Sometimes, people tell me random things and then stories happen. Like that time a friend told me to write a Doctor Who stapler monster. Stuff like that
( Read more... )
Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1bendingsignpostJuly 19 2011, 16:23:29 UTC
She watches him watch, then goes to take a shower and change out of her clothes. She gets dressed, realizes she can’t find her shoes, and then locates them in his room, half under the blanket.
“You carried me back to my room,” she says, sitting down next to him.
“Yep,” he says, popping the “p”. He doesn’t look away from the telly.
“You weren’t too tired?” Drained, she doesn’t say.
“Nope.” Another pop.
“Oh.” She doesn’t know what to say. “Thanks.”
He makes a noise of indifference.
During the next break, she says, “I have to leave for work in an hour and if Jackie finds out you’re not locked in, she’ll go mental.”
“I know,” he says. “I know not to get caught.”
“Knowing not to and knowing how not to aren’t exactly the same thing, Freckles.”
He huffs.
The programme resumes and he shifts about. She doesn’t know why, but the adverts hold his interest better. She’d say because they were shorter, except she’s seen him read.
“I’ve been before,” he says. “They don’t want me, so it’s fine.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Draining house,” he says, easy as anything.
It sits her upright, puts her hair on end. “What, seriously?”
Not taking his eyes off the telly, he rolls up the loose sleeve of the jimjams and shows her his arm. The marks are surgical, not oral, and that buzzing is back in her ears.
“What happened?” she asks, barely a breath.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
She touches his arm, doesn’t know what to do.
He turns his arm over, catches her hand in his.
They watch the next episode like that.
She loads up the next few episodes on the laptop, sure he’ll be able to work out the rest of it on his own. “I’ll get you some headphones when I can,” she tells him. “Less risk of Jackie finding out if she can’t hear you.”
He nods in agreement. “Is there a plug for this?”
“Oh, right.”
When she goes to fetch it, she leaves his door open. When she comes back, he hasn’t moved.
“Got everything you need?” she checks.
He nods. “I took some more loo roll from the closet. That all right?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. See you.”
“See you.”
She locks the door up properly this time, making a mental note or two. There are things she needs to buy.
Headphones, for a start, and a lock for the inside.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9bendingsignpostJuly 20 2011, 23:21:39 UTC
“Rose, um.”
She blinks and looks through the pile once more. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean to order the audio book. Sorry, I’ll fix that.”
“No,” he says, hands covering hers over the pile of library books. “No, I.” He looks down. At their hands. “I want to try something.”
Her heart pounds.
“I need to borrow two hundred pounds.”
There’s a pause from her, a silence he hurriedly fills.
“I’ll pay you back,” he says.
She asks the obvious question. There are many more questions she has, but this one is a syllable long and that’s what she feels capable of right now. “How?” And then: “What do you even want with money?”
“There’s a programme,” he says. “Which I need to pay for. I can pay for it on my own once I get started, I’ve found a website that’ll pay me to translate text, but I need an account for that to pay into. To open that, it says I need a credit card, which means I need a bank account that has something in it - I’m pretty sure I need something in it - and-”
“You can’t open a bank account,” she says. “Look, this is, what, a PayPal thing?”
He nods.
“And once you have the money for the programme, then what?” she asks.
“Then I’ll do what I can to pay for my own food,” he says.
She thinks about that. “Okay, sure.”
His eyes go wide. “What, really?”
She shrugs and pulls over the laptop.
When she leaves for work, he’s still grinning.
“Oh - here’s my library card. Password’s oh-two-oh-seven.”
“...Yes?”
“Look, unless you like the audiobooks, you should probably start ordering your stuff on your own.”
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 9earlgreytea68July 21 2011, 13:29:47 UTC
Found this from somebody mentioning it on Twitter, spent all morning reading it, and now I shall flop on my bed and sulk until you write more, just warning you.
(Seriously, it's brilliant, so beautifully conceived and imagined and I'm so impressed.)
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 10bendingsignpostJuly 21 2011, 17:41:02 UTC
She likes watching him as well, this long, lanky figure sprawled across the floor, his blanket strewn about him. Howard’s jimjams are loose and floppy, adding a sort of little boy ridiculousness to his movements. She wants to cuddle him and kiss his hair and grin back at his irresistible smile. She wants to find other things to feed him, to watch his face light up at strawberries, to laugh at his pear-induced sputtering.
