A/N: I never should have posted the first chapter without getting a few under my belt and doing the characterization legwork. Voi.
That being said, please don't take any of the details to heart. This is crossover crackship; we have no rules here.
Two
Birdsong was what had woken Malcolm up, being that the sun had yet to rise and his alarm had not gone off. Opening his eyes a crack, he tilted his head and glanced out the window to look at the paling sky. A week ago he would have seen bars over his window, but now it was a pane that was clear and unobstructed by nothing but a rustling tree branch.
Getting out of bed, he showered, dressed, and downed a couple cups of coffee with his toast before leaving his flat. It was a change from his house, that was for certain, but it wasn't a downgrade by any means. It was spacious and located in a better-than-decent neighborhood. He was even allowed to have his family over for visits, and if his niece wanted to try to make something of herself in London she could stay with him (which had been the entire purpose behind having a house in the first place). Now he was a two minute walk to the Tube, had a gorgeous view of the city, and was permitted to come and go as he pleased.
The only issue was that it was closely monitored, "a requirement for all UNIT staff, Constants in particular," Osgood had explained when she brought him there. Apparently so was doing things such as eating and sleeping and returning to one's home every night, as there was always an agent that seemed to be around at work to remind him to do certain things. During his time in the Party, no one minded when he stayed at the office for a couple days or when he skipped a meal to stay on-task. It had been annoying at first, but he was beginning to grow used to it.
A half an hour later and Malcolm made his way into his office, where one of his subordinates was already waiting for his arrival. Shaw was a stringy, blond lad who was almost able to be considered bright. Unfortunately, he was also doing a very poor job of not riding the coattails of his family name, apparently, and it was enough to make him a jittery mess.
"Mister Tucker, sir, I've got that press release you wanted me to have by today," he said, holding out a stapled set of papers. Malcolm took it and gave the document a quick look-over, passing it back.
"This looks like you projectile-vomited a thesaurus," he glowered. "Rewrite it and have it back to me in three kicks of a robot's arse."
"…but…"
"We're convincing the public that some wankers didn't happen upon a colony of hibernating lizard people while demolishing an office building, not writing a persuasive essay on why it's acceptable to sodomize a donkey." He watched as Shaw retreated from the office, all sorts of frayed nerves, and sank into his chair to officially start the day.
As things had turned out, it was not much different being the head of UNIT Public Relations in comparison to Director of Communications for the Party. There were still floods of emails to wade through, pieces of shite to bollock, tea to drink, and occasionally there was a bright spot in the day where he wasn't completely going out of his mind (usually involving when he had to call up an old contact and scare the wits out of them). The only real difference was that he was learning rapidly about all things extraterrestrial in manner—and sometimes ancient terrestrial—and how it seemed like far too many of them liked to converge on London and the United Kingdom in general at the most inopportune moments. He had remembered things here and there having happened, such as the attack-cubes and living mannequins and other things of that nature, but whenever he had to field a question on them he was forced to make something up or gag the questioner with blackmail-like remarks. Now he knew why, and it was all just as well he was putting out the press releases.
It had taken Malcolm a few minutes to sift through his email—a couple procedural memos, the aftermath of something he wasn't around to handle on account of still being in prison, a snark-filled message from his niece—and his personal assistant came into the office. From the very moment they were introduced, Aparajita Khan had only been a consummate professional when it came to how she treated her new boss and his transition into the world he was now privy to, and yet at the same time her daily persona could have only been described as icy. She did not like him, which was fine; had he been given his choice in a PA he would have rescued Sam Cassidy from the clutches of that lurid supermarket CEO she had gone to work for after his thorough sacking from the Party, but considering she was only allowed to know he was alive and working out the rest of his sentence under the government's watchful eye… well… beggars couldn't be choosers.
"Did you remember your meeting today with Director Stewart?" Aparajita asked, flicking through files on her tablet.
"Of course—three o'clock, can't be late, about some sort of peace treaty between us and the lizard people. A debriefing, I assume?"
"Us and the Silurians, and you are correct. You have to get better than that if you're going to last around here, quickly." She selected a file and brought it up on Malcolm's computer monitor, right over his email, and continued on. "One of the things we're going to need to go over today before the debriefing is the various encounters Earth has had with the Judoon…"
"Yes, yes, I know," he said, minimizing the window. The first time she had done that startled him, but now it was starting to get annoying. "Tell me: what do I need to know about the bipedal rhinoceroses in biker gear again, other than the fact they seem to have a better sense of justice than half of Parliament?" Aparajita pressed her lips together in a thin, disapproving line, refusing to answer. "They answer to a fucking book in the most literal sense and have about enough brains amongst their entire species to go toe-to-toe with a primary student… again, which is better than half of Parliament on a good year…"
"Your comparisons don't amuse me, though I appreciate the restraint used on the more colorful terms," she frowned. "Is this another thing you wish to go over in private before we let you loose for the day?"
