my old body and your old name
Fic! For midvacent, who asked for the Doctor and Ruth. Happy birthday, darling - I hope you have a lovely day tomorrow.
( Prompts are still open for those of you who may have had a birthday recently, or have one coming up... *looks around meaningfully*)
Set pre-series 1 of New Who, post-series 5 of Spooks (mild spoilers). 900 words. I've borrowed lost_spook's crossover universe (thanks!) in which Ruth and the Eighth Doctor have already met.
- - -
Differences of the Body
"Ruth!"
The voice behind her sounds delighted, but Ruth isn't fooled for an instant. On the three occasions these past two years when she's heard her real name, the tone of voice of the speaker has had little effect on her reaction. That is to say, heart-wrenching panic.
She steps sideways into a bookshop, through the storeroom, and out the back door before anyone even notices that she isn't supposed to be there. In the narrow alley she crosses to a building three or four down which has the fire door propped open with a brick. The corridor beyond smells of mouldy yeast and rotten fruit, obscured in gloom even after the dim light of the alley.
She kicks the brick out of the way, walks calmly around to the back of the next building and ducks behind a skip bin just as her pursuer rushes from the bookshop. He stops short, glancing around. Then he notices the fire door still swinging shut, and the fresh scar the brick has scraped across the mossy paving. He dashes off on the false trail.
It's unbelievably smelly behind the skip and most of the rubbish seems to have missed its intended target. Ruth's foot is aching from kicking the brick and a broken umbrella is sticking into her leg. Her heart is pounding so hard she feels it in the bones of her jaw but she can't help a tiny terrified grin. Two years, three continents and she's still okay.
It's only when she straightens from her crouch, smoothing her skirt and shaking inexplicable tea leaves from her boots, that she remembers she isn't, and never was, a field agent.
It all happens so quickly. The fire door bursts open again, the skip spillage gets the best of her footing, and the next thing she knows her pursuer is leaning over her with a concerned expression, offering his hand to help her up.
"It is Ruth, isn't it?"
He has an unnervingly pleasant northern accent. She takes him in in a frantic glance. Tall, very tall, battered leather jacket which looked as if it had survived several world wars, one or two of which were perhaps underwater - under which he could be hiding any number of weapons -
Scrambling backwards, she manages to right herself with slightly more grace than she fell with, grabbing the broken umbrella on the way and brandishing it in front of her like a sword to a dragon.
The stranger seems unperturbed. In the absence of an answer from her, he peers a bit closer and makes up his mind with a wide grin. "Of course it's Ruth! Senior Intelligence Analyst and secret-document-finder-extraordinaire! What brings you to the back streets of Hamburg?"
Ruth is backfooted. She bites her lip and takes a firmer grip on the umbrella. "Amsterdam?" she suggests finally.
"Is it?" The stranger frowns, peering around the alley until catching sight of the tyre tracks in the muddy sediment, at which he inexplicably brightens. "Of course it is, my mistake. Well! Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. How fantastic to see you again. I've been alone for a good while, you see, so it is nice to see a familiar face... what are you doing with that umbrella?"
Ruth immediately flushes red, but isn't about to give up her only weapon, useless as it might be. She shakes it self-consciously. There is something incredibly familiar about the man and the only explanation is that she must have seen him around Thames House. (She wildly considers her few civilian acquaintances, and blushes harder.) But if he's planning on picking her up he's going about it in a very odd way.
"Look," she tries, "there's been a - a misunderstanding. I'm Susan."
He frowns. "Not Ruth?"
"No," she says, meaningfully.
There is a moment of silence. Ruth has time to form, and discard, a conditional phrase including the words 'unless' and 'Harry'.
Understanding dawns. The stranger takes a step backwards, raising his hands peaceably and presenting Ruth with a flat expression clearly designed for the dangerously insane. "Ah. You're Susan. I see."
He starts to back away down the alley. Ruth wavers on the balls of her feet, shifting from one to the other. She may have been a desk-spook down to her very bones, but she has managed to keep herself hidden for two years. Surely her instinct is worthy of a little credit. How can she not remember where she's seen him before?
As if sensing her hesitation, he stops, raising his eyebrows in question, and suddenly looks so much like Colin that Ruth nearly reels. It's the ears, she thinks stupidly. Is that it, Ruth? You've been alone for so long that you're seeing dead friends in nutters who chase you down alleys?
There are tears in her throat and her question comes out with more frustration than she intended. "Look. Have we - ? I mean. It's all so - Do I know you?"
The stranger starts to answer, then squints and scratches his head. "Actually, I don't really know. Because I'm a different - and you're not really - Hmm."
Ruth's fingers twitch with the urge to smack him on the head with the umbrella.
