Fic: Antifreeze
Jul. 9th, 2006 04:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carmen_ljTitle: Antifreeze
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13 (for swearage)
Spoilers: Doomsday, dude.
Summary: A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
A/N: Um, yes, so when I wanted to write Doomsday!fic, this is what happened. This is my version of That Sort of Angst. Sorry.
Antifreeze
A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
“Can I get you a drink?” said the Doctor, because he knew perfectly well when Death was standing over his shoulder. Especially when she happened to smoke like a chimney. A very, very old chimney, filled with slightly poisonous fumes, that had somehow survived the ravages of time and remained in pristine condition centuries later.
She sat down next to him, took a drag on her cigarette and ignored the fact that he was politely coughing himself into a fit. “Yeah, you can get me a drink. You can get me quite a few, you self-absorbed hubristic egocentric-”
The Doctor stopped coughing. “I get the point.” He nodded to the bartender, who passed them two glasses and a bottle of whisky (indeterminate age). “Now this, this is a very good drink. I think. I’m paying enough for it to be a very good drink, anyway. At least, I think I’m paying. I don’t seem to have any money…any chance you could loan-”
“Oh, shut up,” said Death. “Look, look at this.” She waved a piece of paper in front of his eyes. “Death certificate for one Rose whatever her middle name is Tyler.”
The Doctor poured the whisky, downed his, poured another. “Whatever her middle name is?” he asked.
“Details, Doctor. I couldn’t steal the actual certificate. Those humans have some rather nasty peashooters that hurt. They don’t like me rifling through their files either for some reason. I blame you, of course. They probably have all sorts of funny ideas about anthropomorphism thanks to you.”
The Doctor had stopped listening, his attention all absorbed by the waving death certificate. “Oh, I see…this is your handwriting. Awful scroll. Can’t read it.”
“I, you little semi-ephemeral leftover, have been writing since before your lot decided that opposable thumbs might be somewhat useful. Anyway, the point is this says she’s dead. Rose Tyler is dead. And what have I noticed lacking in my working life this past month, all of which she has been dead in? A Rose Tyler. I, Doctor, have expended a considerable amount of working hours looking for this girl and I do not get paid overtime. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Oh, yes.” He grinned, showing far too many of his teeth. “You’re getting a bit rusty in your old age.”
“I…no! What have you done with her? I’ve been expecting one dead human time-traveller for some time, and now that I don’t have one there are a lot of people On The Other Side who are more than a little upset, and d’you know who they’re going to take it out on? Me. Even though I know damn well it’s your fault.”
“Aw, poor…hang on, expecting? You’re not supposed to know the details, are you?”
Death sniffed, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I had a source.”
“A source? A…oh, this wouldn’t happen to be Satan, would it?”
“Who?” asked Death innocently.
“Bit evil, bit red, horns as big as a house perched on top of his head. And some rather nasty looking beady eyes. Got a bit of a line in peaking into people’s memories and pretending to make prophecies.”
“Oh, Satan. Well, he might have had a Satan-esque appearance, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He was very reliable for a lot of other stuff. Told me some interesting things about you too.”
“Banana daiquiri?”
“What?”
“Didn’t he tell you about that, hmm? Bartender! Bartender, a banana daiquiri for my friend here.” He glanced at Death, grinning. Again. “You’ll like it.”
“I doubt it. You’re a terrible cocktail maker. The last time-”
“The last time you got pissed and brought the entire Minoan civilisation back to life in the 19th century.”
“I wasn’t sure if I liked your concoction or not. I was just checking.”
“And who had to clean up the mess afterwards?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t you. You buggered off as soon as your Time Lord friends turned up to sort things out. Speaking of which, have I mentioned how much fun it was to get rid of the whole damn lot of you?”
“Numerous times.”
“Well, it was fun. I’m just sad there’s only one of you left.” She downed the daiquiri and slammed her empty glass onto the bar. “That’s familiar…” She scowled. “France, 18th century. You were there.”
“I’d’ve thought by now I would have been just about everywhere. And you shouldn’t have been drinking on the job.”