Having finally consulted the internet on this matter, she knows now she’s meant to be buying the feed for him, that rough stuff in the bags, but once they got that whole thing with the lentils figured out - she had to boil them - his diet seems to be okay. He starts getting hyper, even. There was a whole week where he could barely sleep, could hardly sit still. He was pretty obnoxious about it too. Finally, she got fed up with him and fed up on him. Which worked out surprisingly well, actually. He’d fallen asleep immediately and stayed that way well into the next night. Which had been terrifying at the time but he woke up with a great big yawn and a stretch - “Pandiculation, Rose! It’s my word of the day!” - and proceeded to almost be mellow.
“Industrial quantity, if not quality,” she joked. But it put a strange look on his face, so she’s never said it again since.
They have a lot of other things to talk about, so it’s fine. She thinks it’s fine. Hopes it’s fine. She’ll never stop being amazed at the sheer amount of things there are to talk about. The day she carried the first textbook home from the library, she was convinced it was a mistake, then convinced he’d gone mental, but now she listens to his crazy historical summaries, soaking them up like the bedtime stories she’s always wanted.
He talks about things she’s never thought about. There’s etymology and “Did you know that ‘to thrill’ once meant ‘to pierce’? You have thrilled ears!” There’s literature, actual literature, and “No, it’s Dickens, you have to read it - please?” There’s geology and astronomy and she keeps waiting for all of this to be boring, but it’s not.
When she mentions this in amazement, he stares at her like she’s the one who’s gone mad. It’s fully possible she has. Her mum certainly thinks she has, hanging around in the spare room with him so much. This far in, she’s stopped trying to hide it. She’s stopped trying to explain it, too, because Jackie doesn’t believe a word of it and Freckles goes dumb when Jackie’s around. She’s pretty sure he does it just to be contrary, just as she’s pretty sure that a month ago, she didn’t know dumb meant mute as well as stupid.
“Why would you be bored?” he asks. His eyes are wide and earnest like a puppy desperate to climb into her lap. “You have everything. You can do... anything.”
She doesn’t mean to laugh.
The things he says after she does, though, he means those.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11bendingsignpostJuly 21 2011, 17:42:47 UTC
She goes to work directly from Mickey’s flat, leaving a bit earlier than is strictly necessary. He’s been dropping those bricks he calls hints again. Sitting on the couch with him, watching his telly, she can’t quite acknowledge the possibility, let alone the consequences, but once she’s outside and walking fast, she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to move in with him.
Working at the shop, she folds and sets out clothing. Gathers it up from the changing rooms, makes it presentable again, and makes someone else put it where it belongs. She keeps an eye on teenagers and she asks wandering mothers if they need any help finding something for their daughters.
It’s all rote, all boring, and then she thinks of Freckles. She doesn’t mean to, she’s still mad at him, still wounded and confused to discover the tame Flesh has a temper, but she thinks of him anyway.
She looks at the clothing and sees shirts and tops and blouses, jeans and skirts and trousers. So many fabrics, so many colours, so many designs. Tables, displays, hangers, all covered. The floor: here tile, there carpet, some dirty, some worn. The ceiling is high, the walls so terribly far apart. The music pipes in from the wall speakers, all in English, unapologetic and unafraid in its volume. Costumers roam, alone, in couples, in groups of friends, with a moody sigh and a parent in tow. They pay with cash, with card, and walk out through the doors, bags in hand. They talk on phones. They wear shoes. They have nice haircuts.
During her break, she goes outside. She looks up through the streetlights and sees clouds and wants the stars. The names of constellations are familiar to her now, more than they’ve ever been, each carefully bestowed upon her by a teacher who has never known the sky.
She doesn’t want to feel this guilty. She shouldn’t feel this guilty - she’s done nothing wrong.
But the feeling won’t go away.
Toward the end of her shift, this feeling prompts an urge, a stupid one, a useless one. She tells herself no, keeps telling herself no. She almost manages it, almost gets away and goes home, and then she sees the jeans. In that moment, she wants them so badly. They’ve been marked down and her employee discount is calling her name.
She gets them, and it’s like a weight’s been lifted.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 (End of Arc 1)bendingsignpostJuly 21 2011, 17:45:32 UTC
He hasn’t bolted the door.
She knocks anyway. Quietly, so her mum watching the telly doesn’t hear, but she knocks.
A minute later, she knocks a bit louder.
Another pause, then some sounds of motion. She hears him pad to the door, then stop.
She waits.
