"Famous Television Writers, Barking Mad Gingers, and Smug Barkeeps, Oh My!"; RTD/Doctor, PG (Travel)
It's half RPF, half fandom!fic. In some odd universe where the Doctor exists and Britain made a television show out of him (by making it completely nothing like him). I don't even know....
Pairing: Doctor (other)/RTD
Challenge: 76 Travel
Rating: PG
Warnings: Crack, RTD, RTD trying to pick up someone in a bar, you know...
Spoilers: None
Famous Television Writers, Barking Mad Gingers, and Smug Barkeeps, Oh My!
(So it’s not the most original line in the book, but he’d been drinking alone all night, and he’d just like some company.)“Are you from around here?”
“Who? Me?” The ginger-haired man stopped fussing with his jacket and finally acknowledged Russell sitting next to him. “Oh. No. I’m . . . Well, I travel a fair bit. Around. Places. Where am I, by the way?”
The barkeep smirked at Russell, as if to say “could’ve warned you, pal.” But Russell rather found something endearing about the odd fellow and wouldn't mind trying a bit more. “It’s easy to miss the name. There is none. It’s one of those new trends, you know? Just a little symbol? I thinks it’s rubbish, personally.
The ginger fellow pursed his lips in consideration. “Then why are you here?”
“Because the liquor is quite nice. And no one really bothers you. I’m a bit famous, you see.” Russell waved it off with his hand, like it were nothing (which it wasn't, nothing. It was quite something.)
The man squinted at Russell, then shook his head. “I don’t see, sorry.”
“I’m a television writer,” Russell explained. The man seemed to enjoy that.
“Oh, are you! I’d say you should write a program about me, but you see they’ve already done that and cocked it up nicely. It’s not on the air any longer, I’m afraid. Does horrible things to a man’s ego. It’s a good thing I’m not much of man.” The stranger winked. Russell immediately gave him a once-over, looking for any foreign its he might not have an interest in, but the man laughed. “Oh I didn’t mean it like that. Humans. Anything not to do with the next dance partner. Sorry. I’m not interested. I know I’m quite handsome, you see, but I don’t dance.”
“Not ever?”
“Nope.”
The barkeep decided to show up again, probably to gloat about Russell's failed attempts at chatting someone up. He asked Russell if he’d like anything. Russell, being the man he was, said yes, and asked his companion if he would like a drink, because it wasn't polite to gloat about someone being shot down. The man brightened at the prospect immediately, which Russell found endearing in an odd way, and asked for “A screwdriver, if you please. Could you make it a bit more sonic?”
Both Russell and the barkeep thought he meant a gin and tonic, but the man sighed and said “No, no, no. Just give me one of those little pink umbrellas. And make it a banana daiquiri. I’ve never met anyone who could make a decent screwdriver. What did you say your name was again?” This last question was directed at Russell.
“Russell T Davies,” Russell answered. The man repeated the name to himself, then asked what the T stood for. He seemed disappointed when Russell told him it didn’t stand for anything.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Russell T-for-nothing Davies. I’m the Doctor. Just the Doctor, if you please. It doesn’t stand for anything, either. It’s just a name.”
And Russell couldn't help it. He had to ask: “So where’d you park the TARDIS, Doctor?”
Russell considered asking him if he wanted a role in his next project, for the “Doctor” answered, “Just out back, nestled between a couple of crates. It was a tight squeeze, but she’s been through worse” with a completely serious expression. Russell was almost inclined to believe him.
They chat about nothing for bit, but Russell wasn't nearly as interested in what the "Doctor" had to say. He was a nice enough fellow, Russell supposed, if a bit egotistical, but he wasn't for the sort of company Russell was searching for. Russell caught himself ignoring the man's voice, and decided to be polite again, but the “Doctor” was moaning about how the High Council of Gallifrey kept pestering him about outdated parking tickets. Russell immediately found an excuse to get the hell out of there. The barkeep smiled at him as he retreated, still displaying loud and clear his message of “I told you so.”
