RPF: kings and queens
kings and queens billie piper/david tennant, pg
there is always a way. this has never been about advice, or the sort of advice that matters when it’s necessary. people always forget it is really about the unnecessary after all. 2,200 words.
for mylittlepwny because i am slow, and i promised to do this for her, and this is definitely me catching up.
-
Dinner, of course, is the strange sort of affair that she never really claims to have any control over. Today, it's early and unusual and completely unprepared.
“S’bit much, yeah?” she asks David.
She glances over her shoulder. She is showing him the kitchen, instead. He is here, today and for the first time at the cottage. She can list the amounting excuses for past invitations, offers and denials on both ends. She is busy. He is busy. There is her marriage, of course, and her son. David is always working.
Laurence is away too. It’s a bit of a shooting holiday for her, as she will not be due on set for another few weeks. It feels great, and makes her anxious, as does the fact that she never really counted on him accepting this invitation this time.
But now, now, Billie thinks. He’s here. He’s here and she is somewhat dismayed, lost to what comes next. Her kitchen is warm, open, and the cluster of chairs where he sits lean against a table covered with flowers. He chuckles. She sends him a look, turning against to put the kettle on the stove.
“Well,” he drawls. He is amused. “It’s - quaint? Although, I suppose quaint is a particular kind of word that I - what was that for?”
Her eyes roll.
“Houseguests are supposed to be polite,” her voice is dry.
He shifts at the table and she turns, just to watch him. He grins and her mouth twitches, as she only flushes. She reaches for the baby monitor briefly, adjusting it to sit closer to her.
“M’not just anyone, you know,” he grins again. He stretches his legs out in front of him. He’s a bit lanky, and she thinks, it’s nowhere near of a surprised. But she is surprised, or rusty, or maybe a bit of both. It doesn’t help that he is watching her either.
She keeps staring at him. His grin widens.
“So you miss me,” he adds.
He winks too. She blushes, and presses her hands onto the counter. The kettle in front of her shudders over the stove, and she ignores it.
“Ah, the rumors,” she says. “Was wondering when we’d actually get to that. ‘suppose there’s a bit of speculation as to whether or not we’re have some sort of an affair and Laurence, bless him, is about ready to cut you or says some ridiculous sourcing that the Sun apparently goes to.”
“You’ve been reading.”
“Catching up,” she deadpans. “Motherhood gets me out of the loop from time to time, you know.”
He laughs. Billie grins. She can’t help it. A grin is more than just a grin around him; it seems odd and perhaps, a little more than usual to think about. But the latter half of her career is owned to the kind of time that the two of them had. She loves what she does, and has always been grateful, but there was never such a time, a particular time that she can recall without wandering back to working with him.
She looks up then, and thinks of Winston, upstairs and asleep. She meets David’s gaze and he softens, the corners of his mouth turning. She shakes her head and the smile seems to grow as he laughs again.
“I miss you.”
“Stop,” she murmurs. She blushes. She’s smiling too, odd and awkward. She looks to the floor, and then her legs, her feet bare and peeking over the tiles of the floor.
“S’true,” he says. “And I reckon s’only fitting that I finally get around to coming to this place. Sorry about that.”
She scoffs. “We’ve been busy.” She looks over at him, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He shrugs.
Of course, she has thought about this. There is always that line, coworkers and old friends, directors and actors and script lines that should never, ever mean anything at all. She’s married an actor, and she is thrilled but there are things such as curtains and cracks. She has been here before and that sort of thing scares her more than she needs it to.
“You look happy,” he says.
His gaze softens. This is David, she thinks. It is always going to be David. And it’s bit strange, sort of peculiar even that she is starting to face old feelings but not old feelings. Maybe it’s the holiday.
“I suppose then, this is the part where we talk.”
She ignores the comment with a flush. Her reaction is stalled and somewhat shy. She drops her hands and brushes them over her hips. She turns them into fists, and runs her knuckles over the pockets.
“Figured you’d partake in a proper send-off,” he says.
She scoffs, “You’re not going anywhere, you daft man.” She clears her throat. “You’ll be all right.”
“Feels like I’m leaving,” he shrugs. “Been spending a better part of my years doing this, y’know? Bit weird not calling myself the doctor.”
