Bachelor WTF: A Doctor Who Spinoff

“Wow. That’s fantastic—you must be fixing everything. You’re doing a wonderful job with that grav boot drive.”

“Bach, it would be less distracting if you would stop touching my ass.”

“But I’m supporting you while you work. I’m being helpful!”

“The only thing you’re supporting is my ass.”

“Sometimes that’s just what someone needs, especially at a time like this. As your assistant I feel that it’s my duty—“

“Bach, don’t say it.”

“It’s my duty—“

“BACH.”

“It’s my duty…to rub that booty.”

“I cannot believe you actually convinced me to help you, I really can’t.”

The Bachelor grinned, and as Sara reached up to grab a wire that was just out of reach, he gave her a helpful push with both hands on her butt. She rolled her eyes and when she finished with that particular access panel he jumped behind the bar to mix her a “thank you for trying to fix my TARDIS” drink. He tried convincing her that his TARDIS never came with a manual (his TARDIS didn’t need a sissy manual) but she managed to get a hold of the Doctor’s TARDIS manual and felt compelled by some inner force to play around with it. Now she stood at the main lever control panel, with the manual open on the bar in front of her, glancing now and then at the levers with a critical eye. “Chapter One,” she read aloud, “Dematerialization. Now that I’ve replaced the grav boot it should be fairly strightfoward to run a test of the system…”

She pushed a few buttons with careful precision. He could tell she was concentrating hard, and he admired that in a woman.

What she needed was a Sonic Screwdriver.

He was just adding the Gallifreyan mint oil drop by drop into the glass (which was, of course, the most important ingredient in a good Sonic Screwdriver*) when the TARDIS made a kind of croaking noise. He froze, his eyes flitting away from the drink to see Sara staring at him.

“What did you just touch?” she asked, pleasantly enough though her expression showed she wasn’t pleased at all.

“Oh, er—just—nothing,” he stammered, “just one of the taps.”

“I did tell you not to touch anything, right? I mean if you want me to fix this contraption you shouldn’t—”

“But it’s nothing! It’s just one of the drinks!” He laughed nervously, and demonstrated by giving the tap another twist. Mint oil dripped into the glass, then stopped altogether. The door to his TARDIS slammed shut, and as they looked around apprehensively he could just hear a faint whirring noise. The LED screen on the other side of the TARDIS read, in large, red letters: “DEMATERIALIZATION IN PROGRESS.”

Sara glared at the Bachelor and violently flipped to a new section in the manual. “Chapter Two: How to Rematerialize….”


***

A good sonic screwdriver, according to John Nathan-Turner's secretary Sarah Lee, consists of: 2 shots vodka, 2 shots martini, 4 shots of orange juice, mint, and ice.

The good news was that they got the TARDIS to rematerialize. The bad news was that in the process, Sara was knocked wildly off balance and she toppled over. When the Bachelor came out from behind the counter to help her to her feet, another wild swing from the cranky TARDIS resulted only in him also being knocked off balance. With a thunk and a drop, the TARDIS stopped moving and made a few ominous creaking noises before going silent. Sara tried to extricate herself from the confused jumble of herself, the Bachelor, and a barstool he’d taken down with him when he fell, but he was trying to do the same.

“Stop for just a second, you’re only making it worse,” Sara said, holding up a hand to deflect the barstool. She grabbed at the leg of it and yanked it to the side, then kicked it away and rolled to her feet. Next to her, the Bachelor also stood, looking around his TARDIS a bit uncertainly.

“What was that?” Sara asked him, and he stepped gingerly to the door, his toe knocking the fallen glass from his earlier endeavor at a Sonic Screwdriver halfway across the floor. Sara followed him, snagging the glass and setting it carefully on the righted barstool before going to the door and looking over the Bachelor’s shoulder at what lay beyond.

“I think we’ve landed…” he commented, turning to look at Sara with a crooked grin as she took in the sight before her, wide-eyed and clearly fascinated. The Bachelor tapped under her chin and she closed her jaw with an audible snap before half-heartedly glaring at him. It didn’t last long, her attention soon being distracted by a car puttering past the TARDIS.

“Where are we?” Sara asked, and then glanced back at the Bachelor, who was still watching her amazement with a smile that implied imminent laughter. “When are we?” The borderline consternation in her voice finally made him laugh, and he stepped away from the door, shutting it gently before clapping his hands together with a sort of mischievous glee.

“Earth! Sometime during the nineteen twenties, if I had to guess,” he said. Sara made a frustrated noise as he bounded past her and through a door that looked like it should have belonged to a kitchen.

“Hey now, where’re you-“ she hollered after him.

“Keep up, Sara, or you’ll get lost!” he shouted back, and she dodged around a corner, nearly crashing into the Bachelor as he stood in front of a door. He smirked and held it open for her.

“Why does the tap behind your bar make the TARDIS dematerialize? I mean, what kinda sense does that make? No wonder you’re always landing in places you don’t want to be,” she remarked as he gestured her on with a nod. She found her way blocked by another door, one that only make a disconsolate honking sound when the Bachelor tried to open it.

“Oh no you don’t, you stubborn…” Sara snapped at it, and struck out with a well-aimed booted foot. She had little patience for the many malfunctioning contraptions within the big malfunctioning contraption that was the Bachelor’s TARDIS. The door stopped honking and slid open with the slightest whoosh.

“Thanks,” the Bachelor said, and stepped past her.

“Yup. Where’re we goin’?” she asked, listening as the door whooshed quietly shut behind them. The Bachelor turned and looked at her with that same eager grin.

“The wardrobe, of course. Can’t have us walking around in these clothes, we’d scream ‘not from around here’ from miles off,” he said, and held open one last door. Inside was an astounding array of clothes, mostly in piles haphazardly strewn around the room. Sara poked her head in and blinked.

“You- how-“ she stammered, and the Bachelor turned and looked at her as she hesitated in the doorway.

“So you can deal with a machine that is bigger on the inside than the outside, but you can’t deal with a large closet?” he asked her, and she scowled at him.

“But where’d they all come from? And why’ve you got women’s clothes?” she asked, poking at a pile of bright dresses with her toe.

“Oh, from here and there. Mostly… ah, here it is. Mostly from here,” he said, poking around within the hanging clothes for something he very shortly revealed by shoving clothes aside or pulling them down and dropping them on the floor.

“Whassat?” Sara asked, looking over his shoulder.

“It makes clothes. Watch!” the Bachelor said, and pushed a button. Sara waited, and nothing happened. The Bachelor frowned, and pushed the same button again. The machine stood stubbornly still and absolutely silent.

“…Oh, I’m sorry, is it supposed to do something? Honestly, does anything on this ship work?” Sara asked. Although, really, this complaining was half for the sake of it only. She was growing somewhat fond of the crotchety ship and its various cranks and creaks and malfunctioning parts. The Bachelor turned a very put-upon, kicked-puppy face to her and she stared at him for a moment before rolling her eyes, stifling a grin, and stepping forward to the machine. It actually looked fairly well-taken-care-of, so she stepped to the side and looked behind it. With a grin, she bent down and grabbed the plug, shoving it into the wall.

“It was unplugged, not broken. I’ll give you that one,” she said, stepping back to let the Bachelor work the machine. In short order, he’d had it spit out a dress, clearly made for someone about Sara’s height, but it was shiny, covered in sequins, and short, shorter than anything Sara could remember wearing. Then again, since she could only remember wearing the pants she currently wore and the two spare pair she owned, that wasn’t saying a lot.

“You can’t possibly be serious,” she said, eyeing the dress. “I’m not wearing that.”

The Bachelor looked at the dress, frowned, and looked back at Sara.

“Why not?”

“… You really want me to start that list?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“But it’s pretty!” the Bachelor protested, holding it out to her. She was forced to take it or watch it drop to the ground, so she reached out and snagged it.

“It’s…” she started to say, and he took advantage of his empty hands to point at a screen that stood off to the corner, sectioning off just enough space for someone to change clothes.

“It’s pretty. Go try it on,” he said good-naturedly, and then turned and played with his clothes machine some more. Sara glared at his back and then turned with a roll of her eyes and stomped off behind the screen.

“So?” the Bachelor’s voice floated over the screen minutes later. Sara was still scowling at her reflection, looking awkward in the not-even-knee-length dress that hung loose on her tall frame and bounced sparkles of light all around the sectioned-off area.

“I’m not wearing this,” she growled.

“At least let me see. You don’t even know what it’s supposed to look like!” he protested, and she could hear him grinning.

“If you laugh, I swear to whatever you hold holy that I will end you,” she threatened, and when there was no further sound, she stepped hesitantly from behind the screen. The Bachelor’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t laugh. Sara turned bright red and glared.

“It looks stupid,” she grumbled, playing with the sequins nearest her hands, nearly pulling some of them off.

“Nooooo it doesn’t,” the Bachelor said, sounding a little too appreciative for Sara’s current tolerance level, and then flashed a smile at her when she arched both eyebrows at him.