Slowly, the door cracks open. It reveals a slice of him, the pyjamas striped and faded. What catches her off guard, what utterly throws her is looking down, is seeing his forearm rather than his face, and then looking up.
He is so incredibly tall.
Rose swallows. She braces herself. “Um. Hi.”
He nods in return, eyes flicking to the side. He still won’t talk where Jackie might hear.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
The anger doesn’t come.
The rejection doesn’t come.
He backs away from the door, eyes full of wonder.
She steps inside.
He closes it behind her.
There’s a bundle in her arms and she holds it out to him.
Brow furrowed, he takes it. He separates the items. “Jeans and a t-shirt,” he says.
“The jeans should fit,” she says. “I’ve got a great eye for size.” Which is why it surprises her so much, the fact of her surprise. He’s tall. Until now, he’s never stood with her around, save to relocate from the couch before Jackie finds him there. He’s always low, always on the floor. Now he’s upright, his chin as high as the crown of her head. He’s....
She has no idea what he is.
She looks away as he changes, turns her back entirely and doesn’t peek. When he’s done, she waits and doesn’t turn around until he says her name, a soft, uncertain word.
“Do they fit?” she asks, the question rhetorical.
They fit.
God, they fit.
“They’re a bit stiff,” he says. “Tight.”
“Give ‘em a few washes and they’ll be fine,” she says. “Can you move around all right?”
He tests this, moving into a few stretches, all agile limbs and grace. “Yep,” he says, always popping that consonant. He looks down at the t-shirt. “Who are the Ood?”
“Norwegian weresquid acoustic folk rock,” Rose says, kind of apologetically. “My dad liked them.”
He keeps looking down at the t-shirt, the fabric plucked between long fingers. The cloth is soft, well-worn, the design faded. “He loved this t-shirt,” Freckles says. Or asks, maybe. Or protests. It might be a statement of the obvious.
“He had, like, five of them,” she says. “I used to wear the blue one as a nightshirt. Wore it to bits. Think it would be okay even if Mum sees you in this one.”
He looks down at his feet, at his socks, and he looks like some bloke, any bloke, just some were. Maybe a wolf, maybe a fox or a bit of a mutt. That’s why his hair is shaggy, why his stubble is so bad. He came home from work, kicked off his shoes and here he is, standing in a room with a toilet and a shower, just a poorly designed loo. The bunched-up blanket isn’t disguising books and a laptop. He doesn’t eat in here, certainly doesn’t sleep in here. He likes running through the park and petting strangers’ dogs. He has friends, a girlfriend, a life.
Except his arms are scarred and his neck is mottled, thrilled by her teeth. Except he has none of that, is never going to have it, any of it, and she wants it for him so badly.
“Rose, I, um.”
“The jeans were discount,” she says. “I know you can pay me back, but I don’t want you to, okay?”
“No,” he says. “I mean. Well.” He thumbs at his ear, his mismatched ear, and says, “You’re going to want to delete a few emails.”
She laughs and, in a moment, he laughs too.
“Okay,” she says. “But if any of them have that stuff you were talking about - the rights of the sentient, abolition of slavery, all that - can you write it up and send it again? I’d like to go over it again. Just, you know. Calmly.”
He stops looking at the floor.
She shifts, wants to fidget and squirm. “What?” she asks.
“You’re better than I thought anyone could be,” he says, eyes soft, voice broken. The worst of it is, he means it.
She wants to protest, or scream, or hit the world, or kiss him until their lips are numb. She wants to seize his arms and wipe all the marks away, all the knives and needles, the black TT40-10 along his bicep. He’s not her pet anymore, never was, but she’s not remotely ready to deal with that.
She hugs him tight, holds him hard, and tells him, “So are you.”
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 (End of Arc 1)mylittlepwnyJuly 25 2011, 03:44:53 UTC
First of all, THE DOCTOR'S FOREARMS ARE A POINT OF MAJOR ATTRACTION TO ME. I don't know what it is, but I am all about his forearms. Especially when they are leaning on things. Or when sleeves are being rolled up to give them some air. So this visual is a v. nice one, WELL DONE LOL.
“The jeans should fit,” she says. “I’ve got a great eye for size.” Which is why it surprises her so much, the fact of her surprise. He’s tall. Until now, he’s never stood with her around, save to relocate from the couch before Jackie finds him there. He’s always low, always on the floor. Now he’s upright, his chin as high as the crown of her head. He’s....
