Fic: An Uncommon Education (2/3)
An Uncommon Education
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Five/Turlough
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1295, this chapter (2704 so far)
Author's Note: Now with added fancy soundtrack!
Chapter One
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be awake,” said Turlough, tucking his sketchbook under his arm as he followed the Doctor into the kitchen.
“Neither did I,” said the Doctor, venturing into the refrigerator as Turlough sat down.
The kitchen was distinguished from the console room largely by the fact that the typical whirring engine sounds heard throughout the TARDIS were joined here by the oddly harmonic hum of the refrigerator. The refrigerator itself, some might have argued, was a superfluous instrument in an otherwise thoroughly modern kitchen outfitted with a meal-generating automat, but Turlough at least had the aesthetic sense to recognise that there were times when only farm-fresh eggs or genuine wild strawberries would do. Besides, no matter how many times he tried to reprogram it, the food dispenser never made his camembert quite as runny as he liked it.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” asked Turlough, drumming his fingers against his cup, an ugly sort of stoneware thing in blobby brown and blue glaze.
“No, I suppose I couldn’t,” replied the Doctor, settling down at the table beside Turlough. “I was thinking about installing a dimmer switch in the console room tonight. Milk and sugar?”
“Oh,” startled Turlough, astonished by their apparent moment of hive-mindedness. “Um, yes, thank you.”
A long moment passed in uncomfortable quiet. Turlough had lost count of how many spoonfuls of sugar he had sifted into his drink.
“I don’t suppose Tegan would mind if I went out the nearest airlock,” he mused quietly, staring into the milky nebula that shifted and swirled through his tea as he slowly stirred.
“I would,” said the Doctor, stilling Turlough’s wrist with his hand. Their eyes met then; the Doctor’s concern confounded Turlough as much as it was comforting. “She’ll come round, she’ll understand. It hasn’t been easy for her, you know. You’ve got to give her time.”
“Of course,” Turlough agreed, sipping his tea. It was warm and comforting: he had made it so milky it was almost as beige as the Doctor. “You can’t blame her for not trusting me though, can you?”
The Doctor’s gaze moved downwards again to his tea. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “No,” he said, at long last, “but a lesser man would have taken the easy way out as soon as he had the chance, and what you did wasn’t easy. You’re stronger than you think, you know.”
A lesser man indeed, thought Turlough. He did not feel brave, anything but. He nearly did kill the Doctor, once, before he had the chance to know him: an act of desperation, of self-preservation, though perhaps of cowardice. He had felt no malice towards the Doctor, only remorse: he was remorseful still, and wished they could have met under any other circumstances.
“Do you think he’ll be back?” asked Turlough.
The Doctor’s gaze fell to the floor before he spoke. “I doubt that’s the last I’ll have seen of the Black Guardian, but I don’t think he’ll ever come after you again,” he said with a sad, apologetic smile. “Is that why you can’t sleep, Turlough?”
“Oh, I don’t know… Good tea, though?” Turlough smiled pathetically.
“Quite,” agreed the Doctor.
“Doctor, do you…” Turlough was unsure of how he had meant to finish the question, letting it hang unspoken between them instead, resting his hand uneasily on the Doctor’s shoulder. He wished to atone and to forget, to run and to stay with the Doctor forever. He wished to see the universe and to go home - but home, he feared, was now a memory.
---
Turlough had managed to slip out from under the watchful eye of the academy unnoticed once, on a class trip to the National Gallery, but the city was noisy and the narrow streets had a distinct, unpleasant odour - almost as bad, he thought to himself, as the change rooms at school after a rugby match. He had made it as far as a small record shop in Soho, trading in most of his pocket money for a small collection of LPs tucked discreetly into his book bag: records with strange, dark pictures on the cover and names like Joy Division and Wall of Voodoo. He was able to duck casually back into the tour group in time for a room full of Turners, radiant and comforting. Turner’s sunsets reminded Turlough of the skies on Trion; he had certainly never seen any sunsets that beautiful on Earth. He half wondered if Turner had been some kind of prisoner from another world himself, nothing to keep him company but his memories of the skies of his own home, wherever it might be, but that was stupid of course, a mere idle fancy.
---
The Doctor had the curious habit of keeping his hands in his pockets more or less whenever he was not using them. Turlough wondered if he noticed he was doing it. Turlough wondered if the Doctor noticed his own curious habit of buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket - or his shirt cuffs when he was not wearing his jacket. It was something he did when he was nervous, which was often. Turlough had many things to be nervous about.
