Fic: Tea Time (Rose/Doctor, Master, PG, AU)
Tea Time. Yes, it is a sequal to Human Women ! I can be convinced. PG I guess, for death threats. Further adventures in time and space with some totally insane people, let's do the math: five hearts, three teacups, one grey hair and one nun.
Oh, dear.
"Is it just me," the Master asks, calmly, "or did you grossly misunderstand those printed signs ?"
"Is it just me," the Master asks, calmly, "or did you grossly misunderstand those printed signs ?"
"I- they- it said waterslide." The Doctor passes a defeated little sigh and wrings out his jacket. "How was I supposed to know it was a holy waterslide ? And that going down it made you a monk ? And that we'd be horribly violating their sacred water rituals ?"
"You were supposed to know," he says, through his teeth, "because you'd fully read the printed signs."
"Oh." On the slopes above, dozens of angry priests with inner tubes were gathering at the top of the slide; gesturing wildly and arguing about who should be first after the infidels. "Well, we're alright; that ought to take a bit. Looks like the cardinal's hitting the bishop with a boogie board."
"I thought this was the running portion."
"Not without Rose," the Doctor snaps, quite seriously. "Speaking of which, she came down long before we did-"
The flowering bushes to their left rattle suspiciously and Rose emerges, rumpled and flushed, in the flatteringly water-resistant habit of a Slipslidian nun. Her hair's come loose and there seem to be quite a few branches in it; she also might be holding an axe, which she might be pointing at the two of them.
"Not a word," she growls.
They run.
"This is-" the Doctor stops, frowns, thinks of a good lie and promptly forgets it again. "This is a grey hair."
"No, darling. It's just..." Rose trails off. "Yes, it is." She gives his backside an encouraging pat, which he pretends not to like; continuing instead to examine his scalp in the mirror with the precision of a jeweler. "Just a byproduct of the hysterical lifestyle, I'd think. Don't worry about it. If you do, you'll only get more."
"More ?" he nearly shouts. "I think one's bad enough, don't you ? Maybe I should name it," he muses, sticking a cotton swab in his ears and twirling it thoughtfully. "Steve. Harold. Haroldermisokeratin. Naming does take the fear out of things."
"Nutter."
"Tart," he returns, looking down her top. The bathroom echoes with a sudden sound; specifically, the Master slut-coughing.
"Something in the windpipe," he says. He shoves them both aside carelessly to check himself in the mirror, casually pocketing Rose's favorite hair product in the process. "Better now. Miraculous recovery. I'll just be going." He tries to leave but Rose, quicker than she looks in the morning, snatches the little pot back out of the pocket of his dressing gown.
"Don't even think about it," she snaps; the Doctor, who has been perfectly still, is absurdly gratified to see the Master back away, even if only slightly. "I knew that was going somewhere. You're not as slick as you think. I lived with Jackie Tyler, who stole my clothes and once a boyfriend. Hair gel is kid stuff."
The Master smiles at her.
"I'll make the tea !" he says, brightly, and turns on his heel. Rose turns to the Doctor, cheeks pink and eyes narrowed.
"He just needs to be kicked around some, is all," she confirms.
The tea, of course, is poisoned; but by then they've crash-landed and the whole thing is forgotten.
"It's that one," the Master says, pointing a finger at the Doctor, third one from the left and the only humanoid in the lineup. "Yes, I'd know him anywhere. Oh, my poor, poor, robbed and insulted Gran." He makes an exaggerated show of weeping and blowing his nose into a handkerchief; the furry policewoman with three hind legs pats his shoulder in a comforting manner.
"Gloop is justice," she says. "Don't worry, he'll get the gloop."
"That's very reassuring." The Doctor, in the lineup box, is now resisting being dragged off through a side-door by burly, tiger-faced guards. The Master giggles. "I don't suppose I could watch the, er- glooping ?"
"You don't have a ticket," she says, uncertainly; he flutters his eyelashes and sniffles a bit harder. "I'm sure I could arrange something, though."
"You're a peach."
The glooping is apparently a public event, which causes a semi-catatonic state of joy to descend over the Master as he enters the arena. His box seats, courtesy of Officer Fluffy, are spacious and offer a good view of the steaming vats and scaffolding that determine the main stage. He steeples his hands on his knee. He waits.
The Doctor is led out in a blue jumpsuit, hand shackled in front of him; the Master nearly chokes on a peanut, laughing. "This is my favorite day, in all of my lives," he says, to the charmingly blue-furred couple in the next box. "Really, I'm going to own a time machine in ten minutes, and I'm going to live it again and again." There is a brief group song, in which the Doctor's alleged crimes are listed: Granny-robbing, Granny-harassing, and Resisting Arrest. Well, at least one was true. After that, he's led to the edge of a great vat and dumped carefully in, head-first. The crowd yells and and waves strips of red plastic. The Master bursts into happy tears.
