3—The Offer
Adora and the Doctor lay in bed trading stories of the twins as the second sun rose, a white flame peeking through the curtains. The Doctor, keen to impress, got up first.
"Breakfast in bed, Love?" he asked with a grin.
Adora looked at him disdainfully, but he knew it was all an act. "In my world, the only people who get breakfast in bed are mothers of small children who usually can't eat what's offered to them by tiny, grubby hands, the ill who can't eat much anyway, and the desperately lazy who don't deserve to eat in the first place."
"Ah, high standards! Breakfast in the garden, then?"
"You know how to cook?" Adora asked doubtfully.
"Yes, well . . . I can, sort of . . . maybe."
Adora sighed and sat up. "I think I'll manage breakfast on my own, thank you. I know you mean well, but you always mean well and it doesn't stop things from happening. Oh, I almost forgot your present!"
"Tell you what—we'll make breakfast and then I'll see it at the table."
"I can go one better; you stay in the dining room while I do breakfast."
The Doctor's smile dimmed, replaced with a pouting lip. "That's what Thalmidor always tells me."
"Speaking of which, there's still some popberry muffins left from the batch he made." Adora looked over to the Doctor, who was looking at her with his puppy-dog eyes and relented. "All right; you can squeeze the juice for me—white grapefruit or sour orange, your pick."
"Sour oranges? Never heard of those . . ."
The Doctor made it a point to not make a disaster out of Adora's kitchen as he squeezed the sour oranges into the pitcher, making sure no seeds got in the juice. It wasn't his fault that the knife slipped and cut open his palm, it really wasn't, but Adora kicked him out anyway after she used a dermal regenerator on his hand. He sat at the dining room table and waited for her as she brought out scrambled eggs, popberry muffins, sausage, tea, and the juice. Once they were finished she passed him a bag. "I can't wait to see your face!" she declared, her eyes alight.
The Doctor opened the bag, unwrapped the book and gasped, dropping it on the table. He scooped it up again and stared at the cover.
"TARDIS Repair: Servicing Your Mechanical Marvel," he read aloud. "Oh, Adora . . . what a gift! Thank you!"
Adora leaned over the table for a kiss. "Simulon at the bookstore had it, took me four hours to find but I knew it would be perfect. Now all you have to do is look it over, wait until Thalmidor gets back and you can get to work."
The Doctor smiled and told her, "Actually, what I'm going to do is finish with your security system and then take a look at this. Business before pleasure and all that."
"But that's going to take you so long!" Adora protested.
"It'll be a good impetus to hurry along and not fret over every circuit. Trust me, Adora, I want to get this project done for you so we can both sleep better at night, but that doesn't mean I'll slave away every second. I can—"
The house communicator rang. Adora hurried to the environmental control panel in the living room with the Doctor right behind her and answered, "Hello?"
A sleazy-sounding baritone voice replied, "Adora-doll, this is Geptum. I know you have a house-guest and it's short notice, but something's come up and I really need you to say 'yes'; it's a fantastic opportunity."
Adora mouthed to the Doctor, "My agent", then asked, "What sort of opportunity? Is it one of those weekend author parties I hate so much?"
"Now, Adora, just listen for a microsecond," Geptum pleaded. "You've just finished another seller but this is your chance to get noticed by some of the big-leagues in the business, maybe pick up a new contract with one of the publishing giants, or even a film deal—Adora, this is big stuff! You can't afford to turn down something like this, not this time."
"I have a guest, just as I told you the other day."
"Is it one of the boys? Adora-doll, they're old enough to take care of themselves for a weekend and it's just a weekend; I already made sure. Arrive Sixday afternoon, stay Sevensday, leave Eightsday after brunch. In and out, I swear."
"Will you be there, or are you sending me alone to fend off the sharks and deal with immature, useless nobodies? Last time—"
"Last time was last time, Adora; I can stick to you like guad gum if that's what you want, or you can bring your guest with you, your choice. You're allowed a plus-one for this particular event and I'm already going to be there for some networking, so . . ." He paused long enough to create a facade of consideration, then continued, "You'll come?"
"You know how much I loathe these get-togethers, Geptum . . ."
"You also know this is like signing all your royalty check vouchers or the sixth round of revising; it's part of the business, so you grit your teeth and suck it up and deal. How 'bout this, Adora—you come and I won't bother you about not having your picture on your face-work for a solid year. A whole year of peace, Adora-doll—all for one weekend."
The Doctor spoke softly. "I can work on this while you're gone, Adora; you don't have to re-structure everything around my visit . . ."
"Who's that, Adora, your guest? Sounds like film star material to me . . ."
