Hi all! This is part of our Blood and Time series (see our profile for more details). As with most of the early stories, this stands alone pretty well. If you don't mind assuming a few things, go on. Otherwise, here's what you need to know (or better still, go back and read the others):
1) Angel and the Doctor have met. Mostly the Doctor gets punched in the face, but they have a working, meaningful acquaintanceship going on right now.
2) Yes, "acquaintanceship" is a word.
3) The Doctor was there right after Conner was abducted.
4) For Angel, this is from around Why We Fight in Season 5.
5) Don't ask when the Doctor is from. It will hurt your head. (After The Doctor's Wife.)
Part One
"Just a short trip," the Doctor said.
Angel didn't think that this really made it any better. All the statement managed to do was convince him that the Doctor had no idea what the word "short" meant, as the word did not apply to what he had proposed in any way at all.
"A short trip outside the universe?" Angel repeated, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
"Yup." The Doctor didn't seem to understand sarcasm, either.
"And you need me to…"
"Pick things up." At least the Doctor seemed to catch onto Angel's skeptical look. "Heavy things!" the Doctor added in a placating tone. "Possibly followed by some wiring."
Wiring. Angel wasn't good with technology. On his best day he might be able to access the messages on his phone, and the Doctor seemed to think he could help work on the most technologically advanced ship in the universe. He laughed.
"Listen," Angel said, "I don't think you noticed, but I've got a job now. I'm busy. I have…" He waved at the large office, the paperwork, Harmony sitting at the secretary desk outside the large window, "stuff."
The Doctor nodded at it all like he hadn't shown up two hours ago, been told to sit in the waiting area by Harmony, and actually done just that. He had apparently sat down without much of a fuss and then systematically gone through all of the magazines on the table. According to Harmony, he had spent the longest amount of time doing activities in the ten-year-old copy of Highlights.
"Yes," the Doctor agreed. "It all looks…dull." He said the last word with a level of disdain that was typically reserved for head lice and reality TV shows.
Angel folded his arms. Yes, it was dull. His To Do list from Harmony seemed to be the second best proof of Hell he'd ever experienced (the first being his actual trip to Hell). He couldn't justify any of this without saying, "Why, yes, it's obviously a terrible idea, but I'm allowing myself to be slowly digested by this evil institution for a shot at destroying their evil, baby-eating leaders."
He wasn't going to say that. It would probably sound more impossible if spoken out loud. Izzerial wouldn't even agree to play racquetball with him.
The Doctor's look of disgust shifted to one of curiosity as he peered around the office again, like it was a part of a puzzle that he hadn't known he had to solve until just now.
Here it comes, Angel thought. He doubted the Doctor would understand why he had taken the job; not when he couldn't explain his plans without giving them away to whatever spies were lurking in the corners, or the reasons around Connor that had gotten him into this mess. Not when he struggled every day to justify the sacrifice to himself. He could only imagine the scathing look he'd receive on hearing even a small portion of Angel's excuses.
Well, maybe not scathing, he admitted as the Doctor looked at him with worry in his expression. Of all of the faces the Doctor had worn, this one seemed least capable of sneering.
The Doctor seemed to have come to a conclusion of some sort. "How are you, Angel?" he asked.
Angel's arms tightened across his chest. "Great," he said, leaning casually back against his desk. "I'm the CEO now. I have a secretary and more cars than I know what to do with. It keeps me busy, but I think that I can really do some good here."
Angel knew the Doctor wouldn't buy it. His team didn't buy it. Angel didn't buy it. The members of the Circle of the Black Thorn didn't buy that Angel thought he could do some good, either, but Angel was working on convincing them of his turn to the dark side, so that one kind of worked out in his favor.
The Doctor tucked his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket. "I see," he said. Part of Angel cringed at the sound of disappointment. "That's…good. That you're doing good."
Angel clenched his jaw. The last thing he wanted was for the Doctor to stand there and not call him out on it. The Doctor did nothing if not call him out on everything he did and now he was just going to let it slide? It was probably some con to get him to tell the Doctor the truth. Well, he wasn't going to fall for that.
"Yes," he agreed.
The Doctor adjusted his bowtie and looked around the room again. "Right…"
Angel drew in a breath to heave a sigh. He paused. Something wasn't right.