“Seriously! That’s what it’s supposed to look like. But if you pull off all those sequins, it really will look silly,” he laughed. Then, leaving Sara standing there, he bounded off behind the screen to change into his own clothes. Sara snorted and looked down at the dress with an annoyed scowl for a minute before smiling ever so slightly. It may have been the world’s most impractical dress… but at least it was shiny.

The Bachelor giggled with delight as he dove behind the changing screen to get into *his* costume. 1920s Earth! Was there anywhere better? It was one of the few time-places that he could recognize on site—20th Century Earth History was one of the few classes he actually attended back on Gallifrey, and he had found the sexy clothes and the organized crime (not to mention the disorganized crime) to perfectly suit him. He had always wanted to go, too—and the TARDIS, like the perfect wingman, picked the perfect moment to take him and his lady there! Oh, the things he could tell her about Chicago—just off the top of his head! Why, he may even be able to impress her with his knowledge!

“The 1920s—sometimes called the “Roaring Twenties,” were marked by a steep increase in crime,” the Bachelor babbled, so excited that it took him several tries to tie the tie of his perfectly-tailored three-piece suit. “You know humans actually invented the Roaring Twenties to relax after the first World War! By 1920 alcohol was prohibited, which of course allowed for a flourishing of independent breweries and distilleries. These “speakeasies,” serving “moonshine” along with various kinds of entertainment which, because of the clandestine nature of these establishments in general, generally crossed the boundaries of decency and—well, what’s so funny?” he self-consciously adjusted the fedora that he had rammed on his head, hoping that would get Sarasine to stop laughing at him.

She didn’t.

“At least its not just women who wear impractical clothing here!” Sarasine giggled.

“I’ll have you know this suit is the epitome of fashion during this period!”

“What are all those lines all over it?”

The Bachelor looked down, faltering a bit at his choice of dark with pale pinstripe. “But it goes so well with the shirt, don’t you think?” he said, not to be cowed. “It really makes the tie pop!”

“A bit too much, I think.”

“Anyway, I didn’t laugh at you!” the Bachelor said. He was determined to maintain his good mood. He ran his fingers through his hair and flipped the fedora onto his head. “Let’s get outta here and see the town, sweetheart!”

“Sweetheart?”

“It’s an expression of endearment!” He raced off toward the door, only taking time to shout “come on!” from the console room.

***

Illegal gin manufacture made the classic martini a staple of 1920s Prohibition society.

1 1/2 oz. gin
1 1/2 oz. dry vermouth

Stir with ice cubes. Garnish with an olive or twist of lemon.
(X)

Following the Bachelor’s mad dash out the door of the TARDIS would have been easier had Sara not been wearing heels, something to which she was entirely unaccustomed. She made it to the door before she completely lost her balance. She would have fallen right on her face in the middle of the sidewalk outside, but the Bachelor had apparently paused to wait for her before running off, and as she stumbled, he put an arm out and caught her.

“You can’t run in heels. You’ll break an ankle or something. Don’t you ever wear anything but those boots of yours?” he asked, that grin on his face making it obvious that he already knew the answer. Sara scowled at him.

“Obviously I don’t, or I wouldn’t be fallin’ all over the place,” she said in a too-patient voice and righted herself. She started as a child ran past her feet, followed by his mother shouting at the top of her lungs, and looked up the street after them. There was so much going on that she couldn’t help but try to see it all at once, especially the cars. The cars were fantastic. They were nothing like the sleek, airborne craft her family had used on their farm…

Sara jumped again, but this time it was the shock of remembering, for just a split second, something that had happened before she’d awakened on a space station with no idea who she was or where she’d come from. A farm, then. Her family had owned a farm, with vehicles that apparently floated in midair. She stood very still for a minute while activity went on around her, but no further hint as to her former life was forthcoming.

“Hey, I think… what are you doing?” Sara asked as she turned and saw the Bachelor staring at the TARDIS’ door with an appreciative grin on his face. Rather than a disgusting green refrigerator, there stood a door, blending in perfectly with the building in front of which they’d landed, looking perfectly ordinary.

“So it isn’t always an ugly green refrigerator?” Sara asked, and the Bachelor turned and looked at her in disbelief.

“An ugly green… I’ll have you know I like my TARDIS like that,” he said indignantly, and Sara grinned. “It’s better than a bright blue Police call box from England,” he added, sounding increasingly affronted, which only caused Sara’s grin to widen. “And no, it isn’t always a refrigerator. It has a chameleon circuit, like all TARDISes, so it can blend in,” he added. For emphasis, he waved a hand at the erstwhile fridge. “And for your information, my brother broke the chameleon circuit in his TARDIS, which is why it always looks like a phone booth.”

“Oh, so something on your TARDIS does work,” Sara responded, and held up a finger before whatever thought had just lit the Bachelor’s face actually made it to the light of day. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.” He made a face, but after thinking it over, said nothing. Instead, he dodged after Sara as she stepped into the foot traffic along the sidewalk and let it take her up the street. She strolled at a leisurely pace, walking carefully to avoid tripping, walking along the street-side of the sidewalk to look at the parked cars along the curb.

“Hey, now, don’t wander off! You’ll get lost, or something,” the Bachelor said as he caught her. She’d stopped to look at a car that had clearly been parked in the same spot for a long while. The front bumper hung at an odd angle, and one of the tires was crooked. Sara wasn’t listening to a word the Bach was saying, instead going to the hood of the vehicle and fiddling with it ‘til it opened. She poked and prodded at some of the metal parts near the engine and something clanked. Then she knelt, in her shiney silver dress, and heaved at the bumper, shrugging it back into place and giving it a kick to make sure it stayed. The wheel… well, there wasn’t much to be done about that.

“Earth to Sara,” the Bachelor said, tapping her on the shoulder, and she jumped and looked at him, reddening slightly.

“Sorry. I was trying to fix it! Poor old car’s just been sittin’ here forever, not doing anything,” she said, looking at the orange-and-tan thing. Trash was cluttered around the tires.

“Is it fixed?” the Bachelor asked, and Sara shrugged.

“One way to find out,” she said, practically skipping to the driver’s side door. She tripped on her way and caught herself on the hood of the car.

“You’re a hazard to your own health with those shoes on,” the Bachelor commented as he followed her and politely opened the car door for her. It was unlocked, and he smirked at her as he offered her a hand into the car. She looked at him for a moment, arched her eyebrows, and took the offered hand- and then none-too-subtly stepped on his foot.

“Oh, sorry, was your foot there?” she asked dryly as he scowled at her. Then he laughed it off and went around the car to hop in the passenger seat. Sara was fiddling with something again, this time near the steering wheel, and the car purred to life. They both looked at each other and grinned, before Sara pulled the car from the parking space and managed to not hit anything getting into traffic.

For awhile they just drove up and down one street after the next. But when Sara got a better idea of how the car worked, she found one of the busier streets, and proceeded to nearly crash the car because she kept getting distracted. The Bachelor was not helping, insisting on pointing things out and giving her mini history lessons as they went. He finally distracted her one too many times. Craning her head to look up at a tall building with stone animals perched all around the roof, she neglected to realize she’d come to the end of a street, and kept going.

“SARA!” the Bachelor shouted, and in the time-honored tradition of passengers everywhere, slammed his foot into the floor of the car to stomp on a brake pedal that wasn’t there. Sara did the same, and slammed the car to a screeching halt before it could go through the wall of a very anonymous storefront, or maybe restaurant, or maybe residence. She couldn’t honestly tell what it was, except mere feet in front of her and scratching up the front of her adopted car. Both of them sat in silence for a split second. Then Sara realized she’d thrown an arm in front of the Bachelor to keep him in the car, and he’d likewise done the same to her, and they both dropped their arms. Sara turned to look at the Bachelor with a wide-eyed, slightly freaked out look on her face.

“S-sorry. You alright?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and she nodded in return before stepping out of the car. The front wasn’t quite as destroyed as she’d feared it would be, but as she patted the machine absently with one hand and knelt to look at the poor, abused front bumper, a whole crew of people appeared from inside the nondescript building… and they did not look happy.

The Bachelor shrank down in his seat, trying to turn invisible. “Oh, no…no no no…”

“What?” Sara asked. She was messing with the gear box, but the car was on its last legs from the start and did nothing more then roll gently backward until its back wheels bumped against the curb behind it, about forty feet from the wall of glass and brick they had just crashed into. The area they were in was quite deserted—except for the approaching men in black suits. They approached the car cautiously, and were still quite a bit away from them. “I mean, I figured that running into a house—building—what is it?”

“Oh, it’s a shop.” The Bachelor said, reaching around to brush some glass off the windshield. “A cigar shop, I think.”

“What’s a cigar?”

“You know—the things you smoke.”

“Oh, right—well, running into a cigar shop probably isn’t highly praised on 20th century Earth, I’ll grant you, but we can easily apologize…”

“Er—you can’t really apologize to the mafia!”

“The…sorry, all this Earth lingo is confusing me—what was that last word?”