Adora sighed mightily, bored with her agent's badgering and responded, "It's my husband, Geptum, and he's only here for a little while, so—"
"Your husband?" Geptum gasped. "Adora, you won't need me to fend off any sharks if he goes with you; you've always told people you're attached and if you bring him along everyone will see him in the flesh and stay off your back for a long time. Please, Adora-doll—it's a career-making move if you'll come."
Adora looked at the Doctor, who shrugged. Shaking her head in resignation she asked, "One weekend? No extra days for 'special deals'?"
"None. I made that clear when I got the offer."
"A separate room this time?" Adora questioned, ignoring the Doctor's puzzled look.
"It's at Val Maxdon's estate," Geptum told her. "She could give you a whole suite and not think twice, especially if you've got your husband along. You can even turn it into a special time with the mister, if you know what I mean . . . fire up your engines . . ."
Adora snapped sharply, "Watch your tone, Geptum, or I won't go at all!"
"Sorry, sorry!" Geptum backpedaled hastily. "No offense meant, it was just a joke; your private life is just that, Adora."
Adora held her breath a moment, considered, then said quietly, "All right, Geptum—I'll go."
"Excellent! I'll make all the arrangements myself; you won't have to worry about a thing except showing up. Bring the outline of 'Love on the Ladris' as well as the notes for the next 'Mail-order Bride' novel you're fleshing out and anything else you're seriously considering . . . oh, heck, bring it all, even the old stuff! You won't regret this Adora-doll, you really won't. I'll even send a ground-car to pick you up, on my tab. Seeya this weekend!"
The connection was broken, and the Doctor looked over to Adora. "I meant it, Adora; I don't mind staying here and out of your way."
Adora crossed the room and took his hand. "I was thinking that if you came you might make the time bearable as opposed to the usual fighting off unwanted advances and endless hours of boring conversation. I ordinarily wouldn't go to one of these, but Geptum's right; I could really pull my career into the next level with a good showing here. You wouldn't mind, would you?"
"To be your escort at a weekend getaway? Not at all, Love. I just happened to bring the tuxedo; I was hoping to get it laundered while I was here . . . and I have two spare sets of other clothes as well. I should be covered, right?"
"You'll be fine," Adora reassured him. "Sevensday night is the only formal dress part; the rest is pretty lenient as far as wardrobe is concerned. What I really need to focus on is brushing up the outlines for the novels I have plans for; I hope I'll have enough time to go over them properly."
"Well, don't let me stand in the way of creative genius; both of us have better things to do than chin-wagging at the moment." The Doctor gave her a little push.
Adora kissed him, then went to her study to look over her work.
The Doctor worked steadily on the security system for many hours creating an invisible mesh grid of sensors for the outer doors and the storm cellar, tying them in to Adora's brain-wave patterns so the system wouldn't be set off by her presence. He added himself and the twins as well, knowing Adora wouldn't want the alarm going off if it was one of them. Then he thought of the Valeyard. If the Doctor was on the list of accepted life-forms the other Time Lord would be able to waltz right in. He changed the settings so that only his current self could enter without setting off the system then got to work on setting sensor grids on the first-floor windows. By the time he was done it was pitch-dark and his stomach was rumbling. He went into the kitchen and thought about his next move. There was no food immediately obvious; no fruit in the bowl or muffins on a plate. If he wanted something to eat he would either have to search or bother Adora and neither prospect seemed like a good idea. In the end he decided to fend for himself; he wouldn't get too elaborate and it was always better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, wasn't it?
He opened the refrigeration unit, thinking how much better off Adora would be if she invested in a stasis box like he had on the TARDIS, and started looking for food. He found some Pennswith nut butter and various types of salad vegetables, but no bread. He looked in the freezer compartment, but still didn't see anything suitable. Finally he went scrounging through the cupboards and found some crackers. He got out a knife and spread some of the nut butter on the large crackers and ate one. Almost immediately he felt a burning in his middle. He dropped the knife on the counter, then threw open the refrigeration unit door searching for something to drink. He spied what looked like a small bottle of milk on the middle shelf and downed it, gasping. The liquid crackled in his throat a bit but took care of the searing pain in his stomach. He looked at the crackers with distaste and chucked the open ones in the garbage. He sighed, got out a bunch of spoons and ate some of the nut butter plain, making sure to use a clean spoon for each mouthful. After a bit he felt odd, as though all the bones in his body had melted. He slipped to the floor propping himself up on the cupboard behind him and sat there gazing up at the ceiling for a long time, not feeling pain or discomfort, just mellow and still.
