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Written summer of 2007 for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sonic_tea, never posted because none of the three people I sent it to for beta ever sent it back. Screw that, says I, I'm posting her anyway!
Title: The Pickle Issue
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shamusandstone (aka thegiantkiller)
Disclaimer: Characters and events of Firefly and Doctor Who belong to their respective creators, and while I would be as curious to see a collaboration between Joss Whedon and Russell T. Davies as anyone, I also know well that this is not it.
Spoilers: Series through BDM for Firefly; through “Doomsday” for Doctor Who—specific spoilers for “Aliens of London”, “World War Three” and “Boom Town”.
Rating: FRT
Prompt: “Ten and Inara bump into each other at some upper-society Core function. There is chemistry. There is dancing. Perhaps Inara even helps him save the world.”
Notes/Warnings: Pre-series Firefly; the Doctor crashes a swanky Sihnon party and enlists Companion-in-training Inara to help him deal with certain other unwanted guests. Prequel to a story I‘ll never finish. Rollover Mandarin, corrections encouraged.
How odd, to meet a person so unique in such a hackneyed way—and on the other hand how appropriate, because was not the root of his idiosyncratic charm his liberal juxtaposition of the strange and the mundane?
It was at a gala conceived by another house in the Academy where she was completing her training that Inara first encountered the Doctor. The coordination of the affair was a test of the planners’ diplomatic and organizational skills, produced with the support of one of the Academy’s greatest benefactors. The venue was a palatial estate that draped across a hill in the parkland overlooking the capitol’s urban centre like a silken scarf over the shoulders of any of the lithe youths tonight in attendance.
Inara, orbiting the dance floor in the arms of an earnest and baby-faced young politician, gazed over her partner’s shoulder to monitor the movements of the gathered crop’s cream. Her current partner was excellent company and a very competent dancer, but a Companion, unengaged and in public, was expected to be generous with her attention; to dote exclusively on one guest was highly disrespectful (Inara was only a Novice, but the principle held). She mentally marked those worthies to whom she had been introduced in the past, whom she was obliged to acknowledge, and set herself targets of particular quality, the pleasure of whose acquaintance she had not yet made. First among these latter was their host, a fabulously wealthy media mogul who wore his corpulence like a badge of health and prosperity, whose normally jovial disposition had been lately disrupted by (it was rumoured) persistent digestive difficulties.
Her social strategizing was interrupted by a slender man stumbling out of a service entrance, brushing the lapels of his vintage suit. He looked up. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and, cliché as it was, Inara was galvanized.
The force of his attention hit her palpably, like an electric shock, and she dared not break eye contact even as she mumbled an apology to her senator for falling behind in her steps. The stranger smiled, a broad beaming grin, then the shifting throng hid him from view. The moment’s tension dissipated.
“Mademoiselle?” her partner asked diffidently.
“I’m sorry,” she said, granting him a warm smile. “I thought I saw someone I—“
“God’s bollocks, Inara Serra!” The strange man appeared suddenly at her elbow, still grinning, arms open as if he expected a hug. He had brown hair, expertly mussed, and sparkling eyes in a fine, sharp face—the first word she thought of to describe him was ‘vulpine’. “Zhēn gāoxìng kàndào nǐ, and may I say without exaggeration that you are looking exceptionally radiant tonight.”
She regarded him cautiously. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
He frowned. “What year is this, 2513? Ah, no, I suppose we haven’t; sorry. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He held out a palm, and when Inara hesitantly reached out her hand he clasped it warmly in both of his.
“Excuse me,” said her rudely ignored politician, “who are you?”
“Harmless lunatic,” said the stranger, “nothing to worry about. But if you wouldn’t object, I’d love to borrow your most beguiling friend here for the remainder of this dance.” Taking his buffaloed “er” for assent, the stranger offered Inara his arm. “Lady?”
Compelled by the surreality of the situation (and the electricity of his eyes), Inara took hold of the stranger’s hand and shoulder. “I’ll find you,” she said apologetically, then was whirled onto the floor.
