A/N: Hey guys, new chapter alert. Warning: I absolutely do not claim to be a Charlie Chaplin expert. Everything I know comes from a whole lot of research (most of it recent...for this chapter) so if I've gotten something wrong, feel free to let me know.
Also, if anyone catches my It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia reference, I will love you forever. (Hint: it's very close to the bottom).
I hope you enjoy!
CHARLIE CHAPLIN DREAMIN'
"Nothing is permanent in this wicked world – not even our troubles."
Charlie Chaplin
"And we're just going to waltz onto the set?" asked Martha, almost giddy at the prospect. She was incredulous, barely able to believe it. "It can't be that easy."
"Usually is," the Doctor sniffed. "Besides, we've got this," he reminded her, flapping his psychic paper pointedly in the air.
"Will it be enough, though?"
The Doctor stared at her like she'd just asked him the most ridiculous question in the universe – and, Hartley supposed, he would know. "I'm landing the TARDIS inside the set," he explained. "We won't need to pass security, and even if we did, it's the 1930s. I think we'd be able to handle it."
Martha frowned at his tone, but Hartley just rolled her eyes, standing up properly and making her way down the ramp towards the doors.
"Can we go now, you two?" she complained impatiently. "I wanna meet the man who pioneered modern comedy."
They stepped out into their next adventure, and Hartley saw the TARDIS had indeed landed them inside a production studio. Old-style performance lights hung around the concrete and wooden room, their light bright and jarring compared to the TARDIS' warm glow.
"I had no idea who were such a fan of classic comedy, Martha," Hartley said, watching their friend with a smile as she took in everything around them with wide, gleeful eyes.
"I love it," Martha nodded, tugging absentmindedly at the hem of her sweater as they shut the TARDIS door behind them, wandering deeper into the set. It wasn't empty, nor was it overflowing with people. Small groups of workers stood clustered around the room, clutching pens and clipboards in their hands, muttering amongst one another importantly. None of them gave the trio of travellers so much as a cursory glance.
The Doctor was right about one thing; act like you belong, and everybody will just assume you do.
"Growing up, my dad used to put The Three Stooges on the telly for me when I couldn't sleep," Martha continued, keeping her voice low so as to not attract any attention. "And when I was in school, I took extra media courses just so I had an excuse to watch old Charlie Chaplin movies for homework," she said around a sheepish (but somehow still proud) little grin. "Have you ever met him before?" she asked the Doctor eagerly.
"Who? Charlie Chaplin?" he asked, hands tucked deep into his pockets. "Can't say I have, no."
"I bet he's brilliant!" she said brightly, the excitement radiating out of her like sunshine through the clouds.
"Yes, well, don't get your hopes up too high," he sniffed. "He might end up banishing you from England forever."
Martha had never looked more confused. Hartley giggled in amusement. "He met Queen Victoria a few years back – she knighted he and Rose before banishing them both forever," she divulged in a playful and gossipy tone.
"You've been knighted?" was all Martha seemed to glean from the story.
"You're looking at Sir Doctor of TARDIS," he told her with yet another self-important sniff. Hartley snickered, rolling her eyes at Martha and stepping out of the way of a young man carrying a tray of muffins and coffee. "Where do you s'pose Chaplin spends his time, eh?" the Doctor continued on before either woman could tease him further.
"Did they have trailers back in the 30's?" Martha asked curiously.
"You'd think they would," said the Doctor, who apparently wasn't as much of an expert as he usually pretended to be. "Or at the very least, a dressing room."
"Excuse me?" Hartley asked, stepping in the path of a flustered woman wearing a pencil skirt and a bun so tight it looked painful. The woman paused, glancing up from her clipboard to look at Hartley in surprise that quickly shifted into irritated. "We're looking for Mr. Chapman," she said sweetly, "is he around?"
"Well, he should be on his lunch break––" the woman began, only to cut herself off with a scowl. "Sorry but, who is it that's asking, exactly?"
The Doctor between them, a charming smile lighting up his face as he confidently held up the psychic paper for her to read. "Don't mind us," he said smoothly. "Mr. Chaplin himself requested our presence."
But the woman didn't appear to look any more convinced by whatever it said on the paper. "Character consultants?" she asked suspiciously.
"He called for us specifically," said the Doctor with a solemn nod.
She didn't look particularly satisfied by the response, but she also couldn't dispute the cold hard evidence that she held in her hand – the psychic paper almost certainly providing an accurate duplicate of Charlie Chaplin's unique signature. Hartley once more marvelled at its magic.
"Well, lunch is almost over. We're just about to shoot the next scene over on stage B," said the woman, handing back the paper and glancing down at the antique watch (or modern, technically, from her perspective) that sat on her wrist. "He should be along soon."
"Would you please point us in that direction?" Hartley asked her politely.
The woman frowned, remaining suspicious, but didn't end up saying anything in argument. She lifted a hand and pointed to the wall behind them, a large arrow painted onto its surface, the words Stage B printed below.
"Thank you," said Martha gratefully, but the woman had already turned to leave, her sensible kitten heels clicking against the concrete floor. "Blimey," Martha murmured to Hartley, who gave a low hum of agreement.
"Shall we?" asked the Doctor, and they both nodded, following his lead in the direction of Stage B.
When they got there, the production team was in full swing, actors being handed props with makeup artists dusting their faces in expensive powders. Large, bulky cameras were being rolled around on wheels, strong looking men behind them. One person – likely someone higher up on the food chain, was shouting orders into a rusty megaphone, pieces of set rolling by as a dog barked in the far corner.