Until the Doctor, sputtering, bobs to the top like an insanely grinning cork and waves at the crowd, which at that point simply goes mad with cheers. The Master begins to think something's gone horribly wrong.
"THE GLOOP IS JUSTICE," booms the announcer. "THE GLOOP TURNS BAD PEOPLE NICE. HAIL THE GLOOP !"
There follows a lot of hailing, all except for one depressed man in a suit, chucking peanuts at peoples' heads.
"Should've read the fine print," Rose says, sliding in beside him with her own bag of peanuts already open. She munches a handful thoughtfully. "Pacifist planet. Not interested in your little schemes. Or capable of much besides- well." He scowls and crosses his arms, and they watch the Doctor as he's carried about on the shoulders of two fellow healed ex-criminals; all grinning with the dazed and joyous faces of the ridiculously high.
"What's in that stuff ?"
"Dunno." She licks the salt from the edge of her mouth and grins. More wickedly than usual. "He seems to do alright on it, though. Really alright. Better than alright. Lasts about ten hours or so, and he always wants to-"
"GOOD GREAT GOD'S PANTS," the Master says reasonably, backing away from her with a horrified expression. "You- you let me do this. You did nothing to stop me."
"Been a while since I had him glooped," she says, with a shrug. "A girl's got needs."
"I blew huge holes in your world," he sighs through a mouthful of curry, sock feet up on the table. "I distributed life or death. Now I'm reduced to Eurovision. Pass a napkin." She does. "And besides, your precious Sweden is never going to win. Their pyrotechnics were rubbish."
"Your pyrotechnics are rubbish," Rose murmurs, half-heartedly, totally engaged with the sight of eight Spanish acrobats and an all-girl chorus in Ugg boots. "I think it's a historical theme, but I can't tell."
"It's a great battle," the Master explains, and she perks up at the opportunity to learn something. "See that fellow in green ? He wrote the song. Alien; well, half-alien. It's the story of a war that happened between his people and the, uh, girls in loincloths."
"Really ?"
"No," says the Doctor, who's just joined in. He smells less like drugs and sugar now, but is still swaying slightly when he walks. He frowns across the tops of his glasses at the Master; who ignores him in favor of shoveling more food into his lying mouth. "Don't lie to her. Makes you look like an ass. She knows when you're doing it." The Doctor gives her a serious look, which is tempered somewhat with the fixed giddy expression he's still wearing. "It's a song about apples. Space apples."
"Apples ?" She looks at the two of them, now both trying to contain their laughter and utterly failing, in a very un-Time-Lordy way. "I hate you both."
"You should kill him," the Master suggests, hopefully. "But not me. I make the tea."
Oh, dear.
"Is it just me," the Master asks, calmly, "or did you grossly misunderstand those printed signs ?"
"Is it just me," the Master asks, calmly, "or did you grossly misunderstand those printed signs ?"
"I- they- it said waterslide." The Doctor passes a defeated little sigh and wrings out his jacket. "How was I supposed to know it was a holy waterslide ? And that going down it made you a monk ? And that we'd be horribly violating their sacred water rituals ?"
"You were supposed to know," he says, through his teeth, "because you'd fully read the printed signs."
"Oh." On the slopes above, dozens of angry priests with inner tubes were gathering at the top of the slide; gesturing wildly and arguing about who should be first after the infidels. "Well, we're alright; that ought to take a bit. Looks like the cardinal's hitting the bishop with a boogie board."
"I thought this was the running portion."
"Not without Rose," the Doctor snaps, quite seriously. "Speaking of which, she came down long before we did-"
The flowering bushes to their left rattle suspiciously and Rose emerges, rumpled and flushed, in the flatteringly water-resistant habit of a Slipslidian nun. Her hair's come loose and there seem to be quite a few branches in it; she also might be holding an axe, which she might be pointing at the two of them.
"Not a word," she growls.
They run.
"This is-" the Doctor stops, frowns, thinks of a good lie and promptly forgets it again. "This is a grey hair."
"No, darling. It's just..." Rose trails off. "Yes, it is." She gives his backside an encouraging pat, which he pretends not to like; continuing instead to examine his scalp in the mirror with the precision of a jeweler. "Just a byproduct of the hysterical lifestyle, I'd think. Don't worry about it. If you do, you'll only get more."
"More ?" he nearly shouts. "I think one's bad enough, don't you ? Maybe I should name it," he muses, sticking a cotton swab in his ears and twirling it thoughtfully. "Steve. Harold. Haroldermisokeratin. Naming does take the fear out of things."
"Nutter."
"Tart," he returns, looking down her top. The bathroom echoes with a sudden sound; specifically, the Master slut-coughing.
"Something in the windpipe," he says. He shoves them both aside carelessly to check himself in the mirror, casually pocketing Rose's favorite hair product in the process. "Better now. Miraculous recovery. I'll just be going." He tries to leave but Rose, quicker than she looks in the morning, snatches the little pot back out of the pocket of his dressing gown.
