14. fic: heirs to the glimmering world (rpf)
As I think I mentioned somewhere in the comments to close your eyes and think of agincourt, one of my new year's resolutions is to clean out my WiP folder, because, my God, there is a lot of stuff in there, and some of it is old, and some of it is obscure, and some of it I'm not quite sure of, but if it's just sitting there, languishing, it's not doing anyone any favors. Like this one, which is d) all of the above, but was so close to being finished, it had a header and notes already written for it.
So, this is fic number two on the Finish It, Bitch list, also another in my long list of attempts to write something no one will ever read. Friends-locked, because RPF. Yeah, I-I may change my mind about that? But not right now.
TITLE: heirs to the glimmering world
FANDOM: Doctor Who RPF
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: David Tennant, Catherine Tate, and scenes from their series four filming shenanigans.
Notes: LIES LIES LIES. Except for the bit with the chicken, which I'm pretty sure I read about on a message board somewhere? Anyway, this stemmed from a discussion daygloparker and I had in 2008, about David and Catherine's epic love for The West Wing, and how the two of them doing a commentary track for an episode of West Wing would be the greatest thing ever. Annnd, this sort of happened instead.
The episodes referenced are in rough order of filming, and are: The Unicorn and the Wasp, Planet of the Ood, The Fires of Pompeii, The Sontaran Strategem/The Poison Sky, Partners in Crime, and Journey's End.
hey, love, we'll get away with it
we'll run like we're awesome, totally genius
- The National, The Geese of Beverly Road
David is still asleep at eight o'clock on an April morning when he hears his mobile begin to beep. He retrieves it from his nightstand, knocking a few books, some unimportant papers, and his glasses onto the floor in the process. Struggling into a sitting position, he blearily flips it open.
She's coming back.
David squints at the text. Fucking Russell and his constant need to be cryptic, he's not the damned Sun, for Christ's sake. He texts back: What? and considers going back to sleep, wondering when exactly, if ever, his colleagues were going to let him actually be on vacation.
His mobile beeps again before he can start feeling too sorry for himself.
Catherine, it reads.
He blinks, then texts back: What?
Call her.
So he does.
*
"Surprise?"
His past and future co-star manages exactly one word before David starts in about good news and sharing and being criminally parsimonious with information, Catherine. He continues at length, her amusement practically audible over the line all the while.
"I was afraid I'd jinx it!" she finally protests. "I could've tripped on a wet patch and fallen down a flight of stairs last night, I don't know."
"Well," he says, smiling into the receiver, "if you could see fit not to do that between now and filming, that'd be lovely, thanks." He knows she's only half-serious about the jinxes. Catherine plays close to the vest.
"Oh, all right," she says. "If you insist."
Plus, he would have nagged her endlessly if he'd known she was even considering it, and his inevitable death at her hands would have put a bit of a damper on things.
"I think there's something about injuries in my contract anyway," she's saying. "The 'No Grievous Bodily Harm Clause' or something. A picture of an ambulance with a big line through it."
"Yeah, I think mine's got one of those, too," David says, fiddling with the coffeemaker. On Catherine's end of the line, he can hear the television on, muffled and indistinct. His flat is quiet, the morning sun through his window blinds etching harsh lines onto everything. "Listen," he says, "you know it's still about space, right? We haven't changed up the formula or anything."
"Oh, come off it!" she says, laughing. "I know perfectly well the…lunacy I'm getting into with you lot. I told Russell I was game if they wanted me and apparently they do."
"'Course we do," he says. "And I was only checking, we can't have you running away screaming at the first sign of a Dalek."
"Oh, will there be Daleks, do you think?"
"It's Russell," says David. "There's always Daleks. We'll get a picture of you with one."
"I'll hold you to that," says Catherine. There's a rustling sound on her end. "Anyway, I suppose I'll see you at the first reading, yeah?"
"Sooner, probably."
"Looking forward to it?" and David hears the underlying question clear as day: looking forward to me being there?
"Or are you wishing you could stay at home longer?" she continues. "It's not much of a break for you."
David pauses, looks around his quiet flat, practically carpeted with takeaway boxes, CD cases, and discarded scripts. And the truth is home conjures up images of nothing so much as Cardiff and rain, green screens and plastic monsters, the occasional batch of explosives, and being at the center of a constant swirl of activity.
"Oh, I'm looking forward to it," he says.
"You would. Workaholic."
"Pot, kettle! How many movies were you in last year?"