“Mafia, mafia! You know, like the Godfather!” He blinked with abject horror at her blank expression. “Organized crime doesn’t possibly ring any bells?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Well, this will be a new experience for you, at least,” the Bachelor said, picking nervously at a bit of loose stitching on the otherwise mint-condition leather seat cushion.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been involved in organized crime!”

“Not—you know, on purpose,” the Bachelor backpedaled. “But there was that time on Victus Prime…”

“Well we’d better get out and see what they want—“

The Bachelor said nothing, momentarily distracted by something that he pulled out of the loose seam of his seat cushion. Then he threw out an arm and grabbed Sara. “Don’t!”

“Why not?”

The Bachelor gulped, and wordlessly held up the hundred dollar bill he unearthed from the cushion.

Sara cocked her head to one side as she took the bill. “What—is this supposed to be money?”

“It’s sure what it looks like, missy.” This comment came from one of the suited men. He was about a foot away from Sara’s door, and he was smiling.

“You shouldn’t let a dame drive your nice car, mac,” another of the suited men said, this time one standing near the Bachelor’s door. “You know dames don’t know how to drive.”

“Well, we’re sorry about the cigar shop,” Sara said, not really seeing the point in petty insults. She thought a moment, then took the bill out of the Bach’s hands and held it out. “We’ll pay for damages, or whatever.”

The men laughed. There were five of them. The Bachelor slapped his hand over the hole in the cushion and refused to move, even when the gangster opened his car door.

“Hey, isn’t this Mugsy Wilkin’s car?” one of the gangsters said.

“You wouldn’t know what happened to old Mugsy, would you, toots?” The gangster at Sara’s door was now leaning over it, happily preoccupied with looking down Sara’s dress.

The Bachelor felt his hackles rising, which didn’t happen very often, so the “Come on, leave her alone, guys,” came out a bit too loudly and with a bit too much voice-cracking.

Again the gangsters laughed, and the one at the Bachelor’s side grabbed him by his carefully-selected necktie. “Why don’t you two just step outta the car a minute?”

***

A Whiskey and soda is a tried-and-true pairing with with cigars or cigarettes.

2 oz. scotch whiskey
1 ox. club soda

Pour the scotch in a highball glass with ice, then top with the club soda.

Well, this situation had very quickly gone downhill. After they’d hauled the Bachelor out of the car by his necktie, the man on Sara’s side of the car pulled the door open and reached in to grab her by the arm and haul her out as well. When she was standing, she yanked her arm away and shot him a glare, but he only seemed amused. He let her stand there glaring for a moment before again grabbing her arm and pulling her around to the passenger side of the car, where one of his buddies was hassling the Bachelor.

“Hey, what do we have here?” one of them was saying, pulling a water gun from the Bachelor’s pocket while he searched for weapons. It was lime green, and empty. He then divested the timelord of several confetti poppers, a handful of streamers, and something that looked quite like a meat thermometer. In fact, Sara thought as she looked at it more closely, that’s exactly what it was. She’d fixed it just last week when he’d dropped it and she’d stepped on it while they both tried to occupy the same space in a team effort at cooking something like real food. Why in the world was he carrying it in his pocket?

“Just how did the likes of you end up with our pal’s car?” a third man asked, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the odd collection of things they’d taken from the Bachelor’s pockets. They weren’t looking at Sara, apparently having assumed that whatever had been done had been done by the Bachelor, but she answered anyway.

“I found it,” she said, and they all looked at her. The Bachelor was making a sort of “shut up and don’t say anything else” face at her, but she ignored him. The men looked at her for a minute before they all started chuckling.

“Right, and I’m the President of the United States,” one of them finally managed around his laughter, elbowing another of them in the side. Still laughing, they herded Sara and the Bachelor off to one side to stand on the sidewalk while they searched the car. It was only a matter of moments before the one searching the passenger side found what they were looking for, and stood up holding a handful of the same colorful bill the Bachelor had handed Sara earlier.

“It’s Mugsy’s, alright,” he said, and one man each grabbed Sara and the Bachelor before they could even attempt to bolt. The other three men each produced pistols, and though Sara hadn’t seen them before, she knew enough about weapons to recognize what they were. She shot the Bachelor a look.

“So you just found Mugsy’s car, huh? How’d you start it?” one of them asked Sara, and she shrugged.

“It’s not that hard. Just gotta know what you’re doin’ with machines, and I do,” she answered evenly. She was finding these men far less intimidating than some logical corner of her mind told her she should. The man who’d spoken to her flashed a smile that was not at all friendly, and waves his gun about a little.

“Sweetheart, you and your fella here are in a whole lot of trouble,” he growled. Sara tensed. It was one thing for someone she knew to use a term of endearment so casually- and honestly, it wouldn’t have helped to scold the Bachelor about it, when he did it, because he’d probably just find it hilarious and say it anyway- but it was another thing entirely for this man to use it. While waving a gun in her face.

So she stepped on his friend’s foot, hard, with the heel of her ridiculous shoe. The man yowled, and dropped her, and she jumped away, only to simultaneously hear the click of the gun as the man holding it pulled back a little lever, and see the barrel as he brought it up to point square at the Bachelor. Another did the same to her when she froze, and the fifth man stepped over his fallen partner to grab her and wrench an arm up behind her back.

“That is just… outside of enough! What in the name of all things holy do you lot think you’re doin’? We’d’ve given you the car if you’d just asked nicely, there’s no call t’be wavin’ guns around and tryin’ to break people’s arms!” she snarled.

“Sara…” the Bachelor said as the men tried to decide whether to be angry or amused, and Sara stopped her tirade to look at him. “Now might be a good time to stop taunting them. Those aren’t water guns…” he said when he had her attention, gesturing with a nod at the weapons pointed at the two of them. Sara snorted, but she held her tongue.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t think Beau there is the forgivin’ type- Beau, get off the ground, she didn’t break your foot- and I don’t buy your little fairy tale about Mugsy’s car,” the one pointing the gun at Sara said. His friend managed to get up off the ground and unholstered his own weapon, leveling it at Sara.

“End of the line, friends,” he said. Sara glanced quickly to the Bachelor to see if he had some sort of fantastic last minute escape plan, but he looked as bewildered as she felt. Crap. She looked back at the barrel pointed right at her face.

A shot rang down the alley, but it wasn’t from any of the guns pointed at either the Bachelor or Sara, although Sara didn’t realize until she’d opened her eyes and saw the man in front of her bleeding on the ground. The one holding her dropped her to grab his own weapon and aim at a man who peered around a flight of stairs to one of the surrounding buildings. Arm released, Sara did the most logical thing she could think of, and threw herself sideways into the man holding onto the Bachelor, catching him off guard and then slipping, crashing into the Bachelor’s side, tripping them both.

The men from the cigar shop were no longer preoccupied with their quarry. They had all turned and were firing off shots at another group of men who seemed equally determined to kill them. Sara wasn’t so sure this meant the opposing group were friends, but she also wasn’t going to be getting in the way. Perhaps a bit frantically, because she wasn’t used to being shot at, for Heaven’s sake, she grabbed the Bachelor by his pinstripe jacket and dragged him next to the car.

“I don’t like the mafia,” she informed him as they huddled next to the car.

The shots eventually stopped, and for a moment there was silence. Then the sound of more shoes approached the car. They stopped, and then someone whistled appreciatively.

“So the money was in Mugsy’s car. You were right, Boss,” a new voice said. Sara turned to the Bachelor and, less quietly than she’d thought she was speaking, asked, “What is with these folks and that money? Is it a whole lot of it or something?”

To which the Bachelor very nearly facepalmed, even as someone, again in one of those suits, stepped around the car.

“Yes, Sara, it’s a lot of money,” he grumbled at her, standing and then hauling her to her feet so she wouldn’t contrive to twist an ankle on her high heels.

“Looks like you two are the heroes of the hour. I’ve been trying to get my hands on old Mugsy’s stash for months,” a man said to them over the top of the car, and they both smiled a bit nervously.

“Uh… you’re welcome?” Sara asked, hoping there were not about to be more guns.

The Bachelor couldn’t help himself. He leaned over and, cupping his hands over his mouth, whispered into Sara’s ear.

“We know nothing about any money, alright? And don’t give your real name! And—just tell them we were innocent bystanders!”

The Bachelor glanced out of the corner of his eye at the man that had just addressed Sara, just starting to really take him in. He was relatively short, somewhat portly man, wearing a fine tailored suit and a white hat. He was watching the Bachelor whisper in Sara’s ear with a polite, somewhat amused smile on his face; and he was leaning against his own car, which was green and and black, possibly some sort of Cadillac….

The Bachelor’s mind pieced together the car, the smile, the hat—

The Bachelor cut his eyes, peering at the man. “You look familiar…”

“Then you have me at a disadvantage,” he replied, still smiling.

“He’s the Bachelor,” Sara said. The Bachelor stared at her, but she looked quite pleased with herself.

“I said don’t give them our real names!” the Bachelor hissed.

