Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2008-12-11 12:05 am
ptahrrific) wrote2008-12-11 12:05 am
Entry tags:
Fake News/Doctor Who: A Truthy TARDIS Crew's Christmas (1/5)
Title: A Truthy TARDIS Crew's Christmas (1/5)
Rating: PG
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything DW/TW/SJA is fair game.
Summary: Jon finally knows about the Doctor, time travel, and paradoxes, but Stephen still has a lot of secrets. And the present-day Sarah Jane just invited them to spend Christmas at 13 Bannerman Road.
Artwork and deleted scenes from the last serial are also up.
Note: This special uses all the canon up to (but not including) the final arc of DW S4. Includes SJA S2, which is pretty much written as if the S4 finale didn't happen anyway (i.e., everyone is still surprised by aliens). Will point in a Sarah Jane/Maria direction by the end, so if the very idea squicks you, be prepared to skip, or at least skim.
Beta by the festivestellar_dust. Table of contents, and footnotes, here.
A Truthy TARDIS Crew's Christmas
Part One
New York: December 20, 2009.
"Jo-on!" called Stephen's voice from the master bedroom. "My suitcase won't close!"
"Just a minute!" yelled Jon, scrubbing off the last of the plates from lunch. They weren't going to use enough dishes to run the dishwasher before the flight to London tomorrow, and he had no intention of coming back to find that mold had taken over the kitchen. (Stephen had suggested loading the thing with mostly clean dishes and running it anyway. When Jon had chided him for being wasteful, Stephen had said, Fine, have it your way, but I'm not washing anything by hand in this day and age.)
"Hurry up!"
With a sigh, Jon toweled off his hands and went down the hall. He found Stephen's suitcase on the bed, the top several inches too high to be zipped up in spite of the fact that Stephen was sitting on it.
"I don't think this is gonna happen," said Jon, walking over to get a closer look at the poor bulging luggage.
"Just try," insisted Stephen.
So Jon spent a minute or two tugging at the zipper, while his indignant boyfriend bounced up and down a couple of times.
"No luck," he said at last. "What's in this thing, anyway?"
Reluctantly, Stephen slid off of the suitcase, which sprang open almost gratefully to reveal dark suits and neatly rolled ties. Jon lifted off the top layer to see what was underneath.
"Stephen, we're only going for a week!" he exclaimed, after removing a dozen suits to reveal nothing but more of the same. "You can't possibly wear all these!"
"Wasn't going to," grumbled Stephen, kicking his heels against the side of the bed.
"Then why bring them?"
"It's . . . complicated."
"Try me."
"We're going to visit Sarah Jane, Jon!" burst out Stephen. "The last time she saw me, I had access to the TARDIS wardrobe! You've never been there, but it's huge. There's always a perfect outfit in it somewhere! How am I supposed to compete with that? What if I leave a suit behind and then find out it was exactly the one I needed? I can't let her think I'm a lousy dresser when the Doctor isn't there to help!"
His shoulders were shaking with emotion. Jon sat down cautiously beside him.
A couple of years ago, Jon had understood how to deal with this kind of outburst. Then Stephen had cut off contact until just a few weeks ago, after which the two of them had gone from "not speaking" to "practically moved in together" (with a side of "making up for eighteen months of chastity on Stephen's part"). No amount of experience with Stephen's lightswitch temperament could prepare a man for that kind of change, even if he did understand the time-travel snarls involved.
It wasn't that he minded, exactly (especially not the sex part). It was just . . . disorienting. And on top of that, there was—
"It's not even about the clothes," said Stephen, more calmly now. "I mean, she's seen me in suits that are a complete wreck. She's seen me in the ceremonial garb of seventh-century Balhoon, which does nothing for the midriff, I can tell you. I think she's seen me naked—she swears she looked away in time, but I'm not sure I believe it. So she's not really going to care what I'm wearing."
—well, that! Since when had Stephen been self-aware? On air and in public he appeared to be living the same unexamined life he always had, but in private he kept having these moments.
Jon was happy about them, of course. He just had no idea how to handle them.
"That's right," he said cautiously. "So you get that you don't need to bring your entire closet?"
Stephen looked longingly at the pile of suits on the bed. "Yeah."
"Do you, uh, want some help repacking?"
"No, I'm good."
To Jon's surprise, this might actually have been true. Stephen's jaw wasn't clenched with pent-up anger; his eyes weren't bright with unshed tears. He seemed . . . relaxed.
Jon almost got up and went back to the dishes right then.
First, though, some impulse made him pause and put an arm around Stephen's shoulders. "It really is you she'll be glad to see, not your snappy dressing. You've got nothing to worry about."