Smell was always an odd sense for vampires. It was endlessly useful, but often neglected because it didn't work much unless he actively took the time to breathe. Angel, like many vampires, had worked breathing into his life for just that purpose. He had trained his body to continue the rhythm so that when a piece of information drifted past his nose he wouldn't miss it.
Angel had gotten relaxed about breathing since he started working at Wolfram & Hart. The consistent, monotone smell of cleaner and freshly printed paper in his office made the exercise less than rewarding. Of course, then he missed things, like how the Doctor was afraid.
No, he amended after taking another breath, nervous. Not the salty tang of real, overwhelming fear, but the lighter, more acidic smell of someone who had been anxious about something for so long that they probably didn't even notice how tense their muscles were any more.
The Doctor was inching toward the doors. "You're right. I can probably do it myself," he said with an indifferent shrug. "It'll just take a bit longer, but what do I have if not more time? I'm sorry to bother you, Angel."
The Doctor was at least three steps out of the office when Angel pushed away from his desk. "Wait," Angel called. "Doctor—" he paused there, not sure what he was going to say.
The Doctor looked back over his shoulder; his eyebrows raised and hope dancing behind his eyes.
"I have a meeting at four," Angel said. "We can be back by then, right?"
"I think I can manage that," the Doctor said, a sly smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
"I'll get my coat."
"Just a short trip?" Angel scowled at the outfit the Doctor was trying to hand him. It looked like what people in the 60's thought people in the year 4000 would be wearing. Namely, a puffy, grey jumpsuit. "I don't have to breathe, Doctor. And I don't have a body temperature."
"Nope," the Doctor said, dropping the suit over a railing, which curled lazily around and dropped down a set of stairs to the next floor of the "wardrobe." The Doctor clearly didn't know what "wardrobe" meant, either, because this place was more like a department store if it had been arranged by 17th century librarians using the Dewey Decimal System. The Doctor jogged off into 114.30.S1145 (for 45th century retro, probably), calling out from the racks of clothes, "But you are squishy and full of liquids! When I say that where we're going is cold, I mean it's headed in the direction of absolute zero."
Angel ran a finger along the fabric of the suit. "Absolute zero?" he repeated.
"The point where molecules stop vibrating entirely," the Doctor explained, reappearing with another jumpsuit slung over his arm. "And then they stop existing. And then explode!"
Angel blinked. "So…cold then."
"Yes! Cold. We'll have to be long gone before that happens, but the suits should give us an extra half hour or so before our blood freezes and our limbs start snapping off." The Doctor paused in front of a rack of outfits made of so much pastel tulle that Angel couldn't sort out if they were dresses or skirts or just extra fabric, and beamed excitedly at Angel.
Angel decided that, in light of absolute zero, he didn't mind how puffy the jumpsuit looked after all. "Should I put it on now, then?"
"If you want to," the Doctor said, holding up his own jumpsuit and giving it an approving nod. Draping it over his arm again, the Doctor headed for the staircase that spiraled back up to the hallway of the TARDIS. "We'll go over a few things first. I don't normally make plans, but I think we should have one just in case everything works out the way it's supposed to."
Angel watched the Doctor disappear into the hallway above. "This is insane," he told himself. Even so, he slipped the suit on, zipping and velcroing in true '60s/4000s astronaut fashion. He felt ridiculous in it, even though there was no one else around to look ridiculous in front of (including himself, since he couldn't use a mirror to see his own ridiculousness).
Of course, everything involving the Doctor seemed to end up leaning in the direction of insane, like there was a sign on the door that said, "You must be this crazy to ride." Something about this felt crazier than normal, though. Angel had gotten very good at listening to his instincts over the years. His instincts poked at him now, informing him that the Doctor had answered all of his questions much too directly and without so much as a piece of information that could be useful.
The lights in the wardrobe suddenly dimmed. His instincts screamed.
Angel ran even as he told himself that he was a vampire and the lights going out should not be a reason to panic.
He stretched out a hand to catch the railing illuminated by the light pouring down from the hallway above, intending to swing his momentum around and up the stairs. His hand burned as he grabbed what should have been cool brass and he hissed in shock. He listened to his skin sizzle as he continued to use the railing to change his direction. A little pain was a good exchange for not losing his balance.
Angel ran the rest of the way up the stairs without touching the railing and came pelting out into the hallway at full tilt. His shoulder crashed into the wall on the far side of the hall as he spun around to look back at the stairwell.