Malcolm pondered the notion for a moment and nodded. "Yes. Hey, do you think you can get an intern on some tea? I think we both need it."
"Right away, sir." With that she left, leaving her boss to shudder in the cold breeze that followed.
'One of these days I'll convince her that I'm not her enemy,' he thought. Not fighting with one's personal assistant was generally advisable, since it was always hell trying to make sure the closest coworker wasn't in backstabbing mode (as he had done a couple times before hiring Sam what felt like oh-so-long ago). Otherwise, he really couldn't care less.
The rest of the morning went about as well as Malcolm had assumed it would. Shaw came back in twice to get his draft approved, tea had come, he read up on the Judoon as promised, and even ate his lunch. He was nearly done when his assistant came back in to hand him a stack of papers filed in various manila dividers.
"Did you go over what you were supposed to?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, adding a slight edge to his voice. It was almost as if he was a fucking child. Once he had some idea as to which cactus-face was which and the proper names for galaxies, he would get his footing and no one would dare treat him like that. "How'd the press release go over?"
"Director Stewart approved it and it's queued for release in a couple hours," Aparajita said. "Though speaking of, she stopped me in the hall earlier—she wants to see you at your earliest convenience."
"Oh?" he wondered, eyebrows arching as he peeled the rind off a satsuma. "What does the boss-lady have to talk to me about that can't wait until three?"
"She didn't say, just that she needed to have a word in-person; we were walking in differing directions at the time."
"Fair enough. Her office is the floor above, yeah?"
"Correct. If you need me for anything, you have my mobile number."
With that, Malcolm was off, headed up the lift to the highest floor the lift would service. Kate's personal assistant, a mousy young woman who never seemed to be able to string a sentence together to his face, directed him towards something called the Archive, where the Scientific Director apparently was going to be until quarter till three. He politely thanked her—no use in scaring the help as long as they were helpful—and went in the direction of the Archive.
It took a couple wrong turns and a few growled orders to some snarky young pups before he finally found the Archive. It was more a warehouse than anything, and felt very out of place with the rest of the underground labyrinth's light taupe walls and brushed steel doors. He caught sight of her right away: she was taking notes on a clipboard and muttering to herself.
"Oi, Stewart, I was told you needed to see me?"
Kate looked up from her clipboard and watched as Malcolm crossed the room. He walked right by shelves upon shelves of tech that would make just about anyone else stare and gawk and who knows all what else. Instead, he directly approached her, hands in his pockets and half a smirk on his face.
"Who sent you?" she asked.
"Khan…" He saw the way she went back to her papers and grumbled, throwing his arms up in the air. "Fucking fuck that… hazing."
"That's what it looks like," she shrugged. "She was fond of your predecessor, if I'm not mistaken. Stay here a while and cool off—that'll confuse her enough to where she won't do it again."
Malcolm grunted in agreement, shoving his hands back in his pockets. He silently observed Kate as she made check marks and notes on the handwritten paper. "So, what are you doing?"
"Inventory."
"One of those 'occasional menial tasks' I was warned about?"
"The very same."
Silence settled down between them and Malcolm started to get antsy. He glanced around; the room didn't seem like anything special to him. It was mainly crates, boxes, stored on shelves made of metal and plywood, and some things sitting on their own in glass-encased plinths over to the side. Something vaguely car-shaped sat in the very back, draped in a cloth that hid its true form from view. Pacing, he gave some of the visible things a good look-over. Some of the plinths held odd-looking firearms, or sharp things that looked they'd cause a very painful prodding, but there were a few that held perfectly ordinary items.
"So you've got some interesting shit here, don't you?" he wondered aloud.
"Bits and bobs from around the galaxy, mainly, though some is from Earth in make," she replied, voice dull and monotonous. It was clear that Kate was bored, but she knew things had to get done. "I take inventory bit by bit, and usually, if things go well, I can clear the warehouse in a year. Since the treaty went over better than expected, I figured I'd fill the spare time getting a jump on things here; the days when my father could do it all in a month are gone, I'm afraid."
"What, can't you pitch it all in the recycling or set up a charity shop?"
