All unauthorized uses of Calvin and Hobbes make Bill Watterson clutch at his heart and feel a mysterious pang deep in the Ohio woods. T-shirts – t-shits make him weep. While acknowledging his ownership and my adoration of the J.D. Salinger of the comic strip world, I think it's worth it to celebrate fanon.
The BBC owns the Whoniverse, but they have let a remarkably large number of people potter around in it, so I think they won't notice yet another silly fic.
Calvin rushes to his dad, who is busy washing the car on a sunny Saturday afternoon. "Dad! Dad! Space aliens just landed in our backyard!"
Despite all his behavior problems, Calvin must be a brilliant kid underneath those terrible grades, otherwise how could he come up with such elaborate stories? With an indulgent smile, because this week was one of the less aggravating ones, he asks, "What do they look like?"
Calvin scratches his oversized tow-head with a tiny hand. "Uh…sort of like big baked potatoes with laser guns. I think we should do what they say."
"And that is?"
"They want ten dollars."
"I'll bet they do," he chuckles, turning back to soap a window.
A hint of anxiety creeps into Calvin's voice. "If you're busy, you could just give it to me, and I could take it to them."
"Why don't you go play, Calvin?"
Calvin knows when he has been dismissed, and slinks out to the backyard. The glittering ship hangs in midair like the one that abducted him and stole his ability to do math, but less saucer-like. And the aliens are almost as short as he is.
"Sorry," he says to the leader, flanked by two what-look-like-male potato-things.
"But you are a genius child with reality-warping powers!" roars the general. "How can you not have influence even in such a laughably trivial matter?"
Calvin sighs. "They think I make these things up."
"Well, human boy, we must find another! You are not worthy! Sontar-HA!" The leader starts pounding his fist into his palm while chanting. The others take up the cry. They – and their ship - dematerialize and vanish, echoes of "Sontar-HA!" reverberating in Calvin's ears.
Once they have flown away, Hobbes peeks out from the G.R.O.S.S. secret headquarters/temporarily disabled transmogrifier. His tail is all bushy. "Are they gone?"
"Yeah. C'mon, let's play Calvinball."
As they run to get the gear, Hobbes is immensely grateful that Calvin does not ask why he hid from the Sontarans, or why Calvin gets so much attention from aliens and monsters in the first place.
He knew taking care of a Time Lord in human form would be no treat, but the Esquire's heavily damaged Chameleon Arch accidentally turned him into a six-year-old with a fractured sense of reality and poorly cloaked mental powers.
It's not like Hobbes doesn't owe it to him – his planet of sentient tigerlike-folk had been annihilated too, and he had only survived because the Esquire teleported him out of there at the last minute before clueing him into his most unpatriotic escape plan. Hobbes was the offspring of diplomats and had struck up a friendship with the youngest ever Gallifreyan emissary to the Shadow Proclamation.
It'll be at least twelve years before this body can sustain a return of Time Lord consciousness. It is currently too frail and tiny.
When it finally does, Hobbes has several questions to ask.
What possessed him to disguise his TARDIS as a cardboard box? And how is he able to haphazardly operate it – admittedly only in a pocket dimension, but still?
Was a stuffed animal really the best cloaking impression for Hobbes possible, what with the getting tossed in washing machines and the sewing repair jobs (though fortunately his species can manufacture opiates through sheer will the way humans automatically produce adrenaline)?
Why has Hobbes never learned Calvin's ostensible parents' names?
Was he right in suspecting little Susie Derkins – a complete human - could see Hobbes as he truly was, and what does that mean for this whole house of cards?
Then he bounces a volleyball off Calvin's head – "Ha! Now you have to stand on your head for fifty counts!" - and reflects that an idyllic childhood, in a prosperous country, during Pax Americana, all in all, isn't the worse way to recover from a war.
TO BE CONTINUED….