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Fic: Doctor Who: "Iron Chef"
Oct. 21st, 2009 12:05 am'Verse: Doctor Who, Simm!Master, set early in his time on Earth. No diversions from canon.
Words: 259
Notes: I wrote this, because I saw "Dinner" as a drabble prompt for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
best_enemies and then realized it's . . . neither a drabble nor is the pairing D/M. OOPS.
Another publicity stunt, his detractors say, and they’re right. Of course it is. Every move he makes on this planet, every word, every smile, is a publicity stunt, another move in a game they think they understand. The game of politics.
Hm. He smirks, and hums to himself, dusting spices from his fingers on a dishtowel to the side of the range. The kitchen, designed to be manned by chef and sous-chef, chef de parties and assistants, stands empty around him, warm and still with the smell of the roast in the oven and the glow of copper and the oil and orange of the sauce in the saucier pan on low heat in front of him.
He dips a finger in and tastes it, savoring the pain of the burn from the simmering liquid (it will heal in an instant), as well as the flavor of the sauce.
“Perfetto.” He brings his fingers together in a pinch of approval, complement to the exaggerated Italian accent.
Through the open doors of the kitchen, he hears the sound of footsteps—a woman’s footsteps. Expensive shoes and poised even steps and an eager, tense, violent caution.
This is why he commandeered the most exclusive restaurant in London for the evening.
The game of politics? How unromantic, human pundits and paparazzi.
This is the game of love.
Scooping up a tray of bruschetta and a bottle of wine, a white cloth draped over one arm, he sweeps out of the kitchen door, still humming. “And we call it bella notte . . .”
Words: 259
Notes: I wrote this, because I saw "Dinner" as a drabble prompt for
best_enemies and then realized it's . . . neither a drabble nor is the pairing D/M. OOPS.Another publicity stunt, his detractors say, and they’re right. Of course it is. Every move he makes on this planet, every word, every smile, is a publicity stunt, another move in a game they think they understand. The game of politics.
Hm. He smirks, and hums to himself, dusting spices from his fingers on a dishtowel to the side of the range. The kitchen, designed to be manned by chef and sous-chef, chef de parties and assistants, stands empty around him, warm and still with the smell of the roast in the oven and the glow of copper and the oil and orange of the sauce in the saucier pan on low heat in front of him.
He dips a finger in and tastes it, savoring the pain of the burn from the simmering liquid (it will heal in an instant), as well as the flavor of the sauce.
“Perfetto.” He brings his fingers together in a pinch of approval, complement to the exaggerated Italian accent.
Through the open doors of the kitchen, he hears the sound of footsteps—a woman’s footsteps. Expensive shoes and poised even steps and an eager, tense, violent caution.
This is why he commandeered the most exclusive restaurant in London for the evening.
The game of politics? How unromantic, human pundits and paparazzi.
This is the game of love.
Scooping up a tray of bruschetta and a bottle of wine, a white cloth draped over one arm, he sweeps out of the kitchen door, still humming. “And we call it bella notte . . .”