“I have a very stressful job, Doctor. People are always cursing me, trying to trap me, calling me some pretty mean names. I am allowed the odd tipple.”
“Dear old Death, you’re two and an half steps from outright alcoholism.”
“Oh, don’t give me that crap. I’m hardly likely to drop dead from it, am I?”
“Nah, just cut down the odd civilisation a few millennia early, who’s going to notice that?”
“No one, actually. The Vortex is pretty empty these days, anyone trying to get in tends to get gobbled up by an irritated reaper." She leaned across the bar, resting her head on her hand. "Started any good paradoxes lately?”
“Killed any good books lately?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still bitter about Dickens? If he’d have finished that thing - Edwin Drool? - Torchwood would have been a lot nastier than it was.” She poured herself another whisky. “Anyway, you’re just distracting me.”
“Took you a while to notice.”
Death narrowed her eyes. “I want a Rose Tyler.”
“Can’t have her, she’s not here.”
“Then where is she?” She frowned. “Or when?”
“Safe.”
“No-where’s safe from me.”
“Ha!”
“You, Doctor, are a lying, cheating, sorry excuse for a wannabe demi-god.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Bastard.”
“Now that was a matter of some debate.” He swivelled on the bar stool, and looked Death in the eye. “Death, old buddy, old pal, you are my very, very best friend.”
Death raised an eyebrow. “Exactly how much did you have before I got here?”
The Doctor seemed not to hear, and continued, “My very best friend. But you do have this very unfortunate tendency to kill all my other friends. And, I have to admit, that makes me quite, quite sad. And hubristic. World shatteringly hubristic.“
“I’d noticed.”
The Doctor held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt my beautiful rhetoric. Now, Rose Tyler, whom I love very much, by the way, has gone away and she will not be coming back. So you can wave around your wee death certificate until all the little wolves come home, but you are not going to find her.”
“You’ve dumped her in some alternate reality, haven’t you?”
The Doctor grinned. Stupidly. “Yup.”
Death sighed. “I hate you.”
The Doctor flung an arm around her shoulders. “Another drink?”
A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
Someone, somewhere, laughed.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13 (for swearage)
Spoilers: Doomsday, dude.
Summary: A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
A/N: Um, yes, so when I wanted to write Doomsday!fic, this is what happened. This is my version of That Sort of Angst. Sorry.
Antifreeze
A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
“Can I get you a drink?” said the Doctor, because he knew perfectly well when Death was standing over his shoulder. Especially when she happened to smoke like a chimney. A very, very old chimney, filled with slightly poisonous fumes, that had somehow survived the ravages of time and remained in pristine condition centuries later.
She sat down next to him, took a drag on her cigarette and ignored the fact that he was politely coughing himself into a fit. “Yeah, you can get me a drink. You can get me quite a few, you self-absorbed hubristic egocentric-”
The Doctor stopped coughing. “I get the point.” He nodded to the bartender, who passed them two glasses and a bottle of whisky (indeterminate age). “Now this, this is a very good drink. I think. I’m paying enough for it to be a very good drink, anyway. At least, I think I’m paying. I don’t seem to have any money…any chance you could loan-”
“Oh, shut up,” said Death. “Look, look at this.” She waved a piece of paper in front of his eyes. “Death certificate for one Rose whatever her middle name is Tyler.”
The Doctor poured the whisky, downed his, poured another. “Whatever her middle name is?” he asked.
“Details, Doctor. I couldn’t steal the actual certificate. Those humans have some rather nasty peashooters that hurt. They don’t like me rifling through their files either for some reason. I blame you, of course. They probably have all sorts of funny ideas about anthropomorphism thanks to you.”
The Doctor had stopped listening, his attention all absorbed by the waving death certificate. “Oh, I see…this is your handwriting. Awful scroll. Can’t read it.”
“I, you little semi-ephemeral leftover, have been writing since before your lot decided that opposable thumbs might be somewhat useful. Anyway, the point is this says she’s dead. Rose Tyler is dead. And what have I noticed lacking in my working life this past month, all of which she has been dead in? A Rose Tyler. I, Doctor, have expended a considerable amount of working hours looking for this girl and I do not get paid overtime. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Oh, yes.” He grinned, showing far too many of his teeth. “You’re getting a bit rusty in your old age.”