She laughs. "Cheers, love, I'll see you soon."
*
They've scheduled the detox-slash-obligatory-companion-snogging scene for the first day of filming at their rented Victorian mansion. David figures this is typical of the senses of humor of most of the people he works with.
He drags Catherine around the sets with him as soon as she's out of makeup, introducing her to everyone, including several people she's already met. She's in high spirits, cracking jokes to everyone about getting the worst over at the start.
So she's clearly settling in well. Even if he thinks she's being a little bit unfair.
"I mean, how're you able to make an accurate judgment of that?" he asks, while the two of them are drinking coffee by the refreshments table. "I could demonstrate if you'd like, clear up any misconceptions."
She rolls her eyes. "Save it for the scene, Casanova."
The kitchen scene is split up into three parts to make things easier. They manage the whole ridiculous song-and-dance buildup just fine, clearing that away in a couple of loud, messy takes, but the ending proves more difficult.
"You don't look shocked enough," says Catherine, after the director's called "Cut!" on their fourth take.
"I know, I know," he says, running a hand through his damp hair. "It's just-I can see you coming, you know?" It's a hopelessly inadequate description of why the scene isn't working, but sometimes things simply refuse to click. David has discovered over the years that the first scene that gets 'stuck' in this fashion tells him a great deal about the actors he's working with. He waits for Catherine's reaction.
She looks thoughtful for a minute. "Hey, we're going to step outside for a few," she says, loud enough for the room to hear.
"What?"
"C'mon. I have an idea."
David raises an eyebrow but follows her out into the hall, which is packed with crew and equipment.
"Need a clean bit of wall," she says, over her shoulder. He moves a spare camera to one side and gestures at the open space.
"Perfect," says Catherine. "Stand here."
Before he can ask her what's she doing, she slams him into the wall with both hands and kisses him.
He makes a little noise of surprise against her mouth. The kisses they've been filming have been fairly chaste, and this is…really, really not. She's got his jacket bunched up in her hands, and all he can think to do is clutch at her arm.
When she finally breaks away, he stares at her, wide-eyed, his cheeks burning, the crew whistling and cat-calling in the background.
"What you're feeling, right now?" she says, still gripping his shoulders. "Remember that."
She pats him gently on the cheek and walks back to the kitchen, David trailing after her like a very confused puppy.
Their next take is perfect.
*
As opposed to the filming itself, which is clipping along nicely, David's ongoing attempts to educate his co-star in some of the finer nuances of the series' history have met with…limited success. Oh, she listens when crew discussions about next day's filming descend into an elaborate comparison between what they're doing and what their predecessors did with the same villains and plotlines and themes thirty years ago, but it's with the same curious detachment of someone listening to people speak in a foreign language. For all her transformational skill, Catherine's never really anyone but herself: all prose and practicality. Look up down to Earth in Webster's and, well…
"I'm just not a space person," she says, shrugging in her long, fur-lined coat, as they trudge through ankle-deep fake snow on their way to reset for a running scene.
"You're not a space cadet," he teases.
"No, that'd be you," she says, and he mock-shoves her to the side.
"I worry," she says. "Does it show?"
"Show? Show how?"
"Well. It's alright when something's in front of you, yeah? That's fine. It's with the CGI stuff-I don't know, I just think you put it together in your head better than I can."
"Ohh, I think you underestimate yourself." And worry too much, he doesn't say.
"I don't know."
"'Act as if ye have faith', Catherine," he quotes, smiling, "'and faith shall be given to you'."
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "Put it another way?"
"Fake it 'till you make it."
She laughs. "I just don't-you wouldn't want to be remembered as the Doctor who irrevocably destroyed the franchise, right? Not that you would. Are. Whatever."
David chuckles. "When I leave," he says, "if I'm still a functional human being and the show still exists, I'll consider that a win."
When I leave, he thinks. He doesn't remember ever thinking about it like that before, ever admitting to himself that this gig was going to have an end date someday. He's troubled as they reach their places and wait for the cameras to reset.
"Ready?" asks Catherine.
He takes her hand and runs.
*
Their Roman holiday lasts all of four hours; most of it spent watching The West Wing in a posh executive screening room at Cinecitta, thanks to what they'll refer to in later years as the Unfortunate Chicken Incident.
