Out There

aka the x-files/doctor who fusion

“Aliens?” Kris asks, trying to keep a straight face—and probably failing.

“Yup.” Neil nods somberly.

People had warned Kris about the weirdo in the basement, but Kris had thought they were all exaggerating. How bad could the man be if he can still close cases the way he does? But then, no one had said anything about aliens.

“They’re out there,” Neil tells him, pointing to his the truth is out there poster.

Kris had thought that poster was meant to be ironic or something. Dammit.

“Oh, come on, Kris,” Neil says, putting his feet up on his desk and crossing his ankles. He has that smug look on his face again, the one he wears whenever he makes a wild guess the first second a new case comes in, which then turns out to be completely right. Kris hates that smug look. “You saw what happened last Christmas. Don’t tell me the big honking spaceship didn’t clue you in.”

“That was an experimental military craft.”

Kris glances at the door. It’s open. He can pretend to go out for a cup of coffee and then head straight upstairs and request a transfer. It would be terribly rude, and Kris would feel very bad about it, but at the end of the day, being rude is much better than being stuck in the basement with a crazy person.

Neil snorts. “And the Roswell crash was just a surveillance balloon.”

“It was.”

Neil takes out his phone. “I can prove it to you,” he says. “My brother’s out there with one of them.”

Out there is accompanied by an upwards gesture with his phone. Probably not to indicate the Assistant Director’s office, Kris guesses.

He takes a step back. His ass meets the edge of his own desk.

“Abducted?”

“Nope,” Neil says, shaking his head. “Just hanging out.”

He fiddles with his phone, the tip of his tongue poking out through his pursed lips.

“And . . . you’re going to . . . call the aliens now?”

Neil rolls his eyes. Because of course Kris is the one being ridiculous here.

“I’m going to text them.”

“Huh,” Kris says, gripping the edge of his desk.

“Emergency,” Neil says as he types. “Daleks here. Come quick.” He gives Kris a beaming smile and hits send with a flourish. “Now you’ll see.” Then he sits with his arms crossed over his chest and stares at the empty space between their desks expectantly.

Kris stares at him.

They wait.

Nothing happens.

~

“The bitch. He doesn’t even care if I live or die,” Neil grumbles.

It’s been forty-five minutes since he texted his brother who hangs out with aliens, and the spaceship is yet to land in their basement office. Seeing the put-out look on Neil’s face, Kris almost suggests that they go up to the roof to wait, but then he figures they’re probably safer in the basement. Right now, he wouldn’t trust Neil not to push him off the building because he thinks the Easter Bunny is after them or something.

“It could’ve been the Daleks! I would have been exterminated way before he deigned to get off his ass!”

Kris makes a noncommittal sound, clutching his guitar closer. Making music has always had a calming effect on him, and right now he needs that more than ever. (If the guitar also provides a physical shield between them, all the better.)

That’s actually why he’d wanted the basement office. More than the assignment, it had been about the peace and quiet down here. No one cares what he plays. Their only neighbors are the files in the archives and the rats eating them.

“He’ll have to come home eventually. I’ll show him—”

Kris is so focused on his song that he doesn’t even notice the sound at first. But then it gets louder and louder, and the papers start flying off their desks, and—Neil starts cackling.

“Told you!”

A blue box materializes between their desks, right in the spot that Neil has been staring at like a lunatic. It’s big and very blue and very strange. It’s . . . a police box, apparently. An alien police box.

Neil has very . . . unexpected connections in law enforcement.

Kris is busy trying to make himself let go of the guitar, so as not to damage it, when the door of the box opens and two men jump out.

One of them has distractingly large ears and is holding up a metal pen in front of him like a sword. The other—is just plain distracting. His hair is standing straight up in gravity-defying fashion, he has blue glittery eye-shadow lining his eyes, and he’s wearing . . . a sheet. The most absurd thing about him, though, is that he looks perfectly serious, poised to strike with a tennis racket in hand.

They look around, tense and ready to fight. Then the one with the ears turns to Kris and says, “You’re not a Dalek.”

Kris shakes his head. He hopes that’s the right thing to do.

“Hmm,” the ear-guy says, raising an eyebrow, then his face clears shockingly fast and he grins at Kris. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Who’re you?”

Kris says, “Um.”

~

The sheet guy—Adam, Neil’s brother who ran away with the aliens—smacks Neil on the back of the head.

“Ow.”

Kris feels himself warming up to Adam immediately. He’s been wanting to do just that since the very first day he met Neil.

“One of these days, it really will be the Daleks, and—”

“And I’ll already be dead by the time you arrive!” Neil exclaims irritably. “Where the hell have you guys been?”

“His thingamabob has been acting up.”

“His what?”

“My timey-wimey console,” the Doctor says from where he’s been checking out the very fascinating array of office supplies on Neil’s desk. He plays with the stapler for a bit, staples his tie to his jacket, looks very happy with the result, and then discovers Neil’s snacks. “Sunflower seeds!” he cries. “I haven’t had these in ages.”

Kris blinks at the man’s joyful reunion with bird food and shares a completely accidental eye-roll with the sheet-wearing brother of his apparently-not-that-crazy partner. By the time he has realized what he’s done, he has a very tall, very glittery, very probably naked-under-his-sheet man crowding against him.