They have had this conversation before. There are different points, and different ways that it’s come about. She remembers before she left. She remembers, after and when she came back, back for Russell’s dip into the last of the series.
She ignores the memories though, and turns back to the tea, then away again. She steps to the sink and glances to the window over it. It opens into the garden, a tiny one and a few roses look up at her from under the sill. It was Laurence, or rather his mum. Or maybe even one of his cousins, as she can’t quite remember.
“Returning to the real world, then?” she asks then. She pulls two cups from a cabinet, taking them to the table.
“S’bit of a rude awakening, you know.”
She is teasing him, and trying to keep a straight face.
“No fancy toys or inventions or the masses calling your name,” she adds.
The corners of her mouth start to curl. He laughs, and it seems sort of particular, as he is waiting for the right kind of reaction to rise from her.
“Any advice?”
He leans forward on his knees. She watches as he licks his lips. She tries not to blush, or laugh - giveaways, she’ll never admit to having when she is nervous.
Instead, she abandons the tea.
“You don’t need any from me, idiot. I’m quite certain that you’ve got things to do, and plenty of them.”
She steps back to the stove, and then to the counter. Her fingers brush over the quiet monitor. She tucks her hands back to her hips and then leans against the counter, watching him again.
“And,” she adds. “We wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation.”
His grin widens.
“So you do miss me,” he laughs. “You bloody do.”
She’s blushing, and hating herself for it. “Wanker,” she snaps. It’s half-hearted, and she shakes her head. “Just because you’re charming and somewhat of a catch, doesn’t mean you’re -”
“But I am,” he cuts her off. He stands.
“Really?”
“I am.”
They burst into laughter. The sound is loud and warm. She forgets, and she’ll admit that, how much she does misses him and how much that gets to her. Or doesn’t - it was odd, at first, being away from him and feeling that way, feeling that she was missing a part of herself that was undeniably supposed to be there.
But then it’s silly, she thinks. Silly that she can even begin to go back that way, thinking about things that are far from possible and flights of fancy, if she is in fact somewhere near honest.
“But what about Winston?”
He asks, and she steps away from the counter. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing to worry about.”
He steps into her space then. She looks up at him. He grins. She tries to make somewhat of an attempt to ignore it, moving back to the counter. It’s this game, and she’s beginning to remember why she always thought she was ready to lose. Those were different days but different days are far from any sort of an excuse.
“Sleeps like his dad,” she shrugs, brushing her hands over her cup. She doesn’t pick it up. She offers nothing beyond that.
“Ah.”
They stare at each other. He steps forward again, further into her space. She doesn’t move. It’s a little bit of trust, a little more of something that she’s never quite been able to translate to him - or wanted to, she thinks. There has always been a sense of fear, awkward and imposing. Their lives are different. It is the excuse of the day, it seems.
“I do miss you, you know.”
He says it, and he reaches for her hand. His fingers curl around her wrist. The touch is warm but brief, as his fingers slide over her palm and then around hers. He squeezes her hand then. She squeezes back. This is an old habit. It still feels new.
“I - ”
Her brow furrows. She sighs. She looks down, and her hair spills along the crook of her jaw. She doesn’t know how to look at him, but she knows that she shouldn’t. These things are bad, and there’s a terrible sense of action; not terrible, but she knows exactly what she wants and shouldn’t.
But he is smiling, just a little, and she watches, as his mouth seems to fade into some sort of seriousness. She doesn’t know how to take that, the complete shift of moods. They are too close, or she’s too close.
She can’t bring herself to really care.
She bites her lip. “It was strange in the beginning, not being able to look forward to you everyday.”
He keeps her hand in his. She looks up then, and just watches as he shrugs. There’s a slight smile at his mouth again.
“I miss laughing,” she admits softly.
She swallows. His fingers skim the back of her hand and he gives it a little tug. She tries not to think about it, but she’s thinking about it and there’s this sense of something, something that she is not entirely sure she wants to stop.
Her lips part and David’s eyes seem to darken. The corners of his mouth begin to even and he steps forward again. They are face to face, hand in hand, and she is watching him as if she’s never stopped or is coming back into something. This is supposed to be odd, and rusty; this is not about work, or the levels of their friendship.