In the next instant Stephen yanked him into a fierce embrace: hands clutching at his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck.
"Missed you," mumbled Stephen. "So much."
The frames of his glasses dug into Jon's skin. Jon let them be.
"It's okay," he said, holding Stephen together. "I'm here now. It's okay."
⇔
December 21.
"How are the lights?"
"All off. This is the last one."
"The computers?"
"Off."
"The oven?"
"Definitely off."
"Got your passports?"
"Right here."
"The tickets?"
"Here."
"And you've left me plenty of food?"
"Come on, BriWi, it's only a week," said Jon with a laugh. "You won't starve. But yes, we left you a couple of giant hoagies."
"I'm just making sure," said the Giant Head of Brian Williams.
Half a dozen assorted Giant Heads had appeared in the studio in the years since its last major renovation. If you didn't feed them early on, they wilted within a few days; but, as the staff had discovered with the first one, after that period their metabolisms slowed to a crawl.
For a while there had been a quandary over what to do with BriWi during vacations. Although he could get by without food for several weeks now, he got lonely and bored with nobody to snark at. This was one problem the divorce had actually solved: there was plenty of room in Jon's otherwise empty new apartment for a Giant Head.
"You're gonna be fine," said Stephen, leaning over to be closer to BriWi's eye level. (Jon's initial worries about whether Stephen would allow a Giant Head into his own home had been unfounded: Stephen was unfazed by the weirdness of it all, and quite taken with BriWi's charm.) "But we asked Leslie next door to come check on you once or twice, just in case."
"Good man," said BriWi. "You two crazy kids have fun over there."
Jon grinned. "We will. See you in a week."
They were turning to leave when BriWi called, "Oh, hey, Stephen?"
"Yeah?"
The Giant Head's normal snarky demeanor softened. Had he possessed a pair of Giant Feet, he would have been shuffling them. "When you're talking to your weirdness-hunting buddies . . . you wanna maybe ask what I am? I mean, if they don't know, it's cool. But could you check?"
Stephen's reply was solemn. "I promise, if Sarah Jane knows anything, I'll find it out."
⇔
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.
When the lights in the cabin went out, Stephen cranked his seat as far back as it would go and tried to sleep. As travel beds go, first class wasn't on a level with his room in the TARDIS, but it was still plenty comfortable. He should have drifted off right away.
A quarter of an hour later, his mind was still buzzing.
You Should Sleep, a voice that was not a voice admonished him. You'll Be Jet-Lagged Enough As It Is.
Stephen rolled over on his side with a huff. Even though Jon was engrossed in the movie playing on the little screen in the headrest before him, Stephen wanted to be facing away from him while having a conversation that nobody else could hear. Don't you talk. You're one of my worries.
Not My Fault You Haven't Told Him.
Yeah, that'll go over great. "Hey, Jon, did I mention that there's an alien in my head? No, there's no physical evidence; she's basically just a voice that I sometimes hear. Oh, and she experiences everything I do. Yes, everything. She loves that thing you do with your tongue, by the way."
You Love It, corrected the Wørd. I Just Love Your Experience Of It.
Same difference. Jon's a very private person; he isn't going to like the idea that he's had a secret voyeur for the past couple of weeks. If he doesn't write me off as crazy first thing, that is.
You Don't Give Him Enough Credit.
I wouldn't tell him right this moment anyway, thought Stephen grouchily. He might need space to think about it, and he can't get away from me up here.
Rather than reply to this in words, the papilløn sent him a wave of sensation: (impressed), (proud), (comforting), the mental equivalent of a hug.
Cautiously, guardedly, Stephen allowed himself to feel (thankful) in return.
As if she couldn't take this much sincerity for too long, the Wørd's next sentence was pure mischief. If You Still Can't Sleep, Find Something Else To Do.
Stephen's breath caught in his throat as she sent him the sensation of That Thing Jon Did With His Tongue.
Hey! He's in the middle of something!
For This Reason Did The Lord Invent The Pause Button.
Sitting up, Stephen put out a hand and touched Jon's thigh. When the other man tapped the screen to stop the film and pulled out one of his headphones, Stephen leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Mile High club?"
With a start, Jon glanced quickly around the cabin. Most of the other passengers were caught up in their own screens or fast asleep already, but still he looked unnerved as he hissed, "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
Jon cringed. "Stephen. C'mon. Not here."
Trying not to pout, Stephen settled back into his chair, cheeks burning. Great, he thought irritably at the Wørd. And I can't even blame it on you.
Oh, Like You Wouldn't Have Enjoyed It.
