Christmas 2007 on Alnilam. Alien Lisa’s (AL’s) real life alter ego, Real Lisa (RL) had just dropped off OckDoc on her way to work (how a house on another planet was en route to a theater on Earth was beyond the comprehension of all the inhabitants, but whatever…) and he, Hooks and the tentacles were busy helping AL with preparations for Christmas dinner.
Most of the other guys were upstairs setting the game room up for the party they were going to throw; missing from the entourage, however, was the Tenth Doctor. He’d been a Christmas gift to V just as OckDoc had been a gift to the Lisas. Neither had been particularly thrilled about the idea, but things seemed to be working out. On their end, at least.
“Okay,” AL was saying, “so, we still got another hour, hour-and-a-half ’til the turkey’s done. What does the thermometer say?”
Albert, OckDoc’s lower left tentacle, hovered over to the instrument hanging on the oven door and said, One hundred twenty-one degrees.
“Okay. It’s gotta reach one sixty-one.”
“No stuffing?” OckDoc asked, noticing the cavity of the bird in the oven was curiously vacant.
“Stuffing is evil,” was the curt reply.
“Alton doesn’t say that anymore.” Hooks pointed out. He and OckDoc’s lower right tentacle Tommy were gathering vegetables for a stew Hooks couldn’t remember the name of that was going to be prepared later. Verne was eyeing a simmering sauce on the stove.
“I don’t care. Sorry, but I don’t like stuffing. I’m making the cornbread pudding, though, to compensate. I’d’ve had Alton here personally, but, yanno, it’s Christmas and he’s got a family.”
“So do I,” muttered OckDoc under his breath. He still had a little resentment towards Victoria for treating him as an object. AL was sure Doc10 wouldn’t be too happy with her when he came home, either. Oh well.
“Heshep. I’ve got a kitchen-load of cookies for us to bake once that turkey and the pudding come out. And eggnog.”
“And fruitcake?” Hooks asked, hopeful.
“Fruitcake?” OckDoc repeated. “You eat fruitcake?”
“Not all of ’em are doorstops. Alton’s made a good one.”
Hooks was chuckling. “Didja hear the one about the end of the world? Everything’s destroyed and there’s nothing left but rats, roaches and a huge pile of fruitcake. Know what happens? Everyone starves.”
An indignant squeak came from the edge of the counter. “I resent that!”
Everyone turned to see a bluish-gray rat sitting upright with his front paws crossed, frowning.
“Heya, Remy,” said AL, walking over to the rat and giving him a low-five with her index finger, then letting him crawl up her arm to perch on her shoulder. “Hooks didn’t mean it, you know. I don’t believe you’ve met OckDoc and Jules, Verne, Albert and Tommy. They’re from V’s neck of the world.” Each of the tentacles waved as they were named.
Remy the rat, chef at La Ratatouille in Paris, France, half-glared in Hooks’ direction, then waved cheerily at the visitors.
OckDoc looked confused while the tentacles hovered nearer for a closer look at Remy. “Why do you have a rat in your kitchen?”
“He’s not just any rat. He’s a culinary genius.” If Remy could blush, he would have. “He’s the head chef at a bistro in Paris. He’s gonna make ratatouille for Hooks since he doesn’t eat meat.”
“Yeah, that’s the name,” said Hooks, beaming.
The tentacles clacked their pincers in excitement. We want to help! they chorused.
AL turned to the rat on her shoulder. “You’ve got yourself four helpers. I’ll stick nearby and translate for you. Doc, you can help by mixing the dough for the cookies.” She let Remy down by the sink so he could wash his paws; OckDoc watched in amazement.
“Cleanest rat in Paris,” quipped AL, noticing him staring. “Got what you need, Remy?”
The rat looked around and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded and started giving instructions, which AL relayed to the tentacles. “Jules, you can slice the vegetables. Slice ’em thin, one-third of an inch! Verne, stir the sauce. Not too fast, though. Albert, I need a spatula and, Tommy, a shallow pan. Lisa, where’s the parchment?”
