Work Text:
You are on your feet since the early morning, wandering around London’s streets. Taking pictures here and there. A sight here, another tourist attraction there. There is always something to see, always something to observe. Always something that will happen.
Strolling down the street you notice you actually could need something to eat, some sandwich would be nice as your stomach grumbles attention seeking. Pulling your water bottle out of your backpack you take few gulps, when a group of tourists not far away from you, move on from the spot they were standing to another. Revealing a sight you had heard about, you’ve been looking for all day, but hadn’t found yet on your little trip. Till now.
A blue wooden box. Slap bang in the middle of the street. The Tardis. Sitting there. Waiting, while people stroll by as if there is nothing. Walking around it, slightly brushing against it with an arm or a hand while passing by, but nothing more.
You keep drinking, keep watching, frowning, unsure how to deal with it. You are excited. You smile while the water runs down your chin, and you grin, when you put the bottle back into your bag.
You never have seen a Tardis before, and you had always imagined this moment, had pictured how you might’ve reacted to the sight. Well, you’re not running toward it, not screaming in joy, not making a happy dance. At least not yet, because there is something that seems off to you. Also, you can’t place a finger on it.
Maybe it’s the people not giving any attention to it — what is not surprising — it’s London after all, people see this box every day — get used to it. There is not much excitement left when one has to hurry to work or back home. No time for stopping and admiring an old wooden Police Box. No time for dreaming a little. How to step in, how to flip the levers, how to leave — all in time and space.
Noticing you got lost in your thoughts, you shake your head, focusing back onto the phone box. A few tourists — visibly with a camera and an open mouth — cross by, but not one of them seems to be interested in the Tardis.
‘Gosh,’ you think. ‘Are there no Doctor Who fans anymore?’
Whatever. Time to make contact.
Slowly you approach the object of your desire. When you stand in front of it, just half a meter apart, you lean to the left, checking how long and high the box is. Before you reach out to try the lock, you step aside, reaching out to touch the wood of one of the sides. Your fingertips tracing slowly over the rough material while your eyes wander over the surface.
The thing could use some pain, you think, it’s slightly darker as you’ve thought and a bit withered. Anyhow, it feels great to see and touch it, and when you have reached the end of the box, you turn around, going back to the doors.
Again your fingers trail over the surface, lining out the letters of “Pull to Open”. You notice there is no handle for the little door that should inherit the telephone. But there are handles for the main doors and a lock.
Slowly three of your fingers slip under the handle — you don't expect it to be open — desperate to try out.
You step a little closer, biting your tongue, taking a deep breath. Savouring the moment for a minute and when you are about to push the door into the inside, a pair of hand grabs you gently but firm by your shoulders. A voice reaches your ear, “I don't want to disappoint you, but this won’t work.” It’s soft and gentle.
“Huh?” you freeze on the spot. “What?”
There is a man behind you, close enough that you can feel his present, but not close enough that you feel threatened or intimidated. Also, there is a chance, someone hasn’t heard yet about personal space today.
“I said,” he repeats gently. “The door will not open.”
You need a couple of seconds, unsure how to react to the stranger, waiting for something else as words. But nothing happens. You just stand there, staring at your hand around the handle, and feeling the man behind you, his hands still on your shoulders.
After what seems like a whole minute of silence between you and him, you find words again, “It’s locked, of course, I know.”
“No,” you feel his fingertips press into your shoulders slightly more, “it’s not.” There is an audible smile.
It makes you frown at your own hand, and instead just trying it out, your hand drops down. The voice hadn’t meant it as a warning, more likely as a teasing, but something makes you act against your need to find out.
And then, finally, there comes action into your movements and into his. With a “What?” you turn to the left, the man swaying around you in a quick movement, his hands now on your forearms, only for a moment, then he lets go of you.
“Actually, that was a lie,” he smirks. “One needs a key, but when she has a good day and you ask nicely, she lets you in.” While he looks admiring at the blue box, you look at him with open mouth.
“Key?” you ask absently while your brain processes who stands in front of you. “Oh my god!” you call out. Can it be? Is it possible, that this man in front of you, with curled brown hair which hangs half into his forehead, is half shoved behind his ear, is the one you think he is?
“Not exactly,” he turns back to you. “Also, there are places you know-”
“You are… !” you are almost about to grab his forearms now to find out if he is real, ignoring that it might be impolite, ignoring the fact that it has been him who had touched you already. So, not unreal obviously.
“Yes,” he grins, looking at your wavering hands. His face following your motions like one would follow the flight path of a bird.
There is a chance you had too much coffee instead of water today, when you say, “You don’t even know what I want to say.”