"With the kind of stuff that's in here? Not likely." She turned to face Malcolm so that she could begin explaining the finer points of artifact archival (something that she was very much a forerunner in, not to mention the fact that she was readying some of the items for storage in the highest-tech storage systems known, both terrestrial and extraterrestrial in manner), when she noticed that her new PR head was handling a wristwatch-like object that he definitely should not have been touching. Dropping her papers and pen, her face blanched in panic as she tried to figure out what to do.
"You alright?" he asked, looking up at the sound of the clipboard hitting the metal floor. "Why are you staring at me like I'm Sid Vicious risen from the grave?"
"Tucker, I need you to put that back where you got it," Kate said, her tone slow and deliberate. She reached out cautiously, trying not to alarm him. It wasn't his fault he knew nothing about what anything in the storage level was capable of, least of all the more harmless-looking things, the ones that were most dangerous. "That is very dangerous and is on its way to a high-security vault."
"It's just a watch—is this something they whipped up after seeing a Bond film? Wrist-held radar?"
"No, Tucker, just put it down, don't touch that screen—DON'T TOUCH THAT SCREEN!"
It was too late. Malcolm pressed the screen of the device just as Kate grabbed his wrist. Both of them felt a slight tug in their chests and vanished into thin air. When the two of them finally came to their senses they were standing in the middle of a dirt road, horse-drawn carriages swerving all around them and rain pouring from the sky in torrents. Malcolm swore angrily the entire trek through traffic, dodging hooves and wheels until they were in the relative safety of a stone walkway.
"What the fucking hell just happened?!" he gasped as they stood there, soaked to the skin in mud and rain. Kate examined her trousers—ruined—and grabbed the device from his hand. It was whirring and sparking, signaling that it was being damaged by the weather.
"When I tell you not to touch something, don't touch something," she hissed, making him cower slightly. "This is a vortex manipulator, and we just space-and-time travelled."
For having rarely been left speechless in his twenty-seven year career pre-prison sentence, Malcolm was finding himself stunned into silence with increased frequency since being released into UNIT custody.
"We… what…?"
Keeping her voice low and level, Kate narrowed her glare. "Space and time; this is not my archive and I doubt we'll get a signal on our mobiles for another two centuries." She saw him blink rapidly and begin to fidget, signs that he was trying to devise a route to talk his way out of everything. Considering his job in spin had nothing to do with actually interacting with what he was trying to disguise with his language of smoke and mirrors, he had little ground on which to stand, and even less when it came to actual-excuse cobbling. "Now we're who-knows-where, during who-knows-when, in a rainstorm, with a broken vortex manipulator that should have only enough power for one person."
She turned on her heel, not checking to make sure that Malcolm was following close behind. If there was any time to turn to that grinning idiot of a Doctor for a favor, it was now.
"Wait, wait, wait… a what manipulator?!" he asked, trying to keep pace with her.
"Vortex, as in the time vortex… you know what? I just don't have the patience for this right now… aw, fuck." Kate stumbled slightly and stared at the cobblestone a few feet behind them. There, stuck between two rocks, was her left heel. She kicked off her shoes to abandon them, dropping down a couple inches until her head was just past Malcolm's nose. "We need a pub."
"Um, why…?"
"…because I need a sodding drink, that's why."
Twenty minutes later, Malcolm found himself maneuvering through a pub with a bottle of whisky in one hand and two glasses in the other. The regulars were all staring at him in his grey suit while they wore beaten frock coats and high boots. He eventually found where Kate had sat, soaking wet and shoeless, in a booth shoved in the corner by a window.
"I can't believe you just happened to have some Regency-era money on you," he said as he sat down and poured her a drink. Kate slammed it back and shuddered as she enjoyed the warmth that was pooling in her stomach.
"Since Osgood accidentally launched herself into the War of the Roses, I've been making it a habit to keep an emergency supply of things on me whenever I go into the Archive," she explained. She took the small clutch out of her inner breast pocket and reached her hand in much farther than she should have been able to, pulling out a kerchief that she wiped off her smudged makeup on. "Once the rain stops and we get our bearings, I can concentrate on getting us out of here."
"Since the Prince Regent isn't Hugh Laurie, I've no idea how you expect to get us back to the Silicon Age."
"It's just a matter of getting hold of the right people," Kate said plainly. She poured herself another drink, which she just sipped, and frowned at the label on the bottle. "Pity; this was the only whisky they had?"
"Barman swore on it."
"If the Clearances weren't going on, I'd say we should make a quick stop northward and get something halfway decent." She glanced out the window and nodded. "Come on, Tucker. The rain's stopped and we need to get going."
"With you barefoot? You sure you don't have emergency trainers in that fucking creepy Mary Poppins bag of yours?"
