Fic > Matt/Karen > Pursuit of Happiness
Title: Pursuit of Happiness
Rating: K/G
Word Count: 1613
Summary: It could happen.
Disclaimer: No money, no truth, no problem.
Spoilers/References/Warnings: Unmitigated schmoop and utter lack of plot. The dress described can be found here. Please ignore the stupid thing on the model's head, because yowza.
Written For: Prompted by an anon on Tumblr who wanted wedding fic.
Blather, blather, blather: I'm sorry for the utter ridiculousness contained herein.
It could happen like this:
They’re back in America, filming the last episode of an epic two-parter that will send Amy and Rory off into the sunset while the Doctor is left to hug only the console of the TARDIS . He’s got wind in his hair and she feels brushes of sand on her cheek as they film their last scene of the day. The light is fading quickly into a colorfully, carefully brushed sky, soothing in its pale oranges and pinks.
They, however, are maddeningly red, full of spark and the worst kept secret set romance ever. They stand on their marks, her laughing as his hair flops in every direction except the one it’s supposed to, and the back of her ridiculously ratty and even more outrageously pink bathrobe lifts up in the evening wind like a train.
She sees the light of an idea in his eyes, sparking against the navy night as it approaches. It matches the twinkling in the distance - Las Vegas, so frenetic and full and fun; so like them in many ways, which would explain the familiarity she sees as she looks between him and the landscape behind.
As the hair department tries to manage his coif, he looks her straight in the eye, and the mirth is gone. It’s replaced by a determination as gritty as the sand on which they’re standing. It throws her for a minute; she’s used to goofy, gangly Matt, not the serious man before her. She doesn’t need words to ask what he’s thinking; he takes them for himself, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably when he asks, “D’you know what I think?”
She quirks her mouth halfway upward; even after all this time - even after Amelia and hand puppets and him bringing her tea from Starbucks with her name scratched out and replaced by I think I’m in love with you, would you like to have dinner? written on it - he still has to earn it. “I shudder to think,” she replies saucily, and his grin is as bright as any of the spotlights trained on them at any given time.
“I think we should get married.”
And then the world tilts off its axis. The hairdresser stills her comb along his part, the director stops mid-stride as he walks over to the DP, and Arthur looks up from his sides so quickly his glasses slide down his nose. It’s quick because they’re not; they have been solid and slow and yes, this was always how it was meant to be from the get-go.
Karen blinks, once, twice, and then somehow, from somewhere, she utters a breathless okay.
(He wants an Elvis impersonator to be their witness, while she’s perfectly sure Adam or Arthur would be happy to accompany her.
They stand in the foyer of the Little White Chapel and like the adults they are, rock, paper, scissor out a decision.
She walks down the aisle in her trainers and a messy plait, Elvis crooning “I can’t help falling in love with you,” next to her every step of the way.)
Or, it could happen like this:
They know the tabloids will have a field day when they get wind of their plans. (He and Arthur set an over/under bet for the number of “reporters” who will bribe the county officials for copies of the marriage license application.
She makes over a hundred pounds on it.
Matt’s not sure if he should be worried or impressed.)
They decide to fake everybody out. It rings of perfection and inevitability, as loudly as any church bells might, for as predetermined as their union seems, at the heart of it, their relationship has been about shattering masks and expectations; of doing away with denials and embracing truths, even hard earned ones - about who and what define perfection in someone’s eyes.
They leak it to the press that they’ll be marrying on a weekend in early fall - that much is true - but there are conflicting reports as to where it will take place. The Mail reports Cardiff, while The Sun says Northampton and The Mirror proclaims Inverness. By the time the papers realized they’ve been duped, Matt and Karen are in Fiji at sunset, barefoot in the sand and surrounded by torchlight and their closest family and friends.
He takes her hands as they stand before the officiant and laces their fingers together; it’s a more intimate gesture than any of the times he held her impossibly close at photocalls, and she smiles at him through her tears.