"Don't even think about it," she snaps; the Doctor, who has been perfectly still, is absurdly gratified to see the Master back away, even if only slightly. "I knew that was going somewhere. You're not as slick as you think. I lived with Jackie Tyler, who stole my clothes and once a boyfriend. Hair gel is kid stuff."
The Master smiles at her.
"I'll make the tea !" he says, brightly, and turns on his heel. Rose turns to the Doctor, cheeks pink and eyes narrowed.
"He just needs to be kicked around some, is all," she confirms.
The tea, of course, is poisoned; but by then they've crash-landed and the whole thing is forgotten.
"It's that one," the Master says, pointing a finger at the Doctor, third one from the left and the only humanoid in the lineup. "Yes, I'd know him anywhere. Oh, my poor, poor, robbed and insulted Gran." He makes an exaggerated show of weeping and blowing his nose into a handkerchief; the furry policewoman with three hind legs pats his shoulder in a comforting manner.
"Gloop is justice," she says. "Don't worry, he'll get the gloop."
"That's very reassuring." The Doctor, in the lineup box, is now resisting being dragged off through a side-door by burly, tiger-faced guards. The Master giggles. "I don't suppose I could watch the, er- glooping ?"
"You don't have a ticket," she says, uncertainly; he flutters his eyelashes and sniffles a bit harder. "I'm sure I could arrange something, though."
"You're a peach."
The glooping is apparently a public event, which causes a semi-catatonic state of joy to descend over the Master as he enters the arena. His box seats, courtesy of Officer Fluffy, are spacious and offer a good view of the steaming vats and scaffolding that determine the main stage. He steeples his hands on his knee. He waits.
The Doctor is led out in a blue jumpsuit, hand shackled in front of him; the Master nearly chokes on a peanut, laughing. "This is my favorite day, in all of my lives," he says, to the charmingly blue-furred couple in the next box. "Really, I'm going to own a time machine in ten minutes, and I'm going to live it again and again." There is a brief group song, in which the Doctor's alleged crimes are listed: Granny-robbing, Granny-harassing, and Resisting Arrest. Well, at least one was true. After that, he's led to the edge of a great vat and dumped carefully in, head-first. The crowd yells and and waves strips of red plastic. The Master bursts into happy tears.
Until the Doctor, sputtering, bobs to the top like an insanely grinning cork and waves at the crowd, which at that point simply goes mad with cheers. The Master begins to think something's gone horribly wrong.
"THE GLOOP IS JUSTICE," booms the announcer. "THE GLOOP TURNS BAD PEOPLE NICE. HAIL THE GLOOP !"
There follows a lot of hailing, all except for one depressed man in a suit, chucking peanuts at peoples' heads.
"Should've read the fine print," Rose says, sliding in beside him with her own bag of peanuts already open. She munches a handful thoughtfully. "Pacifist planet. Not interested in your little schemes. Or capable of much besides- well." He scowls and crosses his arms, and they watch the Doctor as he's carried about on the shoulders of two fellow healed ex-criminals; all grinning with the dazed and joyous faces of the ridiculously high.
"What's in that stuff ?"
"Dunno." She licks the salt from the edge of her mouth and grins. More wickedly than usual. "He seems to do alright on it, though. Really alright. Better than alright. Lasts about ten hours or so, and he always wants to-"
"GOOD GREAT GOD'S PANTS," the Master says reasonably, backing away from her with a horrified expression. "You- you let me do this. You did nothing to stop me."
"Been a while since I had him glooped," she says, with a shrug. "A girl's got needs."
"I blew huge holes in your world," he sighs through a mouthful of curry, sock feet up on the table. "I distributed life or death. Now I'm reduced to Eurovision. Pass a napkin." She does. "And besides, your precious Sweden is never going to win. Their pyrotechnics were rubbish."
"Your pyrotechnics are rubbish," Rose murmurs, half-heartedly, totally engaged with the sight of eight Spanish acrobats and an all-girl chorus in Ugg boots. "I think it's a historical theme, but I can't tell."
"It's a great battle," the Master explains, and she perks up at the opportunity to learn something. "See that fellow in green ? He wrote the song. Alien; well, half-alien. It's the story of a war that happened between his people and the, uh, girls in loincloths."
"Really ?"
"No," says the Doctor, who's just joined in. He smells less like drugs and sugar now, but is still swaying slightly when he walks. He frowns across the tops of his glasses at the Master; who ignores him in favor of shoveling more food into his lying mouth. "Don't lie to her. Makes you look like an ass. She knows when you're doing it." The Doctor gives her a serious look, which is tempered somewhat with the fixed giddy expression he's still wearing. "It's a song about apples. Space apples."
"Apples ?" She looks at the two of them, now both trying to contain their laughter and utterly failing, in a very un-Time-Lordy way. "I hate you both."
"You should kill him," the Master suggests, hopefully. "But not me. I make the tea."