She has no idea what he is.
ughhhhhhhhhhhhh you're killing me
“Do they fit?” she asks, the question rhetorical.
They fit.
God, they fit.
No but really.
“Norwegian weresquid acoustic folk rock,” Rose says, kind of apologetically. “My dad liked them.”
THE OOD LOL LOL LOL
I should have known, Pete Tyler.
He looks down at his feet, at his socks, and he looks like some bloke, any bloke, just some were. Maybe a wolf, maybe a fox or a bit of a mutt. That’s why his hair is shaggy, why his stubble is so bad. He came home from work, kicked off his shoes and here he is, standing in a room with a toilet and a shower, just a poorly designed loo. The bunched-up blanket isn’t disguising books and a laptop. He doesn’t eat in here, certainly doesn’t sleep in here. He likes running through the park and petting strangers’ dogs. He has friends, a girlfriend, a life.
Except his arms are scarred and his neck is mottled, thrilled by her teeth. Except he has none of that, is never going to have it, any of it, and she wants it for him so badly.
feelings. feelings all over my face.
AND THEN HE TELLS HER TO DELETE A FEW EMAILS, BECAUSE HE WROTE HER ANGRY EMAILS and then she surprises him by not really surprising him if he really thought about it and they say these things, okay. That bring all the feelings right back to my face. I would say I can't believe how unbelievably lovely this is, but I can.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 (End of Arc 1)bendingsignpostJuly 25 2011, 04:21:11 UTC
I'm not sure how it works, but I completely agree that the Doctor's forearms are the best things ever. Somehow, every single incarnation in which they occur? Hot. I don't even know how it works. Kinda freaks me out a bit with the older ones, but, hey, that's not a bad consistent character trait to have.
No but really.
Yes but really.
THE OOD LOL LOL LOL
I couldn't not. It was the best combination of words to possibly ever occur to me (at this point of my life).
feelings. feelings all over my face.
Until the feelings are flailing through your arms, I have not done my job correctly.
AND THEN HE TELLS HER TO DELETE A FEW EMAILS, BECAUSE HE WROTE HER ANGRY EMAILS
He was hurt and lonely! He did what you do when hurt and lonely with a laptop. He has about five different levels of maturity going on simultaneously and he's still at the teenager level for this one.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 11 (End of Arc 1)earlgreytea68August 7 2011, 21:10:13 UTC
Okay, I cannot believe how brilliantly you've taken this AU and still made him the Doctor who shows Rose Tyler the universe. How you managed to work that, so delicately, without my even *noticing* until it was done, is amazing.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 10mylittlepwnyJuly 25 2011, 03:32:03 UTC
There’s geology and astronomy and she keeps waiting for all of this to be boring, but it’s not.
GOD, this is like the best kind of torture, their slow and slight unsteady tread towards, I don't even know what except to say them. Which sounds wrong because THEY ARE ALREADY THEM, YOU HAVE SOMEHOW MADE THIS CLEAR FROM LIKE DAY ONE, but everything's still so new and just unsteady, unsteady is the right word for how I feel beneath all the OMG and KISS ALREADY and LEAVE THE FLAT AND BUCK THE SYSTEM TOGETHER AT ONCE feelings, which is a total compliment because it should be a little unsteady right now (though getting steadier and steadier I can feel it), with all these changes.
She doesn’t mean to laugh.
The things he says after she does, though, he means those.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1mylittlepwnyJuly 23 2011, 17:55:13 UTC
“I know,” he says. “I know not to get caught.”
“Knowing not to and knowing how not to aren’t exactly the same thing, Freckles.”
He huffs.
Is it weird that I love it almost the most when the Doctor does things like huff and puff and pretend affront at things Rose says? Because I almost do. It's almost the most adorable thing in the world. I MEAN FRECKLES LOL SORRY.
Not taking his eyes off the telly, he rolls up the loose sleeve of the jimjams and shows her his arm. The marks are surgical, not oral, and that buzzing is back in her ears.
“What happened?” she asks, barely a breath.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
She touches his arm, doesn’t know what to do.
He turns his arm over, catches her hand in his.
They watch the next episode like that.
Just rereading that to quote it here made me cry again. kjndshzioifp;l,men jsfjopl;w3e,
Also, HAND HOLDING. Finally. I am surprised they withheld this long.
When she goes to fetch it, she leaves his door open. When she comes back, he hasn’t moved.
These little striiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiides. Come on, Rose. You can do it.
