notjackkerouac: (i // man about town)
[personal profile] notjackkerouac
Today, London is boiling. Even for August, it's uncomfortably warm. Sweat has clung to Jack's hairline and gathered in the small of his back since early morning, when he was cruelly woken by James shoving all of the covers on top of Jack in his sleep. It felt like being smothered by an elephant who had the mistaken assumption that Jack was a peanut and had sucked him into her trunk: sweltering and strangely damp. Jack had shucked the attacking sheets, kicking wildly until they retreated to the foot of the bed and padded into the living room to make sweet love to the fan.

The other thing about London today is that it happens to be boring. Jack sits for an hour, whispering dirty phrases into the whirring blades to hear his voice buzz back at him, and tries to feed apple slices through the wire mesh after the first activity grows old with no one around to hear the deft trick. Half the slices never manage to stay uneaten to meet their maker with the fan and the other half only catch the blades rather than being shredded into apple sauce. Jack gives up after a while and goes to shower the juice from his fingers and legs.

James still isn't awake by the time Jack dries with a towel, even after he sang "Sweet Caroline" six time through at the top of his voice (musical interlude included), so Jack dresses and fluffs out his hair and goes out onto the street to find something to do there.

Ice cream seems like a decent idea, given mother's nature intention to conceive hell on earth. Jack wanders down to the shops but the first four ice cream places he finds (well, three ice cream and one gellato stand) are closed. It's not quite ten in the morning so Jack supposes he should find this understandable but it's summer and his shirt has begun to stick between his shoulder blades and nothing open means he has to walk further to find a refreshing lick of mint chocolate chip.

A place finally finds him sometime after six blocks or so, near the park. A queue of four or five people with similar ideas stretches to the door. Jack joins the queue behind a man in a smart suit with great hair and somehow falls into a conversation with him over which ice cream flavour is better. The man defends cookie dough so astutely that when it becomes Jack's turn to order, he asks for a double cone, mint chocolate chip on the bottom and cookie dough on top.

The man is still nearby when the clerk hands Jack his cone, so Jack goes to sit next to him on a bench. It isn't until the man introduces himself as the Doctor that Jack realizes why he looks so familiar.

He studies the Doctor quizically. "You're taller than you look on television," Jack says, then licks at his ice cream. The Doctor just looks confused so Jack explains how he watches him on Saturday nights when he happens to be home.

The Doctor doesn't seem to understand that he's on a television programme so Jack offers to show him, promising that he has old betamax tapes somewhere back at the flat. They finish their ice cream as Jack leads them up the stairs to his door and slips his key in the lock, opening the door for the Doctor.

"Make yourself at home."

He doen't know if James is awake yet or not. Jack's sure he doesn't want to miss this.

Date: 2008-10-29 07:20 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] notjackkerouac.livejournal.com
"Over ice cream," Jack repeats, diving into his exchanged glass like a man dying of thirst. The drink is cold, and the rum hits Jack's veins with a flood of heat, and together it's just a very good avoid speaking as his eyes bounce from James at his right to the Doctor on his left.

There's something still not quite right in James' tone, the sarcasm present if buried. Jack's learned how to listen for it, even when usually James is beating people blind over the head with it. He won't call James on it, mostly because it's his loss if he's going to be sour over strange turns of events, and also because it's easier to stay away from the particular pitfall until the rum has kicked in.

Jack reaches behind him to hook the tie on James' robe, a vaguely threatening gesture just in case spontaneous nudity is called for to levitate the mood. He swirls his drink around and gestures for the Doctor to sit on the chair behind him if he so wishes.

"He was in the queue. Strange, the type of people you can meet there. Or not people. Aliens? People?" Jack pulls a thinky face. "Are time lords people? With two hearts?" The questions tumble out quicker than Jack can catch them and stuff them back down his throat.

Date: 2008-10-29 07:35 pm (UTC)
or_timelords: ([10] making a point)
From: [personal profile] or_timelords
"I don't think it's a question of the hearts," the Doctor says, picking the softest-looking seat and stretching his legs. "There are Time Lords with only one heart, and the Nergkotians have five hearts plus an extra atrium located behind their left eye. Most complicated cardiovascular system in the Kerryllian galaxy, it's fascinating. I think it's more of a question of language and word connotation - there's the people of Gallifrey, obviously, and the Nergkotian people, but if you're using the word 'people' to describe a group of individuals rather than a national or planetary designation, I'm not sure if you would count non-humans as people."

The Doctor takes a sip of his drink and contemplates for a moment. "Of course, you can use 'people' as a word to describe beings that are not individuals, like the Glork, who are all part of a hive mind." He looks up at Jack, then over at James. "It's a matter of personal choice, perhaps?"

Date: 2008-10-30 12:14 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fortiter-in-re.livejournal.com
Alright, this is all getting a bit much. James watches the two other men with no little degree of incredulity, as they begin a completely sincere conversation about number of hearts and what sorts of alien species constitute "people."

The Doctor- because James doesn't have anything else to call him, and "the man" is both tiresome and vague- looks up at James as though seeking his opinion, and he really can't help himself. 'You both do realise,' he says, his voice pointedly calm and reasonable, 'that Doctor Who isn't real? As in, it's fictional. Good fiction, I'll give you, but that's no reason to dress yourself up as the main character and walk around pretending to be him.'

That said, he takes a sip of his drink, waiting with some degree of hesitancy for their reaction. He just hopes this man isn't actually some kind of lunatic, though he wouldn't put it past Jack.

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