(His mum spares one of her three travel sized packages of Kleenex as Matt says his vows, and before she launches into hers, she teases that perhaps he should have learned more preparation from his mother.
They recess down the aisle as the waves crash against the shore. She’s laughing uncontrollably, the sound circling to the high heavens, her giddiness unbound, and he stops at the edge of the ceremony site to pull her into his arms, kissing the side of her neck and promising that from now on he’ll always have what she needs.)
It actually happens like this:
They buy a house in the English countryside a year and a half before, brick with a circular drive and a backyard so like Amelia’s. She plants hydrangeas and he kicks a football against their own wooden shed.
(He’d somehow found a plank of wood from the broken shed from their first episode and carved Smith and Gillan into it before hanging it above the shed door.
She’d kissed him sweetly, touched by the gesture, and then on the way back to the house asked why he got top billing.)
She kicks him out the night before, saying tradition necessitates it; he in turn throws pebbles at their bedroom window at two minutes after midnight. She throws up the sash and leans out, half wanting to scold him from waking her - if she has bags under her eyes in the photos, she will kill him - but melts at the earnest look on his face.
His excitement is barely contained, but somehow his tone is still reverent. “Happy wedding day, Kaz.”
She smiles, pulling her hair tighter as it fights for freedom in the night wind. “Happy wedding day.”
He waggles an eyebrow. “Can I come up?”
She pretends to make a disinterested gesture. “If you like. But just know your mother’s in the next room.”
He covers his chest dramatically and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
He steals from Steven’s script. “It’s always a big day tomorrow. I skip -“
She throws the window closed, and not a minute later answers his text of Thanks for interrupting me with Next time, use your own material.
It pours rain for most of the morning, and the planner (not to mention their mothers) are literally wringing their hands as they fret. Karen sits in front of her bathroom mirror, the hairdresser and make-up artist from the show attending to her. They pull her hair back in loose waves, much like they did for Amy’s wedding, and she slides into the Vera Wang mermaid gown, running her fingers carefully down the delicate lace insets. Looking at her reflection, she adjusts the satin waistband and breathes it all in.
It sometimes jars her, the thought of how different her life could have been. And yet it’s equally breathtaking to think that it was all somehow fated that she and Matt should meet, should experience everything they had together, should fall in love and, cliché or not, live happily ever after.
But she knows nothing is as perfect as it is in the movies, and that’s somehow why it’s so sweet. They’ve worked to get here; pushed through thorny brambles of clashing personalities, of timing, of let’s just jump and see where we land. No good relationship is easy; it’s not about getting to the I love yous that’s important, it’s integrating the day-to-day details with as much excitement as the original pursuit of happiness. They’ve weathered the storms; been each other’s calm at the center and safe harbor in the distance. It’ll take work to maintain and enhance it, but they’re up for the challenge, because they have their past victories - as well as the defeats - as the foundation on which they stand.
Her mother knocks lightly at the door and tells her it’s time. As Karen pauses to pick up her bouquet of lilies off the bed, she smiles to herself, knowing it was time a long, long time ago.
She hooks her arm into the crook of her dad’s elbow and kisses his cheek, tasting the bittersweet. The string quartet begins playing Mendelssohn’s wedding march, and the sun begins to peek through the clouds as Karen’s heels dig in to the soggy ground. But she continues forward, just as she - and they - always have.
He looks dapper in his suit, but she’s distracted by the tears in his eyes. Her dad leans over to kiss her, and as he takes his seat next to her mother, Karen reaches out and brushes her hand against Matt’s face, thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. He presses against her palm briefly, then turns his chin and presses his lips in thanks. She hands off her bouquet and he takes his hands in hers, but not before surreptitiously tugging at his pants and showing off some pretty snazzy striped socks.
(She laughs, he grins, they say I do even though they already did a hundred lifetimes ago.
The party’s great.
Dancing barefoot in the dewy grass after everyone’s gone is even better.)
fin
Rating: K/G
Word Count: 1613
Summary: It could happen.
Disclaimer: No money, no truth, no problem.
