Author's Note
Was looking through the list of Genres. Thought I should write a proper [Random] story, complete with a bunch of little references.
Odd Jobs
The Doctor crept silently down the corridor, his hooves emitting no noise as he tiptoed over the rather ugly carpet that the TARDIS oh so kindly chose.
He paused outside his companion's room and nudged the door open, peering inside to check on her.
He always ended up incredibly bored whenever Derpy was asleep. She seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time just dreaming and that was pointless when he could take her to places that outshone her dreams a hundredfold. He wasn't going to wake her up though, oh no, been there, done that and the bruises haven't healed.
Derpy was a mean shot with an alarm clock... and her hooves... and her wing slaps. He had the battle scars to prove it.
He could see her curled up in bed, deceptively sweet, the duvet scrunched up over her softly breathing form, her relaxed face free from all the daily troubles, anger, confusion and make-up.
He frowned a little.
Why did Derpy have to wear so much of that gunk after a stupid talk with Rarity about wanting to impress some random brown-coated pony with an hourglass cutie mark? She was prettier without it. No, in fact, he would go as far as to say that she was beautiful.
Beautifully pony with pretty pony wings and other pony bits.
Besides, having that stuff plastered all over her face was bad for her skin and eyes, he was sure of it.
And he had promised himself that he would take care of Derpy and keep her from harmful things. So really, it was his duty to take care of her, including her face, by removing the offending items.
With a mischievous grin, he slipped into her room and headed for her dressing table.
His eyes widened as he took in the sheer amount of lotions and potions and bottles and vials that littered the table top.
Blimey! No wonder she often looked permanently surprised.
Foundation, concealer—what was she concealing?—eye liner, eye shadow, eye dust—dust?—blusher, lip liner, lipstick, lip balm, lip salve—how many lips did she have?—kohl pencils, witch hazel, perfume, deodorant, moisturising cream, toner.
The list went on and on and on and the Doctor was suddenly very grateful for his transdimensional pockets as he loaded every item into the pin-striped jacket.
Derpy suddenly gave a muffled sound from behind and him and he froze, catching sight of her in the dressing table mirror as she turned over.
If she woke up now and saw him in her room, it would all be over. There would be screaming, shouting and recriminations. Then, it would get really bad.
Derpy just frowned a little, muttered something under her breath and drafted back to sleep.
Not daring to exhale, the Doctor slunk out of her room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Muffling a chuckle, he bucked the air in delight, imitating a fist pump. He had done it, he had saved Derpy—again! He had sabotaged the face concealing potions—he was indestructible. He was sneaky and mysterious.
Mysterious! That was even better than enigmatic. He was the intergalactic man... er... pony of mystery.
He flipped his collar up and slid against the wall, humming the James Bond theme as he slink through the TARDIS like a spy, checking around each corner before jumping over the opposite wall.
But, with no one else to play along, he grew bored after half an hour of spying and decided that he was going to go undercover in the very next room he came to. The sheer size of the TARDIS made the possibilities endless.
If he wound up in the library, he could be an undercover researcher searching for a missing treasure map which would show the way to some secret location that no one had ever seen before. If he found the pool house, he could be a lifeguard bringing down a corrupt coast guard—or drug runner. If he found the greenhouses, he could be an explorer or an archaeologist, although they were a bit naff. The possibilities are truly endless.
So where did he end up?
The.
Bloody.
Kitchen.
"Aw," he sagged. "Boring!" He slumped in and leaned against the counter, his eyes fitting over the stainless steel counter and pristine surfaces.
It was very clean in here.
Almost... too clean.
Maybe that was the mystery. His eyes lit up. Maybe he was an undercover secret agent pretending to be a chef to discover what had happened to their four previous cooks.
He reached for the nearest drawer and pulled out an apron. Grimacing at the pink frills on the edge. Well, at least the 'Kiss the Chef' written on the apron will make up for it. Everypony knows secret agents get all the mares.
"Aha!" He exclaimed in satisfaction. "Now I need a hat. A chef's hat."
He searched through cupboards and opened drawers, but the best he could come up with was a pink paper crown he'd saved from last Christmas.
It'd have to do; he couldn't be the best chef in the galaxy without a hat.
Placing it on his head, he surveyed his imaginary staff.
"Right," he said aloud. "I'm the new chef. Doctor... uh... Cook!" He giggled to himself. "And today's special is... uh,"
He grabbed the nearest cupboard and wrenched it open. He pulled out a package and read the label. "Freeze dried spaghetti. Urgh!" He threw the packet to the side and reached in again. "Dehydrated onions. No. Irradiated haggis. No, I thought ponies are herbivores?! Cabbage... expired 647 years ago... Better chuck that in the bin. Processed marshmallows. Tofu in lime sauce. Who buys this stuff? Ooh, jelly babies!"
He picked a piece of his favourite sweet up and began chewing as he stared thoughtfully at the ingredients strewn over the pristine counter.
"Eggs, milk, flour—pancakes!" He clapped his hooves. "Molto bene! Pancakes!"
The Doctor grabbed a bowl and pointed into thin air. "You, uh, Alonzo, crack me some eggs."
He cracked two eggs himself into a bowl and smiled broadly. "Well done, Alonzo, we'll make a cook of you yet. So, the last chef, what was his specialty, hmm?" He pretended to listen, holding the egg shells in mid-air, dripping yolk over the floor. "I see! Fond of his aubergines, aye?"