He thinks about it, “Yes. True,” and after a pause, he adds, “I am not God obviously.”
For a short moment, you are unsure if the man is who you think he is. Also, there is no mistake possible, it’s him. Him, having too much coffee already too? “You are Paul McGann! The Doctor!” you finally say a little too loud, your hands still having a life of their own.
There is always a sort of smile on his face, you have seen that in pictures, in interviews, and now you see it in the very front of you.
The genuine positivity of him becomes a grin, “Yes! I am! One of it.”
You are only given half a second to find the last part of his sentence confusing, when he reaches into his pocket, sure about that he would find something there that isn’t suddenly there anymore. His motions become a rummaging, “Oh, no! I think I forgot it inside.”
“Forgot what?”
“The key. There is a chance I left it inside, I was a bit in a hurry,” he tries the other pocket, rummaging around it as if there were rather large pockets.
“In a hurry?”
“Yes,” he nods quickly, and then checks all the other pockets he has on his clothes or his bag. It seems rather comical while it comes to you, there is a seriousness in his actions.
“In a hurry, leaving the Tardis?”
“Yes.”
“Are you telling me, you came outside that box?”
“Yes.”
“W-would you stop doing this, please?”
“What?”
“Saying yes!”
“Yes. I mean, sure. Yes,” he gives you a smirk and then steps closer to the box. “It’s a bit hard answering otherwise when you only ask questions or state positive facts.”
“Yes,” you admit with a sigh, watching him stepping onto the first threshold of the Tardis.
“See!” he turns back to you for a moment, about to reach the roof of the Tardis.
“What are you doing?” you whisper while looking around you, afraid someone will come up asking why the man is about to vandalize around the blue box.
“There is a spare key, usually,” you can see him feel for a key, his tongue between his teeth, but nothing comes of it. “Give me a lift, please.”
“No!” you believe to see a policeman in the far, who has noticed your both behaviour around the box. “I am sure the key is gone. Why to place a spare key, everybody would be able to find?”
That makes him snort, “Come on! Nobody cares about the box. Look at them! Once I parked her inside a living room of a nice little lady, Mrs. Braudy, she invited me to stay for tea and biscuits. Not a word about the box.”
“Really?” you ask.
Okay, you need to step back for a moment and look at the man more precisely. He looks like Paul McGann — this face is way too prominent to mistake him with someone else. Maybe with one of his brothers, admitting you’re not very familiar with his brothers and he has said yes to your ‘accusation’ earlier.
He watches you watching him, and looks down at himself. He is wearing a leather jacket, and a bag over his shoulders, the strap going across his chest. You noticed once in all the pictures from conventions that he seems to like to cosplay his alter ego.
When you are both finished looking him all over, you both raise your head locking eyes, and he grins again at you, his hands making a little move, as he wants to say ‘yeah, that’s how I look, what now?’.
“You’re playing a prank on me, right?” You guess he probably came down the street, saw you, noticed you as a Doctor Who fan and decided to make something out of the situation.
The expression on his face drifts off into confusion again, “No. She really didn’t say a word about the box.”
“I am not talking about Mrs. ... whatever her name was!”
“Braudy,” he smirks absently. “I still can’t believe that this was the one time they stole the Tardis with an ice-cream van. Can you imagine? An ice cream van! What brings me to the question, how do you know about this being a Tardis?”
“What?”
“You do realize, you ask a lot of ‘What’ questions?” he knocks with his knuckles against the box. “You said earlier; ‘In a hurry, leaving the Tardis?’” he leans back a bit, glancing up the letters on top of the box, “For a moment I thought she had changed the inscription from Phone Box into Tardis. Clearly the chameleon circuit is still not working. So how do you know?”
You lean back also, sure he now takes a silly little quiz.
“It’s a Type 40 Tardis,” Challenge accepted. “I am sure you know, it’s a disguised time machine.”
“Is it?” he answers way too quickly for your liking, walking passed you, to take a stroll around the box with a hum. You turn with him, watch him walk around it, till he gets out of your sight and comes back to you, tapping against your back with one finger. “Looks like a wooden police phone box to me.” The mischief in his eyes makes you inhale deep, almost about to say something flippant.
“Are you always like that?”
“How am I?” he asks.
Pursing your lips, you fell already embarrassed without having said the next you are about to say, “A bit… strange.”
“I take that as a compliment,” he turns around, toward a narrow street, seeming to fix something with his eyes. “Well, after we cleared things up, I think it’s time to go. Will you give me your hand?” he holds out his, and you’re not sure what it’s supposed to mean. It’s probably him, saying goodbye. With a short hesitation, you place your hand in his, expecting him to shake it and then to leave. Instead, he gives a chuckle, a nod and then grabs your hand. “Come on!”