Re: Evidently Deviltown, Part 8.1bendingsignpostJuly 23 2011, 23:14:12 UTC
Just rereading that to quote it here made me cry again. kjndshzioifp;l,men jsfjopl;w3e,
Yeah, he has a past. Oh boy, does he have a past. Because, y'know, tragic past is kinda obligatory for AU New Who. At least it is with me. We'll get to that later. I wanted to make sure we had a mention of it before the end of this arc, though, because there's a mention earlier on of Rose wondering how old he might be and then touching on the whole force-grown Flesh thing (like Chip, the force-grown clone of New Earth). In her mind, Freckles just happened one day. He was tested at the factory, rejected due to the pressure issues, and then he wound up at the shop where Jackie bought him. He's childlike and curious. He's so very sweet. Her affection for him is initially based on this very shallow image, reflected by her choice of reading material for him. He looks like an adult, but he's just this big kid, right?
Dead wrong. It scares her beyond belief to know. Her angry freakout of everything that could happen to him, and it already has? Makes her feel helpless.
There's also the aspect of him having a past and therefore having secrets. They've never discussed anything serious, but she thought it was because he never had anything serious to discuss.
Also, HAND HOLDING. Finally. I am surprised they withheld this long.
Not much call for it with them just sitting around in his room, really.
“You carried me back to my room,” she says, sitting down next to him.
“Yep,” he says, popping the “p”. He doesn’t look away from the telly.
“You weren’t too tired?” Drained, she doesn’t say.
“Nope.” Another pop.
“Oh.” She doesn’t know what to say. “Thanks.”
He makes a noise of indifference.
During the next break, she says, “I have to leave for work in an hour and if Jackie finds out you’re not locked in, she’ll go mental.”
“I know,” he says. “I know not to get caught.”
“Knowing not to and knowing how not to aren’t exactly the same thing, Freckles.”
He huffs.
The programme resumes and he shifts about. She doesn’t know why, but the adverts hold his interest better. She’d say because they were shorter, except she’s seen him read.
“I’ve been before,” he says. “They don’t want me, so it’s fine.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Draining house,” he says, easy as anything.
It sits her upright, puts her hair on end. “What, seriously?”
Not taking his eyes off the telly, he rolls up the loose sleeve of the jimjams and shows her his arm. The marks are surgical, not oral, and that buzzing is back in her ears.
“What happened?” she asks, barely a breath.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
She touches his arm, doesn’t know what to do.
He turns his arm over, catches her hand in his.
They watch the next episode like that.
She loads up the next few episodes on the laptop, sure he’ll be able to work out the rest of it on his own. “I’ll get you some headphones when I can,” she tells him. “Less risk of Jackie finding out if she can’t hear you.”
He nods in agreement. “Is there a plug for this?”
“Oh, right.”
When she goes to fetch it, she leaves his door open. When she comes back, he hasn’t moved.
“Got everything you need?” she checks.
He nods. “I took some more loo roll from the closet. That all right?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. See you.”
“See you.”
She locks the door up properly this time, making a mental note or two. There are things she needs to buy.
Headphones, for a start, and a lock for the inside.
Reply
She blinks and looks through the pile once more. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I didn’t mean to order the audio book. Sorry, I’ll fix that.”
“No,” he says, hands covering hers over the pile of library books. “No, I.” He looks down. At their hands. “I want to try something.”
Her heart pounds.
“I need to borrow two hundred pounds.”
There’s a pause from her, a silence he hurriedly fills.
“I’ll pay you back,” he says.
She asks the obvious question. There are many more questions she has, but this one is a syllable long and that’s what she feels capable of right now. “How?” And then: “What do you even want with money?”
“There’s a programme,” he says. “Which I need to pay for. I can pay for it on my own once I get started, I’ve found a website that’ll pay me to translate text, but I need an account for that to pay into. To open that, it says I need a credit card, which means I need a bank account that has something in it - I’m pretty sure I need something in it - and-”
“You can’t open a bank account,” she says. “Look, this is, what, a PayPal thing?”
He nods.
“And once you have the money for the programme, then what?” she asks.
“Then I’ll do what I can to pay for my own food,” he says.
She thinks about that. “Okay, sure.”
His eyes go wide. “What, really?”
She shrugs and pulls over the laptop.
When she leaves for work, he’s still grinning.
“Oh - here’s my library card. Password’s oh-two-oh-seven.”
“...Yes?”