They are friends, she tells herself. Friends. She watches as his tongue darts out, sliding over his lip. She swallows. The sensation is tight. She could kiss him but she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t because she’s Mrs. Fox, and Laurence is the sort of man that makes her happy. He makes her happy.
“I should -” she starts, then. She doesn’t finish.
There is a strange smile then, again as he shifts forward. Her eyes start to flutter close and the only thing she can think about is David and this idea of him and her, when there’s nothing more than the instance of friends and history. They have history.
First, she feels his lips touch the crown of her forehead. Her heart is beginning to race. It seems silly, even sillier to admit; but it hits her chest in a rhythm, one and two, one and two. Her free hand then comes to rest against his chest and they both linger. He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know how.
His hand rises and presses into her hair. She feels his fingers slide through the strands and her lips part, as she exhales.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. His voice is heavy. And the room, somehow has begun to spin and twist and this, she thinks, this is a really terrible idea.
Behind them, the baby monitor starts to cackle.
She breathes, or tries to. Winston makes a tiny noise. It’s a hiccup, and then he starts to cry. The kitchen cracks with the sound and her eyes open again.
“Anyways,” he clears his throat. He looks away.
He steps back, and she moves to the side, brushing her hands over the counter. It is an attempt to reassure herself, or try not think about possibilities. There are never any cameras anymore, around him and her. The thought almost mocks her. This is how these things change.
“Should head up to get him,” she breathes. Her hands are trembling. Winston, she thinks. It’s just Winston, not Laurence and maybe, a little bit of David again.
She looks away. He coughs, and she almost offers tea but doesn’t. She heads out of the room. He is still here for dinner, and at best, something more than a guest. There is her son. This is her home. There is still very much a ring wrapped around her finger.
“Not going anywhere,” he calls behind her. She blushes and pretends not to hear him. She shouldn’t, and that’s the end of that.
Later Laurence greets him by the door, coming home only a day early.
It’s a surprise, he says. And Billie watches David as he smiles at them.
It’s only the sensible thing to do.
there is always a way. this has never been about advice, or the sort of advice that matters when it’s necessary. people always forget it is really about the unnecessary after all. 2,200 words.
for mylittlepwny because i am slow, and i promised to do this for her, and this is definitely me catching up.
-
Dinner, of course, is the strange sort of affair that she never really claims to have any control over. Today, it's early and unusual and completely unprepared.
“S’bit much, yeah?” she asks David.
She glances over her shoulder. She is showing him the kitchen, instead. He is here, today and for the first time at the cottage. She can list the amounting excuses for past invitations, offers and denials on both ends. She is busy. He is busy. There is her marriage, of course, and her son. David is always working.
Laurence is away too. It’s a bit of a shooting holiday for her, as she will not be due on set for another few weeks. It feels great, and makes her anxious, as does the fact that she never really counted on him accepting this invitation this time.
But now, now, Billie thinks. He’s here. He’s here and she is somewhat dismayed, lost to what comes next. Her kitchen is warm, open, and the cluster of chairs where he sits lean against a table covered with flowers. He chuckles. She sends him a look, turning against to put the kettle on the stove.
“Well,” he drawls. He is amused. “It’s - quaint? Although, I suppose quaint is a particular kind of word that I - what was that for?”
Her eyes roll.
“Houseguests are supposed to be polite,” her voice is dry.
He shifts at the table and she turns, just to watch him. He grins and her mouth twitches, as she only flushes. She reaches for the baby monitor briefly, adjusting it to sit closer to her.
“M’not just anyone, you know,” he grins again. He stretches his legs out in front of him. He’s a bit lanky, and she thinks, it’s nowhere near of a surprised. But she is surprised, or rusty, or maybe a bit of both. It doesn’t help that he is watching her either.
She keeps staring at him. His grin widens.
“So you miss me,” he adds.
He winks too. She blushes, and presses her hands onto the counter. The kettle in front of her shudders over the stove, and she ignores it.
“Ah, the rumors,” she says. “Was wondering when we’d actually get to that. ‘suppose there’s a bit of speculation as to whether or not we’re have some sort of an affair and Laurence, bless him, is about ready to cut you or says some ridiculous sourcing that the Sun apparently goes to.”