Shut up. Why don't you make yourself useful for once, and put me to sleep instead of turning me on?
The papilløn sighed. I'll Try.
That was the last thing he remembered until the breakfast cart came around.
⇔
December 21, 2009.
⇔
13 Bannerman Road.
Luke was in the the middle of a level when they heard Sarah Jane's car pull into the driveway.
With his artificially fast reflexes, Luke always won video games against any human who hadn't been genetically engineered by hostile aliens. This was why he was currently playing K-9. Between the two of them, the game went at such a frantic pace that Maria had fun just watching.
"We're back!" came Sarah Jane's voice down the hall as the door opened. "Come help these two gentlemen with their luggage."
Maria had seen far too many aliens, secret agents, and world-saving heroes to be much excited by the arrival of a couple of American celebrities. Still, she couldn't help being a little bit disappointed by the scruffy and exhausted men dragging suitcases across Sarah Jane's threshold, even if she had seen their faces on TV before.
"I know you'll want to sleep for a bit, so let's go straight to your room," said Sarah Jane, helping the visitors out of their coats. Luke and Maria took the opportunity to relieve them of their suitcases, and the whole group headed for the stairs. "Stephen, Jon, this is my son, Luke—"
The taller man nearly fell over. "You have a son?"
Sarah Jane folded her arms, but Maria could see she was amused. "Is that so odd?"
"It's just—I never thought—you—" He shook himself, pushed a stray lock of hair back into place. "Never mind."
"And this is our friend Maria," continued Sarah Jane. (Maria noted the 'our' with pride.) "Her family moved to Washington last year, but she talked them into letting her stay here for the holidays. Luke, Maria, this is Stephen, the man I used to travel with, and Jon, his . . ." She paused.
"Friend!" yelped Stephen. "Acquaintance, really. Co-worker. Guy who hosts the show before mine."
"Hi," said Jon sleepily, hiding a massive yawn behind his hand.
This particular guest room was equipped with a pair of twin beds with a small end table in between, a desk, a bureau, and a massive wardrobe. Luke and Maria deposited the suitcases next to the wardrobe; Jon and Stephen let their carry-ons fall unceremoniously on the floor.
"This'll be your room. Feel free to rearrange the furniture," Sarah Jane told them. "There's a bathroom right across the hall. When you wake up, we'll show you the rest of the house, and introduce you to Mr. Smith."
Now Stephen really did fall over.
Rating: PG
Series: The Colbert Report, Doctor Who
Spoilers: Anything DW/TW/SJA is fair game.
Summary: Jon finally knows about the Doctor, time travel, and paradoxes, but Stephen still has a lot of secrets. And the present-day Sarah Jane just invited them to spend Christmas at 13 Bannerman Road.
Artwork and deleted scenes from the last serial are also up.
Note: This special uses all the canon up to (but not including) the final arc of DW S4. Includes SJA S2, which is pretty much written as if the S4 finale didn't happen anyway (i.e., everyone is still surprised by aliens). Will point in a Sarah Jane/Maria direction by the end, so if the very idea squicks you, be prepared to skip, or at least skim.
Beta by the festive
stellar_dust. Table of contents, and footnotes, here.A Truthy TARDIS Crew's Christmas
Part One
New York: December 20, 2009.
"Jo-on!" called Stephen's voice from the master bedroom. "My suitcase won't close!"
"Just a minute!" yelled Jon, scrubbing off the last of the plates from lunch. They weren't going to use enough dishes to run the dishwasher before the flight to London tomorrow, and he had no intention of coming back to find that mold had taken over the kitchen. (Stephen had suggested loading the thing with mostly clean dishes and running it anyway. When Jon had chided him for being wasteful, Stephen had said, Fine, have it your way, but I'm not washing anything by hand in this day and age.)
"Hurry up!"
With a sigh, Jon toweled off his hands and went down the hall. He found Stephen's suitcase on the bed, the top several inches too high to be zipped up in spite of the fact that Stephen was sitting on it.
"I don't think this is gonna happen," said Jon, walking over to get a closer look at the poor bulging luggage.
"Just try," insisted Stephen.
So Jon spent a minute or two tugging at the zipper, while his indignant boyfriend bounced up and down a couple of times.
"No luck," he said at last. "What's in this thing, anyway?"
Reluctantly, Stephen slid off of the suitcase, which sprang open almost gratefully to reveal dark suits and neatly rolled ties. Jon lifted off the top layer to see what was underneath.
"Stephen, we're only going for a week!" he exclaimed, after removing a dozen suits to reveal nothing but more of the same. "You can't possibly wear all these!"
"Wasn't going to," grumbled Stephen, kicking his heels against the side of the bed.
