Thanks for the reviews. They keep me as happy as the Doctor in a banana grove.


Amy let the Doctor mourn his bowtie from the comfort of her lap. She wanted to shove him off—he was too heavy to bear comfortably and the weeping angel that stood snarling in the middle of the hall really had to be taken care of—but interrupting him when he looked so sad and pitiful felt rude. Amy supposed she'd give him a minute to eulogize his bowtie before gently reminding him about the situation at hand.

The Doctor looked down at his bowtie as if it were some small, beloved pet he'd just discovered dead in its cage. The bowtie was completely innocent; it had never done anything asides from hang around in the TARDIS' wardrobe and then, once, had graced the Doctor's neck. It hadn't provoked the angel, hadn't made any rude remarks at the angel's expense, and it certainly hadn't deserved to be cut apart.

"You can take my jacket, you can pull my hair, but when you murder my bowtie, you've gone too far!" the Doctor exclaimed as he rose from Amy's lap.

Tossing his bisected bowtie behind him—it landed in Amy's lap and she casually brushed it off—the Doctor stomped towards the angel. Most creatures, sensing that much hostility radiating off the Doctor, would have been running for their home planet with their tail, either physical or metaphorical, between their legs. The quantum-locked angel remained unfazed.

"And now you're going to pay. Bob, continue staring. Amy, fetch the duct tape. We're going to see if weeping angels know how to skateboard," the Doctor said.

The Doctor walked towards the guest bedroom, snatching up his jacket as he went. He was relieved to find the jacket, unlike his bowtie and his marvelous hair, had survived its encounter with the angel. He slipped back into the coat.

While the Doctor picked up the skateboard, Amy did as told and collected the duct tape. She didn't think the twine—which was hardly stronger than kite string—would be much good, but she picked it up anyway. For all she knew, the Doctor could create some sort of sonic string that had the prehensile strength of steel.

Now that they had all the necessary parts—the skateboard, the angel, and the tape to fasten them together—there was only the small matter of somehow lifting the angel onto the board. Had there been a crane handy, it would have been a simple task. Since the Doctor didn't have time to run around construction sites, flashing his psychic paper and pretending to be an engineer, he'd have to rig something. The lever idea would work, but even with the right material, it wouldn't be easy. And even once he got the lever assembled, there was still the matter of getting the angel on one end, getting enough weight on the other side to raise the angel, and then, somehow, slipping the skateboard under the precariously balanced angel.

All with only three people, one of whom was a bloody mess. The Doctor loved a challenge.

"Right, we're going to recreate one of man's earliest machines: the lever. Very simple, just need a fulcrum and a nice, strong arm. Any suggestions?"

"The fulcrum and arm store?" Bob said.

"Aren't you cheeky? I'm going to change your name to Cheeky Bob."

"But I like Brilliant Bob better," Cheeky Bob complained.

"Fine, for the sake of the tongue-twister, you can be Brilliant Bob. This is fun. When we're done with the angel, I'm going to write a book full of Brilliant Bob Bs," the Doctor said.

Leaving Amy and Bob to keep the angel in sight, the Doctor wandered off to find the suitable parts for his lever. He figured the bathroom would be a good place to start. Porcelain fragments were everywhere, and a nice, thick square one would serve as the perfect fulcrum. The shower curtain rod, depending on its width and composition, could also make a serviceable arm.

Thanks to the gushing pipes, the patch of wet carpet outside the bathroom was spreading like a nasty rash. The Doctor figured the water had to be leaking into the floor below, and was forming a brand new puddle downstairs. He hoped the puddle and the indoor rain were out of Molly's sight. Seeing her house flood from the top down would not aid her concentration.

There was nothing he could do about the water right then—the angel had mangled the plumbing fixtures beyond any hope—so the Doctor splashed his way into the bathroom. His shoes became soaked, and his socks followed suit a second later. The Doctor considered taking them off, if only so he wouldn't squeak with every step, then remembered the debris field of splintered wood, porcelain shrapnel, and other jagged bits. He wisely decided to keep his feet covered.

Like a survivor digging through the wreckage after a terrible storm, the Doctor began to sort through the destruction for anything valuable. He spied part of the curtain rod on the floor and the rest of it jutting out of the ceiling like a stalactite. The ceiling chunk appeared long enough to serve as the lever's arm, so the Doctor tried extracting it. He couldn't so much as make it budge. Even leaping onto it from a running start failed to dislodge it. He had to admit defeat.