"Oh, what am I going to tell people?" Catherine asks, after they've stumbled through the darkened studio (where they're technically not supposed to be, Catherine's surprisingly fluent Italian getting them past the cleaning crew on the first floor), opening several doors marked clearly with instructions to do otherwise, and getting lost half a dozen times on the way.
Ensconced in a black leather armchair, David pauses the DVD on the title page as she continues: "'How was Rome?' Oh, it was lovely, thank you, wore a toga, had plastic rocks shot at me, tripped over a chicken. Brilliant." She's sitting in the armchair next to his, her injured ankle propped up on a footstool.
He tsks at it. "Still don't know if you should be walking on that…"
"Oh, well, now he says something."
"Speaking of, why, exactly, did you not tell anyone?"
She shrugs. "The animal trainer said he'd kill-"
"Oh, Catherine."
"What? Poor thing, it's not like it asked to be in a reenactment of the destruction of Pompeii, you know. Would've been happier back on the farm."
"You're a soft touch."
"There's nothing wrong with that!" she shoots back, and they spend a pleasant fifteen minutes bickering back and forth until the DVD menu suddenly unpauses itself, startling the life out of them both. They take it as a sign to start watching, and Catherine graciously lets David pick the first episode. To her credit, she figures out his choice rather quickly:
"You picked the one with the turkeys, didn't you."
He chuckles.
"You're a riot, David."
"I am, aren't I?"
She throws popcorn at him.
They watch in comfortable silence with the lights dimmed.
"You know," Catherine begins. David hits pause (because, as they both agree, there is No Talking During The Show).
"There's a difference between what we're doing and that, you know? I watch that and I think, you know, we really could change the world. And that I'd murder for a part in something like it, of course."
"Of course."
"Of course! And it's not as though we're actually, you know, changing the world or anything."
"Too busy tripping over livestock."
"Precisely. But-"
"It's the idea. Th-the spirit."
"The oratorical spirit!" she proclaims. He laughs.
The DVD spontaneously unpauses again, and David fights with the remote. Meanwhile, Catherine digs around in a tote bag for a bottle of water.
"Do you really think that, though?" asks David, fiddling around with the closed-captioning. "Ooh, look, Japanese-d'you think what we do is that unimportant?"
Catherine pauses in the middle of unscrewing the cap. "It's important to us," she says, and shrugs. "But there's important, and there's important."
"Yeah," says David absently, and is startled when Catherine tosses a second bottle into his lap.
"To the power of oratory!" she says, toasting the air and taking a couple of aspirin.
"Or barring that, a paycheck," says David.
"Cynic."
"Hey!"
*
David clatters up the stairs to his trailer, wishing, as actors frequently do, that he could hire one of his writers to script the conversation about to take place. From inside, the sound of voices drift, and light seeps from the gaps in all his curtains. He lets himself in and says:
"You know, you're doing a terrible job concealing our passionate love affair from the general public."
Seated next to Catherine on his sofa, Freema raises a manicured eyebrow. "Sorry, which one of us were you referring to?"
Despite the pit in his stomach, he laughs. Catherine, as it turns out, is on her mobile, so he sits down across from them, smiling at Freema, who looks impossibly lovely even without a stitch of makeup.
"We've been waiting," she says.
"Scene ran a bit long," he says, running a backwards hand through his hair. "Kept losing my concentration."
She tilts her head. "You alright?"
David's gaze flicks over to Catherine, who mouths "almost done". Freema takes the hint and gets up to get a glass of water, ruffling David's hair on her way to his miniscule pseudo-kitchen.
After she gets back and Catherine's hung up the phone, and after he's stared at his hands for a long moment and the girls exchange several worried looks, he finally tells them that he's leaving the show.
There is an extended silence.
Freema leans forward. "Have you talked to Billie yet?"
He nods. "It's just her, that knows. Her and the two of you. So don't-I mean-" he trails off, with a significant look towards the door.
Freema nods. "Of course. When-"
"I don't know."
"But soon."
"Yeah."
Catherine shifts. "It's hard, walking away," she says. "But it's better to do it on your own terms."
He supposes she's right. He still sort of wants to throw up.
Freema's looking between the two of them. "Is that you gone as well, then, Catherine?"
"Yeah," she says, the vowels drawn out like a bowed note on a violin string. "I suppose."
"You could stay," he points out. "I didn't mean for-you could stay," he finishes, somewhat at a loss.