“Look, unless you like the audiobooks, you should probably start ordering your stuff on your own.”
“I- All right.”
And then it’s ridiculous.
They have a talk.
It’s still a bit ridiculous.
She kind of likes to indulge him, though.
Reply
(Seriously, it's brilliant, so beautifully conceived and imagined and I'm so impressed.)
Reply
(<3)
Reply
Reply
Having finally consulted the internet on this matter, she knows now she’s meant to be buying the feed for him, that rough stuff in the bags, but once they got that whole thing with the lentils figured out - she had to boil them - his diet seems to be okay. He starts getting hyper, even. There was a whole week where he could barely sleep, could hardly sit still. He was pretty obnoxious about it too. Finally, she got fed up with him and fed up on him. Which worked out surprisingly well, actually. He’d fallen asleep immediately and stayed that way well into the next night. Which had been terrifying at the time but he woke up with a great big yawn and a stretch - “Pandiculation, Rose! It’s my word of the day!” - and proceeded to almost be mellow.
“Industrial quantity, if not quality,” she joked. But it put a strange look on his face, so she’s never said it again since.
They have a lot of other things to talk about, so it’s fine. She thinks it’s fine. Hopes it’s fine. She’ll never stop being amazed at the sheer amount of things there are to talk about. The day she carried the first textbook home from the library, she was convinced it was a mistake, then convinced he’d gone mental, but now she listens to his crazy historical summaries, soaking them up like the bedtime stories she’s always wanted.
He talks about things she’s never thought about. There’s etymology and “Did you know that ‘to thrill’ once meant ‘to pierce’? You have thrilled ears!” There’s literature, actual literature, and “No, it’s Dickens, you have to read it - please?” There’s geology and astronomy and she keeps waiting for all of this to be boring, but it’s not.
When she mentions this in amazement, he stares at her like she’s the one who’s gone mad. It’s fully possible she has. Her mum certainly thinks she has, hanging around in the spare room with him so much. This far in, she’s stopped trying to hide it. She’s stopped trying to explain it, too, because Jackie doesn’t believe a word of it and Freckles goes dumb when Jackie’s around. She’s pretty sure he does it just to be contrary, just as she’s pretty sure that a month ago, she didn’t know dumb meant mute as well as stupid.
“Why would you be bored?” he asks. His eyes are wide and earnest like a puppy desperate to climb into her lap. “You have everything. You can do... anything.”
She doesn’t mean to laugh.
The things he says after she does, though, he means those.
She leaves him alone the next night.
Reply
Working at the shop, she folds and sets out clothing. Gathers it up from the changing rooms, makes it presentable again, and makes someone else put it where it belongs. She keeps an eye on teenagers and she asks wandering mothers if they need any help finding something for their daughters.
It’s all rote, all boring, and then she thinks of Freckles. She doesn’t mean to, she’s still mad at him, still wounded and confused to discover the tame Flesh has a temper, but she thinks of him anyway.
She looks at the clothing and sees shirts and tops and blouses, jeans and skirts and trousers. So many fabrics, so many colours, so many designs. Tables, displays, hangers, all covered. The floor: here tile, there carpet, some dirty, some worn. The ceiling is high, the walls so terribly far apart. The music pipes in from the wall speakers, all in English, unapologetic and unafraid in its volume. Costumers roam, alone, in couples, in groups of friends, with a moody sigh and a parent in tow. They pay with cash, with card, and walk out through the doors, bags in hand. They talk on phones. They wear shoes. They have nice haircuts.
During her break, she goes outside. She looks up through the streetlights and sees clouds and wants the stars. The names of constellations are familiar to her now, more than they’ve ever been, each carefully bestowed upon her by a teacher who has never known the sky.
She doesn’t want to feel this guilty. She shouldn’t feel this guilty - she’s done nothing wrong.
But the feeling won’t go away.
Toward the end of her shift, this feeling prompts an urge, a stupid one, a useless one. She tells herself no, keeps telling herself no. She almost manages it, almost gets away and goes home, and then she sees the jeans. In that moment, she wants them so badly. They’ve been marked down and her employee discount is calling her name.
She gets them, and it’s like a weight’s been lifted.
Reply
She knocks anyway. Quietly, so her mum watching the telly doesn’t hear, but she knocks.
A minute later, she knocks a bit louder.
Another pause, then some sounds of motion. She hears him pad to the door, then stop.
She waits.