"No, but all we need to do is get to a park, so it won't be long." Kate stood and corked the bottle, stuffing it in her clutch and putting it away. "Let's go."
"Wait a tic," he said as he slid out of the booth. Malcolm walked over to one of tables and gave the occupants his best grin. "Hey there, mates. Can anyone tell me if there's a place nearby we can get my lady-friend there a pair of shoes? Hers broke and…"
"Go find 'im yourself," the nearest patron sneered.
Rolling his eyes, Malcolm took a deep breath before leaning down close to the man's ear, keeping his teeth bare and his glare intense. "So you're going to hand over yours then, hmm? Because I really can't let her go walking around in that disgusting vat out there of muck you ancient fops call a street and I sure as fuck can't carry her all the way we need to go." The man looked at him as if he was speaking French.
"Are you out of your bleeding mind? Why would I give you my boots?"
Kate watched from over by the booth, wondering with a dry sense of curiosity what Malcolm was saying to the man. He whispered something in his ear and suddenly the patron's face went sheet-white before hurriedly taking off his boots. Malcolm took them with a nod and brought them over to her with a smirk on his face.
"What did you say?" she asked, hesitating to take the footwear.
"Just thank your lucky stars that Wee Malcolm had an interest in reading about the grim and gruesome events of Old London Town," he replied. He watched as she slipped into the boots; they were too big and came over her knees, but they stayed on. "Couple murders happened not long ago that the press bled to death—giving him a few of the more details was enough."
"You threatened a man so I could have shoes?"
"You're my ticket home, so unless I want to die before Vicky takes the throne I better make sure you're treated like a fucking queen."
"Well said," she said, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. The two then walked out the pub with no problem whatsoever, the other patrons too stunned to even move.
A short while later the two walked into a park. It was fairly deserted thanks to the rain that had been pouring until recently, making it so that Kate made the executive decision that it was the perfect place.
"Perfect for what?" Malcolm asked as he watched his boss dig through her clutch. She was in past her elbow before she let out an accomplished chuckle and pulled out a pen.
"Spacecraft landing—the Doctor's not always the best pilot," she said. Kate then pressed a button on the side of the pen and held it high above her head. It whirred and glowed a pale green at the tip. She brought it down as the wind picked up and a wheezing sound began to crank through the air. A blue police box materialized in front of them, which Malcolm wished was the weirdest thing he had witnessed in the past week.
"Kate! Funny to find you here!" a young man smiled as he walked out of the police box. He gave her a hug and then turned to Malcolm, who scowled in return. "Oh, you look new."
"Been on the job a week—the reason why I'm here in the first place," Kate said. "Doctor, this is Malcolm Tucker. Malcolm, this is the Doctor. He's our best and longest-served agent."
"Pleased to meet you Mister Tucker; big fan of your work," the Doctor said. Malcolm wasn't sure what to make of the young man before him in tweed and a waistcoat that was shaking his hand. He looked into his eyes and saw instantly that there was something more to this Doctor character, something that gave credence to his supposed length of service.
"You are? Didn't know I had admirers."
"Could do well with cleaning up your language, but work with the image you've cultivated I suppose… though I thought they put you away…"
"I was released early, if that's what you mean," Malcolm bristled.
"Oh, don't think I'm judging you; I break my wife in and out of prison all the time. It's really nothing to worry about." The Doctor slung his arm over Malcolm's shoulders and led the man back towards the police box. "Now, let's just get the two of you to your proper time and place and we'll be all set."
"But how the fuck are you going to do that? The thing that got us here is… fried…"
As soon as Malcolm entered the TARDIS, his eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. He spun around with a chill shaking his entire body.
"It's… it's…"
"A pocket dimension," the Doctor grinned as he threw the ship into the vortex. "I'd explain the math if you'd like."
"Mister Tucker is a spin doctor, not a scientific doctor," Kate quipped. She sat down and began to switch out her borrowed boots for a pair of heels the TARDIS had made for her. "Thanks for picking us up."
"The least I could do for one of my favorite Stewarts," the Doctor replied. He fiddled with some switches and levers and the TARDIS ground to a halt. "Here we are! Your stop."
"Your services are appreciated, as always, Doctor," Kate said as she began walking towards the door. The Doctor cut her off, however, blocking her exit.
"First, you're going to tell me how you two suddenly found yourself as temporal fish out of water," he said. Kate took the clutch from her pocket and dug out the vortex manipulator.
"We thought it was busted, but apparently not," she said. "Should be now though, considering the rain." The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and scanned it—completely shorted out.
