beer_good_foamy | Who fic!

OK, so to make up for the lack of fic lately, and also because most of the ones I've been trying to write are rather serious, here's a piece of pure dumb silliness. Which is also my first attempt at Doctor Who fic. Because Daleks are just... adorable.

Title: A Dalek on the Pull
Author: Beer Good (

beer_good_foamy)
Rating: PG13
Word Count: ~1000
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Dalek/OC
Spoilers: Doctor Who (2005) 3.05 "Evolution of the Daleks"
Disclaimer: I'm not even British, how could I possibly claim ownership to a national institution like the Daleks? Let alone make any money off writing fic about them?
Summary: The last Dalek has escaped from the Doctor. Now he's looking for... love.

A Dalek on the Pull

The search for love is never-ending. All creatures, from the lowly (and rather disgusting) giant isopod to the Timelords of Gallifrey, at one point (or, depending on their lifespans and sexual habits, several thousand points) seek out a companion with whom to share time, intimacy, feelings and their preferred means of reproduction. Sometimes it works out astonishingly well, and sometimes... oh well. Come with me now, if you will, to a small East End pub where we join Liz, a somewhat attractive woman in her late 20s who thought she'd just go out for a drink but found much, much more.

"Look, mate..." Liz was doing her best to keep her cool amid the busy throng of pub guests all trying to have as much fun as possible before closing time. Well, that and the creepy bloke hovering by her barstool (at one point she could swear that he was actually literally hovering). "I appreciate you buying me a drink and all, but... I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

The guy's voice made her jump back a bit; a distorted, metallic screech that made her wonder just how much whisky he he'd had earlier. "MY NAME IS DAAA-LEK CAAN."

Oh, great, a fanboy. "Caan? As in... uh... James Caan? The actor?"

The Dalek gestured its eyestalk dismissively. "I AM THE LEA-DER OF THE CULT OF SKAAA-RO. THE LAST OF THE DAAA-LEKS. I HAVE TRA-VELLED A-CROSS TIME AND SPACE FOR SO LONG THAT I AM OL-DER THAN YOUR EN-TI-RE CI-VI-LI-ZAAA-TION." Looking closer at him, Liz could almost believe it; his metal casing was dull and scratched, with the occasional spiderweb crack, and the joints groaned whenever he moved. (Her brain quickly took the most obvious observation – that the guy was an alien being covered in a tank-like body armour – and buried it in the same place most Londoners had learned to bury their memories of multiple alien invasions.) The Dalek, meanwhile, continued. "I NEED TO MATE TO EN-SURE THE SUR-VI-VAL OF MY SPEEE-CIES. YOU WILL BE THE SUR-RO-GATE VES-SEL THAT BRINGS FORTH THE NEW DAAA-LEK NA-TION."

"Wait... you're saying you want to..."

"IM-PREG-NATE YOU WITH A PURE DAAA-LEK BLOOD-LINE WHICH WILL ONCE AGAIN RULE THE U-NI-VERSE AND EX-TEER-MI-NATE ALL LES-SER RA-CES."

Over the years, Liz had heard many a cheesy pick-up line. This, however, was... OK, not as bad as the guy who told her "Your daddy must play the trumpet, because he sure made me horny", but definitely one of the worst. "Sorry. No way." The Dalek seemed to shrink, its eyestalk drooping to the floor in disappointment, and Liz felt bad for him; he obviously didn't get out much. "I mean... I'm flattered and all, but we just met ten minutes ago and whatever my mum may tell you, it takes a lot more than one pint to get me to -"

Caan's eyestalk shifted up in a hopeful gesture. "SE-COND DATE? SE-COND DATE?"

"I don't think so. I'm sorry, Alec -"

"DAAA-LEK!"

" - Dalek, but... you're just not my type."

"BUT YOU CALLED ME YOUR MATE!"

"Well, yeah, as in -"

The Dalek raised his voice again. "YOU WILL AC-COM-PA-NY ME BACK TO MY SE-CRET BASE!" He paused, as if considering something - possibly the state of the garden shed he'd been living in since he ran out of Emergency Temporal Shift Power. "OR ON SE-COND THOUGHT, I WILL AC-COM-PA-NY YOU BACK TO YOUR PLACE! O-BEY! O-BEEEEEY! OR I WILL EX-TEEER-MI-NATE YOU!" The old Dalek raised his weapons arm to blast a hole in the bar, but all that came out of the rusted pipe was a small flame barely big enough to light a cigarette on.

"Sorry, Sir, no smoking in here," the bartender admonished him. Taking a quick look at the Dalek, he turned to Liz. "Is this alien... I mean... man bothering you?"

"No, I think we're reaching an – OI! Get off me!" Liz turned bright red as the Dalek's plunger landed on her right boob and tried to drag her along. That was it, she'd had enough. Figuring she'd never get a better opportunity than this, she did what they always do on television and threw her beer in his face before storming out of the pub.

The beer penetrated the cracks of the once proud armor and a shower of sparks flew out from the Dalek's headpiece. "VI-SION IM-PAAAIRED," he cried. "AL-CO-HOL SHORT-ING OUT CON-TROL CIIIR-CUITS!" He started rolling around the pub aimlessly, much to the annoyance of the guests he bumped into. As the beer fumes filled the inside of the armour, he started singing along loudly to the jukebox ("HIT ME BA-BEE ONE MORE TIME!") The pub owner came out from behind the bar, the words "go home and sleep it off" already on his lips; unfortunately, before he got to Caan, the Dalek bumped into three shaven-headed and Doc Martens-shod Millwall FC supporters who were less than overjoyed at having their beer spilled, but more than overjoyed at the chance to get to do some quality violence.

And so, as the rain fell over London a few hours later, the last (and by now rather dented) Dalek slowly zigged and zagged his way through the darkened streets, mumbling incoherently, without even enough cash for a minicab. And it's there, dear reader, that I must confess I lost track of him. There are some who say they saw him trying to strike up a conversation with a rubbish bin in Greenwich. Others say he's responsible for ruining the lawn of a doctor's office in Newham. Still others note that he was last seen not far from the Thames, where many a lonely drunk has lost his footing – or, in this case, wheeling – and fallen in. If that's the case, I like to think that he was sufficiently buoyant to eventually wash up on the shores of Ibiza, where he might stand a better chance at getting some. But that, my friends, is probably another story.