"I can't believe I'm actually here," squealed Martha, keeping her voice as low as she could while still conveying her excitement. "How don't you do things like this every day? If I had a TARDIS of my own, it would just be a never-ending list of this kind of thing," she gushed. "Imagine all the people you could visit!"
"Yes, well, I tend to like to space them out," said the Doctor flippantly. "Don't want to use up all the good people in one go."
"Yes, because then where would we be?" asked Hartley coyly. "Going to see ABBA live in concert for a fifth time?" she playfully shuddered.
The Doctor whipped around to pout at her. "You said you enjoyed those concerts!" he tried very hard not to sound like he were whining.
"I love ABBA as much as the next Brit, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing," she told him mildly.
"Fine," he muttered back childishly. "Last time I take you to see ABBA."
Hartley was unaffected, turning to grin at Martha companionably. Only Martha wasn't paying any attention, instead she was staring at the hustle and bustle of the set with a frown on her face. "I think something's wrong," she told them in an undertone.
Hartley wasn't sure what she meant until she heard a voice over the crackly, early-model PA system.
"Mr. Chaplin? You're overdue on set; they're waiting on you. Mr. Chaplin?"
The voice was growing more and more irritated as it spoke. The people on the set were beginning to mutter amongst themselves.
"That's odd," said the Doctor, spinning in a slow circle, head cocked and eyes narrowed as if expecting to spot Mr. Chaplin when all the other people in the room couldn't.
"Think something's wrong?" Hartley asked in vague concern.
"Excuse me? Hello, yes," said the Doctor, bringing a nearby young man to a stop. "Mr. Chaplin, is he often late to his own set?"
"No sir," said the boy emphatically. "Hardly ever. Hope he's okay."
"I'm sure he's just fine," Hartley smiled at him kindly, and the boy's cheeks went pink as he scurried away.
"He's probably just sick," Martha said, but even she was frowning in worry, convincing no one.
"Maybe we just came at a bad time," Hartley suggested. "We could try another day?"
"Hm," the Doctor hummed, licking his finger then holding it up to the air. He suddenly grimaced like he smelt something bad. "Ugh, it's a Thursday afternoon," he groaned like somebody had told him he'd just stepped in cow dung. "Why would the TARDIS land me on a Thursday afternoon? She knows how I hate Thursday afternoons."
Martha's face was scrunched, as if wondering how exactly a spaceship could possibly know anything at all, but the Doctor continued on before she got a chance to ask.
"Come on," he huffed, turning around and setting back off in the direction of the TARDIS. "Let's go land on a day worth our time."
Martha looked surprised by the revulsion with which he spoke. "He really does hate Thursday afternoons, doesn't he?" she said mildly.
"You should see him on Sundays," Hartley laughed. Martha only looked more bewildered, like she'd never heard anything more alien.
The TARDIS was untouched, forgotten in the middle of the warehouse the crew were using as a storage space/soundstage. "We'll go forward a day," the Doctor was saying as he carelessly pushed his way inside his beloved ship. "Great day, Friday. On the cusp of the weekend – everyone so amped from their week of work and excited for their upcoming free time. It's a hub of kinetic energy-"
The Doctor had cut off abruptly, and Hartley wasn't sure why until she stepped inside the TARDIS, the last one in before the doors shut after her with a foreboding creak.
There, at the console, stood none other than Charlie Chaplin himself. He was dressed as his character – the Tramp – complete with his bowler hat and cane, fake moustache secured into place. He was wearing something of a shellshocked expression, eyes wide with bewilderment and wonder as he took in all he was seeing.
Hartley turned to the Doctor accusingly. "You didn't lock the doors, did you?"
"Um," said the Doctor, either unwilling or just too embarrassed to answer.
"Charlie Chaplin," breathed Martha, surging forwards before either Hartley or the Doctor could stop her. She snatched one of his hands in her own, shaking enthusiastically. The dumb look on Chaplin's face was almost enough to make Hartley laugh. "I'm a big fan. Huge. I've seen every one of your films. The Kid; The Gold Rush; The Circus. City Lights is my favourite, though. I've probably watched it about a hundred times over."
Chaplin didn't seem to know how to reply, gaping back at her, utterly nonplussed.
"What she means is that she will watch it a hundred times over," said Hartley, hurrying to correct Martha's misstep. "Once you've finished filming it. On the set we were just on."
"Ah," Martha winced, "right."
But Chaplin had apparently had enough of them yammering on. "Would someone tell me where exactly it is that I am?" he demanded, eyes still wide and echoing with fear as he struggled to process what was happening.
"You're inside a Police Box that happens to be much bigger on the inside than you're probably used to," the Doctor explained haphazardly. "Why'd you even come in here, anyway? Most people just walk by it. Not usually something they notice – it's good like that; blending in when it needs to," he said fondly, reaching out to gently pat the sprout of coral to his right.
Chaplin looked affronted, like something the Doctor had said had offended him. "It was on my soundstage," he said sternly, fake moustache bristling.
"What, so you just thought-?" the Doctor began, about to start off on something of a tangent. Hartley silenced him with a sharp look that put him back on track. "All right, come on then, out of the time machine," he muttered, moving towards Chaplin to guide him towards the doors.
But instead Chaplin just scrambled backwards, cane held out in warning, as if thinking the Doctor were about to attack. He stumbled, tattered shoes catching on the grating below. He threw out his arm to catch himself and it whacked the console with a click.