"No, no. I mean, it was for a year to begin with. I never expected-" and she trails off, her eyes going studiously blank in the particular way that makes David want to take the TARDIS back to find whatever it was that gave her these frequent spates of total self-doubt, find it and beat the absolute shit out of it, but he's too drained to entertain the desire for very long. He stands up heavily, thinks better of it, and sinks down onto the couch between the two women.
Freema pats him on the shoulder. "It'll be okay."
"Hope you're right," he says.
"'Course she is," says Catherine. "I met her a week ago, and I already know she's smarter than you are."
"Thanks," he says, and means it.
*
They're very, very, extremely knackered, but the night is beautiful and they can see the stars, so they linger on the roof while the crew is packing away the equipment.
"Look at that bright one over there," says David.
"That's Regulus," says Catherine, matter-of-fact.
"Where did you-?"
"Astrology."
"Oh, dear God."
"Shut it," she says, with fondness in her voice. A comfortable silence hangs in the air between them.
David tilts his head back and sighs. "Close as we'll ever get."
Catherine tucks her hands in the pockets of her suit jacket. "You really believe in all this, don't you."
David looks over, surprised, not half because it's a statement instead of a question, something it seems she's already worked out in her mind.
"I mean," she elaborates, "not really, not-I'm not about to have you committed. Yet. But-d'you know, if aliens landed in Cardiff tomorrow, you'd be in the front row. In the street, with a video camera, the happiest man alive."
"And where would you be?"
"Under the bed."
He chuckles.
"You always," he says, finally, "believe in what you love, I think. A little bit, anyway."
They look at each other. Catherine seems struck by his words, and as her features soften into what looks dangerously like pity, David looks away, back up at the sky.
Of course it's the right thing to do, of course there's career, of course there's what's next, but that doesn't mean it isn't tearing him up inside, and there's always the doubt gnawing at his stomach, saying you're throwing away the best part of your life, you fucking idiot.
He feels the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm. "So," she says. "I should have you committed, is what you're saying."
He throws back his head and laughs. "Catherine," he says. "You jewel," and slings an arm around her shoulders because he knows she'll be irritated by it.
She tugs him away from the ledge. "C'mon, David," she says. "Back to Earth."
*
There are meetings. There are lots and lots of meetings at broad tables set with clear glasses of water at equal intervals and gray-suited men who ask him are you sure, David? have you thought about this, David? and he is known for his easy manner, his charm, but he feels that these traits may, at any time, vanish into the aether.
Have I thought about it? Honestly.
(In her trailer, Catherine turns the page of her magazine, pronounces them all to be pillocks without even lifting her gaze to follow his restless pacing. He finds this strangely comforting.)
The reviews for the first episodes come out, which neither of them read.
His nieces bring their friends to visit the set, and the youngest of them sights Catherine and catapults into her legs, squealing, "Donna!" Catherine leans down and gently hugs the girl, and David catches the briefest glimpse of astonishment on her features.
Whole houses, clear off the ground, he thinks, smiling.
And time passes.
*
They've done the applause and the balloons and the set is ordered cleared. By some unspoken agreement, they both hang back as the others troop out. She's on the other side of the TARDIS console from him, turned away. The metal grating clinks as he takes a step towards her.
"Well," she says. "Made it."
She pinches a camera off someone while he wheels a Dalek in from the hall. It takes the two of them to wrestle the thing up onto the TARDIS platform.
"Come on, then," she says, tossing her hair back and raising the camera. "Give us your best Oncoming Storm."
David poses with the tinny, empty thing, feeling slightly ridiculous, but grinning all the same. They switch places, back and forth. At one point she strikes a ludicrous cheesecake pose against the Dalek and he groans and covers his face and accuses her of raping his childhood.
The lights dim on set and suddenly he's hit with the knowledge that it's over and done with for the third time, and he's going to go home to his dusty London flat and not know what to do with himself besides run the dishwasher, and when he comes back she's not going to be there, and soon enough it really will be all over. It feels a little like panic, all things considered.
Suddenly, Catherine laughs.
"What is it?"
She shows him her open hand, a piece of metal resting on her palm.
"That's torn it," she says. "I've broken the TARDIS."
He lifts the metal out of her hand; it's a copper gear wheel.
"She's getting old, poor thing," he says, with a fond look towards the console. It won't be around much longer; they'll rebuild it for the next crew.
He moves to set the gear down on the TARDIS console, then changes his mind, presses it back into her hand. She turns it over, examining it in silence.
She exhales sharply. "Well, then."
"Take it with you. Haven't you ever nicked props before?"