Sara laughed. “Like that’s your real name!” She patted him on the cheek in a very condescending manner and added to the man in the white hat, “He’s a good bodyguard, but little low on the brain cells, you know?”

The Bachelor frowned as the man in the white hat laughed and circled the car toward them. Bodyguard?...And when you said "the Bachelor" like that, it almost made them sound like they were in the mafia…

“But it almost makes us sound like we’re in the—“ the Bachelor began until Sara stepped on his foot with an air of ‘trust me, I know what I’m doing.’

The man reached out and took Sara’s hand. “And might I beg the name of his ravishing employer?” he said, kissing her hand.

Sara sought for a suitable nickname, but only for a second. “I’m the, er…Godmother.”

The Bachelor blinked, not quite able to process what Sara just said. The Godmother?! But she wasn’t done yet.

“Of the…”—she glanced at the Bachelor’s necktie—“Purple Gang.”

The Bachelor gasped without meaning to, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Capone raised an eyebrow. “Is something wrong with him?”

“He’s an idiot,” Sara said smoothly. “He’s just my bodyguard. You know. Guarding my…yeah.”

“Not doing a very good job of that standing behind you,” one of the gangsters said helpfully.

“Or he’s making sure none of you sneak up on me,” Sara said.

The Bachelor realizing he ought to play the part she cast him as, tried to look about twice as big as he really was and looked around watchfully. The man in the white hat just grinned all the wider.

“The Godmother! You’re very young to have accomplished so much.”

“Oh, its nothing.” She bit her lips as an awkward silence ensued. “What’s your name, then?” she finally added, getting a bit more on the defensive now that all the man had done was smile at them.

“You can call me Al,” he said. “I did not know the leader of the Purple Gang did her own legwork.”

“Oh—you—know about us then?” Sara said, looking a bit unsure of herself. The Bachelor felt it might be judicious to intervene at this point.

“The Purple Gang is a bootlegging branch of the mafia,” the Bachelor whispered, again while their new friend watched in amusement. “A bootlegger is a slang term for—“

“I get it!” Sara snapped back, “I don’t suppose you know who he is?”

“That’s Al Capone. He’s sort of, erm. The boss.”

“Of who?”

The Bachelor laughed nervously. “Oh, everyone. We kind of, erm, work for him. It’s a good thing I know a thing or two about liquor…”

“I would invite you to have a drink, Miss Godmother, but I see you were dressed for a more formal evening,” Al said, cutting the Bachelor off. “Perhaps I could escort you to my club for dinner? I’m sure you would be interested in a few of the drinks we have.”

The Bachelor grinned manically. “Thank you all the same, but there’s this new Buster Keaton flick we were going to—“

“But I insist,” Al said amiably. “Its not every day I get a chance to meet the Godmother of the Purple Gang! I’ll escort you myself—your vehicle still drives, I hope?”

“Yes, but—“

“Excellent. I’ll have Clamps follow to make sure you don’t get lost.”

And with that Mr. Capone headed off toward his car. The Bachelor and Sara practically dove into theirs.

“Look at the size of these bullet holes!” the Bachelor said, sticking a finger through one of the holes in his car door.

“I was trying not to think about that!” Sara said. She was clutching the steering wheel with whitening knuckles.

“I think they look cool! And you did get us into this mess in the first place.”

“Well, I hope you can put your money where your mouth is. I never thought I’d say this, but we’ll be relying on your expertise for this one.”

“And your neckline, apparently. Did you see the way he looked at you?”

“Shut. Up. And from now on, you’re my fiancé.”

The Bachelor grinned and folded his hands behind his head. “Yes, dear!”

***

Purple Gang Pilsner
5.5 ABV. A dry, German-style, golden beer with a thick white head, herbal aroma, and medium body. (Atwater Brewery, Michigan)

Sara was still not convinced that they hadn’t gone from a frying pan to a fire, but at least the short drive gave her a few minutes to think. And there was very little doubt in her mind that in a conversation about alcoholic beverages in general, the Bachelor could hold his own. His TARDIS was, after all, pretty much a bar. Anyway, he seemed to know enough about what was going on that he hadn’t accidentally gotten them into an awkward situation by making up stories on the fly. Sara was considering just letting him do the talking, but she remembered they all thought he was a bodyguard. So she supposed she’d have to do some talking- but hopefully without making a huge mess of things.

True to his word, Al Capone had a club with a truly astounding variety of alcohol. There were people everywhere, and there was even music. And though he still seemed vaguely threatning, Capone was nice enough. They sat, the three of them, at one of the better tables in the whole place with a good view of everything going on in the room, and ate dinner that Sara was too busy worrying to properly enjoy.

“So, what brings you to Chicago?” Al finally asked Sara, and she paused in trying to figure out how you were supposed to spear a tomato when it wouldn’t stop rolling around your plate to look at him.

“Oh, we just thought we’d see the sights,” she said vaguely, “Actually, that’s sort of how I almost crashed the car,” she added, since that was also true and sounded a little bit less evasive. She glanced over at the Bachelor, who was having no such trouble with chasing tomatoes around on his plate, and hoped he’d have something else to add, because she was coming up with nothing.

“She’s never seen Chicago before,” he said, and then grinned, “So I said I’d show her around.”

“And you just thought you’d steal Mugsy’s car while you were at it?” Al asked, sounding a little dubious.

“We got tired of walking,” Sara answered with a straight face, though she felt utterly ridiculous. But this only made their new friend laugh.

“Well, I always did admire a woman with a mind of her own,” he said when he was done chuckling, “Where is it you come from exactly, that you’ve never seen Chicago?”

Sara looked around frantically for something that might give her some knowledge of where the heck she could possibly be from. There was a painting on one wall, of a tall, triangular metal structure. Underneath it was the word “Paris”. That sounded like a place name- unless that tower was called a Paris, and then she’d just have to make up some likely story as to why she was from somewhere named after a structure.

“I’m from Paris,” she said, and knew she’d said the wrong thing when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Bachelor twitch as if preventing himself from kicking her foot. But he recovered quickly, and before Capone could do much more than look slightly confused, added, “Texas. She’s from Paris, Texas. You know, tiny little town, hardly anyone there…”

“Ah, Texas. Yes, that would explain some things,” Capone said, and Sara was about to ask him what exactly that was supposed to mean when dessert was brought to the table. Sara wasn’t sure what it was called, but it was made with thin layers of cake and frosting and tasted slightly of coffee, and she was perfectly content to let the Bachelor make up conversation while she ate it. He was much better at it anyway, and didn’t look like he was three seconds from jumping up and running out the door as fast as his legs could carry him. But by the time the dessert plates were taken away, Capone had grown somewhat bored of talking to the Bachelor and was again trying to involve Sara in conversation. Mid-conversation, since he was being mostly ignored, the Bachelor nodded to both of them and waved vaguely in the direction of a large gathering of people at the bar, before getting up and leaving.

Sara briefly considered following him, but that would probably have been rude to their host, and she hadn’t quite forgotten that he and his men had shot up the other gang (and the poor car in the process), and she didn’t really want to be on his bad side. So she stayed where she was, but only after staring after him for a moment in frustration.

“Your bodyguard, you said?” Capone asked, perhaps interpreting her stare for wistfulness or something equally ridiculous, and Sara blinked at him, about to deny it. Then again… maybe his eyes would quit wandering to the ridiculously low neckline of her dress if she really did say the Bachelor was her fiancé. It was worth a try…

“Well, no, not really. He’s my fiancé,” she answered. They both watched as the Bachelor proceeded to flirt with a very pretty woman at the bar, and Sara just about facepalmed. She’d have to thank him for his impeccable timing later.

“He is, however, an incurable flirt,” she added dryly, and Capone laughed. He seemed to do that a lot, but Sara wasn’t entirely sure it was because he was actually amused…

“I must admit, I was surprised to meet you. I was expecting someone a bit older. I believe last time I heard from the Godmother of the Purple Gang, I remember speaking to a fiftyish woman,” he said, perfectly non-threatening, but Sara recognized she was being called out and found herself scrambling, again, for an explanation.

“Well, you see, she got tired of the job. Retired, left it all to me,” she explained, and Capone nodded.

“I see. And how does a young lady from Paris, Texas, become so trusted as to be left in charge of the entire Purple Gang?” Capone asked.

“It’s a long story,” Sara replied, falling back on the oldest explanation in the history of the human race.

“I have time,” Capone answered, smiling disarmingly. Well, crap. Sara looked around as if for a distraction, considered shouting fire and running in the ensuing confusion, and then saw her empty glass. She couldn’t remember what had been in it, but the Bachelor had ordered it because it hadn’t had nearly as much alcohol in it as what he’d been drinking.

“But what fun is discussing business in such an enjoyable club? I would be more than happy to tell you the story, but perhaps you’d be willing to hear it later? This is one of my favorite songs, and I’m afraid my glass is also empty,” she said smoothly, excusing herself without really waiting for a response to go to the bar and snag the Bachelor by the arm of his jacket. Capone was up to something.