(He was strangely disappointed to find, when he went around back, no sign of a 1960s vintage blue police box nestled between two crates. Not that he’d ever admit to anyone that he’d checked. There was only an old refrigerator, which Russell didn't find too out of the ordinary at all.)
Pairing: Doctor (other)/RTD
Challenge: 76 Travel
Rating: PG
Warnings: Crack, RTD, RTD trying to pick up someone in a bar, you know...
Spoilers: None
Famous Television Writers, Barking Mad Gingers, and Smug Barkeeps, Oh My!
(So it’s not the most original line in the book, but he’d been drinking alone all night, and he’d just like some company.)“Are you from around here?”
“Who? Me?” The ginger-haired man stopped fussing with his jacket and finally acknowledged Russell sitting next to him. “Oh. No. I’m . . . Well, I travel a fair bit. Around. Places. Where am I, by the way?”
The barkeep smirked at Russell, as if to say “could’ve warned you, pal.” But Russell rather found something endearing about the odd fellow and wouldn't mind trying a bit more. “It’s easy to miss the name. There is none. It’s one of those new trends, you know? Just a little symbol? I thinks it’s rubbish, personally.
The ginger fellow pursed his lips in consideration. “Then why are you here?”
“Because the liquor is quite nice. And no one really bothers you. I’m a bit famous, you see.” Russell waved it off with his hand, like it were nothing (which it wasn't, nothing. It was quite something.)
The man squinted at Russell, then shook his head. “I don’t see, sorry.”
“I’m a television writer,” Russell explained. The man seemed to enjoy that.
“Oh, are you! I’d say you should write a program about me, but you see they’ve already done that and cocked it up nicely. It’s not on the air any longer, I’m afraid. Does horrible things to a man’s ego. It’s a good thing I’m not much of man.” The stranger winked. Russell immediately gave him a once-over, looking for any foreign its he might not have an interest in, but the man laughed. “Oh I didn’t mean it like that. Humans. Anything not to do with the next dance partner. Sorry. I’m not interested. I know I’m quite handsome, you see, but I don’t dance.”
“Not ever?”
“Nope.”
The barkeep decided to show up again, probably to gloat about Russell's failed attempts at chatting someone up. He asked Russell if he’d like anything. Russell, being the man he was, said yes, and asked his companion if he would like a drink, because it wasn't polite to gloat about someone being shot down. The man brightened at the prospect immediately, which Russell found endearing in an odd way, and asked for “A screwdriver, if you please. Could you make it a bit more sonic?”
Both Russell and the barkeep thought he meant a gin and tonic, but the man sighed and said “No, no, no. Just give me one of those little pink umbrellas. And make it a banana daiquiri. I’ve never met anyone who could make a decent screwdriver. What did you say your name was again?” This last question was directed at Russell.
“Russell T Davies,” Russell answered. The man repeated the name to himself, then asked what the T stood for. He seemed disappointed when Russell told him it didn’t stand for anything.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Russell T-for-nothing Davies. I’m the Doctor. Just the Doctor, if you please. It doesn’t stand for anything, either. It’s just a name.”
And Russell couldn't help it. He had to ask: “So where’d you park the TARDIS, Doctor?”
Russell considered asking him if he wanted a role in his next project, for the “Doctor” answered, “Just out back, nestled between a couple of crates. It was a tight squeeze, but she’s been through worse” with a completely serious expression. Russell was almost inclined to believe him.
They chat about nothing for bit, but Russell wasn't nearly as interested in what the "Doctor" had to say. He was a nice enough fellow, Russell supposed, if a bit egotistical, but he wasn't for the sort of company Russell was searching for. Russell caught himself ignoring the man's voice, and decided to be polite again, but the “Doctor” was moaning about how the High Council of Gallifrey kept pestering him about outdated parking tickets. Russell immediately found an excuse to get the hell out of there. The barkeep smiled at him as he retreated, still displaying loud and clear his message of “I told you so.”
(He was strangely disappointed to find, when he went around back, no sign of a 1960s vintage blue police box nestled between two crates. Not that he’d ever admit to anyone that he’d checked. There was only an old refrigerator, which Russell didn't find too out of the ordinary at all.)