"No, but-"
"It's yours."
Her smile is wistful as she slips the gear into her jacket pocket. "So, David?"
"Yes?"
"What's next?"
He laughs. "Do you know, I have absolutely no idea."
So, this is fic number two on the Finish It, Bitch list, also another in my long list of attempts to write something no one will ever read. Friends-locked, because RPF. Yeah, I-I may change my mind about that? But not right now.
TITLE: heirs to the glimmering world
FANDOM: Doctor Who RPF
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: David Tennant, Catherine Tate, and scenes from their series four filming shenanigans.
Notes: LIES LIES LIES. Except for the bit with the chicken, which I'm pretty sure I read about on a message board somewhere? Anyway, this stemmed from a discussion daygloparker and I had in 2008, about David and Catherine's epic love for The West Wing, and how the two of them doing a commentary track for an episode of West Wing would be the greatest thing ever. Annnd, this sort of happened instead.
The episodes referenced are in rough order of filming, and are: The Unicorn and the Wasp, Planet of the Ood, The Fires of Pompeii, The Sontaran Strategem/The Poison Sky, Partners in Crime, and Journey's End.
hey, love, we'll get away with it
we'll run like we're awesome, totally genius
- The National, The Geese of Beverly Road
David is still asleep at eight o'clock on an April morning when he hears his mobile begin to beep. He retrieves it from his nightstand, knocking a few books, some unimportant papers, and his glasses onto the floor in the process. Struggling into a sitting position, he blearily flips it open.
She's coming back.
David squints at the text. Fucking Russell and his constant need to be cryptic, he's not the damned Sun, for Christ's sake. He texts back: What? and considers going back to sleep, wondering when exactly, if ever, his colleagues were going to let him actually be on vacation.
His mobile beeps again before he can start feeling too sorry for himself.
Catherine, it reads.
He blinks, then texts back: What?
Call her.
So he does.
*
"Surprise?"
His past and future co-star manages exactly one word before David starts in about good news and sharing and being criminally parsimonious with information, Catherine. He continues at length, her amusement practically audible over the line all the while.
"I was afraid I'd jinx it!" she finally protests. "I could've tripped on a wet patch and fallen down a flight of stairs last night, I don't know."
"Well," he says, smiling into the receiver, "if you could see fit not to do that between now and filming, that'd be lovely, thanks." He knows she's only half-serious about the jinxes. Catherine plays close to the vest.
"Oh, all right," she says. "If you insist."
Plus, he would have nagged her endlessly if he'd known she was even considering it, and his inevitable death at her hands would have put a bit of a damper on things.
"I think there's something about injuries in my contract anyway," she's saying. "The 'No Grievous Bodily Harm Clause' or something. A picture of an ambulance with a big line through it."
"Yeah, I think mine's got one of those, too," David says, fiddling with the coffeemaker. On Catherine's end of the line, he can hear the television on, muffled and indistinct. His flat is quiet, the morning sun through his window blinds etching harsh lines onto everything. "Listen," he says, "you know it's still about space, right? We haven't changed up the formula or anything."
"Oh, come off it!" she says, laughing. "I know perfectly well the…lunacy I'm getting into with you lot. I told Russell I was game if they wanted me and apparently they do."
"'Course we do," he says. "And I was only checking, we can't have you running away screaming at the first sign of a Dalek."
"Oh, will there be Daleks, do you think?"
"It's Russell," says David. "There's always Daleks. We'll get a picture of you with one."
"I'll hold you to that," says Catherine. There's a rustling sound on her end. "Anyway, I suppose I'll see you at the first reading, yeah?"
"Sooner, probably."
"Looking forward to it?" and David hears the underlying question clear as day: looking forward to me being there?
"Or are you wishing you could stay at home longer?" she continues. "It's not much of a break for you."
David pauses, looks around his quiet flat, practically carpeted with takeaway boxes, CD cases, and discarded scripts. And the truth is home conjures up images of nothing so much as Cardiff and rain, green screens and plastic monsters, the occasional batch of explosives, and being at the center of a constant swirl of activity.
"Oh, I'm looking forward to it," he says.
"You would. Workaholic."
"Pot, kettle! How many movies were you in last year?"
She laughs. "Cheers, love, I'll see you soon."
*
They've scheduled the detox-slash-obligatory-companion-snogging scene for the first day of filming at their rented Victorian mansion. David figures this is typical of the senses of humor of most of the people he works with.