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” said the stranger. “It was just such a pleasant surprise. I saw you and thought, ‘now there’s a stroke of luck!’ Spoke before I’d really worked it out.”
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll tell me who in heaven’s name you are.”
“Of course, how rude of me! I’m the Doctor.”
Inara waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “The Doctor? Is that title occupational or purely decorative?”
“Depends on the situation,” he said, frowning at something over her shoulder. Inara turned to look but saw only their host, head bowed in conversation with the administrator of Sihnon’s largest hospital.
“I see,” she said, although in truth she had not begun to suspect. “And how was it you came to know my name, Doctor?”
“I met you—fairly recently, by my subjective estimation, though when you bounce around as much as I do things can get a bit muddled. It was with these eyes, anyway. But that was 2518, so from your perspective it won’t have happened yet. You told me something important then, something I was meant to tell you; now, what was it?”
“tíng zhǐ—you’re saying you’re from the future?”
“From your perspective, in the sense that our last meeting won’t happen for another five years, yes. Although I’m not really ‘from’ any time these days; the TARDIS and I go whenever we’re needed.”
Inara tried to keep her face balanced between skepticism and credulity while she evaluated his words and their delivery. Was this a joke? If so, on whom? She couldn’t think what anyone could hope to achieve by drawing her into a charade like this. And the earnestness of his expression—he exhibited none of the signs of a man who knew he was lying. If he was mad, it was a serious delusion. “And what brings you, er, now, Doctor?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but I think I’ve figured it out. Your government has been infiltrated by alien impostors.”
Inara stared at him, waiting for the ‘gotcha!’ “Really,” she said eventually.
“Really,” he repeated.
“Alien impostors?”
“Green ones, ‘bout eight feet tall, with great scary claws and little dumpling faces, from a planet called Raxacoricofallapatorius.”
“And how do you know this?”
“’Cause they tried it before, on Earth, back in 2005.”
“Aliens took over the Earth in 2005? I’m surprised that I never heard about that.”
“Trust me, there’s a lot you’d be surprised you haven’t heard. Besides, they never got as far as properly taking over. I stopped them then and I can do it again.”
“How do big green aliens infiltrate our government without being noticed?”
“Disguised as humans, of course.”
Inara snorted. “Look, this is ridiculous. People have been looking for extraterrestrial life for centuries, since before we left our birth planet, and they’ve never found anything more substantial than microorganisms. Aliens, on the scale you’re talking about, just don’t exist.”
The stranger smiled again, and leaned in to whisper confidentially. “And yet here you are talking to one.”
Stunned, Inara pulled back to get a better look at him. He still seemed to believe in the truth of what he was saying, and more than that, something about those eyes that had pierced her from across the room . . . there was a pain in them, and a weariness, and an indulgent, wry amusement. They sparkled just a little too much, but it wasn’t madness . . . if anything, it was overabundant sanity. His story was impossible, ridiculous even, but she wanted so badly to believe him that she felt her heart would break if it was not true. “hăo shuō,” she said, “if these Raxica—“
“Raxacoricofallapatorians.”
“Them. If they look like humans, how do we find them?”
“I’m so glad you asked. Their disguises are good, but they’re not perfect, and there are a few telltale signs.” Taking her elbow, he led her off the floor and towards the buffet table.
“First, there’s—“ he broke off and mimed zipping his mouth shut. Their host was waiting at the table, picking over the victuals.
“What is it?” Inara asked.
“He’s one of them,” the Doctor whispered, leaning so close that his breath (which smelled of strong black tea) was hot on her cheek.
This she would not accept. “He is not!” she hissed back.
“Is too—who’s the expert here?”
“He’s well-known, well-respected, even well-liked—which for someone as rich as him is nearly miraculous, and he’s been around for years, he can’t be an alien agent.”
“I know his reputation, that’s why it saddens me to see that he’s been replaced. Raxicocoricofallapatorians have a nasty little trick for blending in with other species: they select victims, kill them, and wear their skins as suits. Like a mascot at an amusement park, only slightly more macabre.”
“And on what possible grounds can you make the accusation that they’ve done it to him?”
