orange_crushed | TEAM TARDIS DANCE BREAK

YOU GUYS, THERE ARE... NO WORDS. The internet keeps giving me reasons to carry on.

Send a JibJab Sendables® eCard Today!

YOU JUST GOT SERVED, INTERDIMENSIONALLY.

Send a JibJab Sendables® eCard Today!

ETA: Okay,

the_spin is right, that second one would be better with a ficlet. So here it is, darling ! (Just imagine that Rose twisted her ankle and could not compete, and got to watch from her plush box seats...)

The light fantastic.

The cell door opened with a drawn-out squeal; a theatrical sound with a rich tone, typical of the more traditional prison complexes in Caxullula Majora. It was a good squeak- it raked itself down their eardrums and raised the smaller hairs on the back of their necks like a cat on a fence voicing an existential crisis.

They hurled him through the door.

"I still want my phone call," the Doctor said, from his new position on the concrete floor. A guard considered that for a moment, then pushed his body further into the cell with one booted foot and shut the door with a clang. Rose knelt over the Doctor and started to check his eyes for signs of a concussion.

"Nah," the Master drawled, from the rickety cot. He folded his hands across his knee. "His pupils will be fine. Cranial buffers. We don't concuss." He tilted his head, brightly. "But after blunt trauma we do tend to recite the six founding lines of the forefathers."

"Omega," the Doctor said weakly. "Omegon. Omegon Junior-"

"Shh," said Rose. She cast a dark look over her shoulder. "That goes for both of you." She stroked the hair back from the Doctor's dirtied forehead and patted his cheek. "Are you alright ? You were out there for half an hour- what did they want ?"

"They showed me the arena," he gritted out. "We're to be their show. I'm sorry, Rose- they're a backwater planet, starved for entertainment. There was nothing I could say- nothing I could do." He pounded his fist into the floor. "Why do they never listen to reason ?"

The Master sat up.

"Are you sure ? Are we sure ?" The Master shot a horrified glance at the Doctor. "Their show ?" He took in a deep breath to begin protesting and something occurred to him- his eyes swiveled and rested on Rose, and then slid down the front of her shirt in an entirely unsubtle motion. There was a long pause during which his thoughts, appearing like neon signs inside the Doctor's brain, became a vividly unpleasant shade of disco-carpet orange. "Well," he said. "If we must."

"We must," the Doctor said, raising an eyebrow. He sat up, reached for Rose and pulled her slightly closer to his side. "I'm afraid," he continued, in an incredibly clipped tone, "we're going to have to dance for our lives."

"Oh," said the Master. He sat back. "That."

"What did you think ?" Rose returned, now discreetly buttoning her top button. "He said they were starved for entertainment. What else would it be ? Water-skiing ? Competitive knitting ?" The Doctor and the Master both looked away at exactly the same instant, one of them whistling.

"Something like that," the Doctor coughed. "Now, we've got ten minutes to think of a routine, and then we're going straight to hair and makeup. We'll have to hustle. Or- don't literally hustle. I think they're a Strauss crowd. Maybe a bit of foxtrot. Do I know the foxtrot ?" He turned to Rose. "Could I manage a foxtrot, do you think ?"

"We should have taken Fed Astaire with us, after all," Rose said. "That poor man was dying to get off-planet."

"I could perform a passable imitation of ol' Freddy-boy." He wrapped an arm around her waist and tipped them both over; Rose burst out in sudden giggles. "What do you think, Ginger, my darling ?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," said the Master.