Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding
Nov. 7th, 2011 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
merryghoulTitle: Bring Us Some Figgy Pudding | AO3 | Teaspoon
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Pairing: Eleven/River
Prompt: comfort food
Medium: fic
Rating: G
Word Count: 600+
Warnings: no warnings apply
Summary: A quiet Christmas for the Doctor and his wife goes awry.
A/N: Meant for another comm, but I couldn't make it work, so into a square it goes.
“You know, I was thinking maybe we should celebrate Christmas,” the Doctor said, topping a Christmas tree near the TARDIS doors with a star.
“We haven’t done everything we can possibly can on every universe you know exists, Doctor. You haven’t even taken me to meet Shakespeare yet.”
“We can meet Shakespeare the next time I pick you up from Stormcage, River. I want to celebrate Christmas right now. We can have a big feast, exchange gift stockings and watch the Queen’s speech....”
“I’d rather fight Cybermen, Doctor.”
“For once in my life I’d like a nice, quiet Christmas without swords and spiders and furry Cybermen. And I wanted to share it with you.”
“You fought Cybermen without me? When are we going to fight Cybermen?”
“Maybe after the next time I come to Stormcage and take you to meet Will Shakespeare. But for now,” the Doctor said as he twisted some knobs and pulled some levers on the TARDIS console, “we’re celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in London. 2011. By your standards, we’re having an old fashioned Christmas.”
Instead of the TARDIS providing food for River and the Doctor, River and the Doctor went to a local grocery store on Christmas Eve to get a turkey with cranberries and vegetables to serve on the side, ingredients for Christmas pudding and some Christmas candles.
On Christmas Day the Doctor stood in front of a stove in the TARDIS kitchen.
“Sweetie, do you really want to roast a turkey when you’ve never done it before? I wouldn’t have a problem if you were cooking something vegetarian from the days when you wore that horrid frock coat with all the fabric from a Hobbycraft. But a turkey?”
The Doctor was standing in front of the over. “I have this. I’ve seen enough American cooking shows to get cooking a turkey right. You put the bird in after you smother it in butter, stick a thermometer in one of the bird’s thighs, wait until it gets to 74 degrees Celsius....” The Doctor checked a thermometer on top of the stove. “It’s only at 63 now. You baste it until its golden brown, and serve.”
“Then why is there black smoke coming out of the oven?”
The Doctor sniffed. He turned around. When he took out the turkey, it was burnt, along with the roasting vegetables the Doctor placed around the turkey.
The Doctor took the turkey out, forgetting to wear oven mitts before he opened the door. He screamed. He quickly put the turkey on the stovetop. River looked at his burnt palms.
“Oh, sweetie, if the instructions for cooking a turkey are to leave the oven on 177 degrees Celsius, you cook the turkey at 177 degrees Celsius. You don’t cook the turkey at 260 degrees and expect it to cook properly. Next time, Doctor, for the sake of your TARDIS and me, do not ever cook again.”
In the TARDIS’ medical ward, River cleaned the Doctor’s palms with cool water. She dried them and covered his hands with gauze and white bandages. She gave him a peck on the lips.
“Hallucinogenic lipstick.”
“It should help with the pain.” She smiled.
River decided to cook the Christmas pudding herself, using a cookbook the Doctor had long forgotten about in his library. River refused the TARDIS’ similar-tasting roast turkey bars, in part because the Doctor couldn’t hold anything in his hands.
“I know the old girl didn’t teach you how to cook.”
“Open.”
River fed the Doctor his pudding.
“Sometimes I’m allowed to make pastries and biscuits at Stormcage for the other inmates. It’s certainly better than what you consider cooking, Doctor.”
“Oi! I am not a bad cook. That is, when I apply myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t try again in the near future.”
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Pairing: Eleven/River
Prompt: comfort food
Medium: fic
Rating: G
Word Count: 600+
Warnings: no warnings apply
Summary: A quiet Christmas for the Doctor and his wife goes awry.
A/N: Meant for another comm, but I couldn't make it work, so into a square it goes.
“You know, I was thinking maybe we should celebrate Christmas,” the Doctor said, topping a Christmas tree near the TARDIS doors with a star.
“We haven’t done everything we can possibly can on every universe you know exists, Doctor. You haven’t even taken me to meet Shakespeare yet.”
“We can meet Shakespeare the next time I pick you up from Stormcage, River. I want to celebrate Christmas right now. We can have a big feast, exchange gift stockings and watch the Queen’s speech....”
“I’d rather fight Cybermen, Doctor.”
“For once in my life I’d like a nice, quiet Christmas without swords and spiders and furry Cybermen. And I wanted to share it with you.”
“You fought Cybermen without me? When are we going to fight Cybermen?”
“Maybe after the next time I come to Stormcage and take you to meet Will Shakespeare. But for now,” the Doctor said as he twisted some knobs and pulled some levers on the TARDIS console, “we’re celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in London. 2011. By your standards, we’re having an old fashioned Christmas.”
Instead of the TARDIS providing food for River and the Doctor, River and the Doctor went to a local grocery store on Christmas Eve to get a turkey with cranberries and vegetables to serve on the side, ingredients for Christmas pudding and some Christmas candles.
On Christmas Day the Doctor stood in front of a stove in the TARDIS kitchen.
“Sweetie, do you really want to roast a turkey when you’ve never done it before? I wouldn’t have a problem if you were cooking something vegetarian from the days when you wore that horrid frock coat with all the fabric from a Hobbycraft. But a turkey?”
The Doctor was standing in front of the over. “I have this. I’ve seen enough American cooking shows to get cooking a turkey right. You put the bird in after you smother it in butter, stick a thermometer in one of the bird’s thighs, wait until it gets to 74 degrees Celsius....” The Doctor checked a thermometer on top of the stove. “It’s only at 63 now. You baste it until its golden brown, and serve.”
“Then why is there black smoke coming out of the oven?”
The Doctor sniffed. He turned around. When he took out the turkey, it was burnt, along with the roasting vegetables the Doctor placed around the turkey.
The Doctor took the turkey out, forgetting to wear oven mitts before he opened the door. He screamed. He quickly put the turkey on the stovetop. River looked at his burnt palms.
“Oh, sweetie, if the instructions for cooking a turkey are to leave the oven on 177 degrees Celsius, you cook the turkey at 177 degrees Celsius. You don’t cook the turkey at 260 degrees and expect it to cook properly. Next time, Doctor, for the sake of your TARDIS and me, do not ever cook again.”
In the TARDIS’ medical ward, River cleaned the Doctor’s palms with cool water. She dried them and covered his hands with gauze and white bandages. She gave him a peck on the lips.
“Hallucinogenic lipstick.”
“It should help with the pain.” She smiled.
River decided to cook the Christmas pudding herself, using a cookbook the Doctor had long forgotten about in his library. River refused the TARDIS’ similar-tasting roast turkey bars, in part because the Doctor couldn’t hold anything in his hands.
“I know the old girl didn’t teach you how to cook.”
“Open.”
River fed the Doctor his pudding.
“Sometimes I’m allowed to make pastries and biscuits at Stormcage for the other inmates. It’s certainly better than what you consider cooking, Doctor.”
“Oi! I am not a bad cook. That is, when I apply myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t try again in the near future.”
