December 19th: 'The Wager' (Doctor Who)
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adventdrabblesTitle: 'The Wager'
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleventh Doctor, Clara Oswald
Rating: G
Notes: Crossposted toficlet_zone
Somewhere in the mountains near the California-Nevada border...
"I wish I could sort out what made these tracks," the Doctor murmured.
He crouched in the snow, paying no mind to the cold temperatures. Before him was stretched out a track of a rather peculiar-looking variety. One small impression in the snow was followed a few centimeters behind by two more elongated marks. After them, another smaller press, followed by another pair of longer ones, trailing off goodness knew where.
The Doctor scratched his head, taking what Clara thought must easily be his fiftieth sonic-screwdriver scan of the prints since they'd come across them.
"What do you think it is," she asked him, leaning over his shoulder to take a look for herself.
"I don't know, quite. It could be any number of things. A Ziblain leaves tracks that are somewhat similar, though each of those little divots would be connected with webbing, much as you'd see in a bat's wing. It could be the trail of a Juniktabairli, if the prints were about eight times this size. Perhaps a Psnuum...?"
"Or it could be a rabbit," Clara helpfully put in. "That's what they look like, to me."
Straightening, the Doctor shook his head emphatically. "I don't think so."
"Why not? Just because it's usually aliens with you, does that mean it always has to be?"
At that, the Doctor had the nerve to look deeply affronted. "Of course not, Clara. I just think that this is one of those cases which does involve alien activity."
Clara gazed at the prints again, studying them closely. "And I'm just as convinced that they're rabbit tracks."
"Alright," the Doctor stated, gazing down at her with a challenge in his eyes. He adjusted his bow tie and smirked. "We'll wager on it, then. We'll follow these tracks to wherever they end, and that'll prove who's wrong."
She grinned back confidently. "That's fine with me. The loser treats the winner to an extremely posh breakfast at the closest available five-star restaurant."
That gave her, in reply, a rather cocky head-shake. "That means I've got more incentive," the Doctor said. "You know I never carry money with me."
"Have you always been largely impractical," Clara asked point-blank.
"You know me better than to ask me a question like that," he lightly scolded.
"Which means, in essence, yes."
"Of course it does," the Doctor sighed. "Come on."
A few minutes later, the trail had wound its way through the trees, and up to what looked like a scratched, scooped depression. It lay well sheltered, just underneath a fallen tree. Bits of shed fur dotted the area.
"And what kind of alien would you call what might have left that," Clara wondered.
Chewing on his lip, the Doctor investigated. "It looks like the form--a den, of sorts--of a male Lepus americanus tahoensis," he feebly confessed.
After a brief search on her mobile, Clara beamed in triumph. "A type of snowshoe hare," she confirmed. "You know what that means, Doctor."
He raised his hands, swift to protest: "But I just said--"
"If you can't pay for the meal, you can wash the restaurant's dishes."
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleventh Doctor, Clara Oswald
Rating: G
Notes: Crossposted to
ficlet_zoneSomewhere in the mountains near the California-Nevada border...
"I wish I could sort out what made these tracks," the Doctor murmured.
He crouched in the snow, paying no mind to the cold temperatures. Before him was stretched out a track of a rather peculiar-looking variety. One small impression in the snow was followed a few centimeters behind by two more elongated marks. After them, another smaller press, followed by another pair of longer ones, trailing off goodness knew where.
The Doctor scratched his head, taking what Clara thought must easily be his fiftieth sonic-screwdriver scan of the prints since they'd come across them.
"What do you think it is," she asked him, leaning over his shoulder to take a look for herself.
"I don't know, quite. It could be any number of things. A Ziblain leaves tracks that are somewhat similar, though each of those little divots would be connected with webbing, much as you'd see in a bat's wing. It could be the trail of a Juniktabairli, if the prints were about eight times this size. Perhaps a Psnuum...?"
"Or it could be a rabbit," Clara helpfully put in. "That's what they look like, to me."
Straightening, the Doctor shook his head emphatically. "I don't think so."
"Why not? Just because it's usually aliens with you, does that mean it always has to be?"
At that, the Doctor had the nerve to look deeply affronted. "Of course not, Clara. I just think that this is one of those cases which does involve alien activity."
Clara gazed at the prints again, studying them closely. "And I'm just as convinced that they're rabbit tracks."
"Alright," the Doctor stated, gazing down at her with a challenge in his eyes. He adjusted his bow tie and smirked. "We'll wager on it, then. We'll follow these tracks to wherever they end, and that'll prove who's wrong."
She grinned back confidently. "That's fine with me. The loser treats the winner to an extremely posh breakfast at the closest available five-star restaurant."
That gave her, in reply, a rather cocky head-shake. "That means I've got more incentive," the Doctor said. "You know I never carry money with me."
"Have you always been largely impractical," Clara asked point-blank.
"You know me better than to ask me a question like that," he lightly scolded.
"Which means, in essence, yes."
"Of course it does," the Doctor sighed. "Come on."
A few minutes later, the trail had wound its way through the trees, and up to what looked like a scratched, scooped depression. It lay well sheltered, just underneath a fallen tree. Bits of shed fur dotted the area.
"And what kind of alien would you call what might have left that," Clara wondered.
Chewing on his lip, the Doctor investigated. "It looks like the form--a den, of sorts--of a male Lepus americanus tahoensis," he feebly confessed.
After a brief search on her mobile, Clara beamed in triumph. "A type of snowshoe hare," she confirmed. "You know what that means, Doctor."
He raised his hands, swift to protest: "But I just said--"
"If you can't pay for the meal, you can wash the restaurant's dishes."
