fic: we could be something -- multifandom
Title: we could be something
Rating: PG, whoo
Characters/Pairings/Fandoms: Jim/Pam (The Office), Remus/Sirius (Harry Potter), Nine/Rose (Doctor Who)
Author's Notes: So this was my good-bye gift for the lovely inksplotched who is now off to Brazil for a year. BON VOYAGE SARA. They're her ships in our shared fandoms and the title comes from a Kate Nash song because she likes Kate Nash. This was also posted in missinginks but I'm posting it here because... I.. am a narcissist, idk.
---
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
The fact is that Pam is engaged. She’s been engaged since he first met her, since that first not-quite-sort-of-date, and - knowing Roy - probably since the dawn of time itself, so really there’s never been any opportunity there and thinking otherwise is naïve and stupid and oblivious. She’s his best friend, chances are that he’s hers, and if he were any kind of good person at all he’d be ecstatic for her and that little diamond on her finger.
The fact is that he’s not. That damned little rock is what shoves an invisible barrier up between the two of them, and while it’s enough to ensure he has no chance it’s not enough to convince his heart the same thing. She is out of bounds in every way that counts and he knows this, but every time he’s about to move on he catches the faintest shimmer of hope - a smile, a scheme, a laugh - and he’s back to the start of the rollercoaster, plunging down that first hill all over again.
Some days, that thrill and adrenaline and queasy feeling in the middle of his stomach are enough, and he thinks maybe he could ride this out forever.
Most days, it isn’t.
--
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
Sirius is his friend - his very straight, very male friend, at that - and there is really no legitimate excuse for Remus to be watching him this keenly, even if Sirius is making quite an exhibit of himself as he crawls around the dormitory floor looking for his tie. No excuse at all.
There’s similarly no excuse for noticing that Sirius does have quite nice arms, even if one of them is feeling around the bottomless pit of dust and discarded things that resides beneath James’ bed. There’s even less of an excuse for thinking that in reality he’s got quite a nice arse, too, and -
Remus shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face.
With a triumphant “a-ha!” Sirius springs up from the ground, dusty tie in hand. Remus decides not to consider what sort of things that can be found underneath James’ bed - or how Sirius’ tie got there in the first place - and instead raises an eyebrow.
“You do realize you could’ve Summoned it,” he points out.
Sirius smirks, slipping the tie around his neck. “Ah, but I’m not that lazy.”
Remus smirks back. “Or clever.”
“I,” Sirius insists, pointing a self-important finger at his own chest, “am brilliant, thank you very much.” He lets the tie hang loose at his neck and as he sweeps down the stairs towards the common room, Remus lets his gaze linger a second longer than is strictly necessary.
Nope, no excuse at all.
--
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
For starters, she’s a child. Just nineteen years of television shows and take away and retail under her belt and here he is, a nine-hundred-year-old Time Lord with eight previous bodies behind him and the ash of his own planet on his hands.
More than that, she’s human - pink and yellow and fragile, a single heart hammering away in her chest and a single lifetime waiting to be used up all too quickly. Caring about a human this much is risky, the sort of risky that even he likes to avoid. With the very best of luck she’ll have seventy years, maybe seventy-five, and only a fraction of those will she spend inside the TARDIS. He’s sure she doesn’t see it that way, knows she can’t imagine herself gray and old and creaking - humans never can. They never seem to realize that in the great big scheme of things their lives are fleeting, so they spend more time sitting on the sofa watching Big Brother than they do exploring the world they live in, never anticipating the inevitable cosmic shoe that will eventually squash them like a spider.
Problem is, he can see it, so very easily. He knows with complete and total certainty that the day will come that he’ll lose her for good, either by his choice or hers or simply by the will of the universe itself. She’ll leave him or he’ll have to leave her or - worst of all - she’ll die, and the thought scares him to the core. It’s foolish to care this much, downright daft, and it violates about a dozen of his own rules and yet -
Nine hundred years and he’s seen and done and lost all sorts of things, destroyed his own bloody race; nine hundred years and somehow it ends up he needs Rose - simple, human, fantastic Rose - more than he thinks he’s ever needed another living person.
And that? That’s just asking for trouble.