"Let's say no," he decides finally. "But oh, Susan, my old body and your old name - I'd say we had some adventures."
- - -
( Prompts are still open for those of you who may have had a birthday recently, or have one coming up... *looks around meaningfully*)
Set pre-series 1 of New Who, post-series 5 of Spooks (mild spoilers). 900 words. I've borrowed lost_spook's crossover universe (thanks!) in which Ruth and the Eighth Doctor have already met.
- - -
Differences of the Body
"Ruth!"
The voice behind her sounds delighted, but Ruth isn't fooled for an instant. On the three occasions these past two years when she's heard her real name, the tone of voice of the speaker has had little effect on her reaction. That is to say, heart-wrenching panic.
She steps sideways into a bookshop, through the storeroom, and out the back door before anyone even notices that she isn't supposed to be there. In the narrow alley she crosses to a building three or four down which has the fire door propped open with a brick. The corridor beyond smells of mouldy yeast and rotten fruit, obscured in gloom even after the dim light of the alley.
She kicks the brick out of the way, walks calmly around to the back of the next building and ducks behind a skip bin just as her pursuer rushes from the bookshop. He stops short, glancing around. Then he notices the fire door still swinging shut, and the fresh scar the brick has scraped across the mossy paving. He dashes off on the false trail.
It's unbelievably smelly behind the skip and most of the rubbish seems to have missed its intended target. Ruth's foot is aching from kicking the brick and a broken umbrella is sticking into her leg. Her heart is pounding so hard she feels it in the bones of her jaw but she can't help a tiny terrified grin. Two years, three continents and she's still okay.
It's only when she straightens from her crouch, smoothing her skirt and shaking inexplicable tea leaves from her boots, that she remembers she isn't, and never was, a field agent.
It all happens so quickly. The fire door bursts open again, the skip spillage gets the best of her footing, and the next thing she knows her pursuer is leaning over her with a concerned expression, offering his hand to help her up.
"It is Ruth, isn't it?"
He has an unnervingly pleasant northern accent. She takes him in in a frantic glance. Tall, very tall, battered leather jacket which looked as if it had survived several world wars, one or two of which were perhaps underwater - under which he could be hiding any number of weapons -
Scrambling backwards, she manages to right herself with slightly more grace than she fell with, grabbing the broken umbrella on the way and brandishing it in front of her like a sword to a dragon.
The stranger seems unperturbed. In the absence of an answer from her, he peers a bit closer and makes up his mind with a wide grin. "Of course it's Ruth! Senior Intelligence Analyst and secret-document-finder-extraordinaire! What brings you to the back streets of Hamburg?"
Ruth is backfooted. She bites her lip and takes a firmer grip on the umbrella. "Amsterdam?" she suggests finally.
"Is it?" The stranger frowns, peering around the alley until catching sight of the tyre tracks in the muddy sediment, at which he inexplicably brightens. "Of course it is, my mistake. Well! Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. How fantastic to see you again. I've been alone for a good while, you see, so it is nice to see a familiar face... what are you doing with that umbrella?"
Ruth immediately flushes red, but isn't about to give up her only weapon, useless as it might be. She shakes it self-consciously. There is something incredibly familiar about the man and the only explanation is that she must have seen him around Thames House. (She wildly considers her few civilian acquaintances, and blushes harder.) But if he's planning on picking her up he's going about it in a very odd way.
"Look," she tries, "there's been a - a misunderstanding. I'm Susan."
He frowns. "Not Ruth?"
"No," she says, meaningfully.
There is a moment of silence. Ruth has time to form, and discard, a conditional phrase including the words 'unless' and 'Harry'.
Understanding dawns. The stranger takes a step backwards, raising his hands peaceably and presenting Ruth with a flat expression clearly designed for the dangerously insane. "Ah. You're Susan. I see."
He starts to back away down the alley. Ruth wavers on the balls of her feet, shifting from one to the other. She may have been a desk-spook down to her very bones, but she has managed to keep herself hidden for two years. Surely her instinct is worthy of a little credit. How can she not remember where she's seen him before?
As if sensing her hesitation, he stops, raising his eyebrows in question, and suddenly looks so much like Colin that Ruth nearly reels. It's the ears, she thinks stupidly. Is that it, Ruth? You've been alone for so long that you're seeing dead friends in nutters who chase you down alleys?
There are tears in her throat and her question comes out with more frustration than she intended. "Look. Have we - ? I mean. It's all so - Do I know you?"
The stranger starts to answer, then squints and scratches his head. "Actually, I don't really know. Because I'm a different - and you're not really - Hmm."
Ruth's fingers twitch with the urge to smack him on the head with the umbrella.
"Let's say no," he decides finally. "But oh, Susan, my old body and your old name - I'd say we had some adventures."
- - -