He rubbed his chin, noticed the shells and tossed them over his shoulder.
"Scale, I need a scale!" he called loudly and held up the bag of flour.
An Earth pony dashed over to a cupboard, pulled out a little blue scale and plonked them on the tabletop.
"Thank you, Pinkie!" He nodded.
"No problemo!"
"So, Alonzo, why did Chef Banana leave?"
He poured the flour onto the scale absently, so intent on his conversation with his imaginary colleague that he didn't see the little dial tilt right past 250g. "More salad on the menu, really?"
Suddenly, he noticed that he was trailing flour on the floor and stopped pouring. Tossing the opened bag aside without a care in the world, he poked a hoof into the centre of his mound of flour, making a round hole and poured the eggs in with a delighted yelp.
Then, he stared around. "You, Ramos, pour the milk and whisk, man. Whisk like your life depends on it!" He bounced on his hind hooves as the blades whirred in the bowl. "Incidentally, what did Chef... Apple like to cook? Vegetarian lasagna, I see."
The milk sloshed over the bowl and spattered his apron, but the Doctor ignored this little detail. He was on to something, his spidey senses... no, his secret agent senses was tingling.
"Marco, help Ramos whisk!" He lowered his voice to a sneaky whisper. "And I'll interrogate you with my amazing spy skills of subterfuge."
He picked up the bowl, whisking briskly as he wandered around the kitchen, checking on his make believe staff.
"More garlic, Feliciano," he complained, "Less salt, Lovino. That needs jam. Sergio, chop finer. Carlos, table five. Alonzo... good-a sauce-a. Giuseppe—why did Chef Pear leave? Lack of courgettes, really?!" The Doctor faked astonishment. "A pan! Oil in a pan. Ronaldo... you're a footballer, get out of my kitchen! Diego, fetch me a pan."
He needlessly slammed a frying pan onto the lit stove, spread some oil around and poured some of his murky mixture in.
The pan hissed and crackled as the Doctor shook it too enthusiastically.
"Hmm, so. No aubergines, no courgettes, and not enough salad and... the crème de la crème vegetarian lasagna. It all adds up." He pointed the frying pan throughout the room. "You all did it! Carnivores the lot of you. You killed the chefs just because they were vegetarian and you used their flesh to make zombie pies, the dish this restaurant is famous for. Unfortunately for you, Doctor Cook is here!" He switched the stove off—safety first—and swung his pan at his invisible assailants. "Hyah! Rah!" He fought valiantly, but he was only one chef and there were too many of them.
All he could do now was explode the detonation device hidden in the pancake batter and go down with the ship. He'd die, but he'd take these cannibals with him.
"It's all over." He said as he whipped the pan into the air. The pancake soared in a high arch and slapped against the ceiling.
Where it stuck.
"Bugger," he said staring up at it.
"What's the matter?" Derpy asked sleepily from the doorway, eyes half closed and wings in need of major preening.
Inside the mind of the Doctor, multiple incarnations of himself stood side by side, from the 1st Doctor, all the way to his current Earth pony form.
"Gentlemen, panic." The pony spoke.
"Nothing!" He said hurriedly, throwing the pan behind him, grinning sheepishly. Derpy stared at him, blinked and did a double take.
"Doctor?"
"Yes, Derpy."
"Why are you wearing a pink paper crown?"
His looked up nonchalantly and noted that the edge of the pancake was peeling very slowly off the white ceiling. If it fell, it would land directly on Derpy's head.
The result would not be pretty.
He gulped and grinned wider at Derpy. "Am I?"
"Yes."
"Ah."
There was silence as he tried to come up with a very convincing answer before weakly offering: "Christma— Hearth's Warming came early?"
Derpy gave him a level, if not tired, gaze. "And the apron?"
He scratched his mane with a greasy hoof, eyes flicking up to where the offending savoury was slowly edging away from its position high above them.
"Breakfast!" He shouted. "I was making you breakfast. A surprise, Derpy, I was going to surprise you."
The pegasus looked around him and took in the state of the kitchen. The packets and containers strewn all over the tabletops, the flour spilled in heaps all over the floor, the counter slimed with egg yolk and milk. She forced a smile.
"That's... sweet. Was demolishing the kitchen part of it?"
He tore his eyes away from the peeling pancake and nodded. "Yes... or quite possibly no. It's not done yet, Derpy. You go freshen up while I... clean up."
"Doctor—"
"Go!" He insisted, pushing her out from under the collision zone. "I'll bring it to your room. My treat."
Derpy frowned suspiciously, but she had seen the Doctor in enough weird moods to interpret this as just another one of those unexplainable ones, like the time she caught him pretending to swing across the atrium in a loincloth, calling himself Tarzan or George of the Jungle if she recalled correctly.
She simply shook her head and walked away as the Doctor sighed in relief.
"Wow," he said to himself, hearing her door shut down the corridor. "That was close, but you kept your cool, mister super sexy spy agent and you didn't blow your cover. She suspected nothing!"
He'd gotten away with it. He was truly invincible.
He tittered to himself in glee and half turned to start making her breakfast when there was a piercing scream.
"DOCTOR! What have you done with my make-up?!"
He froze.
Whoops.
And that was when the pancake fell on his head.
END