“I…no! What have you done with her? I’ve been expecting one dead human time-traveller for some time, and now that I don’t have one there are a lot of people On The Other Side who are more than a little upset, and d’you know who they’re going to take it out on? Me. Even though I know damn well it’s your fault.”
“Aw, poor…hang on, expecting? You’re not supposed to know the details, are you?”
Death sniffed, stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I had a source.”
“A source? A…oh, this wouldn’t happen to be Satan, would it?”
“Who?” asked Death innocently.
“Bit evil, bit red, horns as big as a house perched on top of his head. And some rather nasty looking beady eyes. Got a bit of a line in peaking into people’s memories and pretending to make prophecies.”
“Oh, Satan. Well, he might have had a Satan-esque appearance, I suppose.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He was very reliable for a lot of other stuff. Told me some interesting things about you too.”
“Banana daiquiri?”
“What?”
“Didn’t he tell you about that, hmm? Bartender! Bartender, a banana daiquiri for my friend here.” He glanced at Death, grinning. Again. “You’ll like it.”
“I doubt it. You’re a terrible cocktail maker. The last time-”
“The last time you got pissed and brought the entire Minoan civilisation back to life in the 19th century.”
“I wasn’t sure if I liked your concoction or not. I was just checking.”
“And who had to clean up the mess afterwards?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t you. You buggered off as soon as your Time Lord friends turned up to sort things out. Speaking of which, have I mentioned how much fun it was to get rid of the whole damn lot of you?”
“Numerous times.”
“Well, it was fun. I’m just sad there’s only one of you left.” She downed the daiquiri and slammed her empty glass onto the bar. “That’s familiar…” She scowled. “France, 18th century. You were there.”
“I’d’ve thought by now I would have been just about everywhere. And you shouldn’t have been drinking on the job.”
“I have a very stressful job, Doctor. People are always cursing me, trying to trap me, calling me some pretty mean names. I am allowed the odd tipple.”
“Dear old Death, you’re two and an half steps from outright alcoholism.”
“Oh, don’t give me that crap. I’m hardly likely to drop dead from it, am I?”
“Nah, just cut down the odd civilisation a few millennia early, who’s going to notice that?”
“No one, actually. The Vortex is pretty empty these days, anyone trying to get in tends to get gobbled up by an irritated reaper." She leaned across the bar, resting her head on her hand. "Started any good paradoxes lately?”
“Killed any good books lately?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still bitter about Dickens? If he’d have finished that thing - Edwin Drool? - Torchwood would have been a lot nastier than it was.” She poured herself another whisky. “Anyway, you’re just distracting me.”
“Took you a while to notice.”
Death narrowed her eyes. “I want a Rose Tyler.”
“Can’t have her, she’s not here.”
“Then where is she?” She frowned. “Or when?”
“Safe.”
“No-where’s safe from me.”
“Ha!”
“You, Doctor, are a lying, cheating, sorry excuse for a wannabe demi-god.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Bastard.”
“Now that was a matter of some debate.” He swivelled on the bar stool, and looked Death in the eye. “Death, old buddy, old pal, you are my very, very best friend.”
Death raised an eyebrow. “Exactly how much did you have before I got here?”
The Doctor seemed not to hear, and continued, “My very best friend. But you do have this very unfortunate tendency to kill all my other friends. And, I have to admit, that makes me quite, quite sad. And hubristic. World shatteringly hubristic.“
“I’d noticed.”
The Doctor held up a finger. “Don’t interrupt my beautiful rhetoric. Now, Rose Tyler, whom I love very much, by the way, has gone away and she will not be coming back. So you can wave around your wee death certificate until all the little wolves come home, but you are not going to find her.”
“You’ve dumped her in some alternate reality, haven’t you?”
The Doctor grinned. Stupidly. “Yup.”
Death sighed. “I hate you.”
The Doctor flung an arm around her shoulders. “Another drink?”
A Time Lord and an anthropomorphic personification walk into a bar…
Someone, somewhere, laughed.
