A Knight Of The Tardis
Title: A Knight Of The Tardis
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, beyond crack.
Spoilers: Minor ones for Doctor Who finale.
I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't.
"This sucks."
It's a blunt truth, offered during the interlude of commercials, the flashes of cheap beer and discount dieting. It still makes him frown, forcing eyes from the screen and to the sulking boy beside him. "What?"
"This show. It sucks."
Claude gasps, stunned at the dismissal, the utter lack of reverence. He hadn't thought it possible. Not for... this. “‘S an institution," he quickly defends. Because it is his duty, sworn long before, to protect the Tardis and its passengers. However ridiculous. "Like the Queen!"
"Or crumpets?" Peter deadpans, reveling still in an old humor.
A man is unamused. Growls, "Oye. I told you before: we don't all sit around sippin' tea and eatin' crumpets."
"Which is why my cabinets are now stocked with enough Earl Grey to outlast the apocalypse?"
"It-- It was on sale!"
"Right... The five-fingered discount?" Empathy turns, smirks; all teeth and wit.
Claude is unnerved with the expression (and perhaps a little aroused... But that's for another day). "You're startin' to act like me," he accuses. "It's spooky."
"I'm sure. Now-- Explain to me exactly why Timothy Dalton was stuck in a vault?"
"It was a Time Lock," he says, as if he's not baffled himself. Which he is. "Everyone knows that."
"Uh huh. And David Tennant's boyfriend wants to release him from it because...?"
"First of all: the Master is not his boyfriend."
"The Doctor called him beautiful."
"That was just a figure o'speech."
"Some speech..."
"Movin' on," he continues, refusing to concede the sheer tension between two supposed rivals. "He wants him free to stop the drumming. Weren't you payin' attention?"
"Honestly?" shrugs Peter. "I've just been hoping Captain Jack will show up."
"Well that's-- Hey!"
"What? He's at least entertaining. The rest of this is awful."
"It is not!"
"It is. You're just being nostalgic."
"I am not," he mutters. "There's not a nostalgic bone in my body."
"Oh?" Peter purrs, triumphant, as if he'd been waiting for the words. He probably was. "You sure about that?" And he's crawling toward him then, a pretty predator; arched back and wet lips and hair falling wild. "Because I think there is."
Claude swallows, mouth suddenly dry. "We--" He coughs, tries to free the protest. "The show--"
"Will come on again," says Peter. "Later." He's creeping between the open sprawl of legs then, hands tracing over thighs. They tease up and slow and wicked. "Much later."
".... That it will."
"I'm glad you agree. Now... Get naked while I go find the stopwatch."
"The-- What?"
"Oh, didn't you know?" He smiles. "I'm a fan of Torchwood."
.