“…Now, the trick to making a good Bloody Mary is the celery,” the Bachelor insisted, and though his authoritatively pointing finger wavered the resolve in his eyes was clear. “Take my brother. He just won’t drink it at all unless the celery is crisp enough to stick on your lapel. Says it’s good for the teeth.”

“Your brother?” Capone asked, intrigued.

The Bachelor nodded, taking down the Bloody Mary in one gulp. “He’s the Doctor—erm—*a* Doctor. He travels a lot, too. I suppose he thinks celery’s easier to carry around than a toothbrush. You know, we once met this alien that—ouch!”

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing,” the Bachelor grumbled, reaching down to rub his throbbing shin. That was the third time that she had kicked him in the shin. Just because he liked to pepper his conversation with words like “aliens” and “TARDISes” and “Intergalactic Phase-Time Drinking Laws,” she didn’t have to turn violent! He flashed her a nervous smile in an attempt to placate, but she just went back to staring at a particularly elusive tomato on her plate. Capone took the hint and tried to involve her in the conversation, but the Bachelor didn’t have to sit in silence long to realize that he wanted to be at the More-Fun table. He slipped nonchalantly out of his seat and crossed over to the bar, dropping his empty Bloody Mary glass on the bar with a *plink*.

“Another, please,” he said happily, then turned and saw—

--why, it was the most beautiful creature imaginable! She had straight black hair cut in an adorable bob, and she was wearing what looked like a French maid outfit or something similar, with lots of taffeta. There was something in her tiny, delicate lips and soulful eyes that looked familiar…

The Bachelor got his drink and approached the stunning female, almost at a loss for words. “Miss Louise Brooks?” he asked, heart in throat.

She turned demure eyes to him. “Yes,” she purred. “And you are…?”

“You can call me Bach,” the Bachelor said, “but this is extraordinary! You’re one of my favorite actresses—I love all your work!”

She blushed. “I haven’t done too much work yet.”

“What year is this? 1927? You haven’t done “A Girl in Every Port” yet?”

“I—audition for it next week—“

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re going to do brilliantly! I can’t believe I’m getting to meet you at last!” the Bachelor babbled, overjoyed. Thankfully Miss Brooks appeared to be more amused and aroused than surprised, and the Bachelor felt himself getting turned on as well. “When you were in “The American Venus” I about died of heartbreak!”

“you seem to know everything about me, Mr. Batch,” she said, sultrily taking a step closer to him. “But you must be noteworthy yourself to be a friend of Mr. Capone’s.”

The Bachelor nodded. “I’m an explorer, actually.”

“Really? What do you explore?”

“Oh, all sorts of places,” the Bachelor said. He leaned in for a kiss, only to be jerked away at the last second by a sharp hand on his collar.

“Sorry I just thought we could have a dance he’ll be right back thank you!” Sara shouted over his head as she physically dragged him through the crowd and onto the dance floor. Despite the Bachelor’s cries of protests she didn’t let go until they were thoroughly lost in the crowd of dancers. When she unhanded him she dropped her arms to her sides and sighed, adjusting the front of her dress. “There. Now, I’ve got to talk with WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The Bachelor jumped back. “But I thought you said we were dancing!”

“Dancing?” Sara looked around her, noticing as if for the first time the dancers’ positions as they moved around them. “That’s not dancing! That’s upright sex!”

The Bachelor nodded enthusiastically. “It’s called a Tango!” he said. “Here, put your hand on my shoulder…”

“I don’t actually know how to dance,” Sara protested as the Bachelor sorted out their limbs. “It was just a ruse—you know—“

“—Alright, its very easy, right foot—“

“—We’ve got to—are you even listening?—“

“—and away we go!” Dancing was one of the few skills in which the Bachelor excelled, and despite Sara’s attempts to be awkward in spite of herself they tangoed effortlessly across the floor, to the utter amazement of nearby dancers.

“Listen,” Sara said, once she stopped trying to figure out how she could actually be dancing without injuring herself or those nearby,” We’ve got to get back to the TARDIS.”

The Bachelor gave her a twirl, then dipped her. “Why? Aren’t you having fun?” he asked, concerned.

“Fun isn’t the point. That Capone guy—he is way too interested in us….”

“That’s what mafia members are supposed to do. They’re interested in everybody!”

“I think he knows something that he’s not telling us.”

“That’s crazy. We’re perfectly safe!”

“Only when we’re not getting shot at or putting on cement socks!”

“What?”

“Cement— I heard someone say something like that,” Sara said, a little less confidently. “Anyway. We should probably get out of here. I don’t think Capone will try to stop us if we left now…”

“But—but I haven’t had a proper Manhattan yet!” the Bachelor said, eyes wide. “And I haven’t met Buster Keaton or Babe Ruth or that lady that invented perfume, and I’ll never get to dance the Tango in 1927 ever again and if I could dance it with anyone it’d be—“

“Look, you can whine all you want but we’re leaving *now*!—Oh, sorry!”

As Sara stamped her foot to make her point, the heel of her shoe nearly went through the Bachelor’s shoe. He yelped, then pouted at her as he hopped on one foot.

“Well,” Sara said, “I suppose you’re finished dancing, then!”

They sneaked (well, Sara sneaked; the Bachelor just hobbled) out the back door a few minutes later, the Bachelor waving goodbye to Miss Brooks and his forgotten Bloody Mary, all the while thinking that if she had let him finish his sentence he would have said, ‘if I could dance with anyone it’d be with you, right here, right now.’

The Bachelor didn’t notice that Capone saw them leave. A shadowed figure appeared at his side.

“You let them go?” it hissed.

“They’ll lead us straight to it,” Capone said. “Don’t worry. Before closing time we will be the proud owners of a brand new—well, call it ‘used’—TARDIS.”

“It’s no matter—just get me the TARDIS manual.”

“And I get the time machine?”

“Of course.”

Capone smiled. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

***

Classic Bloody Mary:

3 oz tomato juice
1 1/2 oz vodka
1/2 oz lemon juice
Worcestershire sauce
Hot sauce
Celery salt
Pepper
A Doctor-approved celery stalk
lime

Pour liquids in a highball glass over ice. Stir, add seasonings to taste.
Garnish with the lime and celery.

Sara half-expected Capone or his friends to come after them at any minute, and drove accordingly. Unfortunately, her sense of forward motion was better than her sense of direction, and she was soon lost, though refusing to admit it.

“Will you explain why you’re driving like- like a crazy person?” the Bachelor asked as she jumped the curb for the third time on a right turn. Sara slammed the brakes at a red light- she’d figured those out in a hurry- and glared at the steering wheel.

“Capone kept trying to fish information out of me when you left, and he was making me nervous,” she said. It sounded a bit ridiculous, said out loud.

“So… we left a perfectly good party… because Al Capone was flirting with you?” the Bachelor asked.

“He wasn’t flirting! He knew we were lying, I’m sure of it,” she said, frowning deeply as the light turned green and she accelerated. The Bachelor tried not to flinch as she passed a car way too close on the right.

“Okay,” he said, taking her word for it, and then, “Would you please slow down now? Do you even know where we’re going?” Sara looked over and slid the car into an empty space next to the sidewalk. The Bachelor sighed with relief and released his death-grip on the door handle. He was never, ever letting Sara drive the TARDIS if she was feeling moody. She’d probably… break the time-space continuum or, worse, the TARDIS.

“I..um… I may have… temporarily misplaced… our exact location,” Sara admitted, looking up at the buildings as if they might point her in the right direction, “But I’ll figure it out. Just as soon as I see anything I recognize,” she added, trying to sound optimistic. She finally gave up scanning the skyline, though, and looked over at her friend in the passenger seat. He was watching her try to orient them and when she glanced at him, he grinned.

“So, what you’re actually saying is-“ he started, but Sara held up a hand and cut him off.

“I am not lost,” she said, but there was the ghost of a grin on her face when she said it.

“Alright, well, you let me know if you need help getting us ‘unmisplaced’,” he said, settling back in his seat and playing with the brim of his hat. The silence lasted for all of thirty seconds before Sara coughed and he looked up at her, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, fine, I’m lost,” she admitted, and he sat up to look out the back window.

“Well! That makes two of us!” the Bachelor laughed. “But I think it’s back that way,” he said, pointing behind them and to the right. Sara thought for a moment, decided she agreed, and turned the car around. Between the two of them, they managed to get to an area they recognized and from there made it back to the TARDIS. Sara practically bounded up to the door in her relief at seeing the time machine (because it sure beat Al Capone and clubs and getting shot at and the twelve million other things that were certainly fascinating but wholly unfamiliar) and turned to look back at the Bachelor as he followed her, digging in his jacket pockets for the key. He frowned, looked confused, and turned both pockets inside out as if it’d make a key appear, and then looked at Sara sheepishly.

“Where’s the key?” she asked, in the same way she’d earlier asked what he’d touched when he’d landed them here on accident.