Slowly, the door cracks open. It reveals a slice of him, the pyjamas striped and faded. What catches her off guard, what utterly throws her is looking down, is seeing his forearm rather than his face, and then looking up.
He is so incredibly tall.
Rose swallows. She braces herself. “Um. Hi.”
He nods in return, eyes flicking to the side. He still won’t talk where Jackie might hear.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
The anger doesn’t come.
The rejection doesn’t come.
He backs away from the door, eyes full of wonder.
She steps inside.
He closes it behind her.
There’s a bundle in her arms and she holds it out to him.
Brow furrowed, he takes it. He separates the items. “Jeans and a t-shirt,” he says.
“The jeans should fit,” she says. “I’ve got a great eye for size.” Which is why it surprises her so much, the fact of her surprise. He’s tall. Until now, he’s never stood with her around, save to relocate from the couch before Jackie finds him there. He’s always low, always on the floor. Now he’s upright, his chin as high as the crown of her head. He’s....
She has no idea what he is.
She looks away as he changes, turns her back entirely and doesn’t peek. When he’s done, she waits and doesn’t turn around until he says her name, a soft, uncertain word.
“Do they fit?” she asks, the question rhetorical.
They fit.
God, they fit.
“They’re a bit stiff,” he says. “Tight.”
“Give ‘em a few washes and they’ll be fine,” she says. “Can you move around all right?”
He tests this, moving into a few stretches, all agile limbs and grace. “Yep,” he says, always popping that consonant. He looks down at the t-shirt. “Who are the Ood?”
“Norwegian weresquid acoustic folk rock,” Rose says, kind of apologetically. “My dad liked them.”
He keeps looking down at the t-shirt, the fabric plucked between long fingers. The cloth is soft, well-worn, the design faded. “He loved this t-shirt,” Freckles says. Or asks, maybe. Or protests. It might be a statement of the obvious.
“He had, like, five of them,” she says. “I used to wear the blue one as a nightshirt. Wore it to bits. Think it would be okay even if Mum sees you in this one.”
He looks down at his feet, at his socks, and he looks like some bloke, any bloke, just some were. Maybe a wolf, maybe a fox or a bit of a mutt. That’s why his hair is shaggy, why his stubble is so bad. He came home from work, kicked off his shoes and here he is, standing in a room with a toilet and a shower, just a poorly designed loo. The bunched-up blanket isn’t disguising books and a laptop. He doesn’t eat in here, certainly doesn’t sleep in here. He likes running through the park and petting strangers’ dogs. He has friends, a girlfriend, a life.
Except his arms are scarred and his neck is mottled, thrilled by her teeth. Except he has none of that, is never going to have it, any of it, and she wants it for him so badly.
“Rose, I, um.”
“The jeans were discount,” she says. “I know you can pay me back, but I don’t want you to, okay?”
“No,” he says. “I mean. Well.” He thumbs at his ear, his mismatched ear, and says, “You’re going to want to delete a few emails.”
She laughs and, in a moment, he laughs too.
“Okay,” she says. “But if any of them have that stuff you were talking about - the rights of the sentient, abolition of slavery, all that - can you write it up and send it again? I’d like to go over it again. Just, you know. Calmly.”
He stops looking at the floor.
She shifts, wants to fidget and squirm. “What?” she asks.
“You’re better than I thought anyone could be,” he says, eyes soft, voice broken. The worst of it is, he means it.
She wants to protest, or scream, or hit the world, or kiss him until their lips are numb. She wants to seize his arms and wipe all the marks away, all the knives and needles, the black TT40-10 along his bicep. He’s not her pet anymore, never was, but she’s not remotely ready to deal with that.
She hugs him tight, holds him hard, and tells him, “So are you.”
Reply
“The jeans should fit,” she says. “I’ve got a great eye for size.” Which is why it surprises her so much, the fact of her surprise. He’s tall. Until now, he’s never stood with her around, save to relocate from the couch before Jackie finds him there. He’s always low, always on the floor. Now he’s upright, his chin as high as the crown of her head. He’s....
She has no idea what he is.
ughhhhhhhhhhhhh you're killing me
“Do they fit?” she asks, the question rhetorical.
They fit.
God, they fit.
No but really.
“Norwegian weresquid acoustic folk rock,” Rose says, kind of apologetically. “My dad liked them.”
THE OOD LOL LOL LOL
I should have known, Pete Tyler.
