fic: relative # 16 &17
Title: ‘Relative’ #16 & 17
Rating: G
Characters: River, future!Doctor(s), Jenny, femme!Doctor
Wordcount: 120 + 313
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
---
An attack on the University, and somehow he manages to lock himself in with the attackers. River would have thought it just his bad luck, had he not deliberately shut the door in her face, had she not heard the lock activate.
Somehow he manages to be the only one who comes out.
“My fault,” he tells her, in an empty hallway, when the medic has let him go. The next thing he says is, “I have to leave.”
“Your fault?”
The hallway ends and he steps into a lift. “I’m sorry, River, but…” And the door slides shut and cuts off his words and his presence and River gives it a furious kick, and that doesn’t help at all.
---
He’s gone. She’s still there, and her life is much the same as ever. She spends time with her friends, dates a few people/near-people/things, answers all the police’s questions, does well in class. She’s bored, but that’s all she’ll concede to.
She has a respite from odd men, at least.
There are odd women instead.
First, there’s a blonde in an oversized parka who “Just wanted a look”.
Then, there’s a dainty dark one in a chemise and heavy boots who says, verbatim, “Hello! Oh, bother, I forgot my cloche!”, before she spins around and runs off.
A few months after that, there’s this supply teacher, whose hair is silver on grey on white, a man who never shuts up but to grin. She quite likes him. He has the most perplexing dialect; but it is pleasant, and fascinating. He seems merely a little bit odd, she decides.
“Riversong,” he says one day, when the lesson ends, “Would you mind staying behind?”
She quite likes the way he says her name, too. She gathers her things and approaches him somewhat guardedly. Perhaps she argued the uselessness of spending all of next week learning about the second-to-sixteenth societies of Sol-eight-ninety-four-dash-seven a bit too vehemently.
He grins at her, pulls a piece of flimsy paper from a pocket and looks at it. He clears his throat. “It’s just… I’m so very bad at saying goodbye.”
She can see the paper plainly; it is filled with mere doodles, circles and such, and still she can’t shake the feeling that he’s reciting something from it. Well, she thinks. That’s just fabulous. She doesn’t even know whether that was sarcasm or not.
“You’ll get me back later,” he finishes.
“Meaning?” she demands sharply. “Professor.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. But I’m not one to ignore a message from the future.” Then he crumples the paper, shrugs, winks, and leaves.
Rating: G
Characters: River, future!Doctor(s), Jenny, femme!Doctor
Wordcount: 120 + 313
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who.
---
An attack on the University, and somehow he manages to lock himself in with the attackers. River would have thought it just his bad luck, had he not deliberately shut the door in her face, had she not heard the lock activate.
Somehow he manages to be the only one who comes out.
“My fault,” he tells her, in an empty hallway, when the medic has let him go. The next thing he says is, “I have to leave.”
“Your fault?”
The hallway ends and he steps into a lift. “I’m sorry, River, but…” And the door slides shut and cuts off his words and his presence and River gives it a furious kick, and that doesn’t help at all.
---
He’s gone. She’s still there, and her life is much the same as ever. She spends time with her friends, dates a few people/near-people/things, answers all the police’s questions, does well in class. She’s bored, but that’s all she’ll concede to.
She has a respite from odd men, at least.
There are odd women instead.
First, there’s a blonde in an oversized parka who “Just wanted a look”.
Then, there’s a dainty dark one in a chemise and heavy boots who says, verbatim, “Hello! Oh, bother, I forgot my cloche!”, before she spins around and runs off.
A few months after that, there’s this supply teacher, whose hair is silver on grey on white, a man who never shuts up but to grin. She quite likes him. He has the most perplexing dialect; but it is pleasant, and fascinating. He seems merely a little bit odd, she decides.
“Riversong,” he says one day, when the lesson ends, “Would you mind staying behind?”
She quite likes the way he says her name, too. She gathers her things and approaches him somewhat guardedly. Perhaps she argued the uselessness of spending all of next week learning about the second-to-sixteenth societies of Sol-eight-ninety-four-dash-seven a bit too vehemently.
He grins at her, pulls a piece of flimsy paper from a pocket and looks at it. He clears his throat. “It’s just… I’m so very bad at saying goodbye.”
She can see the paper plainly; it is filled with mere doodles, circles and such, and still she can’t shake the feeling that he’s reciting something from it. Well, she thinks. That’s just fabulous. She doesn’t even know whether that was sarcasm or not.
“You’ll get me back later,” he finishes.
“Meaning?” she demands sharply. “Professor.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. But I’m not one to ignore a message from the future.” Then he crumples the paper, shrugs, winks, and leaves.