"Then why bring them?"
"It's . . . complicated."
"Try me."
"We're going to visit Sarah Jane, Jon!" burst out Stephen. "The last time she saw me, I had access to the TARDIS wardrobe! You've never been there, but it's huge. There's always a perfect outfit in it somewhere! How am I supposed to compete with that? What if I leave a suit behind and then find out it was exactly the one I needed? I can't let her think I'm a lousy dresser when the Doctor isn't there to help!"
His shoulders were shaking with emotion. Jon sat down cautiously beside him.
A couple of years ago, Jon had understood how to deal with this kind of outburst. Then Stephen had cut off contact until just a few weeks ago, after which the two of them had gone from "not speaking" to "practically moved in together" (with a side of "making up for eighteen months of chastity on Stephen's part"). No amount of experience with Stephen's lightswitch temperament could prepare a man for that kind of change, even if he did understand the time-travel snarls involved.
It wasn't that he minded, exactly (especially not the sex part). It was just . . . disorienting. And on top of that, there was—
"It's not even about the clothes," said Stephen, more calmly now. "I mean, she's seen me in suits that are a complete wreck. She's seen me in the ceremonial garb of seventh-century Balhoon, which does nothing for the midriff, I can tell you. I think she's seen me naked—she swears she looked away in time, but I'm not sure I believe it. So she's not really going to care what I'm wearing."
—well, that! Since when had Stephen been self-aware? On air and in public he appeared to be living the same unexamined life he always had, but in private he kept having these moments.
Jon was happy about them, of course. He just had no idea how to handle them.
"That's right," he said cautiously. "So you get that you don't need to bring your entire closet?"
Stephen looked longingly at the pile of suits on the bed. "Yeah."
"Do you, uh, want some help repacking?"
"No, I'm good."
To Jon's surprise, this might actually have been true. Stephen's jaw wasn't clenched with pent-up anger; his eyes weren't bright with unshed tears. He seemed . . . relaxed.
Jon almost got up and went back to the dishes right then.
First, though, some impulse made him pause and put an arm around Stephen's shoulders. "It really is you she'll be glad to see, not your snappy dressing. You've got nothing to worry about."
In the next instant Stephen yanked him into a fierce embrace: hands clutching at his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck.
"Missed you," mumbled Stephen. "So much."
The frames of his glasses dug into Jon's skin. Jon let them be.
"It's okay," he said, holding Stephen together. "I'm here now. It's okay."
December 21.
"How are the lights?"
"All off. This is the last one."
"The computers?"
"Off."
"The oven?"
"Definitely off."
"Got your passports?"
"Right here."
"The tickets?"
"Here."
"And you've left me plenty of food?"
"Come on, BriWi, it's only a week," said Jon with a laugh. "You won't starve. But yes, we left you a couple of giant hoagies."
"I'm just making sure," said the Giant Head of Brian Williams.
Half a dozen assorted Giant Heads had appeared in the studio in the years since its last major renovation. If you didn't feed them early on, they wilted within a few days; but, as the staff had discovered with the first one, after that period their metabolisms slowed to a crawl.
For a while there had been a quandary over what to do with BriWi during vacations. Although he could get by without food for several weeks now, he got lonely and bored with nobody to snark at. This was one problem the divorce had actually solved: there was plenty of room in Jon's otherwise empty new apartment for a Giant Head.
"You're gonna be fine," said Stephen, leaning over to be closer to BriWi's eye level. (Jon's initial worries about whether Stephen would allow a Giant Head into his own home had been unfounded: Stephen was unfazed by the weirdness of it all, and quite taken with BriWi's charm.) "But we asked Leslie next door to come check on you once or twice, just in case."
"Good man," said BriWi. "You two crazy kids have fun over there."
Jon grinned. "We will. See you in a week."
They were turning to leave when BriWi called, "Oh, hey, Stephen?"
"Yeah?"
The Giant Head's normal snarky demeanor softened. Had he possessed a pair of Giant Feet, he would have been shuffling them. "When you're talking to your weirdness-hunting buddies . . . you wanna maybe ask what I am? I mean, if they don't know, it's cool. But could you check?"
Stephen's reply was solemn. "I promise, if Sarah Jane knows anything, I'll find it out."
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.
When the lights in the cabin went out, Stephen cranked his seat as far back as it would go and tried to sleep. As travel beds go, first class wasn't on a level with his room in the TARDIS, but it was still plenty comfortable. He should have drifted off right away.
A quarter of an hour later, his mind was still buzzing.
You Should Sleep, a voice that was not a voice admonished him. You'll Be Jet-Lagged Enough As It Is.