“What? Where are we going?” you stop after a few meters, unable to detach your hand from his. “What’s going on?”
“You really have to stop with all the ‘whats’. I was about to… to do a thing, and I really could need some help,” he reaches into the inside of his jacket with his free hand, pulling out a sonic screwdriver. Your eyes go wide by the sight of it. He points it into the direction of the narrow street and presses something on the screwdriver. It even makes the sonic noises. “You seem capable.”
“Are you always carrying around a sonic screwdriver?” you can’t believe it and for the first time it dawns on you, that this man may not be Paul McGann, but the eighth Doctor — or some hardcore cosplayer. “Wait, what? Capable for what?”
“Answer to your first question is — sorry — once again, a yes,” he drags you now with him and you follow. “Second answer; for saving the day aka the universe.”
“How?” you stumble along, him in front, holding out the sonic which is beeping and buzzing around — like a dowser.
“I haven't had time to come up with a plan yet,” he stops in front of a door, pressing his face and body against it.
You just about to ask him what he is doing, when the door pops open ajar. Satisfied he grins at you, awaiting your compliments or whatever. When you say nothing at all, he rolls his eyes at you and pushes the door open. It’s just dark inside.
“It’s dark.”
“Exciting isn’t it?”
“That’s trespassing!”
“No, that’s saving the day aka the universe,” he steps inside and for a reason you don’t know, you follow. Not without sending a silent ‘why I am doing this?’ gesture toward the sky.
“May I ask, what are we saving it from?” you bump against a table, when the Doctor — you decide to just go with it — flips on a light. For a moment, you are blinded by the light, but when you open your eyes again you find yourself basically in front of a large, stone statue. “Holy sh-oe!”
It’s an angel. A life-size, angel statue out of stone and all you can do is point at it vigorously while you try to bring yourself to get some words out of your mouth. Instead, you only make grunting noises.
“I know!” he bumps against you, sliding his arm under yours, “Don’t blink.”
While you close one eye at a time, you notice something, “It not really looks like, like it should look like,” indeed the statue looks like a usual angel statue one might find on a graveyard, not like the scary version you know out of the show. “Maybe it’s not one of them.”
“Of them?”
“Oh, you know, you very well know!”
He laughs, “Maybe not. There is an easy way of finding out,” he covers his eyes with his hand, that you can see in the corner of your eye.
“What are you doing? Stop doing this!” you still blink always with just one eye, making you surely look like the biggest idiot on the planet.
“Come on!” he keeps his eyes covered. “You said it’s none, so where is the problem?”
“It can’t be, can it? Let’s be reasonable,” you muse, when the Doctor lowers his hand and turns toward you about to block your sight to the statue. You lean to the side to avoid this.
“Yet, you keep doing weird things with your eyes.”
“Oh, shut it!” you shove him away with one of your hands, making him giggle and when you are certain he looks for you, you rub your eyes. “So? We are here because of this?”
“Sort of,” is his answer, pointing at you to keep looking at the statue, and then begins to rummage around the room which seems to be a storeroom with all sort of things. “I thought I’ve seen something useful earlier here,” shoving away a few pallets he soon cheers in delight. “Here it is!”
It’s a life-size mirror he drags over and shoves between you and the angel. He tells you to hold it for a moment till he has found a chair he can lean the mirror against it. After that you both are safe.
Looking at his construction, you have to admit it’s a brilliant idea, “Not bad.”
“Not bad at all,” he smiles, and then tugs at your arm. “Come on then, I was actually looking for a Yeti.”
“For a Yeti? In the middle of London?” your voice pitches. “Are you always stumbling about one not-so-good-creatures when looking for another?”
He stops, thinking about it for a moment, “To be honest, yes.”
You both have walked now into another room, followed by a long corridor, and aside you played along with the ‘weeping angel’, you haven’t convinced yourself yet, that this is all real. Because how could it?
Also, how could it not? Either this man is Paul McGann having a very strange kind of humour or this man is the Doctor.
‘How the heck does this even work?’ you think when there is a loud clatter to hear down the corridor.
The Doctor and you share a startled expression. He is about to shove you to the left, where there is a door when he grabs your hand on last time and gives you his sonic screwdriver, “Just in case. You’ll be better with it,” then he enters another room on the right, looking over to you, placing a finger on his lips. Then he winks and hides.