Light glowed innocently inside the wardrobe.
Angel growled. What was wrong with this ship?
"What the hell is your problem?" Angel shouted at the room, only feeling slightly stupid for shouting at a room (slightly more for doing it in his stupid puffy grey suit). He had never really been clear on exactly how sentient this ship was; if it was. It probably was. When he thought about it, he had caught the Doctor talking to it instead of at it on several occasions, but he wasn't sure if he was talking to the ship like one talked to a loyal guard dog, an old warhorse, a disobedient servant, a close friend, or a long-time lover.
Angel stepped forward cautiously and peered at the railing. An intricate design was etched in the brass. Angel leaned closer. Yes, he was right: tiny crosses were worked into the pattern.
Maybe, he thought, it was all of the above. It sounded right, but was an unsatisfactory answer. It lacked any sense of finality, and was so general that it added almost nothing to what he knew about Doctor or the ship. The cruel intentions that Angel always kept locked up whispered through the bars of their cage: Figuring out how the Doctor and the TARDIS were connected would allow him a much larger understanding of how the Doctor worked, and that knowledge would give him the power to take the Doctor apart.
Not that he had any plans of doing that. It was just an option. Angel sighed. No wonder the probably-psychic ship didn't like him. If it helps, Angel thought as loudly as he could, I don't actually act on most of the unpleasant thoughts that I have.
And then he tried to quiet any thoughts of how he'd been purposefully digging himself into a morally grey hole in the name of infiltration.
"Coming?"
Angel managed to hide his startled jump as he turned to face the Doctor in the same motion. The Doctor was poking his head around a turn about twenty feet down the corridor. He was also now in a puffy grey suit, but looked much more at home in it than Angel felt in his.
"Uh," Angel looked between the Doctor and the brightly lit wardrobe a few times before slowly following the Doctor.
They emerged back in the console room a short time later (shorter than Angel remembered getting there, which seemed consistent with the other times Angel had been there), and the Doctor was already twirling around the console, pressing buttons and flipping levers with flourish and zest until he came to a sudden halt. His finger hovered over the small red button, both hesitantly and like he needed to wait for just the right second.
"We can't keep putting it off like this, dear," he murmured gently. Maybe he meant it for himself, or maybe the mind-of-its-own ship needed convincing—which Angel thought was downright unnerving. Yes, let's all go to the end of the universe in a vehicle that occasionally needs to be convinced to work. "This is the last time, I promise." The Doctor grinned at Angel, looking a little embarrassed at being caught talking to himself.
The Doctor stood up, clapping his hands together. "Wonderful!" he said, stepping away and opening his arms to Angel and his new puffy suit. "Just what we need. Now, come, comecomecome—" the Doctor beckoned and pointed at the screen. "This is what we're after."
Angel approached the screen and leaned in. "Junk?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes!" the Doctor agreed, nodding happily. He frowned a second later. "No!" he scolded. He adjusted his shoulders and tapped at the screen with an annoyed air. "It's in a junkyard and it's definitely used. But it's the only one available. Anywhere. And when I say, 'anywhere,' what I really mean is that it's not available anywhere, which is why we're going outside of the universe."
"Outside the universe," Angel repeated, trying not to let his voice crack. "You were serious about that part."
The Doctor's shoulders sagged. "Yeah." He rolled his eyes and marched away to the other side of the console grumbling, "If I'm going to have to explain everything twice, we're going to freeze before we grab anything."
"So you mean another dimension," Angel concluded, ignoring the comment.
"No," the Doctor said, taking a long stride away from the console and more into Angel's view. He paused oddly there, mulling something over for a few seconds before he picked up his train of thought again. "No, the TARDIS can't travel between dimensions. We're barely going to make it out of this one. Fortunately, it's very close. I just need to dump a few rooms to build up thrust."
It's impossible to go outside the universe." Angel said, really hoping he could make it true by saying it. "You just mean to the very edge, right?" Not only did going outside the universe sound impossible, but also suicidal by association. What could exist outside the universe?
"Sure," the Doctor agreed shortly, like it was just easier to agree. "I mean, not at all, but close enough."