With the curtain rod declared a no-go, the Doctor was determined to find a fulcrum. He began to sift through the remains of the toilet. Most of the shards he found were either too small or inappropriately shaped. He needed one with two relatively flat bases, so the fulcrum would remain stable.

After rejecting dozens of pieces, the Doctor finally found one that satisfied him. He slipped it into his pocket and left the bathroom. His sodden shoes slapped the wet floor like sea lion's flippers.

Bob, Amy and the weeping angel were just as he'd left them. Giving Amy and Bob a quick word of encouragement as he passed, the Doctor headed towards the guest bedroom. The angel had gone mad in there, breaking things to use as projectiles. Maybe it had dislodged a length of the bed frame or created some other long, sturdy pole.

The room was dim, but because the door was gone, there was enough light to search by. The Doctor stepped over the remains of the dresser—it had been reduced to splinters, none of which were large enough to use for anything but toothpicks or defeating incredibly stunted vampires—and headed straight for the closet. He had spotted something that might just be perfect.

The angel had torn off the closet doors, snapping one in half and hurling the other across the room. It had left the few naked hangers—and the rod that supported them—untouched, however. The Doctor believed he had just found the last piece of his lever.

The Doctor emerged from the bedroom with the steel rod tucked under his arm. It was a bit long to fit in his pocket, though he was tempted to try nevertheless. Amy and Bob would have been amused to see him pull it out like a magician's never-ending scarf.

"Excellent job, everyone. 'Course if it wasn't an excellent job, I wouldn't have had to tell you. You'd have known when you found yourselves stumbling around the English countryside two hundred years ago," the Doctor said.

"We aren't stumbling around the English countryside, and we don't really want to be. Do you think, maybe, you could hurry up with that lever?" Amy asked.

"Of course I could. And I will. Here I go. Watch me do it."

The Doctor pulled the rough square of porcelain from his pocket and placed it on the floor. Then he balanced the steel rod on top of it. With the precarious lever assembled, the Doctor now needed to get the angel on it.

"Amy, this may be a bit personal, but how much weight can your bones support?" the Doctor asked.

"What kind of question is that?"

"I need someone to tilt the angel, and I want to know how much damage it'll do if it happens to fall on you and crush you."

"Oh. How should I know? Do I look like a doctor to you, Doctor?"

"No, honestly, you don't. But neither do I. I'm not sure if Martha—she is a doctor, an excellent one at that, mind you—really looks like one, either. I suppose she does, more than you or I, at least."

Amy sighed in frustration. "Doctor, you're rambling."

"Am I? 'Course I am. And it's not helping solve the dilemma. You humans can be terribly fragile, yet you don't even bother knowing your own limits! How do you survive long enough to have so many great and bountiful empires?"

"You're going to tell me you know exactly how much weight your bones can take?" Amy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

The Doctor nodded enthusiastically. Not long ago, that nodding would have merrily bounced his hair to and fro. Now he had no hair there to enjoy the bouncing. It made him sad.

"Not only that, but I also know exactly what thermal extremes I can survive—in Fahrenheit, Celsius, and Kelvin—how much blood loss will kill me, how many killer bee stings I can endure, and how many Dalek gun blasts it takes to drop me dead: an unimpressive one."

"That's thorough and morbid," Amy replied.

"Blimey, it is, isn't it? Where were we, anyway? Bones? Right! Chances are, you would be squashed flat if the angel fell on you. So I'm going to put you in charge of the lever," the Doctor said.

"Oh boy, a promotion," Amy muttered.

"Now you're cheeky, too? What's going on here? Is the cheekiness airborne?"

Cheekiness was not the Doctor's main concern at that point, though he reserved the right to investigate it later. The angel presented a more immediate danger, and had to be dealt with. Also, the Doctor was dying to see what it would look like when the skateboarding angel went down the stairs, hopefully head first.

"I'm going to tilt the angel back just far enough for you to slip the lever under it. Then, while I do my best to keep the angel from falling over, you're going to press down on the lever. Stand on it if you need to. I honestly don't know how much force it's going to take to lift the load. I hope you're heavy enough, Pond."

"If I'm not, you could always share some of your Jammie Dodgers. They'll fatten me up," Amy said.

