i_jones: indiefairy @ LJ (guys there's all this pizza and turtles)
[personal profile] i_jones
Welcome, welcome. Not through that door. I mean, you can try it, but all doors lead to breakfast. Even that one underneath the console. You thought you were being clever. Maybe once you've behaved yourself and the TARDIS judges you to be worthy, you can explore a little more. For now, breakfast. For one night only, the TARDIS has become - or rather, has been inhabited by - King Ianto's Coffee Stop. Would you like to join the club? He has pamphlets. And buttons! But more importantly, he has breakfast. Lots of breakfast. The countertops of the cozy diner are lined with plates of breakfast foods galore - bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, cockles, laverbread... and okay, there are American staples too. There's your pancakes and your french toast and hash browns and cupcakes or whatever strange sweet things Americans eat for breakfast. Oh, and tea. Lots of tea. And if you ask very nicely, King Ianto himself might brew up some of his very own coffee. It's so good, it has a cult following.*

The walls are decorated with a strange collection of primarily alien souvenirs. There's one whole section of postcards from other planets and galaxies. GREETINGS FROM MARS! says one particularly upbeat postcard, featuring swathes of blue sand and a setting blue sun. Many others are unreadable. There are flags, leis of unfamiliar flora, letters of commendation (right next to WANTED signs), photographs both old and new of various people and various Doctors posing next to various monuments and landmarks, and strangely enough, what looks to be a stolen sign commemorating Ianto's death, from the management of Mermaid Quay. Have a look around! You never know what you might find. Probably none of it is dangerous. The food definitely isn't.

Oh and also the ceiling is space and outside the windows is space and spaaaaaace.**

*((Ianto has an undiscovered power: his coffee improves you. Your health, your powers (temporarily), your mood, whatever needs fixing. Please drink responsibly.))

**not actually space
burgleurturts: ((゚ペ)?)
[personal profile] burgleurturts
The sun drops with almost immeasurable slowness into Greg’s teacup. He rests his chin on the tree stump and holds up one thumb and closes one eye and watches the big yellow ball roll down the side of his finger. He remembers the time a girl at school told him that thumbs aren't really fingers. “That’s a rock fact.” His breath, clear as the air, puffs away the snow that’s fallen in front of his mouth. The snowflakes are undisturbed? By the sound. It’ll be night soon, and Greg made his wish the night before; Wirt must have found his way home by now. He’s smart like that.

The trees far away eat up the sun before it can land in the cup, swallowing it in their needles and branches, but Greg is too tired, and the light breaking through the trunks is too pretty. Just as the last little slivers disappear, a green light flashes, like when he makes Wirt photograph him and his findings with that camera that spits out pictures, except this flash is growing and growing, filling the sky and the forest and his cup. It resolves into the shape of a kitten, then a cat, then a big cat, bounding closer and faster. It leaps into the air and strikes its head against the tree stump, shattering it and the cup and the branches that Greg hadn't noticed were hugging him. It stops in front of him, shaking the leaves and snow from its fur.

"Oh, Gregory," the fearsome critter says, like his father when Greg tells him about the adventures he's had and the new friends he's made.

"Hi, kitty," Greg greets, quiet and awed and droopy-eyed.

"I am not a kitty," it huffs. "I am the Splintercat." Greg reaches out to play with the funny tufts of hair at the tips of its ears. It bows his head, rumbling, then circles him three times, taller than Greg where he sits. "You don't belong here, Gregory." It wraps itself around him, soft and warm.

"Okay," Greg sighs, and falls asleep.

When he opens his eyes again, it's daytime, and the soft warmth surrounding him is much bigger and softer and warmer than before. Greg takes a big breath of the fur under his nose and sneezes. The big soft warmth rumbles. Greg pokes it, then pushes his fists into it.

"Punch, punch, punch."

With a mighty yawn, which Greg follows with one of his own, the fur parts to reveal the sky, and some rocks, and some water. Greg squints up at the sun and stretches.

"Boy, am I pooped."

A white face and a black nose descend on him, snuffling at his face, and his clothes, and then his stomach. Greg laughs, batting at the animal's snout.

"Haha! Hey! Hahaha!"

The creature whumpfs and nudges him with its nose, batting back with its big paws. Greg tickles it under its chin and on its cheeks.

"I'm gonna call you Antonio," Greg decides, as he's rolled back and forth by the curious creature. "You're real fuzzy, Antonio."

There's another flash, but not green, this time, and raises his head to look at it. Over past the rocks there's a big crowd of people waving at him and taking pictures. Delighted, Greg waves back.

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