• Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away
If you can use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away •
"What the hell drink was that?"
"Pan galactic gargleblaster. Delicious, aren't they? Get you a bit intoxicated after a few, of course."
"And are you?"
"Am I what?"
"Probably." When he says probably, he attempts to lean casually against the side of the TARDIS and ends up slipping, very nearly falling flat on his fact.
She laughs, at least. But she's been keeping up with him and the number of drinks he's had, so she's probably just as far gone as he is, if not worse. Once he straightens up, she leans over and presses a kiss to his mouth.
"What was that for?" he asks.
"I wanted to see if I liked it," she replies, smoothly. Her voice is high and tinny, but still sounds smooth and seductive.
"And what did you decide?"
"I don't know yet." She leans in again and kisses him more firmly. He responds this time, though it's hardly his best kiss. He's far too intoxicated for it to even really be a decent kiss, but when she pulls back, she looks pleased.
"It's even better when you help," she says.
He smiles. "You should use that some day, Betty."
She nods to the blue box. "You gonna invite me in?"
He wants to. He's just intoxicated enough and she's attractive enough that it seems like a good idea. But he can't, he knows he can't. He makes a face.
"You've got a wife waiting for you?"
He looks at the TARDIS and can practically feel the rage rippling off of her. She does not appreciate being a support to him or her while they snog. "Something like that."
"I don't mind wives, you know. Never stopped me before."
"And it probably won't in the future."
She smirks and slips out of her heels in order to walk home. "If you need me Steve, you just whistle."
He has no idea where she got the impression his name is 'Steve', but he still grins stupidly after her as she walks away. He fumbles with the key to the TARDIS and pushes the doors open. Inside, he can definitely feel the irritation of his ship, far stronger than just out of the doors. He can imagine if she was humanoid, she'd be standing there, holding a rolling pin and glaring. As it is, the room is stuffy and hot with her temper.
"She's gone, you don't have to be this way." He tosses his coat to one of the columns and it misses completely. He sighs and half-stumbles towards his bedroom. The walls are ice cold from irritation and he pats the coral.
"You know I wouldn't bring her here. I've got far too much respect for you." His words are slurred from the alcohol, but he's absolutely convinced of them.
The emotional pressure at the back of his mind is really unconvinced of his words.
"I don't know why you're so jealous," he says, tugging off his tie and shirt once he gets to his bedroom. There are a few lipstick stains on his collar and he makes a face. "A little jealous, maybe. But not this jealous."
She huffs again and the floor is icy cold once he kicks off his trainers.
"I always come back to you, you know," he says, dropping back onto the bed. The covers are warm, at least. She knows he needs to feel safe when he sleeps, and she doesn't deny him that.
If she were a woman, though, he imagines she'd be sighing with exasperation.
"We'll go somewhere tomorrow," he promises. "Gatritico! Or Niamar 5! Lovely worlds, no population. It'll just be the two of us, TARDIS. We'll get away from it all."
He feels no pressure of emotion against the back of his mind, and he imagines that's her way of saying she'll think about it.
He curls up under the covers (having completely forgotten about his trousers, socks, or the fact that he hasn't taken a shower) and closes his eyes, the drunken suptor turning quickly to drunken slumber.
"I love you, TARDIS," he mumbles. Even when sober, she's the only being in the universe he can say that to without incredible difficulty. They've been together too long, they know each other too well. He loves her even when she sends him to the wrong planet and she loves him even when he snogs humans.
He feels a gentle, comforting pressure, and he imagines she's bemusedly replying the same thing.
Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 747
Use of Lauren Bacall not authorized by Lauren Bacall.