The lights up above them flickered wildly, and the room filled with a familiar wheezing that could only mean one thing.
"Oh no, what've you done?" the Doctor groaned. Chaplin looked dumbstruck, gripping the console with both hands to keep from falling over as the floor beneath their feet began to rattle something crazy.
The trip was more violent than usual. Hartley assumed it was because of whatever buttons Chaplin had unwittingly hit.
"Hold on!" the Doctor shouted over the TARDIS' loud complaining.
Hartley glanced over at Chaplin to see him looking particularly white in the face. Before she could begin to worry too much, the ship's juddering came to an abrupt stop, the familiar sound of the engines dying down until there were left in a still, tense silence.
Hartley tentatively climbed back up from where she'd fallen over. "What just happened?" she asked the Doctor, who leapt to his feet and began to check his beloved ship over.
"Someone's rerouted time capabilities to the warp drive. It overloaded," he muttered, horror in his eyes.
That gave Hartley pause. "Doesn't overload usually mean boom?" she asked carefully.
"Not for a TARDIS," he explained, eyes on the monitor as he hurried to try and fix the problem. "It just renders her inert. Like a failsafe – a safeguard put in place by the Time Lords in case this exact thing ever happened. But it doesn't make any sense, why would the pathways reroute?"
"Could it have happened accidentally when Chaplin hit the console?" Hartley suggested.
The Doctor's expression twisted as he considered it. "No, it would take a whole lot more fiddling than a simple knock like that," he said, still furiously trying to fix the problem. "They'd have to do a full circle of the console, because every section needs to be activated in some way..." he trailed off. "Say Charlie, you didn't happen to be messing around with the console before we-?"
He cut off very suddenly, realising in the exact same moment as both Hartley and Martha that they were once more alone in the TARDIS. All eyes shot to the door to find it cracked open an inch, a sliver of sunlight shining through.
"Seriously?" breathed the Doctor, giving a huff of exasperation as he barrelled down the ramp towards the doors. "Why weren't you watching him?" he asked the women behind him in accusation.
"You didn't tell us to," argued Martha.
"It was implied!"
They poured out of the doors to find themselves at least several decades away from where they'd just been. The TARDIS had landed herself on a nondescript street corner, and judging by the accents surrounding them on the footpath, the flashy cars driving up and down the street, and the palm trees lining the walkway before them, they were in modern day Los Angeles.
The street was crammed with people, residents and tourists alike, and the air was hot and humid. It was a picturesque view of a Californian summer, and if circumstances weren't so dire, Hartley would have spent longer appreciating it.
She pushed herself up onto her toes to try and spot Chaplin in the busy crowd, but she wouldn't have been able to spot the Incredible Hulk, let alone a short man in a bowler hat. The Doctor was having the same problem and he huffed in frustration.
"What do we do?" asked Martha, her voice a little shrill in her concern. "We can't just let Charlie Chaplin roam about modern-day LA."
"No," the Doctor agreed, "we can't." He scanned the crowd again, doing a full circle before picking a direction. "Come on!" he said, urging them on – but not before taking the time to securely lock the TARDIS doors behind him.
"But – should we just leave the TARDIS out on the street like this?" Martha called, glancing back at the big blue box in concern. "I mean, what if somebody breaks in?"
"Impossible," the Doctor replied, paying hardly any attention as he impatiently pushed his way through the throng of tourists in an effort to locate their missing historical figure. "Now that I've locked it, it's impenetrable."
Martha stared back, seriously doubting that could be true. "But it's made of wood!" she argued logically.
"The outside's just a disguise," Hartley told her, taking the reins of the conversation, seeing as the Doctor was distracted. "It's alien technology. He means it, nothing's getting through those doors without a key."
"Why would a big blue box like that be a disguise?" Martha pressed. "It's not exactly modest."
"Its chameleon circuit got stuck," Hartley said offhandedly.
"Its what?"
Hartley smiled. "Never mind."
"There!" shouted the Doctor suddenly, making an abrupt beeline for the street. Ducking out of the way of a pair of tall men carrying a mirror, Hartley threaded through the crowd after him, Martha close on her heels.
The blaring chorus of car horns met their ears and Hartley finally broke out of the crowd to find the Doctor standing with Chaplin in the middle of the road.
"Halloween's not for weeks, you moron!" shouted someone leaning out of their car as they swerved to avoid hitting the small man in a suit and that ridiculous bowler hat.
Hartley ignored the cars swerving around them, as well as the drivers' angry shouts for being in their way. She raced out onto the street and gripped Chaplin's arm. The poor man was staring out at the sea of sleek, shiny, modern vehicles in wordless shock.
"Chaplin," she said imploringly, but he didn't acknowledge her in any way. "We need to get off the road."
"Where am I?" he asked distantly, still in something of a daze.
Thankfully he was pliant at her touch, and with the Doctor's help Hartley was able to direct him off the street and back onto the pavement, much to everyone's relief. "You're in Los Angeles," said the Doctor like a physician might break bad news to their patient.
"No, I'm not," argued Chaplin, finally turning away from the glittering skyline and confusing machines to frown at the Doctor in frustration. "This isn't Los Angeles – I was just in Los Angeles, and this isn't it. So I'll ask again; where am I?" he demanded.
The Doctor dragged his hands down the length of his face. "You really shouldn't have messed with the TARDIS console," he said tiredly.
"But he did," Hartley countered. They couldn't put this back in the box; it was out, and now they had to deal with it.