"Then it's a good thing you didn't toss it in with the rubbish, now isn't it?" he said. He held out his hand and Kate put the vortex manipulator in it begrudgingly. The Doctor then opened the door for her, allowing her leave. He glanced over at Malcolm, who was still gawking at the ceiling of the console room. "Are you going too, Mister Tucker, or is this telling me you would fancy a trip?"
Snapping out of his stupor, Malcolm furrowed his brow as he went back into work mode. "No—get me out of this fucking thing," he scowled as he stomped to the door. He didn't even look back as he heard the door shut and the TARDIS wheeze out of sight. Fuming the entire way to his office, all he had was a glare to greet his personal assistant with as he came out of the lift.
"Been gone a long time," Aparajita noted casually. "It's almost five." She saw the fire in her boss's eyes, yet was distracted by his suit that was still damp from the rain. "Did you have a dip in the Thames while you were out?"
"If it were up to me, your self-important arse would be sacked quicker than a punk can drop acid," he snapped. He stormed into the main of his office and slammed the door behind him.
Once Malcolm was sure Aparajita had left for the day, he whipped out his mobile and looked up a number, waiting with bated breath as it rung.
"Hello?" answered a voice. It was young and female—just the person he wanted to hear.
"Hey, Lex, you got a minute?"
"Uncle Malc! I've been trying to reach you for hours! Where were you!"
Grimacing, he made a mental note to write down a list of apologetic lies for later and brushed off the worry in her voice. "Sorry sweetheart. It must have been the building I was in—built right after the War and meant to withstand two more and some nukes fueled by vodka and borscht, you know?"
"Oh, I see. Hey, we still on for next weekend? I was just confirming."
"Of course, of course," Malcolm replied. "Can't miss out on seeing you without bullet-proof glass between us; it's what uncles are for."
"Awesome," Lex chuckled. "Well then, what's going on… other than the fact your new job is in want of a few building updates?"
"I need to ask a favor of you—a coworker had a particularly bad day today and she's one of the ones worth worrying over. What's something little that won't make me look like a prat? I actually don't want to scare this one half to death."
"What, are you after her or something?"
"No!" Malcolm groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed; he could hear the smirk on the little shit's face. "It's just… I want to do something nice, but not too nice, and you know better than I do how to do that."
"Have flowers delivered anonymously," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.
"Can't—don't know her home address and the building we work at is under very strict regulations."
"Huh… okay… do you know what she likes to eat?"
'…aside from single-malt whisky, no,' he thought. "No, not really."
"Chocolates are a safe bet; even if someone's allergic, it's the gesture that counts. There's some that are really popular right now. I can't pronounce the name, but I can send you a link."
"…and me getting them isn't weird or anything?"
"Not at all. What, did you fuck up something?"
"Yeah… your old uncle really took it up the arse this time." He ran his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit he was doing more as of late. "Listen, tell Granny I say hello and keep this under wraps, alright? I don't want your mam getting the wrong idea."
"You can count on me. See you later."
"See you." He hung up the mobile and let it drop to the wooden desktop. It was time to do what Malcolm Tucker never, ever did—it was time to grovel.
Seven o'clock and Mainframe UK was virtually empty. The night shift was on, though it was a skeleton crew in comparison to the daytime employees. Kate took advantage of the quiet by leaning back in her desk chair and silently nursing down a drink. Three in one day was earned this time around, she figured, and her limit was considerably higher. She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily—time travel was not her cup of tea.
The door opened and a voice cut through the serenity of the moment. "Director Stewart?"
"What is it now, Tucker?" she groaned. Kate opened her eyes and watched Malcolm advance further into her office, a shopping bag in-hand and a concerned expression on his face.
"Is that the swill you took from the pub earlier?" he asked.
"Private stock; my father laid it down," she explained. "What are you doing here? You should be home by now."
"I know, but…" Malcolm put the bag down on the desk and took a step backwards. "For you."
"What's this?" Kate asked. He shrugged in reply.
"It's an apology, and I thought you'd need something of a pick-me-up after getting tossed back in time by my stupidity. My niece, um, she suggested them." Picking up the bag, she looked inside and pulled out a small box of chocolates. "Apparently they're trendy right now; Belgian. I wouldn't know though—the tapes usually don't mention foodstuffs unless it's a fad diet."
"Uh, thank you," Kate said quietly. Malcolm nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets before leaving. Once he was gone, she opened the box and carefully nibbled on one, not wanting to overpower her whisky. It was delicious.
'Well, at least he has some sense to admit when he's wrong,' she thought. 'Maybe the Wolf of Whitehall is trainable after all.'