He drags Catherine around the sets with him as soon as she's out of makeup, introducing her to everyone, including several people she's already met. She's in high spirits, cracking jokes to everyone about getting the worst over at the start.
So she's clearly settling in well. Even if he thinks she's being a little bit unfair.
"I mean, how're you able to make an accurate judgment of that?" he asks, while the two of them are drinking coffee by the refreshments table. "I could demonstrate if you'd like, clear up any misconceptions."
She rolls her eyes. "Save it for the scene, Casanova."
The kitchen scene is split up into three parts to make things easier. They manage the whole ridiculous song-and-dance buildup just fine, clearing that away in a couple of loud, messy takes, but the ending proves more difficult.
"You don't look shocked enough," says Catherine, after the director's called "Cut!" on their fourth take.
"I know, I know," he says, running a hand through his damp hair. "It's just-I can see you coming, you know?" It's a hopelessly inadequate description of why the scene isn't working, but sometimes things simply refuse to click. David has discovered over the years that the first scene that gets 'stuck' in this fashion tells him a great deal about the actors he's working with. He waits for Catherine's reaction.
She looks thoughtful for a minute. "Hey, we're going to step outside for a few," she says, loud enough for the room to hear.
"What?"
"C'mon. I have an idea."
David raises an eyebrow but follows her out into the hall, which is packed with crew and equipment.
"Need a clean bit of wall," she says, over her shoulder. He moves a spare camera to one side and gestures at the open space.
"Perfect," says Catherine. "Stand here."
Before he can ask her what's she doing, she slams him into the wall with both hands and kisses him.
He makes a little noise of surprise against her mouth. The kisses they've been filming have been fairly chaste, and this is…really, really not. She's got his jacket bunched up in her hands, and all he can think to do is clutch at her arm.
When she finally breaks away, he stares at her, wide-eyed, his cheeks burning, the crew whistling and cat-calling in the background.
"What you're feeling, right now?" she says, still gripping his shoulders. "Remember that."
She pats him gently on the cheek and walks back to the kitchen, David trailing after her like a very confused puppy.
Their next take is perfect.
*
As opposed to the filming itself, which is clipping along nicely, David's ongoing attempts to educate his co-star in some of the finer nuances of the series' history have met with…limited success. Oh, she listens when crew discussions about next day's filming descend into an elaborate comparison between what they're doing and what their predecessors did with the same villains and plotlines and themes thirty years ago, but it's with the same curious detachment of someone listening to people speak in a foreign language. For all her transformational skill, Catherine's never really anyone but herself: all prose and practicality. Look up down to Earth in Webster's and, well…
"I'm just not a space person," she says, shrugging in her long, fur-lined coat, as they trudge through ankle-deep fake snow on their way to reset for a running scene.
"You're not a space cadet," he teases.
"No, that'd be you," she says, and he mock-shoves her to the side.
"I worry," she says. "Does it show?"
"Show? Show how?"
"Well. It's alright when something's in front of you, yeah? That's fine. It's with the CGI stuff-I don't know, I just think you put it together in your head better than I can."
"Ohh, I think you underestimate yourself." And worry too much, he doesn't say.
"I don't know."
"'Act as if ye have faith', Catherine," he quotes, smiling, "'and faith shall be given to you'."
A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "Put it another way?"
"Fake it 'till you make it."
She laughs. "I just don't-you wouldn't want to be remembered as the Doctor who irrevocably destroyed the franchise, right? Not that you would. Are. Whatever."
David chuckles. "When I leave," he says, "if I'm still a functional human being and the show still exists, I'll consider that a win."
When I leave, he thinks. He doesn't remember ever thinking about it like that before, ever admitting to himself that this gig was going to have an end date someday. He's troubled as they reach their places and wait for the cameras to reset.
"Ready?" asks Catherine.
He takes her hand and runs.
*
Their Roman holiday lasts all of four hours; most of it spent watching The West Wing in a posh executive screening room at Cinecitta, thanks to what they'll refer to in later years as the Unfortunate Chicken Incident.
"Oh, what am I going to tell people?" Catherine asks, after they've stumbled through the darkened studio (where they're technically not supposed to be, Catherine's surprisingly fluent Italian getting them past the cleaning crew on the first floor), opening several doors marked clearly with instructions to do otherwise, and getting lost half a dozen times on the way.