"No, those are my biscuits, and I need every single one of them. Besides, you're getting fish and chips when this is over. Now be ready with the lever," the Doctor replied.

"What's my job, Doctor Bowtie?" Bob asked. Even though the namesake bowtie had been severed, it remained behind in spirit. Bob supposed the Doctor should keep his nickname.

"You've got the best job of all. Also the job that carries the highest risk of hand amputation. When we get the angel up, you're going to slide the skateboard underneath it," the Doctor said. "

Bob was fond of both his hands—most people were—but losing one seemed like an acceptable risk. He was helping save the Earth from an extraterrestrial angel, and sacrifices sometimes had to be made in such extreme circumstances.

"You can count on me," Bob said.

The Doctor handed over the skateboard, and then had to figure out the best way to grab the angel. He wondered if holding onto the wings would offer more control over the stone horror, or if he should wrap his arms around its middle. He supposed he'd have to try a few different positions before his hands were comfortable.

After a bit of maneuvering, the Doctor was ready. He took a firm grip on the angel's wide wings and ever-so-gently began to tilt the angel backwards. If he wasn't slow and careful about it, he was sure he'd find himself pinned underneath the angel, either crushed or wriggling desperately to escape.

The angel was heavy. As his arms bore more and more of its weight, the Doctor began to get worried. Even if Bob's skateboard was sturdy and brand new, it would have a definite weight limit. Though they had no scale handy, the gradual press of the weeping angel against his arms let the Doctor know the angel would test the board to its limit and, though he sincerely hoped not, possibly past that limit.

"Amy, slide the lever underneath," the Doctor said.

Amy did as instructed and stuck the steel rod under the angel. Once it was wedged, she began to press down on the lever. At first nothing happened. She leaned more of her weight on it. The angel moved minutely.

"Careful!" the Doctor warned.

"I wasn't even sure it moved," Amy said.

"Well it did, and it almost slipped off the lever."

"Next time find something that isn't round."

Sighing, Amy pushed down harder. The angel moved a centimeter and the Doctor squeaked. He barely had time to brace the angel before it toppled sideways.

"Pond! Do you want me to drop the angel?" the Doctor asked.

"No, Doctor, I want you to shut up. I'm trying my best here."

Several minutes, frayed tempers, and near-disasters later, the angel was hazardously balanced just far enough off the ground for Bob to get the skateboard under it. He bent down, experienced a brief spell of vertigo as his injured head reminded him of its woes, and managed to roll the skateboard under the angel. Mission accomplished, he stood back up and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. He suddenly didn't feel so copacetic.

"As carefully as you can, remove the rod. No sudden movements, no twitches, and for the love of fezzes, don't let the angel fall on my foot," the Doctor said.

After many miniscule movements, slight adjustments, a moment of panic when the Doctor's nose itched furiously and Bob had to leap into action and scratch it, and some incredible swearing on everyone's part, the angel rested safely on the skateboard. The board did not split in half like a fat man's overburdened trousers, though the Doctor did believe cataclysmic failure was inevitable.

For good measure, the Doctor taped the angel to the board. He doubted duct tape would do any good if the angel got out of sight for even a second, but a vengeful bit of his personality enjoyed seeing the angel humiliated. Even if it couldn't feel that humiliation. It had taken his hair and bowtie, and he would take its dignity and its plans for world domination. Seemed about a fair trade.

"This is the most brilliant thing to ever happen," Bob said.

"The most brilliant? Nah. Close, maybe, but not the most brilliant," the Doctor replied.

"What is the most brilliant, then?"

"Me, of course."

Leaving everyone stunned by his acclamation of humility, the Doctor gave the angel a little shove. The skateboard rolled a few centimeters. The Doctor gave it a harder push. It went a few centimeters farther.

"Let's get it to the stairs. I want to see it really go," Bob said.

The Doctor acquiesced. With Amy and Bob lending a hand, the Doctor pushed the angel towards the staircase. Whether the angel went down the steps bum over tea kettle or somehow—though it was highly unlikely—managed to stay upright for the trip, it would be an unequivocally fantastic sight to see. Everyone pushed a little harder and the top landing loomed.


TBC

I know it's been a bit light on the horror, but I promise you, it is coming. And it's going to be horrifyingly horrible horror.

I am glad everyone's been enjoying the humor, though.