Fic: ‘Breakfast time!’
Title: Breakfast time!
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: (G)
Time Period: Before the Time of the Doctor.
Summary: Jammy dodgers are good for breakfast.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of the BBC and Steven Moffat; I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
Clapping his hands and then rubbing them together, he studies the plate in front of him and rummages in the cupboard above and then to the side.
“Where are you,” he mutters, “hiding? It can't be far.”
Or close by for that matter, he decides less than a second of searching later. “Right,” he says, “cup of tea it is!”
He finds the kettle, turns the tap on to fill it, which he does, and puts it back on the counter, unplugged. He turns away then back to it when he remembers it's not on. It takes him a full second to realise it's not plugged in.
He plugs it in.
Then the cup, the saucer, a teaspoon before he decides to cheat.
He uses a teabag.
While the water bubbles and boils, he looks through the cupboards again. Opening one cupboard, looking on the shelves, he dismisses one shelf ('bah! Plates!') and then the next cupboard before he finds them in a jar labelled sugar. He grins, takes the tall jar off the shelf and unstoppers it before pulling out the packet he was looking for. Ripping open the packet, he tips the jammy dodgers onto the plate in a spiral pattern before he picks one up and bites into it.
“Mmm!” He puts the biscuit on the spiral, tilting it to make it look enticing before he goes to the freezer and fridge. Next a big bowl needs to be found and th---
“Already?” He says incredulously as the kettle flips a switch up (he'd remembered to press down on that switch to make it boil) as it finished boiling. He pours custard in the bowl, makes the tea and puts the tray in the oven.
By the time he's put the bowl down on the table beside her bed, the tea is cold, the fish fingers half sunk into the custard but he's remembered girls like flowers and he's put dried flowers in a vase on the table by the jammy dodgers with the cup of tea nearby. He pulls up a chair, takes Beano from inside his coat, shakes out the glasses and puts them on before he starts reading.
Beano seems like good morning reading for humans. He's bored in less than two seconds; he knows what happens. The comic gets put back inside his coat with the glasses tucked into an inside pocket.
Clara's eyes open. She stretches. The fish fingers are almost completely lost to sight.
He bounces to his feet, snatching up the tea. Some of it slops over the side. “I'll just get a fresh cuppa,” he says brightly, turning away with it in his hand. “Fresh saucer, too,” he adds.
Clara stretches again, yawns before she sees the plate of jammy dodgers, the bowl, the vase. “Is this for me?”
He pauses in the door, cup and saucer in one hand. He looks at her. “Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “What have you done?”
“Why've I done anything?” He asks, flinging his hands outward; more tea slops. “Can't I bring you breakfast in bed just because?”
She pushes herself up so she's seated. “What have you done?”
He edges out the door. “Played Twister with your neighbour while I was ready for Church.”
“You did what?”
By then, however, he's already gone. She sighs and helps herself to a jammy dodger.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: (G)
Time Period: Before the Time of the Doctor.
Summary: Jammy dodgers are good for breakfast.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of the BBC and Steven Moffat; I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
Clapping his hands and then rubbing them together, he studies the plate in front of him and rummages in the cupboard above and then to the side.
“Where are you,” he mutters, “hiding? It can't be far.”
Or close by for that matter, he decides less than a second of searching later. “Right,” he says, “cup of tea it is!”
He finds the kettle, turns the tap on to fill it, which he does, and puts it back on the counter, unplugged. He turns away then back to it when he remembers it's not on. It takes him a full second to realise it's not plugged in.
He plugs it in.
Then the cup, the saucer, a teaspoon before he decides to cheat.
He uses a teabag.
While the water bubbles and boils, he looks through the cupboards again. Opening one cupboard, looking on the shelves, he dismisses one shelf ('bah! Plates!') and then the next cupboard before he finds them in a jar labelled sugar. He grins, takes the tall jar off the shelf and unstoppers it before pulling out the packet he was looking for. Ripping open the packet, he tips the jammy dodgers onto the plate in a spiral pattern before he picks one up and bites into it.
“Mmm!” He puts the biscuit on the spiral, tilting it to make it look enticing before he goes to the freezer and fridge. Next a big bowl needs to be found and th---
“Already?” He says incredulously as the kettle flips a switch up (he'd remembered to press down on that switch to make it boil) as it finished boiling. He pours custard in the bowl, makes the tea and puts the tray in the oven.
By the time he's put the bowl down on the table beside her bed, the tea is cold, the fish fingers half sunk into the custard but he's remembered girls like flowers and he's put dried flowers in a vase on the table by the jammy dodgers with the cup of tea nearby. He pulls up a chair, takes Beano from inside his coat, shakes out the glasses and puts them on before he starts reading.
Beano seems like good morning reading for humans. He's bored in less than two seconds; he knows what happens. The comic gets put back inside his coat with the glasses tucked into an inside pocket.
Clara's eyes open. She stretches. The fish fingers are almost completely lost to sight.
He bounces to his feet, snatching up the tea. Some of it slops over the side. “I'll just get a fresh cuppa,” he says brightly, turning away with it in his hand. “Fresh saucer, too,” he adds.
Clara stretches again, yawns before she sees the plate of jammy dodgers, the bowl, the vase. “Is this for me?”
He pauses in the door, cup and saucer in one hand. He looks at her. “Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “What have you done?”
“Why've I done anything?” He asks, flinging his hands outward; more tea slops. “Can't I bring you breakfast in bed just because?”
She pushes herself up so she's seated. “What have you done?”
He edges out the door. “Played Twister with your neighbour while I was ready for Church.”
“You did what?”
By then, however, he's already gone. She sighs and helps herself to a jammy dodger.