She retrieved the parchment paper from a high shelf and, knowing that he needed it to cover the casserole, cut it so it would fit easily and set it aside. OckDoc was watching, intrigued, even as he added flour to the cookie dough.
“Oh, come on, Doc,” said AL. “You’ve seen stranger things. Unicorns…four sentient tentacles, just to name a few.”
“Touché.”
Ratatouille made, turkey done, eggnog poured and cookie dough baking, everyone gathered upstairs in the game room and started chowing down. Music piped through the sound system (that the Doctors, for once, hadn’t shorted out) and the food was laid out buffet style. Conversations mingled with the chitters and squeaks of the tentacles and Remy, both of whom AL was translating for. Periodically she’d run downstairs and switch out the dough so all the cookies would be done in time for dessert. The tentacles had offered to do it for her, but their maximum range was only 13 feet and they came up short unless OckDoc stood on the stairs.
“What about inventing some kind of voice program for them?” Jesse asked.
That comes later, Verne.
“Yes,” said OckDoc. “Vic has planned that in the last part of my trilogy and my chapter of ‘When Worlds Collide’.”
“And that’s RL chomping at the bit…” AL quipped. Her alter ego was a fangirl to the truest sense of the word when it came to V’s stories.
“How come you don’t have ’em?” asked AL’s Tommy, the former Power Ranger. “Doesn’t your Marty have his harness even though he doesn’t get it ’til later?”
All four of the tentacles turned to OckDoc, interested in hearing that answer. He cleared his throat. “Well, Vic can’t really picture them with voices other than the mental ones. And they like having AL translate for them, actually.”
We like that someone else is able to hear us, they chorused. But it would be better if everyone could hear us.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“You know,” said Luke, “this stuff is pretty good.” He had a plate full of Hooks’ ratatouille. Remy was grinning. Luke turned to him. “You should come around more often.”
Remy grinned wider and hopped up onto AL’s shoulder and perched on her head. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Remy. I never said you couldn’t come by regularly. Orion knows you’re a better cook than any of us.”
She had a point, since AL’s cooking skills, while better than her alter ego’s, weren’t the best and the only guys that had any skill really were Clark because he’d lived alone for so long and Data who could emulate any cook he saw. Sure, he could emulate Remy, but that would take away the fun of watching a rat cook. She could also bring her Food Network chef friends, but they were always busy.
“As a matter of interest,” said OckDoc, “where do you purchase your food, anyway? It’s not like you have a ShopNSave nearby.”
“Oh, we shop on Earth. I make a list and we go once a week. One of the unis escorts them when I can’t so Woodhorn doesn’t throw a shit-fit. Data meets up with them so he can carry a lot of the bags. Plus Clark helps, too. Though if my house gets any more crowded, I’m thinking of getting a cart built so whoever goes with ’em can pull it.”
“Well, who’s left? Isn’t everyone here?”
“Actually, no,” said AL and began ticking the names off on her fingers. “There’s Gary, Ryan, Dex and my versions of Ben and Ed.” She wasn’t mentioning Wesley; that was still a sore spot with her. “Though RL has no access to Gary, Ryan and Dex’s shows as far as I know, so I can’t see them moving in…well, Gary maybe, but…anyways, Ed would kill everyone here and we know the story of Ben. So…” She shrugged.
“I see.”
“So,” AL said, clapping her hands, “who’s for dessert?”
“More cakes from Duff?” asked OckDoc.
“That and Remy’s made some French chocolate cream puff thing I can’t pronounce.”
“Profiteroles au Chocolat,” said the rat, peering over her head.
She rolled her eyes up and caught him glancing down at her. “Like that helps,” she said sarcastically. “They can’t understand you.” She sighed. “The cookies are done now, so I say let’s get the dessert and pig out like we always do.”
And they did.
The End
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