He looks down at his feet, at his socks, and he looks like some bloke, any bloke, just some were. Maybe a wolf, maybe a fox or a bit of a mutt. That’s why his hair is shaggy, why his stubble is so bad. He came home from work, kicked off his shoes and here he is, standing in a room with a toilet and a shower, just a poorly designed loo. The bunched-up blanket isn’t disguising books and a laptop. He doesn’t eat in here, certainly doesn’t sleep in here. He likes running through the park and petting strangers’ dogs. He has friends, a girlfriend, a life.
Except his arms are scarred and his neck is mottled, thrilled by her teeth. Except he has none of that, is never going to have it, any of it, and she wants it for him so badly.
feelings. feelings all over my face.
AND THEN HE TELLS HER TO DELETE A FEW EMAILS, BECAUSE HE WROTE HER ANGRY EMAILS and then she surprises him by not really surprising him if he really thought about it and they say these things, okay. That bring all the feelings right back to my face. I would say I can't believe how unbelievably lovely this is, but I can.
Reply
No but really.
Yes but really.
THE OOD LOL LOL LOL
I couldn't not. It was the best combination of words to possibly ever occur to me (at this point of my life).
feelings. feelings all over my face.
Until the feelings are flailing through your arms, I have not done my job correctly.
AND THEN HE TELLS HER TO DELETE A FEW EMAILS, BECAUSE HE WROTE HER ANGRY EMAILS
He was hurt and lonely! He did what you do when hurt and lonely with a laptop. He has about five different levels of maturity going on simultaneously and he's still at the teenager level for this one.
Reply
Reply
Dunno, it just made sense. Helps that the setting came out of the characterization, more than the other way round.
Reply
HIS OWN CLOTHES
YES
Reply
GOD, this is like the best kind of torture, their slow and slight unsteady tread towards, I don't even know what except to say them. Which sounds wrong because THEY ARE ALREADY THEM, YOU HAVE SOMEHOW MADE THIS CLEAR FROM LIKE DAY ONE, but everything's still so new and just unsteady, unsteady is the right word for how I feel beneath all the OMG and KISS ALREADY and LEAVE THE FLAT AND BUCK THE SYSTEM TOGETHER AT ONCE feelings, which is a total compliment because it should be a little unsteady right now (though getting steadier and steadier I can feel it), with all these changes.
She doesn’t mean to laugh.
The things he says after she does, though, he means those.
She leaves him alone the next night.
THEIR FIRST FIGHT
I was so worried.
Reply
“Knowing not to and knowing how not to aren’t exactly the same thing, Freckles.”
He huffs.
Is it weird that I love it almost the most when the Doctor does things like huff and puff and pretend affront at things Rose says? Because I almost do. It's almost the most adorable thing in the world. I MEAN FRECKLES LOL SORRY.
Not taking his eyes off the telly, he rolls up the loose sleeve of the jimjams and shows her his arm. The marks are surgical, not oral, and that buzzing is back in her ears.
“What happened?” she asks, barely a breath.
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
She touches his arm, doesn’t know what to do.
He turns his arm over, catches her hand in his.
They watch the next episode like that.
Just rereading that to quote it here made me cry again. kjndshzioifp;l,men jsfjopl;w3e,
Also, HAND HOLDING. Finally. I am surprised they withheld this long.
When she goes to fetch it, she leaves his door open. When she comes back, he hasn’t moved.
These little striiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiides. Come on, Rose. You can do it.
Reply
Yeah, he has a past. Oh boy, does he have a past. Because, y'know, tragic past is kinda obligatory for AU New Who. At least it is with me. We'll get to that later. I wanted to make sure we had a mention of it before the end of this arc, though, because there's a mention earlier on of Rose wondering how old he might be and then touching on the whole force-grown Flesh thing (like Chip, the force-grown clone of New Earth). In her mind, Freckles just happened one day. He was tested at the factory, rejected due to the pressure issues, and then he wound up at the shop where Jackie bought him. He's childlike and curious. He's so very sweet. Her affection for him is initially based on this very shallow image, reflected by her choice of reading material for him. He looks like an adult, but he's just this big kid, right?
Dead wrong. It scares her beyond belief to know. Her angry freakout of everything that could happen to him, and it already has? Makes her feel helpless.
There's also the aspect of him having a past and therefore having secrets. They've never discussed anything serious, but she thought it was because he never had anything serious to discuss.
Also, HAND HOLDING. Finally. I am surprised they withheld this long.
Not much call for it with them just sitting around in his room, really.
Reply
Leave a comment