“Well for one thing, there’s the wind.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nasty fart problem, it’s a flaw in the matter-compression technology required to fit their big bodies inside your little skins. I got close enough to whiff one earlier tonight, definite calcium decay. Plus there’s the personality change, which I’ve been asking around about, and it started about the same time as the tummy troubles.”
“Embarrassment and ill temper from physical discomfort. A socially awkward medical condition does not make one an alien.”
“Then of course there’s the pickle issue.”
“Pickle issue?”
“According to my informants, our Mr. Bigshot used to be an absolute pickle fiend; soak anything you like in brine and he’d be all over it. Now he won’t even touch them.”
“And that proves?”
“Raxicoricofallapatorians are calcium-based lifeforms. Vinegar is extremely caustic to them—it breaks them down on a cellular level. Pickles are fatal.”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“Prove me wrong, then. Get him to eat a pickle.” She stared at him disbelievingly. “I double-dog dare you.”
“I will not.”
“What, powers of persuasion not up to the task? Shame, after all that training . . .”
Inara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on.”
Turning away from him towards the table, she picked up a stuffed portabella. She took a delicate bite out of it and inserted a chunk of gherkin into the opening, tucking it discretely out of sight and licking her fingers clean. Trap set, she rotated her body towards her prey, placing her hand on the table for support, rolling her eyes back and moaning ecstatically as she did so. “Mmm, that is divine.”
The man (alien?) turned to her with a polite “hmm?”, then gulped.
“Here, try this,” she said, offering him the remainder of the mushroom cap. “I think it may just be the most amazing thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” His confused expression shifted to a very human look of desire as he regarded her moist lips and hooded eyes, and he opened his own fat, pink mouth to accept the proffered morsel. He chewed once, twice, then his face contorted in horrified disgust and he spewed the half-masticated mouthful onto his plate and began scrubbing the inside of his mouth violently with a linen napkin.
“See?” The Doctor whispered, leaning over her shoulder.
“That means nothing,” she said, “I’d spit it out too.”
The Doctor snorted, but his expression, far from being exasperated, was a mix of amusement, affection and—was that pity? “My goodness. You are stubborn, aren’t you? The absurd thing is that you know I’m right about this. You’re just balking ‘cause you don’t want to face the implications.” He held up a hand to forestall her indignant protest. “No offense meant, of course. Your tenacity is laudable, though it won’t always make things easy for you. But for the present, it would be much simpler if you’d just take my word for it that that man—where’s he gone?”
He turned to gesture at their surveillee but found he had been replaced by a birdy woman with big blue earrings.
“There,” Inara pointed, as a flash of purple dinner jacket disappeared behind a wall-hanging near the corner of the room. The Doctor sprinted after him, diving between dancing couples and ducking under their raised arms. Inara followed as quickly as her shoes allowed. She slipped around the velvet tapestry and found herself in a narrow passage that appeared to run as a central channel through this wing of the house.
The Doctor waited just ahead, holding ajar an unmarked door with the tip of a slender finger. “Believe me now?” he asked, opening the door far enough for her to peer inside. Doing so brought her immodestly close to his lithe body, but she had only a fraction of a second to wonder where in the universe he’d acquired such a tantalizing cologne before the closet into which she was looking was illuminated in unhealthy, throbbing blue light. And what that light revealed. . .
Jaw set determinedly, Inara withdrew her head. “How do we stop them?”
The Doctor beamed. “I am so glad you asked that. Come on!” He shut the door silently and ran further down the secret passage. Without warning, he pulled up short; Inara skittered to a stop and spun to face him, suddenly afraid . . . but he was grinning. “I just remembered!”