“It’s… not here?” he asked. Sara snorted softly.

“How do we get in?” she asked, and the Bachelor shrugged one shoulder.

“I’ll figure it out. I’m sure my brother loses his keys all the time,” he remarked. Sara leaned back against the door and very gently knocked her head back against it in an expression of frustration that needed no words.

To her surprise, there was a sliding sound and a little hatch opened in the door above her head. She turned to look at it as her friend paced back and forth in front of the door as if that’d somehow succeed in opening it.

“Password?” someone asked, though all Sara saw of them was a pair of blue eyes.

“Password?” she asked curiously.

“That’s right. Password. No password, no entry,” the person on the other side of the door said.

“Here, now, what d’you think-“ Sara started.

“I think I know where I left the key!” the Bachelor said triumphantly, and Sara turned around to look at him.

“No, wait. Don’t tell me. Did you leave it in the door?” she asked, pointing up at the hatch.

“I- Hey! That’s my door!” he practically howled, seeing what someone had done to his precious TARDIS.

“Pal, if I had a dime for every time I heard something like that…” the man on the other side of the door said, and slid the hatch shut.

“Open that damn hatch right now!” Sara snapped, and kicked the door for good measure, much to the consternation of the Bachelor, who very carefully stepped between an increasingly stressed, irate Sara and his TARDIS, before she tore the door down in frustration.

“I’ll handle it, Sara, stop kicking the poor thing!” he said to her, and she glared over his shoulder at the now-closed hatch.

“You left the key in the lock, Bach?” she asked finally.

“If it helps, I was trying to make sure you didn’t run off and get lost, at the time…” he answered, and she sighed, because she couldn’t very well be annoyed with him for that.

“…Okay. But how’re we going to get in?” she asked.

“That’s easy! I’ll just charm our way in. It’ll be no problem!” he said brightly, and turned back to the hatch to knock on the door.

The Bachelor looked his TARDIS square in the eye. “Alright, lad, enough games.” He made sure to add under his breath, “I AM with lady, you know.” He knocked on the door with authority.

“Password?—Oh, it’s you again.”

“Police. I demand to see your manager.”

“Get lost!”

The Bachelor snorted as the panel was shut in his face again. He forced a smile at Sara and knocked again.

“Pass—oh, God—“

“Swordfish!” the Bachelor cried out triumphantly.

“Swordfish? Really?” the man behind the door disappeared into the darkness to laugh.

“It’s a perfectly legitimate guess!” he inisisted, before the panel slid shut again. He cracked his knuckles, hopped from one foot to the other, wiggled his fingers, took a deep breath, and knocked.

“Look, pal, if you don’t scram I’m gonna come out there and cripple ya—“

“Oh, yeah, big tough guy, eh? Wise guy, eh?” the Bachelor said, still jumping from foot to foot but now more nervous than anything. “Big man hiding behind a door—“

“Oh, no, I’m not falling for that, either!”

The Bachelor deflated. “Oh, please?” he begged. Before the man behind the door could stop him he put his fingers over the lip of the hole and pulled himself up, sticking his nose inside. “I’m just trying to impress my friend here—and I don’t think she thinks I’m a man yet, if you know what I mean, and I really gotta impress her! Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Then you know what its like to be lonely!” the Bachelor said, his voice cracking. “Please?”

“Come on, you can’t expect me to—“

“Pleeeeeease?”

“Seriously, pal—“

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease????”

“Oh—fine! But if you cause any trouble—“

But when the door opened the Bachelor just gave the doorman a big hug and skipped inside, dragging a bemused Sara along with him. What he saw inside made the Bachelor even more excited.

The room was packed with people, all with drinks in their hands, all having a good time. A couple of scantily-clad ladies were making the rounds with glasses of champagne. The TARDIS’s bar was being manned by several sober-looking bartenders.

“Did…someone just turn your TARDIS into a speakeasy?” Sara asked bewildered.

The Bachelor was practically bouncing for joy. “Ohmygodohmygodohmy—There’s dancers over there! Exotic ones too! You can almost see their—“

“Yes, I see,” Sara said, steering the Bachelor away. “Now will you pay attention for five seconds? Surely this many people aren’t allowed in a—“ here she lowered her voice to a whisper, “—in a time machine. And who got in your TARDIS, in the first place?”

“Someone must have gotten in with the key,” the Bachelor mused, his gaze automatically rotating back to the dancers. When Sara again blocked his path he mentally brought himself back to reality—what good were dancers when he had a perfectly great partner right here!

“I have an idea!” he said. “Why don’t we get ourselves a couple of drinks, and mingle, and see if we can’t find out who exactly broke in to my TARDIS!” he thought it sounded pretty legitimate. “We can pretend to be married and—or not!” he finished quickly when he saw Sara glare at him.

“Alright. You’re buying,” she said, dragging him towards the familiar bar, and he didn’t bother mentioning that he expected to get drinks for free here. Thankfully the TARDIS seemed to be behaving itself, and it was staying stationary with every pull of the handles.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic, and--?” he turned to Sara, who was looking at the menu chalked up on the board behind the man. She glanced down the bar in irritation, when suddenly her expression brightened.

“What’s that drink he’s having?” she asked, pointing to a man who was drinking a tall glass of tawny, iced liquid.

“Long Island Iced Tea,” the barman said.

“Perfect! I’ll have that!”

“Sara!” the Bachelor shouted completely on instinct. “You can’t have that!”

“What, just because you want to get me drunk, doesn’t mean I’m going to,” Sara said, squaring her shoulders menacingly at the Bachelor as the bartender mixed her drink behind her back. “Tea is just what the doctor ordered.”

“But—but that’s not—“

She held up a threatening finger, and the Bachelor immediately shut up. She very civilly turned around and took the glass from the bartender with a sweet “thank you,” gave one more glare at the Bachelor, daring him to say anything, before she stalked off. The Bachelor sheepishly followed after her.

***

Long Island Iced Tea: (Not for the faint of heart or stomach)

1 part vodka
1 part tequila
1 part rum
1 part gin
1 part triple sec
1 1/2 parts sweet and sour mix
1 splash Coca-Cola® (presumably, after they stopped putting coke in the Coke, if you know what I mean...)
ice
lemon wedges

Shake the alcohols, pour over ice, top with cola, garnish with lemon.

(from http://www.drinksmixer.com/drink590.html#ixzz2Aeet8Xgo)

Really, this iced tea stuff was pretty good. Sara sipped at it, looking around as the Bachelor wove his way through the crowd. He was trying to find out who’d broken in to the TARDIS his way, and she was trying to figure it out her way. So far, she’d avoided getting stepped on or collided with. She was idly watching a man in a corner booth when someone cleared their throat behind her. She turned on her toes, unexpectedly lost her balance entirely, and tripped herself, nearly going down in a disgraced heap of Sara-who-should-never-wear-high-heels, except that someone caught her. She looked up at the taller man and righted herself.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ all alone in a place like this?” he asked as she stepped away and muttered an apology.

“I-er-“ she stammered, and shook her head. “I’m not alone!” she answered, because this seemed the most intelligent response. The guy looked unconvinced, and she scowled when he didn’t just turn around and leave her alone. She was about to say something insulting when he was jostled and a blonde head looked around his shoulder.

“Johnny, what do you think you’re doing?” the little blonde woman asked, “You get on out of here. Go bother someone who wants to be bothered, and leave the nice girls alone,” she added, and Johnny, looking embarrassed, slunk off to bother one of the dancing girls.

“I coulda handled him,” Sara said to the woman who’d run Johnny off, and she laughed.

“Oh, he knows better,” she answered, but she didn’t sound angry. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” she said. Sara wondered if this was another case of someone trying to pump her for information, but the woman was smiling harmlessly enough. “Texas?” she asked, and Sara arched an eyebrow.

“Where’s Texas?” she asked, and the woman looked momentarily taken aback. Realizing this was not the response she had been expecting, Sara soldiered on. Maybe this woman would have some information. “Er, I mean, yes, actually. Paris,” she said, and the woman nodded.

“Well, welcome to Chicago. I’d advise you to stay out of trouble, but…” she gestured, taking in the whole bar. You have no idea, Sara thought, running through her visit so far in her head.

“So, who owns this place? It’s… interesting,” Sara asked, and the blonde laughed again.

“Dunno who owns it, but that man over there opened it,” she said, pointing over at the man Sara had been watching earlier. Sara frowned. That didn’t seem like a good coincidence. He was the shadiest guy in the whole place.

“Hey, sweetheart,” someone said, and Sara turned around, ready to light in to whoever was calling her that, but they hadn't been talking to her.

“You need anything, you just let me know,” the woman said as she allowed herself to be pulled temporarily onto the dance floor. Sara saw her a few minutes later balancing a tray of drinks on her hand as she resumed her watching of the man in the corner. She couldn’t see him, which concerned her. After a brief search, she located the Bachelor and made her way over to him to tell him about the shadowy man.

“Hey!” someone shouted behind her, and she wheeled around to see a gun. What was it with these people and guns?

