”
“Actually no, but apparently that little sweet shop has closed since the last time I was there. Sixty-nine, was it? Seventy, maybe. Shame. Really nice pastries.”
“But you did offer to help us.”
“Nope. Offered to help you. There is a difference. And please, not another of your ‘built in your honour’ speeches. I’m flattered, Jack. Thank you. Ooh! What’s this?” His hand reappeared with an old manual. “Well, I found a manual for the cassette player. We’re getting warmer.”
One hundred twenty kilometres of scenic route ahead. Jack sighed. “I really don’t think you want to find them.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Jack started but didn’t exactly know how to finish.
The Doctor took out another interesting (to him at least) bit from the glove box. It was a piece of paper that Jack, had he glanced at, would’ve snatched away from the Doctor in a fraction of a second. But Jack didn’t glance. He was driving, still thinking of the best way he could explain the cassettes.
The Doctor was quiet. This finally got Jack’s attention after five minutes. Jack glanced. Jack saw the paper in the Doctor’s hand. He saw his own scribbling. Better late than never, Jack figured as he snatched the paper up and stuffed it in his pocket the best he could.
The Doctor was still quiet.
“You never saw that,” Jack stated evenly.
“But I did. I think I always did, just . . . never seen it in writing.” The Doctor smacked his lips absentmindedly, and Jack looked out at the green hills which were beginning to roll.
“Do you really . . . Never mind.”
With no one else on the road, Jack risked taking his eyes away from in front, “Listen, I wrote that when I . . . before I found you again. It’s just a . . . I was bored. Just thoughts, is all. Just thoughts. I was a bit uncertain I'd ever . . . Just forget you read it, will you? I don't go around reading your personal notes.”
“But you kept it in the glove box.”
“I . . . forgot about it.”
“Thanks. You know, anyone could’ve found it.”
“Apparently.” He smiled, watching amusement spark across the Doctor’s face.
“Well,” he said, and dove back in to the box. “Who’s got the pen fetish? Lots of pens in here. How many pens does one team of intergalactic crime fighters need?”
“Intergalactic crime fighters? Excuse me?”
“What do you call yourselves then?”
“Torchwood!”
The Doctor simply shrugged. “Lot of pens for Torchwood. Are they suspected of alien activity?”
“I will turn this car around, old man.”
“Who are you calling old, old man>”
“Stop it.”
“Nah. I read the note, remember?”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
From the Doctor’s expression, he wasn’t fazed. His hand dipped back into the glove box. “Napkins. Cards. Straws. You take this thing to a drive-up window?”
“Maybe.”
“Show-offs.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Well,” he smirked and Jack found it very difficult not to stare. His left hand screamed to be noticed again.
The Doctor pulled out a pile of papers. “How many phone numbers have you collected and how many of them weren’t for business?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“How many have you called back?”
“None!” Jack put on his best offended expression. “Is that how highly you think of me?”
“When you leave a very personal and a very detailed note like that in the glove box of your company car, then, well what do you want me to think of you?”
“That I’m not the kind of guy who’ll just call random people who’ve handed me their phone numbers!”
“You’re very open about ‘Hello’ I just thought you might say ‘Hello again’ sometimes.” He tried to turn so Jack wouldn't notice him writing down his own phone number (Martha's mobile, actually) on a napkin with one of the many pens. Just to be sure Jack actually didn't call back, that is. He stuck it back in the pile and returned to rummaging.
“Ah, what have we here?” He brandished a cassette tape. “Glenn Miller! Ah, good times, those. My feet were aching by the time you finally yawned and asked about a bed. Well, you technically asked about my bed, then Rose’s, then mine and Rose’s, until you finally settled for a guest room.”
“That was after you threatened to boot me out while you were in the Vortex.” Jack ignored his left hand, which was now recalling the feel of worn leather.
“Good times.” The Doctor smiled and popped in the tape. “Ooh, this isn’t Glenn Miller.”
Jack winced. “Yeah, I tried to warn you.”
“This - this is -” the Doctor ejected the cassette and placed it back into the cover without looking at it. “Are you that unorganized?”
“Uh . . . Doctor, I don’t think you understand.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I think I’ll just try another one. Not that there’s anything wrong with . . . I was just expecting Miller, is all. Hey, look! Tchaikovsky.” He hummed a little bit of a piano concerto while placing the tape in the player.
“I don’t think you want that one, either.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time I . . . oh.” The Doctor frowned again. “That’s not Tchaikovsky.”
He quickly ejected the tape and inspected it. “Is there any tape in here that is what it says on the tin?”
He rummaged in the open compartment.
“I should explain . . .”
“What are these doing in a glove box?”
“Well,” Jack was trying not to laugh, “They are a kind of glove.”
“But! But! Um . . .” The small foil squares seemed to confound the Time Lord. “Why are they in your vehicle? And by your vehicle I mean, I mean, Torchwood’s vehicle.”
“Well, Doc, we’re prepared for anything.”
“And by ‘we’ you mean . . .”
“Well,” Jack smirked and silently told that left hand of his to shut up. “Sometimes things get a bit . . . hot.”
“In the car?”
“Well . . .”
“Was it in the passenger’s seat? Tell me it wasn’t the passenger’s seat!” The Doctor all but leapt out of his seat.
“No,” Jack took this as an opportunity to touch the Doctor, using his left hand to ease him back into the seat. “There’s lots of room in the boot. The seats fold down.”
“On the job?”
“Hunting Weevils can get . . . tedious. And have you ever seen that man handle a stun gun? Believe me, even you would be tempted.”
“But . .. but . . . in the glove box?” He seemed to struggled with words.
