Title: "Through the Sodium Glow" 1/1
Fandom: VM/Doctor Who
Rating/Classification: no adult language, crossover, 600 words.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters. Rob Thomas and Russell T. Davies own me!
Summary: Set in season one of the new DW but late season two of VM (yay for time travel). Veronica's running on no sleep and caffeine…
Veronica was bleary-eyed, hands still miming shoving her apron underneath the counter, ears still buzzing with the whirring sound of the cappuccino machine, when she stumbled out the door of the Hut, turned left, and smacked into a blue box that hadn't been there before.
Even in her sleep-deprived state, she knew it was out of place. And not really a box. It looked like an old-fashioned telephone booth. Except that it was blue. And a blond girl was walking out of it. She didn't look like she'd been making a call and she wasn't wearing tights and a cape. Just jeans and a T-shirt and a Gap cardigan. Ergo, not actually a phone booth.
Veronica was unreasonably proud of her deductive reasoning skills. Pulling an all-nighter studying for finals just so she could shove *something* in that heinous bitch Angie's face had pretty much taxed her of the ability to do anything besides walk and put the whipped cream on a decaf mocha latte.
She rubbed the spot on her forehead that was beginning to turn a shade that probably matched the exterior of the Hut's new neighbor and the girl stopped, looked at her as if she'd just noticed she was there.
"Oh. Um. Sorry." A wide, appealing mouth flashed an infectious smile. "Is this a 'No parking' zone or something? D'you reckon I'll get fined?"
Veronica shook her head. Which hurt a little. Smiled back. Which hurt a little more. '"Um…no. Assuming you drove that thing here. I think you'll be fine." She tried to shake off the last of the cobwebs and aches and got the Mars brain working. The girl had a British accent. Tourist? Driving a…not phone booth. Okay, scratch that off the list. Tourists driving through Neptune usually picked something of a more convertible variety. "Can I help you with something?" she asked.
The girl half-turned back towards the door of the blue booth. And a beat later, somebody else popped out. A male somebody. Also not in tights and a cape. Just a black leather jacket and other assorted items of clothing.
Veronica rubbed her eyes, damning whoever invented final exams…and Red Bull.
"I'm Rose Tyler," said the girl, extending her hand, cheerfully. "And you are…?"
Veronica perfunctorily shook a nice, cool set of five fingers. "Veronica Mars," she murmured, choking back a yawn.
The man grinned at her. A bit on the manic side. His ears were huge. Maybe Superman used *those* to fly these days? "Got any tea inside that place of yours, Miss Veronica Mars?" he asked, voice just as lilting and British as the girl's. But different.
God, it wasn't Irish, was it? Maybe he was a Fitzpatrick? Weren't there twenty of them or something? "Who are you?" she demanded, feeling in her purse for the comforting weight of her taser.
The man shook his head slightly, clicking his tongue as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. And touching. "I'm the Doctor."
"The Doctor of *what*? Love? Feelgood? The Medicine Show?" she snorted, feeling more herself…but only barely. Why couldn't she run into big blue boxes after eight hours of sleep and a massage from a large Nordic man named Bjorn?
"Just the Doctor." And approximately 11 seconds later, he grabbed her hand, and the girl Rose's, and dragged them into Java the Hut. "Now, come on. Let's find that tea, shall we? Got any decent biscuits? I know this is California, but you can't be complete Philistines, can you?"
Thirty seconds after that, Veronica was back behind the counter, looking for Earl Grey…and wide awake.
April 25, 2006.