“You’ve been so kind,” he said, buttoning and unbuttoning, before he noticed and stopped himself. “I’m not sure I understand why.”
“I was stranded once too,” replied the Doctor, gazing at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” replied Turlough, sipping his tea. He was tempted to press for details, but thought better.
“I was lucky,” he said, sighing heavily. “Also, I liked you.”
He smiled, then. Turlough blinked.
“Oh,” he blushed, setting his cup on the table.
That was the trouble with being all freckles and no pigment, he thought: it was nearly impossible to hide when he blushed. It was not as though it happened often, but when it did, it would have been nice to be able to keep it to himself.
“I couldn’t hurt you,” Turlough said quietly. “Not on purpose. I couldn’t, I... you know that, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” replied the Doctor.
“Doctor, I’m sorry,” said Turlough, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” said the Doctor, covering Turlough’s hands with his own.
There was what seemed to be a tiredness that hid just behind his youthful, duckfluffy features, a ferocity that nearly betrayed his gentle expression. The temptation to ask him everything was admittedly great, but Turlough understood well the need to keep some things to oneself.
It had not been hard to keep secrets at Brendon: when one began with “my parents are dead,” most people’s lines of questioning ended pretty quickly, replaced by that horrible, patronizing look of awkward sympathy. Some offered hollow gestures of charity, but most looked on with wordless pity, apologized, then left him alone.
The Doctor said nothing, stroking Turlough’s hands with his thumb, his expression unreadable and beautiful. Turlough leaned in, his fingertips brushing a soft strand of hair from the Doctor’s cheek. They both snapped back with a start when Tegan padded half-asleep into the kitchen in her pyjamas, as though they had been in the midst of some great secret.
“Hey guys,” she mumbled, feeling squintingly about in the cupboard for a glass. Turlough and the Doctor nodded quietly as she poured herself a drink of water.
“Oh hello Tegan,” Turlough shrugged sheepishly.
“Don’t you need sleep to live? You guys are weird,” she concluded, shooting Turlough a suspicious look as she shuffled back into the corridor.
Chapter Three
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Five/Turlough
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1295, this chapter (2704 so far)
Author's Note: Now with added fancy soundtrack!
Chapter One
“I didn’t expect anyone else to be awake,” said Turlough, tucking his sketchbook under his arm as he followed the Doctor into the kitchen.
“Neither did I,” said the Doctor, venturing into the refrigerator as Turlough sat down.
The kitchen was distinguished from the console room largely by the fact that the typical whirring engine sounds heard throughout the TARDIS were joined here by the oddly harmonic hum of the refrigerator. The refrigerator itself, some might have argued, was a superfluous instrument in an otherwise thoroughly modern kitchen outfitted with a meal-generating automat, but Turlough at least had the aesthetic sense to recognise that there were times when only farm-fresh eggs or genuine wild strawberries would do. Besides, no matter how many times he tried to reprogram it, the food dispenser never made his camembert quite as runny as he liked it.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” asked Turlough, drumming his fingers against his cup, an ugly sort of stoneware thing in blobby brown and blue glaze.
“No, I suppose I couldn’t,” replied the Doctor, settling down at the table beside Turlough. “I was thinking about installing a dimmer switch in the console room tonight. Milk and sugar?”
“Oh,” startled Turlough, astonished by their apparent moment of hive-mindedness. “Um, yes, thank you.”
A long moment passed in uncomfortable quiet. Turlough had lost count of how many spoonfuls of sugar he had sifted into his drink.
“I don’t suppose Tegan would mind if I went out the nearest airlock,” he mused quietly, staring into the milky nebula that shifted and swirled through his tea as he slowly stirred.
“I would,” said the Doctor, stilling Turlough’s wrist with his hand. Their eyes met then; the Doctor’s concern confounded Turlough as much as it was comforting. “She’ll come round, she’ll understand. It hasn’t been easy for her, you know. You’ve got to give her time.”
“Of course,” Turlough agreed, sipping his tea. It was warm and comforting: he had made it so milky it was almost as beige as the Doctor. “You can’t blame her for not trusting me though, can you?”
The Doctor’s gaze moved downwards again to his tea. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “No,” he said, at long last, “but a lesser man would have taken the easy way out as soon as he had the chance, and what you did wasn’t easy. You’re stronger than you think, you know.”