Angel eyed the Doctor with deep suspicion. He didn't like being patronized with lies, and wondered vaguely if they'd already left Wolfram & Hart. "Okay…" Angel said slowly. "Tell me one thing: How likely is it that we'll get back alive?"
Another odd pause as the Doctor prodded buttons thoughtfully. "Surprisingly good," the Doctor concluded. "But it's not guaranteed." One of his hands gripped the edge of the console. He sighed, suddenly looking very tired. "There are several pieces of this ship that are about to simply...break. I'm making this trip now because without them I'll be dead in the water. There could be some serious consequences if we break down on the way there or on the way back." He caught Angel's eyes for a moment, the seriousness of his statement settling in, and then he grinned and spun on his heel. "But! Ideally!" he called happily, tossing a few levers as he made his way around the console, "none of that will happen." He poked his head around the other side of the center column. "I can take you home if you want."
Angel glanced toward the door, where beyond it, if the building were even still out there, paperwork and meetings and his friends pretending right along with him that they were still doing good waited for him. And Spike.
"Hey, I said I'd help," Angel said quickly, shrugging away the hesitation. "Better get going."
"Yes! Wonderful!" The Doctor danced back into full view and then stopped in front of Angel and scolded very seriously. "No! Don't be ridiculous, Angel! I haven't gone over anything yet. It's not like we're going to have a lot of time once we get there."
Angel nearly felt dizzy from the constant mood swings. "Oh. Okay then-"
The Doctor didn't wait for him to finish that thought. He thwapped a finger against the picture on the screen and the whole thing switched to a series of pictures. "This," he said professionally, like a general outlining a plan to his troops, "is the full list of possible parts that we will find listed in order of importance."
The screen started to scroll down, the pictures moving upward and out of sight just after Angel had time to register what they looked like; not that more time would have helped with most of them. His mind was already labeling all of the parts in the pictures things like, "do-dad," "thing-a-ma-bob," and "thing that looks just like the last thing."
"So..." Angel said, watching the list go by with glazed eyes, "I'll let you find this stuff...and I'll just pick it up and put it in the— Do we have a cart or something?" He turned from the screen in time to see the Doctor dash off in response to that question.
Angel shrugged and looked back at the still-scrolling images, trying to employ his eidetic memory to the needed pieces while he waited.
A few minutes later, the Doctor wheeled in a red wagon that looked like it would be better suited for hauling children on hayrides than for hauling pieces of machinery. Angel briefly considered that—just as much as the red fenced sides—it was how the Doctor pulled the cart that made it look like a hayride, with his big smile and skipping stride. A toolbox rattled in the bottom of the wagon.
"Here we are," the Doctor said cheerfully. "Had a good look?"
The list hadn't even reached the bottom. Angel opened his mouth to point this out, but the Doctor was already shouting, "Wonderful!" He twirled on the spot and slammed a lever into place, sending the whole ship tilting and jerking. "I never used that billiard room anyway!" He laughed and shoved another lever up. Angel grabbed onto the railing to keep his balance as the TARDIS tilted and rolled again. The Doctor danced around to the other side of the console and threw another lever. He planted his feet, grabbing the railing, and joined Angel in yelling (although in more excited tones) as they rocketed through space.
Everything stopped with a particularly loud THRUM and a bell rang somberly from deep within the ship. Angel barely had time to take in the foreboding stillness that pressed in on them before the Doctor slammed a helmet over his head. It hissed and clicked into place and the Doctor shoved some gloves over Angel's hands before applying his own fishbowl helmet.
"Radio?" the Doctor's voice crackled in a speaker in Angel's helmet.
"Check," Angel said. He hadn't actually meant to say Check, as if they were in a space movie, but as everything else was so space-movie-ish, it just came out.
The Doctor snorted like he's said something funny. "Good, good," he said through the laughter. "You're a natural. I knew it."
They exited, the Doctor laughing at Angel's growls of protest at being laughed at, the TARDIS doors swinging partly closed behind them on their own.
Up on the console, the list of parts slid silently to its end, resting on a picture of a jar of deep blue liquid.
The TARDIS tolled mournfully again and the screen flashed red. The list of parts flickered to a diagram of the console, where a small box nestled in the underbelly of tubing was lit red in an otherwise black-and-white schematic. The red box flashed once, then twice, and again, like a straining heartbeat. There was a spark and a pop under the console, and the red-lit box on the screen sputtered in silent cries for help.