Staring at the Sonic in your hand flabbergast, you decide to do the same, “What the hell am I doing here?” talking to yourself in tense situations always has helped to calm yourself down. “I‘ve been following a man I don’t know. I’ve been trespassing and now I’m holding some toy gadget in hand hiding from the janitor, while Mister ‘Let’s casually annoy a weeping Angel while looking like Paul McGann’ is trying to hoax me into believing he is the Doctor and this is all real!” Another loud clatter makes you cover your mouth with your hand, pressing against the wall. You feel your heart beat hard against your chest. A thrill running down your spine, adrenaline pumping through your veins.
‘So this is it’, you think, ‘that's like being a companion.’
Next thing you remember is someone opening the door, someone else yelling “Yeti!” Your heart stops for a moment, and in a reflex, you press a button on the Sonic. A loud beeping happens followed by an inhuman screeching sound happens and then the Doctor is grabbing you by the shoulder, telling you to run, “Good job! Meet me at the Tardis!”
Pushed into the direction you came from, you don’t know what has happened nor what will happen next, you just run through the half-lit corridor, through the room with the caught weeping angel in it — doomed to stare at itself forever, or till the janitor plans to get some order into the chaos, removing the mirror — bursting out of the house, with a fast beating heart and at least five question marks over your head.
It’s all too ridiculous, you think, leaning against the opposite wall, your head resting against the cold stone wall. Waiting till your heart settles back into a normal pace.
“How can this be real? How!” for a moment you are about to let the sonic fall down and just leave, run away. Something a good companion wouldn’t do and you know it. So you turn around to go back inside, to find the man you have left behind. But the door is closed now, and impossible to open again. Feeling the Sonic in your hand, you push the thoughts aside how ridiculous this will be.
“Oh, whatever!” you hold it toward the lock, but nothing comes off it. “Idiot! It’s wood!”
So the only thing left is to go back to the Tardis, you’re finding at the exact same spot you both have left earlier from. Around it, the same mass of people, the same sort of tourists and still no one seems to be interested into the box.
How strange, you wonder.
When you get closer, you see something that hasn’t been there before. A piece of paper, pinned against the wooden door, flapping in the wind. Slowly you approach it, glancing around if anyone cares about it, and when you see no one does, you rip it from the door.
It’s a handwritten letter.
Ever thought of a long term companionship?
The Doctor
PS: Could you please place the Sonic into the phone compartment?
The letter in hand you start looking for the Doctor, or someone involved in this joke, and when you can’t find someone, you start walking around the Tardis still looking.
It is impossible he has written the letter. Not in the short time you have been separated from each other. Standing by the entrance again, you sigh, then a sort of childish anger comes over you and you grab the handle of the door trying to open it — pushing slightly against it with your shoulder even. The whole box shakes under your force, but the doors stay closed.
“God Christ!” you yell, and one of the tourists looks at you in shock, before shuffling away from you.
With your flat hands you hit one more time against the doors. There the little phone compartment clicks open. Clearly you remember that this part hadn’t any lock before, no handle, nothing to open it up and now it just opened, revealing nothing but an empty compartment.
By now you have enough. Whatever kind of joke this is, who ever is playing it on you, it was fun in the first place, now you just feel fooled. Reaching into your pocket, you place the screwdriver inside and close the door with a bang. Then without thinking about it a second time, you turn around and leave.
Five minutes later, agitated and confused, you finally stand by a take away, getting a sandwich, when you notice someone across the street. Quickly paying, you shove the sandwich into your backpack and run across the street.
“Where have you been?” you hop right in front of the man you have met earlier as Doctor.
“Excuse me?” the man looks with a frown at you.
“In the house, what happened? I was worried,” you blurt. “And then the letter!”
“Letter?” he swallows, looks down at the ground, thinking about your words. “I am sorry, are you a fan?”
“Huh?” only now you realize, that the man is wearing only similar clothes. The leather jacket is gone, replaced by a thick sweater. The bag is the same. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, sorry, should I?” he asks with a shy smile. You can clearly see he is unsure how to react to you. You can very well guess, that people usually don’t approach Paul McGann like this on the street.
“You sure we not just met? Like 15 minutes ago? The Angel and the Yeti?” you can feel how you blush violently when there is no recognition in his eyes.
“Is this a joke? A Doctor Who joke?” he asks. “I am a bit busy, but we can take a picture if you like.”
“You gave me your screwdriver!” is all you can say to that. “He gave me… his screwdriver. I am sorry. I made a mistake, I mistook you for someone else. I am really sorry. I got to go!”
You are about to leave him alone again, when he curiously asks, “Mistake me? For whom?”
“Ahm,” you can’t but grin at him. “Just some bloke,” ‘in a blue box’, you add in thought, quickly pacing away from him, back to the spot where the Tardis stands.
There is a long term companionship waiting.
End.