A lesser man indeed, thought Turlough. He did not feel brave, anything but. He nearly did kill the Doctor, once, before he had the chance to know him: an act of desperation, of self-preservation, though perhaps of cowardice. He had felt no malice towards the Doctor, only remorse: he was remorseful still, and wished they could have met under any other circumstances.
“Do you think he’ll be back?” asked Turlough.
The Doctor’s gaze fell to the floor before he spoke. “I doubt that’s the last I’ll have seen of the Black Guardian, but I don’t think he’ll ever come after you again,” he said with a sad, apologetic smile. “Is that why you can’t sleep, Turlough?”
“Oh, I don’t know… Good tea, though?” Turlough smiled pathetically.
“Quite,” agreed the Doctor.
“Doctor, do you…” Turlough was unsure of how he had meant to finish the question, letting it hang unspoken between them instead, resting his hand uneasily on the Doctor’s shoulder. He wished to atone and to forget, to run and to stay with the Doctor forever. He wished to see the universe and to go home - but home, he feared, was now a memory.
---
Turlough had managed to slip out from under the watchful eye of the academy unnoticed once, on a class trip to the National Gallery, but the city was noisy and the narrow streets had a distinct, unpleasant odour - almost as bad, he thought to himself, as the change rooms at school after a rugby match. He had made it as far as a small record shop in Soho, trading in most of his pocket money for a small collection of LPs tucked discreetly into his book bag: records with strange, dark pictures on the cover and names like Joy Division and Wall of Voodoo. He was able to duck casually back into the tour group in time for a room full of Turners, radiant and comforting. Turner’s sunsets reminded Turlough of the skies on Trion; he had certainly never seen any sunsets that beautiful on Earth. He half wondered if Turner had been some kind of prisoner from another world himself, nothing to keep him company but his memories of the skies of his own home, wherever it might be, but that was stupid of course, a mere idle fancy.
---
The Doctor had the curious habit of keeping his hands in his pockets more or less whenever he was not using them. Turlough wondered if he noticed he was doing it. Turlough wondered if the Doctor noticed his own curious habit of buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket - or his shirt cuffs when he was not wearing his jacket. It was something he did when he was nervous, which was often. Turlough had many things to be nervous about.
“You’ve been so kind,” he said, buttoning and unbuttoning, before he noticed and stopped himself. “I’m not sure I understand why.”
“I was stranded once too,” replied the Doctor, gazing at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” replied Turlough, sipping his tea. He was tempted to press for details, but thought better.
“I was lucky,” he said, sighing heavily. “Also, I liked you.”
He smiled, then. Turlough blinked.
“Oh,” he blushed, setting his cup on the table.
That was the trouble with being all freckles and no pigment, he thought: it was nearly impossible to hide when he blushed. It was not as though it happened often, but when it did, it would have been nice to be able to keep it to himself.
“I couldn’t hurt you,” Turlough said quietly. “Not on purpose. I couldn’t, I... you know that, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” replied the Doctor.
“Doctor, I’m sorry,” said Turlough, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” said the Doctor, covering Turlough’s hands with his own.
There was what seemed to be a tiredness that hid just behind his youthful, duckfluffy features, a ferocity that nearly betrayed his gentle expression. The temptation to ask him everything was admittedly great, but Turlough understood well the need to keep some things to oneself.
It had not been hard to keep secrets at Brendon: when one began with “my parents are dead,” most people’s lines of questioning ended pretty quickly, replaced by that horrible, patronizing look of awkward sympathy. Some offered hollow gestures of charity, but most looked on with wordless pity, apologized, then left him alone.
The Doctor said nothing, stroking Turlough’s hands with his thumb, his expression unreadable and beautiful. Turlough leaned in, his fingertips brushing a soft strand of hair from the Doctor’s cheek. They both snapped back with a start when Tegan padded half-asleep into the kitchen in her pyjamas, as though they had been in the midst of some great secret.
“Hey guys,” she mumbled, feeling squintingly about in the cupboard for a glass. Turlough and the Doctor nodded quietly as she poured herself a drink of water.
“Oh hello Tegan,” Turlough shrugged sheepishly.
“Don’t you need sleep to live? You guys are weird,” she concluded, shooting Turlough a suspicious look as she shuffled back into the corridor.
Chapter Three