Stephen rolled over on his side with a huff. Even though Jon was engrossed in the movie playing on the little screen in the headrest before him, Stephen wanted to be facing away from him while having a conversation that nobody else could hear. Don't you talk. You're one of my worries.
Not My Fault You Haven't Told Him.
Yeah, that'll go over great. "Hey, Jon, did I mention that there's an alien in my head? No, there's no physical evidence; she's basically just a voice that I sometimes hear. Oh, and she experiences everything I do. Yes, everything. She loves that thing you do with your tongue, by the way."
You Love It, corrected the Wørd. I Just Love Your Experience Of It.
Same difference. Jon's a very private person; he isn't going to like the idea that he's had a secret voyeur for the past couple of weeks. If he doesn't write me off as crazy first thing, that is.
You Don't Give Him Enough Credit.
I wouldn't tell him right this moment anyway, thought Stephen grouchily. He might need space to think about it, and he can't get away from me up here.
Rather than reply to this in words, the papilløn sent him a wave of sensation: (impressed), (proud), (comforting), the mental equivalent of a hug.
Cautiously, guardedly, Stephen allowed himself to feel (thankful) in return.
As if she couldn't take this much sincerity for too long, the Wørd's next sentence was pure mischief. If You Still Can't Sleep, Find Something Else To Do.
Stephen's breath caught in his throat as she sent him the sensation of That Thing Jon Did With His Tongue.
Hey! He's in the middle of something!
For This Reason Did The Lord Invent The Pause Button.
Sitting up, Stephen put out a hand and touched Jon's thigh. When the other man tapped the screen to stop the film and pulled out one of his headphones, Stephen leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Mile High club?"
With a start, Jon glanced quickly around the cabin. Most of the other passengers were caught up in their own screens or fast asleep already, but still he looked unnerved as he hissed, "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
Jon cringed. "Stephen. C'mon. Not here."
Trying not to pout, Stephen settled back into his chair, cheeks burning. Great, he thought irritably at the Wørd. And I can't even blame it on you.
Oh, Like You Wouldn't Have Enjoyed It.
Shut up. Why don't you make yourself useful for once, and put me to sleep instead of turning me on?
The papilløn sighed. I'll Try.
That was the last thing he remembered until the breakfast cart came around.
December 21, 2009.
13 Bannerman Road.
Luke was in the the middle of a level when they heard Sarah Jane's car pull into the driveway.
With his artificially fast reflexes, Luke always won video games against any human who hadn't been genetically engineered by hostile aliens. This was why he was currently playing K-9. Between the two of them, the game went at such a frantic pace that Maria had fun just watching.
"We're back!" came Sarah Jane's voice down the hall as the door opened. "Come help these two gentlemen with their luggage."
Maria had seen far too many aliens, secret agents, and world-saving heroes to be much excited by the arrival of a couple of American celebrities. Still, she couldn't help being a little bit disappointed by the scruffy and exhausted men dragging suitcases across Sarah Jane's threshold, even if she had seen their faces on TV before.
"I know you'll want to sleep for a bit, so let's go straight to your room," said Sarah Jane, helping the visitors out of their coats. Luke and Maria took the opportunity to relieve them of their suitcases, and the whole group headed for the stairs. "Stephen, Jon, this is my son, Luke—"
The taller man nearly fell over. "You have a son?"
Sarah Jane folded her arms, but Maria could see she was amused. "Is that so odd?"
"It's just—I never thought—you—" He shook himself, pushed a stray lock of hair back into place. "Never mind."
"And this is our friend Maria," continued Sarah Jane. (Maria noted the 'our' with pride.) "Her family moved to Washington last year, but she talked them into letting her stay here for the holidays. Luke, Maria, this is Stephen, the man I used to travel with, and Jon, his . . ." She paused.
"Friend!" yelped Stephen. "Acquaintance, really. Co-worker. Guy who hosts the show before mine."
"Hi," said Jon sleepily, hiding a massive yawn behind his hand.
This particular guest room was equipped with a pair of twin beds with a small end table in between, a desk, a bureau, and a massive wardrobe. Luke and Maria deposited the suitcases next to the wardrobe; Jon and Stephen let their carry-ons fall unceremoniously on the floor.
"This'll be your room. Feel free to rearrange the furniture," Sarah Jane told them. "There's a bathroom right across the hall. When you wake up, we'll show you the rest of the house, and introduce you to Mr. Smith."
Now Stephen really did fall over.
no subject
Stephen being somewhat self-aware? Also yay.
And lmao at The Word being naughty. Love.
This is awesome.
no subject
Thanks!