“Bach, down!” she hollered at him, which turned out to be completely unnecessary, because he’d seen the gun as well and dove down behind a table with her as a shot pinged off the wall nearby. The rest of the people cleared out in a hurry.

“Uh oh,” the Bachelor said.

“Uh oh? They’re shooting at us and all you can say is ‘uh oh’?” Sara demanded, “Who is that?!”

“That’s Captain Jack Harkness. He’s a friend of my brother’s,” the Bachelor said.

“BACH! Get out here, coward!” Jack hollered from up toward the front door.

“Why is he trying to kill you?” Sara asked, and then shook her head. “You know what? Nevermind, tell me later. We gotta get out of here,” she stated, removing her shoes. It would make it easier to run.

“Sara, what are you…?” the Bachelor asked, and Sara grinned at him.

“I’m distracting him. Y’know how hard it is to hit a moving target? I’ll be fine. You run to the door and I’ll distract him and follow you,” she said.

“That’s a horrible plan.”

“What? No, it’s a great plan. Nothing could possibly go wrong.”

“He has a gun, Sara, not a water pistol. Are you drunk? How many iced teas did you have?”

Sara laughed. She was most definitely not drunk. She totally had this.

“I had one, and what’s it matter? It’s just iced tea,” she answered, and went to stand. The Bachelor grabbed the hem of her skirt and dragged her back down as a bullet dinged off the wall behind them.

“You are not being a distraction. Here, take this,” he said, handing her a drink tray.

“Bach, this is not a shield. It is a drink tray,” Sara told him, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“So throw it at him. He won’t be expecting that, and we can get to the door. You want to drive?” Sara gave him a look. “Of course you want to drive. Alright, count of three? One, two…”

On three, they both stood, and Sara flung her drink tray at Jack like it was a frisbee. The man ducked, flinging his arm in the air, and they both made it to and through the door and practically fell into the car. Sara gunned the engine and tore out of the parking space, making it to the end of the block before the sound of a pursuing car tore down the road after them.

The Bachelor was intimately familiar with the different stages of intoxication—not just in himself, but in others as well. Sara was just entering the “over-confident” stage. She was, for instance, driving a beautiful luxury car like it was a tank.

He ducked as bullet holes riddled the windshield, pulling Sara down with him. She shook him off.

“Do you mind? I’m trying to lose them!” she shouted.

“We’re being shot at!”

“Yes,” Sara said, apparently not disturbed by this. “I can see why you enjoy this. Just the kind of thing to get your blood pumping!” She threw the car into top gear and barreled down the street as the Bachelor covered his head. They should be fine if Sara could avoid crashing the car, because Jack was never very good at driving. For a moment he let himself mentally complain that Jack was still after him, after all this time. It wasn’t as if the Bachelor TOLD anyone about Jack’s Big Dark Secret, but apparently just knowing was enough to incur some wrath. He peeked in the side mirror and grimaced at Jack’s look of rage in the driver’s seat of the chasing car. But there was someone else with him—a shadowy figure that looked like it had tentacles for arms. And he was holding something that looks suspiciously like that TARDIS manual…

Jack shot the mirror out before he could see more.

“I’ve got an idea!” the Bachelor said.

“I’ve got an idea, too!” Sara said excitedly.

“What if we—“

“—Drove back to the TARDIS—“

“—Lined it up just right—“

“—and I got ready—“

“—AND WE DROVE THE CAR INTO THE TARDIS?”

They said this last part together. The Bachelor blinked at Sara, not sure whether to be slightly worried or head-over-heels in love. “I need to get you drunk more often,” he said.

“I’m not DRUNK!—”

“Okay, okay!” the Bachelor said, cowering. “I mean, but do you think you can—? I mean, are you going to be able to do—?“ but Sara still had her finger pointed at him, and he was terrified of that finger. “Right.” He turned to face forward, closing his eyes. After a moment of silence, punctuated by continued gunfire, he asked, “Can I provide an encouraging theme song?”

“…Depends on the song,” she said.

“Have you ever heard of ‘Mission: Impossible’?”

“No. And I don’t think a song about an impossible mission is very encouraging—“

“BUM! BUM!—BUM BUM, BUM! BUM!—BUM BUM BUM! Doodle-loo...Doodle-loo….doodle-loo…DA DUM!....”

The Bachelor belted out the notes so loudly that he almost drowned out the gunshots, and when the car careened through the TARDIS doors he almost didn’t notice. The sudden arrival of the car in his control-room-turned-speakeasy sent people rushing for the door, blocking the entrance of the chasing car. Sara turned the wheel and braked hard, throwing out a hand that landed right over the Bachelor’s left nipple. The car went skidding through the control room and down a hallway on the opposite side

“Hey!”

“What?”

“Watch where you put your hands!”

“What?!”

“Look I may not be a woman but I have just as much right to be angry when you cop a feel as—”

BANG!

The back left corner of the car embedded itself in an old statue that the Bachelor had picked up on Lytmus 3, suddenly bringing the two to a stop.

There was a silent beat as the Bachelor leapt out and bounded back into the control room, just as the last partiers were fleeing the premises. Jack and the tentacle alien were caught in the crowd, shaking their fists with impotent rage. The Bachelor simply waved back and hauled on the draft handle that closed the doors.

“Sorry gents—it’s closing time!”

***

The Tommy Gun Cocktail

One shot tequila
½ shot orange liqueur
½ shot lime juice
Dash of orange bitters

Shake while making a sound like a machine gun and serve over ice.

After being chased, shot at, and crashing the car into the TARDIS, the silence that fell when the Bachelor swung the doors closed was a little surprising. Sara listened to it for just a second before she sprung out of the car after the Bachelor. The floor was littered with napkins, overturned tables and chairs, and glasses of all kinds, which she only realized when her toes encountered a pint glass.

“Ow! Blast it!” she yelped, hopping momentarily on one foot before realizing she did not at all have the balance for that. She put her foot down and then jumped, whirling to face the door as someone beat on it.

“Bach! Make it go!” she yelped, and the Time Lord grabbed the lever that caused the TARDIS to make that grinding whoosh noise as it dematerialized. Sara tipped her head slightly as it grated on her ears, a welcome and wholly irritating sound all at once.

“Why’s it do that?” she asked, righting a stool and a table before she gave up on cleaning the place and meandered towards a booth.

“All TARDISes make that noise,” the Bachelor said. Sara gave him The Look. “They do! Or… my brother’s always did.” Sara continued to stare at him, but there wasn’t much force behind it. She couldn’t really be bothered to make it a very effective stare when she was otherwise distracted by an interesting and not entirely unpleasant buzzy, head-disconnected-from-shoulders feeling that seemed to be wrapping her in somewhat of a mental fog.

“Sounds like it’s dyin’ ‘r something,” she stated, rummaging around on her way to the booth with a distracted air. “Where’s the manual?” she asked when she couldn’t find what she was looking for, and snagged an iced tea that looked like it hadn’t even been touched from off a table that hadn’t been destroyed instead.

“Jack got it- hey, is that a good idea?” the Bachelor asked as she dropped into a booth, “Those really are a lot stronger than you’d think.”

“I told you, I’m-“

“Not drunk. Right.” The Bachelor finally huffed a sigh and came over to join her. Sara frowned as he joined her, and he looked around quickly, as if trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.

“No, not you. But why’d ‘e take the TARDIS manual? Never figured out how to make that noise stop…” she muttered.

“Would you leave the poor thing alone? It’s worked just fine for more years than you’ve been alive,” the Bachelor said, and any further muttering from Sara was lost as she took a long sip of the iced tea. After a long silence, Sara looked up at him with a small grin and a look that said mere lack of a manual was not going to keep her from messing around with things. She finished the tea and then looked over at the car they’d driven through the door.

“Maybe I can fix the car first,” she admitted, because the poor thing was really quite battered. She almost wanted to go work on it right now, except she wasn’t sure that working on a car while in a sparkly dress and amusingly detached from things was a great plan. So instead, she stayed where she was. If she sat here, still, for much longer, she was going to fall asleep. “So… your brother’s friend is kinda an angry fella,” she asked with a drawl grown more pronounced with that second iced tea. “Also, that is not iced tea.” She could have sworn the Bachelor only narrowly avoided banging his forehead on the table.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sara. It’s an alcoholic tea,” he said. Sara appeared to consider this, eyebrows knit in concentration (which, it turned out, was easier said than done).

“Oh. Well,” she said, thought for another few seconds, and then nodded. “Well, guess I shoulda listened,” she admitted with a laugh.

The Bachelor glanced at Sara, reading “overly-happy” vibes radiating off her. The problem was that these “overly-happy” vibes could easily become “overly-sad”, “overly-angry” or “overly-tired” any second. And none of those sounded like much fun. There was a radio still on somewhere, and it started playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’”.

The Bachelor took Sara’s hand. “Want to pick up where we left off?” he asked, smiling hopefully.