“You’ve been reading.”
“Catching up,” she deadpans. “Motherhood gets me out of the loop from time to time, you know.”
He laughs. Billie grins. She can’t help it. A grin is more than just a grin around him; it seems odd and perhaps, a little more than usual to think about. But the latter half of her career is owned to the kind of time that the two of them had. She loves what she does, and has always been grateful, but there was never such a time, a particular time that she can recall without wandering back to working with him.
She looks up then, and thinks of Winston, upstairs and asleep. She meets David’s gaze and he softens, the corners of his mouth turning. She shakes her head and the smile seems to grow as he laughs again.
“I miss you.”
“Stop,” she murmurs. She blushes. She’s smiling too, odd and awkward. She looks to the floor, and then her legs, her feet bare and peeking over the tiles of the floor.
“S’true,” he says. “And I reckon s’only fitting that I finally get around to coming to this place. Sorry about that.”
She scoffs. “We’ve been busy.” She looks over at him, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He shrugs.
Of course, she has thought about this. There is always that line, coworkers and old friends, directors and actors and script lines that should never, ever mean anything at all. She’s married an actor, and she is thrilled but there are things such as curtains and cracks. She has been here before and that sort of thing scares her more than she needs it to.
“You look happy,” he says.
His gaze softens. This is David, she thinks. It is always going to be David. And it’s bit strange, sort of peculiar even that she is starting to face old feelings but not old feelings. Maybe it’s the holiday.
“I suppose then, this is the part where we talk.”
She ignores the comment with a flush. Her reaction is stalled and somewhat shy. She drops her hands and brushes them over her hips. She turns them into fists, and runs her knuckles over the pockets.
“Figured you’d partake in a proper send-off,” he says.
She scoffs, “You’re not going anywhere, you daft man.” She clears her throat. “You’ll be all right.”
“Feels like I’m leaving,” he shrugs. “Been spending a better part of my years doing this, y’know? Bit weird not calling myself the doctor.”
They have had this conversation before. There are different points, and different ways that it’s come about. She remembers before she left. She remembers, after and when she came back, back for Russell’s dip into the last of the series.
She ignores the memories though, and turns back to the tea, then away again. She steps to the sink and glances to the window over it. It opens into the garden, a tiny one and a few roses look up at her from under the sill. It was Laurence, or rather his mum. Or maybe even one of his cousins, as she can’t quite remember.
“Returning to the real world, then?” she asks then. She pulls two cups from a cabinet, taking them to the table.
“S’bit of a rude awakening, you know.”
She is teasing him, and trying to keep a straight face.
“No fancy toys or inventions or the masses calling your name,” she adds.
The corners of her mouth start to curl. He laughs, and it seems sort of particular, as he is waiting for the right kind of reaction to rise from her.
“Any advice?”
He leans forward on his knees. She watches as he licks his lips. She tries not to blush, or laugh - giveaways, she’ll never admit to having when she is nervous.
Instead, she abandons the tea.
“You don’t need any from me, idiot. I’m quite certain that you’ve got things to do, and plenty of them.”
She steps back to the stove, and then to the counter. Her fingers brush over the quiet monitor. She tucks her hands back to her hips and then leans against the counter, watching him again.
“And,” she adds. “We wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation.”
His grin widens.
“So you do miss me,” he laughs. “You bloody do.”
She’s blushing, and hating herself for it. “Wanker,” she snaps. It’s half-hearted, and she shakes her head. “Just because you’re charming and somewhat of a catch, doesn’t mean you’re -”
“But I am,” he cuts her off. He stands.
“Really?”
“I am.”
They burst into laughter. The sound is loud and warm. She forgets, and she’ll admit that, how much she does misses him and how much that gets to her. Or doesn’t - it was odd, at first, being away from him and feeling that way, feeling that she was missing a part of herself that was undeniably supposed to be there.
But then it’s silly, she thinks. Silly that she can even begin to go back that way, thinking about things that are far from possible and flights of fancy, if she is in fact somewhere near honest.
“But what about Winston?”