"What's a TARDIS?" Chaplin asked tightly.
"That box you were in just a minute ago," Martha explained. "It's called the TARDIS."
"And we need to get back inside of it now," the Doctor interjected, "so we can take you back to where – and when – you belong."
"I'm not getting back inside that thing," Chaplin argued immediately, and Hartley winced. This was only getting more and more complicated by the minute. "Now, where the hell am I?"
"Okay," said the Doctor placatingly from where he stood behind Chaplin, his back to the sun, the light creating a halo effect around his head. "All right, I'll tell you."
Chaplin was silent, impatiently awaiting a reply. The Doctor flailed, not seeming to know what to say. Hartley took pity and moved forwards, pressing a gentle hand to poor Chaplin's arm. "The box you were just inside of is a time machine," she said with all the patience the Doctor could never manage. "Right now…you're in the future."
Chaplin gaped at her, looking like he were trying to decide between slapping himself in the face in an attempt to wake up or take off at a run to put as much distance between him and these crazy people as possible.
"That isn't … it isn't possible," he finally said, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
"I'm afraid it's true," said Martha softly.
Chaplin blinked rapidly, like something was stuck in his eye, and Hartley hoped he wasn't about to have a stroke. She scanned the boulevard they'd landed on, waves crashing to the beach to their far left. The palm trees were supplying little shade, but they were nice all the same. A few metres down the street was a coffeeshop, and luckily it didn't seem to look too overcrowded.
"Why don't we go have a cup of tea?" she suggested lightly. Chaplin blinked at her again, struggling to process the words. "Or a coffee, if you'd rather," she offered, a smile on her face.
"Hart, we need to get him back to his own time–" the Doctor tried to argue, but she silenced him with a sharp look.
"The damage is already done," she reminded him, and he looked away, chastised. "We might as well let him get his bearings before we cart him back home and disappear into smoke."
"Some coffee would be much appreciated," interjected Chaplin, whom it seemed had finally gotten ahold of himself, the shock slowly wearing off. Hartley attempted not to look too smug at his words.
The Doctor looked pleading to Martha, hoping for her support, but she was too excited at the prospect of coffee with Charlie Chaplin to side with him, and he wilted in reluctant acceptance. "Fine," he muttered, wagging a finger in the comedian's painted face. "One coffee, but that's it. Then you're going straight home. You hear me?"
"Loud and clear."
Martha rolled her eyes, already grasping a bemused Chaplin by the arm and dragging him through the thick crowd of pedestrians towards the coffee shop down the length of the boulevard.
"This could all go terribly, horribly wrong," said the Doctor, staring after the pair of them in concern.
"Or it could all be just fine," Hartley countered optimistically.
"Hartley, it's us," he reminded her dryly, "since when are we ever that lucky?"
She pretended to think about it. "Not often, but you like it that way," she said with a glittering smile, bumping him playfully before heading off after Chaplin and Martha, leaving the Doctor to gather himself and follow.
Upon closer inspection Hartley found the coffeeshop to be a Starbucks with push leather seating and glass windows to give a perfect view out to the beach beyond the road.
Chaplin dazedly followed them all up to the counter, staring at the fancy, shining machinery behind the counter as well as the woman at the register sporting bright pink and purple hair, along with an impressive array of facial piercings. He looked vaguely ill at the sight of her.
"What d'you want, Charlie?" Martha asked eagerly, and Hartley felt her thrill at calling the comedy legend by his first name.
"Uh..." Chaplin muttered, not quite as articulate as Hartley had imagined him being. He gaped up at the menu, eyes narrowed in confusion. She felt how overwhelmed he was, his anxiety like an electrical current underneath her skin.
"He'll have a flat white," she said to the girl over the counter. It was strange – she didn't look surprised to see a man decked out in (what appeared to be) a full Charlie Chaplin costume. Hartley supposed that with this kind of job, she saw plenty of crazy things that rivalled this. "Also a caramel macchiato, a hot chocolate, and..." Hartley trailed off, looking to Martha for her order. Martha tapped at the menu item she wanted. "And a chai tea."
"Name for those?"
Hartley smiled. "Doctor."
The neon-haired girl robotically relayed the total – at which Chaplin balked – and Hartley held her hand out to the Doctor who passed her the psychic paper without complaint. She tapped it against the reader and the girl nodded, waving them politely off to the side to wait.
"Wait, how'd you do that?" demanded Martha the moment they were out of earshot. "Was that the psychic paper?"
"Acts like a credit card if we need it to," the Doctor sniffed.
"You mean it can trick machines too, not just people?" she hissed, staring at him, utterly stunned.
The Doctor gave a smug smile. "Great, isn't it?"
Hartley rolled her eyes and handed it back, watching as he placed it back in his breast pocket with care. She glanced over at Chaplin only to find him staring at the people around him in something of a haze. She suddenly realised that, what with the beach being so close by, people were streaming into the Starbucks wearing nothing but bikini tops and sarong wraps. She'd never seen anyone look so scandalised.
"Maybe we should sit down," she suggested, angling Chaplin and Martha into a booth off to the side. They sat without any complaints, Chaplin seeming to have remembered his manners and now holding his bowler hat in a white-knuckled grip.
"We really can't stay long," the Doctor was muttering as he took a seat on Hartley's other side. "If you see anything you aren't meant to, it could disrupt the flow of-"
"Oh, hush up," Martha said sternly, and the Doctor fell sulkily silent. "Tell me, is the future anything like what you expected?" she asked Chaplin eagerly.