“Haaai,” Adam drawls. His grin looks wicked. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced. I’m Adam.” He holds out his hand, but it just looks funny stuck there like that, since he hasn’t left enough space between them for shaking hands. Or, you know, breathing.

Kris gulps. “Kris.”

“You’re pretty,” Adam says, eyes running over Kris’ face. Kris can almost physically feel Adam’s gaze on him, and he’s pretty sure his cheeks are a strikingly bright red now because of it. Part of him wants to be indignant and angry at the invasion of his personal space, but that doesn’t mix well with the furious blushing. He ends up at something like nervous bashfulness, which is not what he was going for at all.

“Adam,” the Doctor says, warning in his voice.

Adam takes a step back and whines, “What?”

“We talked about the touching.”

“I haven’t touched him yet. God. You’re no fun at all.”

He grabs Kris’ wrist rebelliously, making Kris squeak just a little bit, and sticks his tongue out at the Doctor.

Kris is still staring at their hands and contemplating what to do when Neil interrupts his thoughts.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

The Doctor spits out a shell. “My sheets.”

Neil raises an eyebrow.

The Doctor cracks another seed and spits out the shell again. “Not in a fun way, I assure you.”

Adam heaves a sigh. “We were going to Ancient Rome,” he explains—to Kris, though God knows why. It’s not like Kris was even curious. “I couldn’t just show up in my Galliano jacket, now, could I?”

Kris shakes his head. That would not do. Probably.

“I wanted to blend in,” Adam defends himself.

Neil snickers. “Wearing a sheet.”

“It’s a toga!” Adam declares, offended. “They didn’t have jackets back then. Don’t you know anything?!”

“Um. You sure they had glittery eye-shadow?” Kris asks.

Adam grins at him, like Kris has said something brilliant. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t. But white makes me look so washed out, you know?”

Kris nods dutifully. Sure. Whatever the crazy person with alien friends with weird box-shaped spaceships says.

The Doctor pockets a handful of sunflower seeds and then claps his hands. “Time to go! Neil, it’s been a pleasure. Next time you want to text Adam about fake Daleks, please keep in mind the sad yet educational story of the boy who cried wolf.”

Neil blanches.

The Doctor turns to Kris and bows. “Kristopher. Wonderful to meet you.” Then he looks at Adam and nods towards the blue box. “Adam. Ancient Rome?”

Adam perks up at his words, but then looks at Kris and deflates. He reluctantly lets go of Kris’ wrist, carefully placing his hand on the guitar, like Kris can’t do it for himself, and pets Kris’ hair wistfully.

“Can’t we—”

“Nope,” the Doctor says, without even bothering to turn around.

“But I—”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Maybe we could—”

“Not bloody likely.”

Adam throws his arms around Kris and smushes his face against Kris’ neck. “But I want to keep him!”

Kris freezes. He keeps himself just fine, thank you very much—but the words won’t leave his mouth. Because—well . . . Adam is distracting. His sheet is slipping, and his hands are warm and large against Kris’ back, and he smells like lavender, and . . .

“Alright,” the Doctor says with a long-suffering sigh. “But he’s your responsibility. If he gets lost in Ancient Rome and gets sold into slavery, it’s all on you.”

“Okay,” Adam says giddily and pulls Kris towards the box.

“Wait—what? Slavery?”

Adam offers him a sweet smile. “It’ll be okay. I have more sheets we can use.”

“Oh, great,” Neil mumbles. “Now I’m going to have to break in another partner.”

~

3 Hours Later

“Adam!” The Doctor knocks on the door insistently. “Chop chop! I fixed the console! We’re in Ancient Rome!”

Adam fights his way out of the sheets—none of which are being used as clothing anymore—and clears his throat. “I—um. Have my hands full right now.”

Kris squirms under him. Adam had his hands full, and he will get them right back where they were a moment ago if he knows what’s good for him.

“Of course you do,” the Doctor mumbles.

“You go. Have fun,” Adam says distractedly, licking down Kris’ chest. “We’ll be here.”

The Doctor mutters something about betrayal. Kris is too busy panting to listen closely. He pushes Adam down, down—

“Stop teasing!”

—almost there, yes . . .

“Oh!” Adam says, raising his head. “You want my toga?” he yells towards the door.

The Doctor tells him just what he can do with his toga.

Adam lets out a horrified gasp, but then seems contemplative. “I think we just did that, actually.”

They hear the Tardis’ door slam shut.

“Where were we?” Adam asks, pushing up on his elbows.

“You had your hands full,” Kris reminds him.

“Oh, yes,” Adam says, running his hands down Kris’ sides. He stops at Kris’ waist, when he seems to get a better idea.

Kris gasps. “Or your mouth,” he concedes. “That also works.”

~

12 Hours Later

When the Doctor comes back, he’s wearing a white cotton pillowcase.

Kris stares at his scrawny legs sticking out of it. He looks cold.

“You sure you don’t want a sheet?”

The Doctor takes in the surprisingly comfortable toga Kris is wearing with envy.

“A sheet would be lovely, yes.”

The End

May 28th, 2010