“What?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once. “What I was supposed to tell you! Now listen close, ‘cuz this is very important . . .” He cleared his throat and stared fiercely into her eyes. “ ‘There inevitably comes a time when you have to let go and move on, and you have to accept that fact. That time comes when every other option has been exhausted, and not a moment sooner.’” He paused a moment to let her absorb this message. “Got that? Good. Let’s go expel some alien invaders.”
sonic_tea, never posted because none of the three people I sent it to for beta ever sent it back. Screw that, says I, I'm posting her anyway!Title: The Pickle Issue
Author:
shamusandstone (aka thegiantkiller)Disclaimer: Characters and events of Firefly and Doctor Who belong to their respective creators, and while I would be as curious to see a collaboration between Joss Whedon and Russell T. Davies as anyone, I also know well that this is not it.
Spoilers: Series through BDM for Firefly; through “Doomsday” for Doctor Who—specific spoilers for “Aliens of London”, “World War Three” and “Boom Town”.
Rating: FRT
Prompt: “Ten and Inara bump into each other at some upper-society Core function. There is chemistry. There is dancing. Perhaps Inara even helps him save the world.”
Notes/Warnings: Pre-series Firefly; the Doctor crashes a swanky Sihnon party and enlists Companion-in-training Inara to help him deal with certain other unwanted guests. Prequel to a story I‘ll never finish. Rollover Mandarin, corrections encouraged.
How odd, to meet a person so unique in such a hackneyed way—and on the other hand how appropriate, because was not the root of his idiosyncratic charm his liberal juxtaposition of the strange and the mundane?
It was at a gala conceived by another house in the Academy where she was completing her training that Inara first encountered the Doctor. The coordination of the affair was a test of the planners’ diplomatic and organizational skills, produced with the support of one of the Academy’s greatest benefactors. The venue was a palatial estate that draped across a hill in the parkland overlooking the capitol’s urban centre like a silken scarf over the shoulders of any of the lithe youths tonight in attendance.
Inara, orbiting the dance floor in the arms of an earnest and baby-faced young politician, gazed over her partner’s shoulder to monitor the movements of the gathered crop’s cream. Her current partner was excellent company and a very competent dancer, but a Companion, unengaged and in public, was expected to be generous with her attention; to dote exclusively on one guest was highly disrespectful (Inara was only a Novice, but the principle held). She mentally marked those worthies to whom she had been introduced in the past, whom she was obliged to acknowledge, and set herself targets of particular quality, the pleasure of whose acquaintance she had not yet made. First among these latter was their host, a fabulously wealthy media mogul who wore his corpulence like a badge of health and prosperity, whose normally jovial disposition had been lately disrupted by (it was rumoured) persistent digestive difficulties.
Her social strategizing was interrupted by a slender man stumbling out of a service entrance, brushing the lapels of his vintage suit. He looked up. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and, cliché as it was, Inara was galvanized.
The force of his attention hit her palpably, like an electric shock, and she dared not break eye contact even as she mumbled an apology to her senator for falling behind in her steps. The stranger smiled, a broad beaming grin, then the shifting throng hid him from view. The moment’s tension dissipated.
“Mademoiselle?” her partner asked diffidently.
“I’m sorry,” she said, granting him a warm smile. “I thought I saw someone I—“
“God’s bollocks, Inara Serra!” The strange man appeared suddenly at her elbow, still grinning, arms open as if he expected a hug. He had brown hair, expertly mussed, and sparkling eyes in a fine, sharp face—the first word she thought of to describe him was ‘vulpine’. “Zhēn gāoxìng kàndào nǐ, and may I say without exaggeration that you are looking exceptionally radiant tonight.”
She regarded him cautiously. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
He frowned. “What year is this, 2513? Ah, no, I suppose we haven’t; sorry. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He held out a palm, and when Inara hesitantly reached out her hand he clasped it warmly in both of his.
“Excuse me,” said her rudely ignored politician, “who are you?”
“Harmless lunatic,” said the stranger, “nothing to worry about. But if you wouldn’t object, I’d love to borrow your most beguiling friend here for the remainder of this dance.” Taking his buffaloed “er” for assent, the stranger offered Inara his arm. “Lady?”
Compelled by the surreality of the situation (and the electricity of his eyes), Inara took hold of the stranger’s hand and shoulder. “I’ll find you,” she said apologetically, then was whirled onto the floor.