"He wasn't expecting anything-" the Doctor tried again, but Hartley silenced him with another look.
Chaplin took a moment to gather his thoughts, very carefully keeping his eyes away from a nearby woman covered head to toe in tattoos, wearing only a string bikini and a baseball cap. "If what you're saying is true..." he began quietly.
"It is."
"Then…this is really the future?" he whispered like the thought terrified him. "I still don't understand," he admitted without telling them his opinions on the current state of the world.
The Doctor glanced over at Hartley, who took it as a prod to explain. "We're time travellers," she told him, leaning over the table and keeping her voice low. Anyone passing by would likely just think they were a group of British nutters, but it was better to be safe than sorry. "That's what we do. We travel throughout time to meet famous people in history. You stumbled onto our time ship, and I guess curiosity got the better of you and you fiddled with some buttons you shouldn't have – and so now here we are, in the year-" she glanced pointedly at the Doctor.
He held a finger up to the air then brought it to his mouth, sticking it between his lips. "2010," he answered, utterly certain.
"2010," she echoed with a sure nod.
"Bit different from the thirties, isn't it?" murmured Martha, eyeing a nearby gaggle of teenagers all with the white cables of headphones leading up to their ears.
"Doctor?!" a voice suddenly called from behind the counter. Hartley nudged the Doctor, who reluctantly climbed to his feet, disappearing into the growing crowd. He returned a few moments later with their drinks on a tray, handing them out to each person diligently.
"You'd make a good waiter," Hartley teased. He sent her a dark look but otherwise didn't respond.
"But, there's something I don't understand," said Chaplin as he robotically stirred his coffee with the supplied teaspoon. Hartley looked up even as she emptied tiny sugar packets into her own drink. "If you travel throughout all of time … why come to the set of City Lights?" he asked, befuddled. "Everyone's saying we're not going to so much as break even."
Martha gave a wide smile into the rim of her cup. "City Lights is one of the greatest movies ever made," she assured him without any regard for the sanctity of the space time continuum.
"Martha," the Doctor interjected sternly, disapproval in his eyes.
Hartley rolled her own. "He's already in 2010, Doc," she reminded him tartly. "S'like I said: I think the damage is done."
"I just realised," said Chaplin abruptly, drawing the attention back to him, "we haven't even been formally introduced." He turned to Martha, whose eyes went wide under his stare. "Martha, was it?"
She shook his hands with a nod, letting out a tiny squeak of surprise. He turned to Hartley next, who took his extended hand in both of hers. "Hartley Daniels," she introduced herself with a smile. "You can call me Hart."
"And you'd be the Doctor, then?" Chaplin turned to the Doctor, eyebrow raised as he radiated skepticism.
"That's me," the Doctor chirped as he took a deep sip of hot chocolate, a moustache of foam appearing above his lip. Hartley absentmindedly handed off a serviette and he took the hint, bashfully wiping at his mouth.
"But Doctor who?" demanded Chaplin. "I can't just call you the Doctor."
"Sure you can."
Chaplin didn't seem to know how to respond to that, opening his mouth only to shut it again helplessly. Hartley swooped in before things could get awkward. "You should tell us more about yourself," she said encouragingly. "It's not everyday we get to have coffee with the man who pioneered modern comedy."
She'd been hoping to make him more comfortable, but unfortunately her words seemed to have the opposite effect. He blinked a few times, struggling to formulate a reply.
"Hey!" Someone had come to a stop beside their table – a tall, sun kissed guy clutching a skateboard at his hip, "cool costume, dude! You here for the film festival? I didn't know it was a dress-up thing." He was staring straight at Chaplin, who stared back in bewilderment.
"Film festival?" asked Martha to cover up the comedian's hesitation.
"Yeah! The one down by the water?" the skater asked, looking confused now. "We do it every month, and this time it's Charlie Chaplin themed...but you knew that, right?"
"Of course," Hartley swooped in. "Sorry, yeah. We're just suffering from a little sunstroke. We're not used to his American heat," she said smoothly, really laying her accent on thick as she reached up to fan her face theatrically.
The skater grinned, wide and a little bit dopey, making Hartley wonder whether he were completely sober. The dazed, reddened look in his eyes made her think that wasn't the case. "Well, you should get down there soon or all the good seats'll be taken!" he said enthusiastically. "I can save you a spot, if you want?!"
"Kade!" shouted someone from near the exit, and the guy's head of curly blond hair turned to look.
"That's okay," Hartley told him kindly. "We'll find somewhere to watch. Thank you, though."
Kade shrugged as if it were of no consequence to him before looking back at Chaplin with that dopey grin. "All right. Again, man, great costume. You seriously look just like Charlie Chaplin."
With that he turned and bounded off, leaving the quartet to themselves. Hartley sighed, taking a deep sip of her cooling coffee.
Martha turned to her and the Doctor expectantly. "What are the odds of the TARDIS taking us to a Charlie Chaplin marathon with Charlie Chaplin himself on board?" she asked, squeaky in her shock. Hartley wanted to know the same thing, turning in her seat to look at him properly.
But the Doctor, however, looked far less impressed by the conundrum. "The TARDIS is sentient," he explained as if it were something any first grader would know. "She's got a telepathic circuit; sometimes it helps me to fly to a specific date and time. Comes in handy, I'll tell you that."
"And you think he must have accidentally activated the circuit when he was fiddling around with the console?" Hartley finished.