He asks, and she steps away from the counter. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing to worry about.”
He steps into her space then. She looks up at him. He grins. She tries to make somewhat of an attempt to ignore it, moving back to the counter. It’s this game, and she’s beginning to remember why she always thought she was ready to lose. Those were different days but different days are far from any sort of an excuse.
“Sleeps like his dad,” she shrugs, brushing her hands over her cup. She doesn’t pick it up. She offers nothing beyond that.
“Ah.”
They stare at each other. He steps forward again, further into her space. She doesn’t move. It’s a little bit of trust, a little more of something that she’s never quite been able to translate to him - or wanted to, she thinks. There has always been a sense of fear, awkward and imposing. Their lives are different. It is the excuse of the day, it seems.
“I do miss you, you know.”
He says it, and he reaches for her hand. His fingers curl around her wrist. The touch is warm but brief, as his fingers slide over her palm and then around hers. He squeezes her hand then. She squeezes back. This is an old habit. It still feels new.
“I - ”
Her brow furrows. She sighs. She looks down, and her hair spills along the crook of her jaw. She doesn’t know how to look at him, but she knows that she shouldn’t. These things are bad, and there’s a terrible sense of action; not terrible, but she knows exactly what she wants and shouldn’t.
But he is smiling, just a little, and she watches, as his mouth seems to fade into some sort of seriousness. She doesn’t know how to take that, the complete shift of moods. They are too close, or she’s too close.
She can’t bring herself to really care.
She bites her lip. “It was strange in the beginning, not being able to look forward to you everyday.”
He keeps her hand in his. She looks up then, and just watches as he shrugs. There’s a slight smile at his mouth again.
“I miss laughing,” she admits softly.
She swallows. His fingers skim the back of her hand and he gives it a little tug. She tries not to think about it, but she’s thinking about it and there’s this sense of something, something that she is not entirely sure she wants to stop.
Her lips part and David’s eyes seem to darken. The corners of his mouth begin to even and he steps forward again. They are face to face, hand in hand, and she is watching him as if she’s never stopped or is coming back into something. This is supposed to be odd, and rusty; this is not about work, or the levels of their friendship.
They are friends, she tells herself. Friends. She watches as his tongue darts out, sliding over his lip. She swallows. The sensation is tight. She could kiss him but she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t because she’s Mrs. Fox, and Laurence is the sort of man that makes her happy. He makes her happy.
“I should -” she starts, then. She doesn’t finish.
There is a strange smile then, again as he shifts forward. Her eyes start to flutter close and the only thing she can think about is David and this idea of him and her, when there’s nothing more than the instance of friends and history. They have history.
First, she feels his lips touch the crown of her forehead. Her heart is beginning to race. It seems silly, even sillier to admit; but it hits her chest in a rhythm, one and two, one and two. Her free hand then comes to rest against his chest and they both linger. He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know how.
His hand rises and presses into her hair. She feels his fingers slide through the strands and her lips part, as she exhales.
“Don’t,” he says quietly. His voice is heavy. And the room, somehow has begun to spin and twist and this, she thinks, this is a really terrible idea.
Behind them, the baby monitor starts to cackle.
She breathes, or tries to. Winston makes a tiny noise. It’s a hiccup, and then he starts to cry. The kitchen cracks with the sound and her eyes open again.
“Anyways,” he clears his throat. He looks away.
He steps back, and she moves to the side, brushing her hands over the counter. It is an attempt to reassure herself, or try not think about possibilities. There are never any cameras anymore, around him and her. The thought almost mocks her. This is how these things change.
“Should head up to get him,” she breathes. Her hands are trembling. Winston, she thinks. It’s just Winston, not Laurence and maybe, a little bit of David again.
She looks away. He coughs, and she almost offers tea but doesn’t. She heads out of the room. He is still here for dinner, and at best, something more than a guest. There is her son. This is her home. There is still very much a ring wrapped around her finger.
“Not going anywhere,” he calls behind her. She blushes and pretends not to hear him. She shouldn’t, and that’s the end of that.
Later Laurence greets him by the door, coming home only a day early.
It’s a surprise, he says. And Billie watches David as he smiles at them.
It’s only the sensible thing to do.