The Bachelor glanced at Sara, reading “overly-happy” vibes radiating off her. The problem was that these “overly-happy” vibes could easily become “overly-sad”, “overly-angry” or “overly-tired” any second. And none of those sounded like much fun. There was a radio still on somewhere, and it started playing “Ain’t Misbehavin’”.

The Bachelor took Sara’s hand. “Want to pick up where we left off?” he asked, smiling hopefully.

Sara looked at the Bachelor's hand and frowned slighty, because even drunk-but-not-drunk, she remembered that she was definitely a disaster at dancing. And she was less coordinated than usual- she could tell that much from the dizzy-tingly feeling in her head.

"I'll probably step on your feet," she said hesitantly.

"I don't mind," The Bachelor said, helping her up. "Did you know that by definition a pair of shoes doesn't actually become a pair of shoes until its been properly scuffed?" He led her to the dance floor and took her hands in his. "Is this alright?"

She was going to end up making an utter fool of herself with this whole dancing thing, she was sure of it. Then again, she'd already made a fool of herself several times today, and if there was anyone who wasn't going to judge her about it, it was probably the Bachelor. "Yeah, just... don't mind me if I trip on my own feet," she said in answer to his question and resolutely stopped worrying about stepping on feet or tripping or otherwise being a complete disaster in favor of actually paying attention.

"I won't tell anyone if you don't!" the Bachelor said, dancing with Sara across the floor. Swing dancing was really easy, though, and drunk-Sara seemed to pick it up readily. "Why don't you ever dance?" he asked.

"Because I'm bad at it!" Sara answered, quite honestly, although if she admitted it, this was actually kind of fun. If she didn't think about it too hard, her feet figured out where they needed to be, and her balance sorted itself out. "Oh, and no one to dance with. Also that," she added.

"You don't dance by yourself? Not even by yourself??" the Bachelor asked, genuinely astonished. He shook his head. "It is a good job we're out here in the middle of time and space--you're too sheltered!"

"Well, sometimes when I finally fix something. But no, not really," Sara said, and laughed. It sounded sort of giddy, which she chalked up to the iced tea, and certainly not the dancing.

The Bachelor just laughed. Did he actually--did he just make her laugh? And not at him?? For a few seconds he was on top of the world, spinning and dancing with Sara and ready to face the bug planets of Patmoss (ok, only if he really had to). And then Sara fell over. "Whoh!" he said, just managing to catch her before he fell down himself. Apparently spinning was not a good idea. He kind of groaned and rolled over, the room doing all the spinning now. "Sorry," he apologized weakly, because everything always had to end like this, with him falling over and making Sara laugh for a totally different reason than he meant to.

Standing really seemed a bit overrated. Also, somehow even though she was the one who'd tripped, the Bachelor had ended up on the floor. She looked at him in surprise for a moment before frowning, because she wasn't entirely sure why he was apologizing when him falling over was, in all probability, her fault. Still slightly red-faced (from the tea, again, not the dancing), Sara sat down next to him, both legs folded to the same side to sit like she imagined ladies were supposed to sit when wearing ridiculous, short dresses. "Y'alright?" she asked the Bachelor in her customary drawl, "I think maybe your TARDIS is spinning. But that was... fun! Thank you," she said with another grin, and patted his arm absent-mindedly.

"Anytime..." the Bachelor said, gazing up at her. He didn't stop gazing when he started to yawn. "Good carpet," he said, smiling and snuggling into it. "I /told/ you you were drunk!"

"I was not..." Sara answered, realized this continuing denial was a bit ridiculous, and tipped her head in acknowledgment. "Okay, maybe I was. Kinda still am," she admitted, and then echoed his yawn and gave him a mock-stern look. "No fair, yawning. I'm already sleepy enough!" she said, and yawned again, completely ruining any pretense at even being mockingly stern.

The Bachelor smiled at the lack of sting in her voice, because Sara had a voice like a turtledove. Or something. That's what humans said, right? Sounded legit. "We should probably go to bed," the Bachelor said. "The TARDIS will stop when it wants to stop. Come on." he crawled to his feet and offered to help up Sara.

Sara reached up and took the Bachelor's hand to get to her feet, standing still for a second to catch her balance, not realizing that she was still holding on to the Bachelor's hand. When she was sure that the room wasn't spinning so bad as to knock her on her clumsy face, she let the Bachelor's hand go and looked over at the levers that piloted the TARDIS. "I like it here," she said thoughtfully, because she wasn't sure she'd said it before, and it was probably something that needed saying. Then she blinked and shook her head slightly to wake herself up. "We really should. Gonna have to clean this place tomorrow... and the /car/," she said with a tired laugh at the vehicle that was still parked up against the back of the room where she'd nearly crashed it.

"Oh it'll be alright. I kind of like it there!" the Bachelor said brightly. He went over and lead Sara away from the controls. "Hey, don't worry about it tonight, alright? You're--erm--/tired/, and we don't even have the manual anyway. Here, sit down--I think you lost your coat somewhere around here...."

She was more than happy to sit down at one of the tables while the Bachelor looked around for her coat. In fact, the bench was sort of comfortable, so she also didn't mind crossing her arms on the table and resting her chin on them. She blinked sleepily as she watched her friend hunting around for the previously-mentioned coat, and didn't even realize it when blinking turned into sleeping. It had been a long day.

"Aha!" the Bachelor cried, triumphantly holding up the coat. "It was cleverly hidden underneath that mobster and...." But Sara was already dead to the world. He smiled, delicately draping the fur coat around her shoulders. "Thanks for the dance," he said softly, turned, tripped on an overturned table, and knocked himself out on the edge of a barstool. Which was, to the Bachelor, the sign of a perfect end to a perfect evening.


***

Night Cap Cocktail

2 oz. brandy
2 oz. Curacao
2 oz. anisette liqeur
1 egg yolk
1 orange slice

Shake the brandy, Curacao, liqeur and egg yolk with ice. Serve in a chilled glass with the orange slice.

Sara woke up with a headache. Also, she was dizzy. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was fully awake at all, but since it seemed she was more or less conscious, she sat up. Her back was hollering at her as well, sore from having spent the night curled in the booth. She’d clearly tipped over sometime after the Bachelor had thrown her coat over her shoulders, because it was still half-wound around her.

“Hey Bach?” she mumbled, sitting with her chin propped on her hands and thinking she might be hungry, or she might be just the opposite, but either way she should probably get up and eat something. Dinner had been a long time ago, last night.

“Bach?” she tried again, louder, and stood, stretching gingerly and hearing her back crack. She yawned. Where’d her friend gotten to? She didn’t remember a whole lot after the dancing, and that she remembered only enough to turn bright red and hope she hadn’t trod on the Bachelor’s feet as much as she’d thought she would. She thought perhaps she’d considered fiddling with the old car that was “parked” along one side of the room.

“Hey, where’ve you—“ she turned from looking speculatively at the car and saw her friend, who’d apparently decided the floor was comfortable after all, because he was laying on it. “Oh for the love of… why’re you on the floor?” she asked as she picked her way around fallen furniture and kneeled next to him. “Come on, wake up, we gotta clean this place, ‘r do somethin’. It looks like a windstorm went through… and brought a car with it.” He did not, however, react, except to shift a little and grumble. “Bach, I know you were not that drunk, so wake—oh.” Well, now it made sense. The man had a cut on his head from where he’d crashed into something and apparently knocked himself out cold. This doubly meant he needed to wake up, in case he had a concussion. That was what you did with people who had concussions, right? You woke them up? She shook his shoulder insistently, until he opened his eyes and blinked blearily at her.

“Sara?” he asked, and pushed himself up to sit and look at her. He put a hand to his head. “Ow.”

“You got that right. What’d you do, trip over a chair?” she asked, standing and dragging her friend to his feet.

“Mmmmaybe? You alright?” he asked, and she snorted, taking him over to the table where she’d been sitting.

“I have a headache and my mouth feels like it’s full of sand and I’m not sure whether I’m hungry, nauseous, or maybe both at once, but I don’t have a concussion. Sit, stay here. Where’s the first aid kit?” she asked.

“You have a hangover!” the Bachelor exclaimed, and both of them winced at the loudness of his voice.

“First aid kit?” Sara asked again.

“Oh, I’ll help you find it. Not sure where it is,” the Bachelor said, and looked around as if it might appear.

“You are definitely staying here, where you can’t trip over anything and get yourself dead,” Sara answered, pushing him back down when he tried to stand up. “Any idea at all?”

“Maybe… there used to be an infirmary room on here someplace. Try there?”

“Well, yeah, that’d be a good place for it,” Sara muttered. She went to the bar and grabbed the only clean glass she could find, filling it with water before drinking all of it. She refilled it and took it to her friend.

“But what if you have cooties?” he asked her, and she leveled a look at him that implied he might have a concussion, but she would still hit him if he didn’t stop being deliberately outrageous.

“Drink your water. I’ll be right back,” she said, and went off after the first aid kit. First, though, she was changing. She was tired of this dress.