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” said the stranger. “It was just such a pleasant surprise. I saw you and thought, ‘now there’s a stroke of luck!’ Spoke before I’d really worked it out.”
“I’ll forgive you if you’ll tell me who in heaven’s name you are.”
“Of course, how rude of me! I’m the Doctor.”
Inara waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. “The Doctor? Is that title occupational or purely decorative?”
“Depends on the situation,” he said, frowning at something over her shoulder. Inara turned to look but saw only their host, head bowed in conversation with the administrator of Sihnon’s largest hospital.
“I see,” she said, although in truth she had not begun to suspect. “And how was it you came to know my name, Doctor?”
“I met you—fairly recently, by my subjective estimation, though when you bounce around as much as I do things can get a bit muddled. It was with these eyes, anyway. But that was 2518, so from your perspective it won’t have happened yet. You told me something important then, something I was meant to tell you; now, what was it?”
“tíng zhǐ—you’re saying you’re from the future?”
“From your perspective, in the sense that our last meeting won’t happen for another five years, yes. Although I’m not really ‘from’ any time these days; the TARDIS and I go whenever we’re needed.”
Inara tried to keep her face balanced between skepticism and credulity while she evaluated his words and their delivery. Was this a joke? If so, on whom? She couldn’t think what anyone could hope to achieve by drawing her into a charade like this. And the earnestness of his expression—he exhibited none of the signs of a man who knew he was lying. If he was mad, it was a serious delusion. “And what brings you, er, now, Doctor?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but I think I’ve figured it out. Your government has been infiltrated by alien impostors.”
Inara stared at him, waiting for the ‘gotcha!’ “Really,” she said eventually.
“Really,” he repeated.
“Alien impostors?”
“Green ones, ‘bout eight feet tall, with great scary claws and little dumpling faces, from a planet called Raxacoricofallapatorius.”
“And how do you know this?”
“’Cause they tried it before, on Earth, back in 2005.”
“Aliens took over the Earth in 2005? I’m surprised that I never heard about that.”
“Trust me, there’s a lot you’d be surprised you haven’t heard. Besides, they never got as far as properly taking over. I stopped them then and I can do it again.”
“How do big green aliens infiltrate our government without being noticed?”
“Disguised as humans, of course.”
Inara snorted. “Look, this is ridiculous. People have been looking for extraterrestrial life for centuries, since before we left our birth planet, and they’ve never found anything more substantial than microorganisms. Aliens, on the scale you’re talking about, just don’t exist.”
The stranger smiled again, and leaned in to whisper confidentially. “And yet here you are talking to one.”
Stunned, Inara pulled back to get a better look at him. He still seemed to believe in the truth of what he was saying, and more than that, something about those eyes that had pierced her from across the room . . . there was a pain in them, and a weariness, and an indulgent, wry amusement. They sparkled just a little too much, but it wasn’t madness . . . if anything, it was overabundant sanity. His story was impossible, ridiculous even, but she wanted so badly to believe him that she felt her heart would break if it was not true. “hăo shuō,” she said, “if these Raxica—“
“Raxacoricofallapatorians.”
“Them. If they look like humans, how do we find them?”
“I’m so glad you asked. Their disguises are good, but they’re not perfect, and there are a few telltale signs.” Taking her elbow, he led her off the floor and towards the buffet table.
“First, there’s—“ he broke off and mimed zipping his mouth shut. Their host was waiting at the table, picking over the victuals.
“What is it?” Inara asked.
“He’s one of them,” the Doctor whispered, leaning so close that his breath (which smelled of strong black tea) was hot on her cheek.
This she would not accept. “He is not!” she hissed back.
“Is too—who’s the expert here?”
“He’s well-known, well-respected, even well-liked—which for someone as rich as him is nearly miraculous, and he’s been around for years, he can’t be an alien agent.”
“I know his reputation, that’s why it saddens me to see that he’s been replaced. Raxicocoricofallapatorians have a nasty little trick for blending in with other species: they select victims, kill them, and wear their skins as suits. Like a mascot at an amusement park, only slightly more macabre.”
“And on what possible grounds can you make the accusation that they’ve done it to him?”