He nodded. "She might've gotten you all mixed up. Two minds from the future, one from the past, all of you thinking thoughts in some way related to Charlie Chaplin..." he shrugged. "It was bound to happen, really."
The Doctor suddenly leaned around Hartley to get a good look at the clock on the far wall.
"We've been here too long already," he said, turning to Chaplin with a frown. "Feeling up to stepping back inside that box?" he asked. "It's time we got you back home."
But Chaplin was filled only with of a sort of stubborn curiosity that Hartley recognised as determination, and suddenly she knew in her gut that it wasn't going to be as cut and dried as the Doctor was hoping.
"I was hoping we could go see this film festival," Chaplin said hopefully. "I'm quite curious as to how one can show feature films on a beach," he sounded incredulous at the idea.
But the Doctor was already shaking his head. "Can't, I'm afraid," he said, not overly apologetic, a note of detachment to his voice. "Knowing your own future is dangerous, more so than you know," he told him darkly. Chaplin looked surprised. "Besides," the Doctor suddenly chirped, "you've got a critically acclaimed film to shoot!"
They drained the last of their drinks and left the Starbucks. Outside the sky had begun to turn a navy blue, faint stars sparkling in the sky. The crowd was, if anything, only growing thicker with the late hour. Hartley supposed people were out for dinner, and also most likely the film festival that skater had told them about.
"C'mon," said the Doctor, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets and leading them back down the length of the boulevard, "TARDIS is this way."
Hartley sped up to keep close to him while Martha hung back with Chaplin, taking every moment of opportunity she had to talk with one of her childhood idols.
"Think Chaplin will let us hang around the studio back in 1930?" Hartley asked him curiously. "I've always wanted to see how a movie's made."
"Do you have a favourite movie?" he asked, rather than answer the question. "A book adaptation, perhaps?"
"Ugh," she grimaced. "Don't even get me started." The Doctor only laughed. "What?" she asked defensively.
"I figured you'd be one of those humans."
"Which humans?" she asked, taking offence despite not knowing where he was going with this.
"The humans who think they're too good for a well done film adaptation," he told her with a playful little grin on his lips that negated the rudeness of the words.
"I'm not too good for them," she argued valiantly, trying very hard not to stick her nose up in the air. The Doctor looked to be suppressing more laughter. "I'm not!" she insisted. "Might I remind you that I'm a literary scholar?" she asked tartly. "So what if I prefer the book to the movie?"
"I didn't say anything," he held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Oh, shut up," she muttered, cheeks going warm as she looked away.
There was a moment of quiet, only the buzz of unimportant chatter and car engines surrounding them. "There has to be one book-to-movie adaptation you've actually enjoyed," he persisted, and Hartley rolled her eyes.
She took a moment to think, knowing he wouldn't give up easily. "Well," she began slowly, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was rather enjoyable."
He nodded. "Not a bad choice," he agreed. "And you've read the book?"
Hartley scoffed as they reached the TARDIS, pulling her key out from where it lay against her chest beneath her shirt. "Have I read the book?" she echoed him sarcastically. "Honestly, have you even met me?" she asked. The Doctor rolled his eyes fondly.
Before Hartley could slide her key into the lock Martha reappeared, bursting from the swelling crowd with panic in her eyes. "I lost him!" she exclaimed without preamble.
The other two froze, staring at her wordlessly, unsure how to react. "You what?" the Doctor finally demanded, incredulous.
"He was right beside me, and I looked away for a second – just a second – and he was gone!" she shouted, and Hartley dropped her key back into the folds of her shirt. "Where could he possibly have gone?" she asked, not really expecting an answer as she tugged anxiously at the hem of her sweater.
The lights suddenly went down, even those on the street slowly dimming, leaving them in the glow of the moon and the shine of a large projector screen that had been set up on the sand of the nearby beach.
"I think I've got a good idea," muttered the Doctor. "We need to split up," he continued, already leading the way across the empty road towards the beach. "Martha, you take the crowd to the left of here. Hart, you take the right. I'll stay up the back and try and spot him from higher ground. Shouldn't be that hard to find him, right?"
"Uh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Doc," Hartley murmured to him, something like dread in her gut as they looked out over the humongous crowd gathered on the sand. It seemed Kade had been wrong about the night's cosplay factor, because at least a fourth of the crowd before them were dressed up in their best Charlie Chaplin costumes.
"Well, that's just spectacular," the Doctor drawled, the words thick with sarcasm.
"How're we meant to find him in this?!" asked Martha.
"I don't know," said the Doctor, eyes on the huge screen above them which was now playing clips from some of Chaplin's earlier films. It seemed they weren't playing the full movies, but rather excerpts from all his films – no doubt so they could fit all the best bits into one night. "But we need to find him before the showing catches up to City Lights. He can't see films from his future."
"That would be bad?"
"Very."
"Do your best," said Hartley, bumping Martha companionably on the shoulder. "Meet back here?" Martha nodded, and the Doctor waved them off, already pushed onto his toes in an effort to get a better look at the crowd.
Hartley weaved her way through the throng of gathered, excitable people. The scent of popcorn and fairy floss swirled around her nose, made stronger by the heat of the evening, and she guessed there was some kind of vender nearby selling such movie theatre staples.
Everywhere she looked it seemed there was another Charlie Chaplin look-alike in her vision. Old, young; male, female; thick, thin; tall, short. It seemed everyone and their mother had come dressed for the occasion.
Hartley dropped her head into her hands in sheer exasperation. She was looking for the real Charlie Chaplin in a sea of enthusiastic cosplayers from the future. When had this become her life?