After a while, he didn't even know how much time had passed, Adora came into the kitchen. Almost tripping over his sprawling form she cried out, "Doctor? Doctor, are you all right? What did you do to yourself?"
It was difficult, but the Doctor managed to form words. "I couldn't find any bread . . ."
"What does bread have to do with you lying on my kitchen floor?" Adora demanded. She looked on the counter-top and asked, "Did you try to eat the Pennswith nut butter on these crackers? They can't be eaten together; they cause an imbalance of the acid in your stomach".
Then noting the empty bottle next to the nut butter jar she understood immediately what had happened. "And then you drank all the Delbital, didn't you, thinking it was milk? It's only meant to be drunk in thimblefuls, not the whole bottle; no wonder you're down there. Delbital is a liqueur that has a muscle-relaxant property, at least for Time Lords; I have no idea what it would do to any other type of humanoid. I ought to just leave you there for not coming to get me when you got hungry . . ."
"I just wanted a sandwich . . ." the Doctor protested weakly.
"The bread is in the drawer marked 'Bread', which you obviously couldn't be bothered to read," Adora said tartly. "I'm going to take pity on you this once but I want your solemn promise you will not enter this room of the house again without supervision, either my own or Thalmidor's."
She stepped over him and got out a bottle of something that looked like tar and smelled like garbage. She got one of the spoons from the counter, measured out a dose of the nasty stuff and held it to his lips. "Open your mouth," she told him sternly. "It'll taste nasty but you'll burn off the effects of the Delbital in a few seconds. Come on, Doctor . . . you brought this on yourself . . ."
The Doctor would have protested some more, but he knew she was right. The horrible something tasted like spoiled Kwempit Sauce, but once he swallowed it he was able to move his fingers and toes, then his limbs, and finally the rest of him in short order. He stood and mumbled, "Thank you. Can I get a sandwich now?"
Adora sighed and gave him a hug. "I'll make us something; you go check out your book for a while. Go on; at least you didn't leave a big mess."
The Doctor retreated to the living room and sat down with the book, looking at the three-dimensional holo-projections of the inner console layout. The book was aimed at those Time Lords that had a Type-60 model TARDIS but it had plenty of info on earlier models, including his Type-40. He thumbed through the console information and went to the Engine Room section, looking at the various systems and the troubleshooting guide. Adora called him for dinner and he stuck a popberry leaf in the book to mark his place and went to the dining room.
Dinner was a quiet meal; the Doctor was still embarrassed and Adora was far away. At last she said, "Tomorrow's Fivesday; we should have time to get your tuxedo washed and ready along with whatever else you need. I'll have to pick out something to wear for formal dress; I'm not sure I still fit in my black sheath and the hem on the forest green number is coming unraveled. If the boys were here they could fix it; they have a sewing machine."
The Doctor asked her, "Do you have matching thread, scissors and a needle? If you do I can sew the hem myself."
Adora was astonished and a little bit concerned given the knife incident earlier. "You can hand-sew?" she asked doubtfully.
"Oh, yes," the Doctor nodded. "Jack taught me; he's a man of many skills. I can't do anything fancy, but I can put buttons on or repair your hem. Would the boys have the supplies?"
"There's a workroom upstairs for projects and hobbies they took on but never finished. If there's sewing supplies anywhere, they'd be in that room. After I'm done with the dishes we'll go up there and see what we can find and no, you can't help wash or dry; you've done enough for one night."
When the kitchen was clean Adora took the Doctor upstairs to the workroom and the spent some time looking for the sewing supplies. Once they found them the Doctor pronounced, "You go get the dress, Adora, and we'll see what we can do. What type of material is it, anyway?"
"Something from Earth," Adora called from the other room, "I don't remember exactly. Velvet, I think . . . here we are! Yes, it's velvet." She brought the dress into the workroom. It was a halter-top, sheath type gown in a deep forest green. There were little diamond accents in a criss-cross pattern at the empire waist, but otherwise the dress was understated and elegant.
The Doctor took a look at the hem and said, "Yes, I can fix it. You get on with your tasks while I work on this; it shouldn't take more than a few hours. Can I work on it up here?"
"Whatever you want;" Adora told him. "It's more comfortable down there."
The Doctor grinned. "More distractions as well! All I'll be thinking of while I work on this is getting you out of it in a few nights."
Adora laughed. "We'll have plenty of time for that before we go; tomorrow's only Fivesday. Now I'm going to sleep."
"I won't disturb you. I have to make sure you fit the part of dignified Time Lady." He hesitated, watching her exit the room and said softly, "Adora?"
She paused at the threshold and turned to face him.
"Thank you, for everything. For this, for us . . . thank you."
Adora simply smiled, then headed downstairs.