Ensconced in a black leather armchair, David pauses the DVD on the title page as she continues: "'How was Rome?' Oh, it was lovely, thank you, wore a toga, had plastic rocks shot at me, tripped over a chicken. Brilliant." She's sitting in the armchair next to his, her injured ankle propped up on a footstool.
He tsks at it. "Still don't know if you should be walking on that…"
"Oh, well, now he says something."
"Speaking of, why, exactly, did you not tell anyone?"
She shrugs. "The animal trainer said he'd kill-"
"Oh, Catherine."
"What? Poor thing, it's not like it asked to be in a reenactment of the destruction of Pompeii, you know. Would've been happier back on the farm."
"You're a soft touch."
"There's nothing wrong with that!" she shoots back, and they spend a pleasant fifteen minutes bickering back and forth until the DVD menu suddenly unpauses itself, startling the life out of them both. They take it as a sign to start watching, and Catherine graciously lets David pick the first episode. To her credit, she figures out his choice rather quickly:
"You picked the one with the turkeys, didn't you."
He chuckles.
"You're a riot, David."
"I am, aren't I?"
She throws popcorn at him.
They watch in comfortable silence with the lights dimmed.
"You know," Catherine begins. David hits pause (because, as they both agree, there is No Talking During The Show).
"There's a difference between what we're doing and that, you know? I watch that and I think, you know, we really could change the world. And that I'd murder for a part in something like it, of course."
"Of course."
"Of course! And it's not as though we're actually, you know, changing the world or anything."
"Too busy tripping over livestock."
"Precisely. But-"
"It's the idea. Th-the spirit."
"The oratorical spirit!" she proclaims. He laughs.
The DVD spontaneously unpauses again, and David fights with the remote. Meanwhile, Catherine digs around in a tote bag for a bottle of water.
"Do you really think that, though?" asks David, fiddling around with the closed-captioning. "Ooh, look, Japanese-d'you think what we do is that unimportant?"
Catherine pauses in the middle of unscrewing the cap. "It's important to us," she says, and shrugs. "But there's important, and there's important."
"Yeah," says David absently, and is startled when Catherine tosses a second bottle into his lap.
"To the power of oratory!" she says, toasting the air and taking a couple of aspirin.
"Or barring that, a paycheck," says David.
"Cynic."
"Hey!"
*
David clatters up the stairs to his trailer, wishing, as actors frequently do, that he could hire one of his writers to script the conversation about to take place. From inside, the sound of voices drift, and light seeps from the gaps in all his curtains. He lets himself in and says:
"You know, you're doing a terrible job concealing our passionate love affair from the general public."
Seated next to Catherine on his sofa, Freema raises a manicured eyebrow. "Sorry, which one of us were you referring to?"
Despite the pit in his stomach, he laughs. Catherine, as it turns out, is on her mobile, so he sits down across from them, smiling at Freema, who looks impossibly lovely even without a stitch of makeup.
"We've been waiting," she says.
"Scene ran a bit long," he says, running a backwards hand through his hair. "Kept losing my concentration."
She tilts her head. "You alright?"
David's gaze flicks over to Catherine, who mouths "almost done". Freema takes the hint and gets up to get a glass of water, ruffling David's hair on her way to his miniscule pseudo-kitchen.
After she gets back and Catherine's hung up the phone, and after he's stared at his hands for a long moment and the girls exchange several worried looks, he finally tells them that he's leaving the show.
There is an extended silence.
Freema leans forward. "Have you talked to Billie yet?"
He nods. "It's just her, that knows. Her and the two of you. So don't-I mean-" he trails off, with a significant look towards the door.
Freema nods. "Of course. When-"
"I don't know."
"But soon."
"Yeah."
Catherine shifts. "It's hard, walking away," she says. "But it's better to do it on your own terms."
He supposes she's right. He still sort of wants to throw up.
Freema's looking between the two of them. "Is that you gone as well, then, Catherine?"
"Yeah," she says, the vowels drawn out like a bowed note on a violin string. "I suppose."
"You could stay," he points out. "I didn't mean for-you could stay," he finishes, somewhat at a loss.
"No, no. I mean, it was for a year to begin with. I never expected-" and she trails off, her eyes going studiously blank in the particular way that makes David want to take the TARDIS back to find whatever it was that gave her these frequent spates of total self-doubt, find it and beat the absolute shit out of it, but he's too drained to entertain the desire for very long. He stands up heavily, thinks better of it, and sinks down onto the couch between the two women.