She pushed on, gripping each look-alike by the shoulder and turning them to face her, only to find again and again that the person wasn't Chaplin at all, but a rather well-dressed fake.
The task seemed impossible. How were they meant to find him? There were at least eight hundred people here, maybe even closer to a thousand. It was like a game, almost, one that seemed rigged in the opponent's favour. She considered shouting for him, but she knew she'd only look like a complete and total nutter if she did that and kept her mouth shut tight.
She wasn't sure how long she was searching, but soon enough there was a slight cheer from the crowd. Hartley glanced up at the screen to see a famous scene from City Lights playing above them. She cursed, knowing they were almost completely out of time. They'd caught up to Chaplin's current present-day. Any longer and he'd see something he really, really shouldn't.
A mix between humbleness and mystification suddenly surged within Hartley, and she spun around, seeing with perfect clarity the man sat only a few rows behind her.
Chaplin – the real one – was sat on the beach between a young couple on a blanket and a small family with two kids in camping chairs. He was gazing up at the screen, a shine of tears to his eyes.
Hartley silently took a seat in the sand beside him, uncaring when it got all over her jeans and into her shoes. Chaplin didn't look up as she settled into place, but she could feel a tendril of awareness emanating from him and knew he knew she was there.
She knew she should stop him, rush him back to the TARDIS before the Doctor blew a fuse. But there was something about the wonder and awe in Chaplin's heart that kept her from dragging him away. She looked at him, his painted face illuminated by the dull glow of the projection, and softened at the tears glistening in his eyes.
"Charlie?" she asked quietly.
"All these people are here," he whispered back without taking his eyes from the screen, "for my films."
"Yeah," she nodded, casting her eyes back to the crowd which shook with laughter as The Little Tramp took a tumble on screen. Chaplin too stared out over his sea of fans, eyes sparkling with warmth and awe; awe that these people, so many years in the future, would care enough to come sit in the sand on a stifling night and watch his work.
"How am I to go back?" he whispered to her. "Knowing what I know now, how am I to go back?"
He was begging for answers she didn't know how to give; asking a question she'd asked herself countless times before. How could she got back to ordinary life after seeing everything she had? Experiencing the entire universe, every asteroid marketplace and far off planet? How could she go back to linear time, to the simple, human way of life?
It didn't feel possible. In a way it was cruel to give Chaplin a taste of something he'd never, ever have. But sometimes that was life: cruel and unfair.
"This is only the beginning," Hartley eventually told him, the words coming to her in a flash. "You have so much more left to do, Charlie; and a fair way to go before becoming the man we sit here and watch today."
The famous scene of City Lights faded away along to the cheers of the jubilant crowd. The screen was black for a moment before suddenly filling with the openings of Modern Times, the next film Chaplin had written and performed in his own time.
"We really need to go now," she said, reaching out to hold his arm, gently trying to pull him to his feet. But Chaplin wouldn't budge, eyes wide as he watched the footage on the screen before him, a scene he had yet to film, or maybe even write at all.
"How intoxicating," he murmured, and Hartley held her breath, "to see what is to come."
"That's why we have to go," she implored him. "It's not good to know your own future. Too much could change."
"Not if I don't let it," he argued.
"No, Charlie," she sighed. "You won't be able to help it. You're creating your own paradox."
Chaplin blinked. "My own what?"
"We have to go," she said again, an edge of steel leaking into her voice. She wasn't kidding. She wasn't about to allow history to crumble because she'd been too kind to Charlie Chaplin. She stood to her feet, holding up her hands and waving them in the air, hoping to get the Doctor's attention from where he remained stood up at the top of the beach.
The people behind her complained loudly at her interruption, but some things were more important than their momentary inconvenience.
"What are you doing?" hissed Chaplin, and hoping the Doctor had seen her she dropped back down to her knees.
"I'm sorry, Charlie, but this is getting dangerous. We really, seriously, need to go," she said firmly. Chaplin winced, staring up at himself on the big screen longingly, wistful and full of wonder.
To her horror, Modern Times began to fade away, replaced with soft black, like the calm before the storm. But the calm never lasted. She looked up to see the Doctor finally heading their way, wading through the Chaplin-enthusiasts as quickly as he could. But it wasn't quick enough.
"I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an emperor. That's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible – Jew, Gentile – black man – white..."
It was the famous speech from the end of The Great Dictator, Chaplin's first talkie – a film with sound, as opposed to his previous silent ones – and Hartley stared at Chaplin's face, watching the sheer shock play out across his aging, painted features.
"I don't believe it," he said quietly. "I give in make talkies..."
Hartley couldn't resist, leaning in and lowering her voice. "Why don't you want to make talkies?" she asked him quietly.
Chaplin didn't answer for a moment, staring up at himself on the screen, at a loss. "People keep saying talkies are the future of film," he whispered. "But I suppose I've always been a little afraid of the future, myself."
Hartley pursed her lips, considering. "Tell you what, though," she said, and he tilted his head to show he was listening. "They're some of your most popular works," she whispered the secret with a smile. Chaplin met her eyes, tears sparkling in his own, before abruptly the moment was ended when the Doctor yanked Chaplin to his feet, a stern scowl on his face.
"Honestly," the Doctor muttered, tutting in exasperation, forcefully dragging Chaplin back towards the boulevard where the TARDIS was parked. "Why does nobody ever listen? Do I just have a face that nobody listens to? Really, be honest," he rambled, ignoring the loud shushing from all around him.