“You can’t say it, can you?”
“Say what?”
“Condoms. Yeah a bit dated, but so twenty-first century. They used to have entire pleasure planets themed after certain centuries. I guess they still do. It's been a while. Remember the Victorian one I managed to convince you and Rose to visit?”
The Doctor blushed.
“Cheeky and shy. My my, we just get more tempting with each visit.”
He didn’t comment. He threw the pseudo-gloves back into the mess and searched about for another cassette.
“You’re not going to find much in there.”
“Well I can’t very well travel with you for an extended period without any music. That would mean we would have to talk, and frankly all of conversations in some manner end up either loaded with innuendo or are innuendo.”
“So you admit to flirting with me?”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe, but that’s all I’ll consent to. How about the Velvet Underground?” The Doctor fished out another cassette.
“No.”
“Metallica?” He held up another.
“No.”
“George Michael?” Another.
“No.”
“What’s wrong with all of them? Is it some sort of prank?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it then?”
Jack could only shrug. Well, he would have had he not been taking a corner at the moment. “Don’t know. It just sort of happens.”
“What? They just change like that?”
“Yeah. I think Tosh tried to figure it out once, but no one has ever got close to an answer.”
“So all the tapes, when you buy them, are what they say they are?”
“Oh, yes. They’re fine for a couple of weeks, and then foop! Best of Queen. Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ with additional vocals by Mercury. Wasn’t so great the first time I heard it, and it didn’t get much better afterwards. Eventually, I just learned to shove them in the glove box and forget about them.”
The Doctor nodded. “So . . . foop?”
“Yes.”
“Funny word, that. Foop Huh. Why Queen?”
“Don’t know. You have any thoughts?”
“No, not really. Queen, huh. Fitting.”
Jack glared from the corner of his eye. “You could always just turn on the radio.”
“Nah. Never anything good on. Are we there yet? Road trips are dreadfully boring.”
"Soon."
The Doctor twittered in his seat for a bit, staring out the window. “Jack, what exactly are we doing out here?”
“Hunting Weevils?” It was supposed to be a statement, but it sounded much more like a question.
“I see. And ‘hunting weevils’ that’s some sort of euphemism, is it? That’s why that rude man rolled his eyes, and why that nice man in the suit shot daggers at you, and that nice girl blushed, and that other nice girl smiled. It’s a euphemism, isn’t it? For . . . other things. That . . . that would explain the . . . gloves.”
Jack thought about lying, but decided against it. “Sometimes.”
“This time?”
Once again, he decided against lying. “It’d sure be nice.”
“Mm,” was all the Doctor said.
After a bit, he continued, “How exactly does one, er, two ‘hunt a weevil’?”
“You don’t . . . know?”
“Well I - There are - How do you - Well, this is going to be an uncomfortable ride back, isn’t it?”
“You could always zap my Vortex Manipulator.”
The Doctor frowned and put in a Velvet Underground tape. “Has it ever occurred to you what would happen if you put in an actual Queen album after a couple of weeks?,” he asked once Freddie Mercury had reached the bridge.
“You know, it hasn’t.”
“Stop by the next shop.”
“The next shop? We’re in the middle of . . .” Jack then noticed the little shop just above the hill. “Did you put that there?”
The Doctor just shrugged.
It took them ten minutes to decide just which Queen album to buy. It took another ten for the Doctor to pick out a sweet, mostly for the reason that he encountered pear-flavoured hard candy and launched into a rather convincing argument with the teenager behind the counter why she shouldn’t stock the vile foodstuff. He decided against the sweet because of their proximity to the pear candies and went with a bag of crisps instead.
“Anything else?” She seemed a bit frightened of the Doctor standing right next to him. Jack knew exactly how she felt. He could have made a comment along the lines of “Try sharing a car with him from Cardiff,” but the Doctor probably would’ve been offended, then comment on how Jack seemed to quite enjoyed the hand-licking. On second thought, Jack grinned. He might like the flirtatious banter.
The Doctor distracted. “Condoms! Hey look, I said it! Condoms.” He beamed. “Oh, wait, we didn’t make a bet yet, did we?”
Jack and nice shop girl stared at one another for a moment. With a slight raise of his left eyebrow, he dared her to ask “Latex or not?”
“Er, excuse me, I didn’t mean - We’re not - Well,” The Doctor scratched the back of his head, “Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
“Just the cassette, thank you.” He offered a ten-pound note and told her to keep the change.
“You know, I think I have a terrible habit of saying things at the worst of times.”
“I don’t know,” Jack grinned, “I enjoyed your timing.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Jack caught the Doctor staring. “Hey, Jack,”
“No, you can’t drive the rest of the way.”
“But -”
“Sorry.” Jack opened the driver’s-side door. “Though . . .”
“Yes?” The Doctor stopped, curious.
“You can sit on my lap if you’d like.”
“Careful, Captain,” The Doctor glared, “One day, I’m going to take you up on one of your exuberant offers.”
“Could it be today, please?”
“You don’t get to choose.”
Jack pouted, starting up the vehicle. “You’re a very cruel man.”
“No, Jack. Cruel is whoever roped me in to going Weevil hunting with you. By the way -”
“No guns, I know.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to fold the seats down now or later, actually. I think we might be a bit caught up in the moment if we do it later.”
When Jack turned to look at the Doctor, he honestly couldn't tell if the Time Lord had meant Weevil hunting or Weevil hunting. He found he liked it that way. “You can fold them now. Make sure to take your time, though. I want a good view of that pert bottom of yours.”
They both grinned, even as Freddie Mercury belted out his best rendition of “New Age,” which sounded a lot like “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy.”