Freema pats him on the shoulder. "It'll be okay."
"Hope you're right," he says.
"'Course she is," says Catherine. "I met her a week ago, and I already know she's smarter than you are."
"Thanks," he says, and means it.
*
They're very, very, extremely knackered, but the night is beautiful and they can see the stars, so they linger on the roof while the crew is packing away the equipment.
"Look at that bright one over there," says David.
"That's Regulus," says Catherine, matter-of-fact.
"Where did you-?"
"Astrology."
"Oh, dear God."
"Shut it," she says, with fondness in her voice. A comfortable silence hangs in the air between them.
David tilts his head back and sighs. "Close as we'll ever get."
Catherine tucks her hands in the pockets of her suit jacket. "You really believe in all this, don't you."
David looks over, surprised, not half because it's a statement instead of a question, something it seems she's already worked out in her mind.
"I mean," she elaborates, "not really, not-I'm not about to have you committed. Yet. But-d'you know, if aliens landed in Cardiff tomorrow, you'd be in the front row. In the street, with a video camera, the happiest man alive."
"And where would you be?"
"Under the bed."
He chuckles.
"You always," he says, finally, "believe in what you love, I think. A little bit, anyway."
They look at each other. Catherine seems struck by his words, and as her features soften into what looks dangerously like pity, David looks away, back up at the sky.
Of course it's the right thing to do, of course there's career, of course there's what's next, but that doesn't mean it isn't tearing him up inside, and there's always the doubt gnawing at his stomach, saying you're throwing away the best part of your life, you fucking idiot.
He feels the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm. "So," she says. "I should have you committed, is what you're saying."
He throws back his head and laughs. "Catherine," he says. "You jewel," and slings an arm around her shoulders because he knows she'll be irritated by it.
She tugs him away from the ledge. "C'mon, David," she says. "Back to Earth."
*
There are meetings. There are lots and lots of meetings at broad tables set with clear glasses of water at equal intervals and gray-suited men who ask him are you sure, David? have you thought about this, David? and he is known for his easy manner, his charm, but he feels that these traits may, at any time, vanish into the aether.
Have I thought about it? Honestly.
(In her trailer, Catherine turns the page of her magazine, pronounces them all to be pillocks without even lifting her gaze to follow his restless pacing. He finds this strangely comforting.)
The reviews for the first episodes come out, which neither of them read.
His nieces bring their friends to visit the set, and the youngest of them sights Catherine and catapults into her legs, squealing, "Donna!" Catherine leans down and gently hugs the girl, and David catches the briefest glimpse of astonishment on her features.
Whole houses, clear off the ground, he thinks, smiling.
And time passes.
*
They've done the applause and the balloons and the set is ordered cleared. By some unspoken agreement, they both hang back as the others troop out. She's on the other side of the TARDIS console from him, turned away. The metal grating clinks as he takes a step towards her.
"Well," she says. "Made it."
She pinches a camera off someone while he wheels a Dalek in from the hall. It takes the two of them to wrestle the thing up onto the TARDIS platform.
"Come on, then," she says, tossing her hair back and raising the camera. "Give us your best Oncoming Storm."
David poses with the tinny, empty thing, feeling slightly ridiculous, but grinning all the same. They switch places, back and forth. At one point she strikes a ludicrous cheesecake pose against the Dalek and he groans and covers his face and accuses her of raping his childhood.
The lights dim on set and suddenly he's hit with the knowledge that it's over and done with for the third time, and he's going to go home to his dusty London flat and not know what to do with himself besides run the dishwasher, and when he comes back she's not going to be there, and soon enough it really will be all over. It feels a little like panic, all things considered.
Suddenly, Catherine laughs.
"What is it?"
She shows him her open hand, a piece of metal resting on her palm.
"That's torn it," she says. "I've broken the TARDIS."
He lifts the metal out of her hand; it's a copper gear wheel.
"She's getting old, poor thing," he says, with a fond look towards the console. It won't be around much longer; they'll rebuild it for the next crew.
He moves to set the gear down on the TARDIS console, then changes his mind, presses it back into her hand. She turns it over, examining it in silence.
She exhales sharply. "Well, then."
"Take it with you. Haven't you ever nicked props before?"
"No, but-"
"It's yours."
Her smile is wistful as she slips the gear into her jacket pocket. "So, David?"
"Yes?"
"What's next?"
He laughs. "Do you know, I have absolutely no idea."