"Kind of," Hartley said lightly. He scoffed, turning his nose away from her primly.
Martha was waiting at the back, an anxious look on her face. "Oh, thank God you found him," she breathed as they approached, wading their way up through the sand dune leading to the road. "I thought we were going to be solely responsible for Charlie Chaplin having disappeared in 1930. The conspiracy nutters would have had a field day."
Hartley walked ahead of them, already pulling free her precious TARDIS key, slipping it into the lock and holding the door open. To her surprise Chaplin didn't put up a fight as the Doctor tugged him inside the police box. Martha shut the door after her, and the Doctor let go of Chaplin to race towards the console, not hesitating to take the famous comedian back where he belonged.
The ship juddered around them and Chaplin cried out, dropping his cane and crashing to the grating with a bang. The ride was just as wild as always, but within moments they landed with a low bong of the time rotor, the ship going still and its wheezing fading into nothing.
Hartley picked up Chaplin's cane, holding it in her hand a moment, marvelling over the fact that this was the real cane used by Chaplin's character of the Little Tramp, before moving on and handing the cane over to its rightful owner.
"Don't worry, Charlie," said the Doctor from the console. "1930, set of City Lights. You've only been gone five minutes. Mind you, you were still running late, so I'd get a move on if I were you," he smirked.
"Are you sure he can't stay for one more cuppa?" Martha asked, disappointed that their time was coming to a close. "We could have scones," she offered weakly. Hartley could tell she wanted more time with Chaplin. She had so many questions to ask, so many things she wanted to know and things she wanted to be able to tell him.
The Doctor just shook his head, but Hartley smiled. "It's time we let Mr. Chaplin get back to his life," she said softly, reaching out to pat the man warmly on the shoulder. "He's got a lot of work to do," she added with a small, secretive grin in his direction.
Martha wilted a little but Hartley knew she understood. Martha stepped closer and wrapped Chaplin in a hug that took him by surprise. He hesitated before gingerly wrapping his arms around her, patting her softly – if not a little awkwardly – on the back.
"You know, they say to never meet your heroes," Martha murmured as she pulled back, eyes alight with laughter as she glanced back at Hartley, both recalling their adventure with Shakespeare the few weeks before when Hartley had said nearly the exact same thing, "but I'm really, really glad I met you, Charlie."
Even from underneath all that makeup Charlie seemed to go just a little bit pink at the words. "Well," he murmured, straightening his haphazard clothing. "Thank you, Martha."
Martha stepped away, turning to Hartley and squeaking, "Charlie Chaplin knows my name!"
Hartley laughed, quickly swiping Chaplin up in a hug of her own, though hers was a little less intense. She squeezed once, then pulled away and offered him her brightest smile. "Stay hilarious, Chaplin," she said warmly. "And don't forget – the future doesn't have to be scary."
"No," he agreed with a smile growing on his lips. "I don't think it does."
The Doctor shook his hand enthusiastically. "If I were you, I wouldn't mention anything to anyone about this trip of yours," he told the man quickly. "I'd hate for people to think that you're…" he didn't seem to know how to finish.
"Crazy?" Chaplin supplied.
The Doctor grinned. "That's the word."
Chaplin nodded his head, agreeing. Then he turned away, taking in the TARDIS console room in all its alien glory before making his way down towards the doors. The wood creaked as he pulled it open, sticking his face back out into the 1930s before stepping back inside the ship and shaking his head at the brilliance of it all.
He looked up at the three standing around the console, a real smile on his face. "If you ever want to come to set properly…" he offered.
"We might just take you up on that," the Doctor beamed. "See you round, Charlie Chaplin."
And with that Chaplin stepped back out into his life, the TARDIS door swinging shut and leaving the three of them in contented quiet.
"Anyone else hungry?" Hartley asked suddenly. Her friends responded with vehement agreements and she grinned. "I don't feel like cooking," she continued. "Let's get takeaway."
"We could eat it in the media room!" added Martha eagerly. "I suddenly have an itching to watch some old films."
"All right," the Doctor began to pilot the TARDIS with a newfound bounce in his step. "I'll take us to Galactic Ron's – it's basically a spaceship that doubles as a diner. And – since we're on an American kick – they have the best meatball subs you've ever had in your life."
"Sounds good to me," Hartley agreed. "I'll go make some drinks. How do we feel about homemade lemonade?"
"Keeping the American theme going?" asked Martha with a amusement in her voice.
"Rock, flag and eagle," Hartley replied playfully as she disappeared into the depths of the TARDIS, heading for the kitchen and feeling a happiness deep in her very soul.
Something she'd told Chaplin, however, had stayed with her. The future could be scary. At one point she'd been terrified of it – how would she and the Doctor go on without Rose by their side? How would she tackle the potential eternity that now sat at her feet?
But she was realising that the future didn't have to be scary at all. It had brought them Martha, after all. And though their time with Martha was limited – as it was with every human they would travel with – it was full of possibility.
Maybe she could learn to embrace the future; like the Doctor did, and like Charlie Chaplin had just learned to. Maybe there was something beautiful about that; the unknown; the whats-to-come.
And suddenly she was really excited for whatever came next.
A/N: Hey guys, hope you liked it! Shoutout to anyone who caught the iASiP reference. Up next is another original, and this one is extra, extra special. I think a lot of you are going to flip when you read it, and let's just say that a new character is introduced to Hartley … one that we as fans already know and love!
Coming up next: Glimpse