--
Rating: PG, whoo
Characters/Pairings/Fandoms: Jim/Pam (The Office), Remus/Sirius (Harry Potter), Nine/Rose (Doctor Who)
Author's Notes: So this was my good-bye gift for the lovely inksplotched who is now off to Brazil for a year. BON VOYAGE SARA. They're her ships in our shared fandoms and the title comes from a Kate Nash song because she likes Kate Nash. This was also posted in missinginks but I'm posting it here because... I.. am a narcissist, idk.
---
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
The fact is that Pam is engaged. She’s been engaged since he first met her, since that first not-quite-sort-of-date, and - knowing Roy - probably since the dawn of time itself, so really there’s never been any opportunity there and thinking otherwise is naïve and stupid and oblivious. She’s his best friend, chances are that he’s hers, and if he were any kind of good person at all he’d be ecstatic for her and that little diamond on her finger.
The fact is that he’s not. That damned little rock is what shoves an invisible barrier up between the two of them, and while it’s enough to ensure he has no chance it’s not enough to convince his heart the same thing. She is out of bounds in every way that counts and he knows this, but every time he’s about to move on he catches the faintest shimmer of hope - a smile, a scheme, a laugh - and he’s back to the start of the rollercoaster, plunging down that first hill all over again.
Some days, that thrill and adrenaline and queasy feeling in the middle of his stomach are enough, and he thinks maybe he could ride this out forever.
Most days, it isn’t.
--
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
Sirius is his friend - his very straight, very male friend, at that - and there is really no legitimate excuse for Remus to be watching him this keenly, even if Sirius is making quite an exhibit of himself as he crawls around the dormitory floor looking for his tie. No excuse at all.
There’s similarly no excuse for noticing that Sirius does have quite nice arms, even if one of them is feeling around the bottomless pit of dust and discarded things that resides beneath James’ bed. There’s even less of an excuse for thinking that in reality he’s got quite a nice arse, too, and -
Remus shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face.
With a triumphant “a-ha!” Sirius springs up from the ground, dusty tie in hand. Remus decides not to consider what sort of things that can be found underneath James’ bed - or how Sirius’ tie got there in the first place - and instead raises an eyebrow.
“You do realize you could’ve Summoned it,” he points out.
Sirius smirks, slipping the tie around his neck. “Ah, but I’m not that lazy.”
Remus smirks back. “Or clever.”
“I,” Sirius insists, pointing a self-important finger at his own chest, “am brilliant, thank you very much.” He lets the tie hang loose at his neck and as he sweeps down the stairs towards the common room, Remus lets his gaze linger a second longer than is strictly necessary.
Nope, no excuse at all.
--
There are a thousand things wrong with this picture and really he shouldn’t be thinking this way.
For starters, she’s a child. Just nineteen years of television shows and take away and retail under her belt and here he is, a nine-hundred-year-old Time Lord with eight previous bodies behind him and the ash of his own planet on his hands.
More than that, she’s human - pink and yellow and fragile, a single heart hammering away in her chest and a single lifetime waiting to be used up all too quickly. Caring about a human this much is risky, the sort of risky that even he likes to avoid. With the very best of luck she’ll have seventy years, maybe seventy-five, and only a fraction of those will she spend inside the TARDIS. He’s sure she doesn’t see it that way, knows she can’t imagine herself gray and old and creaking - humans never can. They never seem to realize that in the great big scheme of things their lives are fleeting, so they spend more time sitting on the sofa watching Big Brother than they do exploring the world they live in, never anticipating the inevitable cosmic shoe that will eventually squash them like a spider.
Problem is, he can see it, so very easily. He knows with complete and total certainty that the day will come that he’ll lose her for good, either by his choice or hers or simply by the will of the universe itself. She’ll leave him or he’ll have to leave her or - worst of all - she’ll die, and the thought scares him to the core. It’s foolish to care this much, downright daft, and it violates about a dozen of his own rules and yet -
Nine hundred years and he’s seen and done and lost all sorts of things, destroyed his own bloody race; nine hundred years and somehow it ends up he needs Rose - simple, human, fantastic Rose - more than he thinks he’s ever needed another living person.
And that? That’s just asking for trouble.
--