“Well for one thing, there’s the wind.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nasty fart problem, it’s a flaw in the matter-compression technology required to fit their big bodies inside your little skins. I got close enough to whiff one earlier tonight, definite calcium decay. Plus there’s the personality change, which I’ve been asking around about, and it started about the same time as the tummy troubles.”
“Embarrassment and ill temper from physical discomfort. A socially awkward medical condition does not make one an alien.”
“Then of course there’s the pickle issue.”
“Pickle issue?”
“According to my informants, our Mr. Bigshot used to be an absolute pickle fiend; soak anything you like in brine and he’d be all over it. Now he won’t even touch them.”
“And that proves?”
“Raxicoricofallapatorians are calcium-based lifeforms. Vinegar is extremely caustic to them—it breaks them down on a cellular level. Pickles are fatal.”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
“Prove me wrong, then. Get him to eat a pickle.” She stared at him disbelievingly. “I double-dog dare you.”
“I will not.”
“What, powers of persuasion not up to the task? Shame, after all that training . . .”
Inara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re on.”
Turning away from him towards the table, she picked up a stuffed portabella. She took a delicate bite out of it and inserted a chunk of gherkin into the opening, tucking it discretely out of sight and licking her fingers clean. Trap set, she rotated her body towards her prey, placing her hand on the table for support, rolling her eyes back and moaning ecstatically as she did so. “Mmm, that is divine.”
The man (alien?) turned to her with a polite “hmm?”, then gulped.
“Here, try this,” she said, offering him the remainder of the mushroom cap. “I think it may just be the most amazing thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.” His confused expression shifted to a very human look of desire as he regarded her moist lips and hooded eyes, and he opened his own fat, pink mouth to accept the proffered morsel. He chewed once, twice, then his face contorted in horrified disgust and he spewed the half-masticated mouthful onto his plate and began scrubbing the inside of his mouth violently with a linen napkin.
“See?” The Doctor whispered, leaning over her shoulder.
“That means nothing,” she said, “I’d spit it out too.”
The Doctor snorted, but his expression, far from being exasperated, was a mix of amusement, affection and—was that pity? “My goodness. You are stubborn, aren’t you? The absurd thing is that you know I’m right about this. You’re just balking ‘cause you don’t want to face the implications.” He held up a hand to forestall her indignant protest. “No offense meant, of course. Your tenacity is laudable, though it won’t always make things easy for you. But for the present, it would be much simpler if you’d just take my word for it that that man—where’s he gone?”
He turned to gesture at their surveillee but found he had been replaced by a birdy woman with big blue earrings.
“There,” Inara pointed, as a flash of purple dinner jacket disappeared behind a wall-hanging near the corner of the room. The Doctor sprinted after him, diving between dancing couples and ducking under their raised arms. Inara followed as quickly as her shoes allowed. She slipped around the velvet tapestry and found herself in a narrow passage that appeared to run as a central channel through this wing of the house.
The Doctor waited just ahead, holding ajar an unmarked door with the tip of a slender finger. “Believe me now?” he asked, opening the door far enough for her to peer inside. Doing so brought her immodestly close to his lithe body, but she had only a fraction of a second to wonder where in the universe he’d acquired such a tantalizing cologne before the closet into which she was looking was illuminated in unhealthy, throbbing blue light. And what that light revealed. . .
Jaw set determinedly, Inara withdrew her head. “How do we stop them?”
The Doctor beamed. “I am so glad you asked that. Come on!” He shut the door silently and ran further down the secret passage. Without warning, he pulled up short; Inara skittered to a stop and spun to face him, suddenly afraid . . . but he was grinning. “I just remembered!”
“What?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her once. “What I was supposed to tell you! Now listen close, ‘cuz this is very important . . .” He cleared his throat and stared fiercely into her eyes. “ ‘There inevitably comes a time when you have to let go and move on, and you have to accept that fact. That time comes when every other option has been exhausted, and not a moment sooner.’” He paused a moment to let her absorb this message. “Got that? Good. Let’s go expel some alien invaders.”
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