Spoilers/References/Warnings: Unmitigated schmoop and utter lack of plot. The dress described can be found here. Please ignore the stupid thing on the model's head, because yowza.
Written For: Prompted by an anon on Tumblr who wanted wedding fic.
Blather, blather, blather: I'm sorry for the utter ridiculousness contained herein.
It could happen like this:
They’re back in America, filming the last episode of an epic two-parter that will send Amy and Rory off into the sunset while the Doctor is left to hug only the console of the TARDIS . He’s got wind in his hair and she feels brushes of sand on her cheek as they film their last scene of the day. The light is fading quickly into a colorfully, carefully brushed sky, soothing in its pale oranges and pinks.
They, however, are maddeningly red, full of spark and the worst kept secret set romance ever. They stand on their marks, her laughing as his hair flops in every direction except the one it’s supposed to, and the back of her ridiculously ratty and even more outrageously pink bathrobe lifts up in the evening wind like a train.
She sees the light of an idea in his eyes, sparking against the navy night as it approaches. It matches the twinkling in the distance - Las Vegas, so frenetic and full and fun; so like them in many ways, which would explain the familiarity she sees as she looks between him and the landscape behind.
As the hair department tries to manage his coif, he looks her straight in the eye, and the mirth is gone. It’s replaced by a determination as gritty as the sand on which they’re standing. It throws her for a minute; she’s used to goofy, gangly Matt, not the serious man before her. She doesn’t need words to ask what he’s thinking; he takes them for himself, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably when he asks, “D’you know what I think?”
She quirks her mouth halfway upward; even after all this time - even after Amelia and hand puppets and him bringing her tea from Starbucks with her name scratched out and replaced by I think I’m in love with you, would you like to have dinner? written on it - he still has to earn it. “I shudder to think,” she replies saucily, and his grin is as bright as any of the spotlights trained on them at any given time.
“I think we should get married.”
And then the world tilts off its axis. The hairdresser stills her comb along his part, the director stops mid-stride as he walks over to the DP, and Arthur looks up from his sides so quickly his glasses slide down his nose. It’s quick because they’re not; they have been solid and slow and yes, this was always how it was meant to be from the get-go.
Karen blinks, once, twice, and then somehow, from somewhere, she utters a breathless okay.
(He wants an Elvis impersonator to be their witness, while she’s perfectly sure Adam or Arthur would be happy to accompany her.
They stand in the foyer of the Little White Chapel and like the adults they are, rock, paper, scissor out a decision.
She walks down the aisle in her trainers and a messy plait, Elvis crooning “I can’t help falling in love with you,” next to her every step of the way.)
Or, it could happen like this:
They know the tabloids will have a field day when they get wind of their plans. (He and Arthur set an over/under bet for the number of “reporters” who will bribe the county officials for copies of the marriage license application.
She makes over a hundred pounds on it.
Matt’s not sure if he should be worried or impressed.)
They decide to fake everybody out. It rings of perfection and inevitability, as loudly as any church bells might, for as predetermined as their union seems, at the heart of it, their relationship has been about shattering masks and expectations; of doing away with denials and embracing truths, even hard earned ones - about who and what define perfection in someone’s eyes.
They leak it to the press that they’ll be marrying on a weekend in early fall - that much is true - but there are conflicting reports as to where it will take place. The Mail reports Cardiff, while The Sun says Northampton and The Mirror proclaims Inverness. By the time the papers realized they’ve been duped, Matt and Karen are in Fiji at sunset, barefoot in the sand and surrounded by torchlight and their closest family and friends.
He takes her hands as they stand before the officiant and laces their fingers together; it’s a more intimate gesture than any of the times he held her impossibly close at photocalls, and she smiles at him through her tears.
(His mum spares one of her three travel sized packages of Kleenex as Matt says his vows, and before she launches into hers, she teases that perhaps he should have learned more preparation from his mother.
They recess down the aisle as the waves crash against the shore. She’s laughing uncontrollably, the sound circling to the high heavens, her giddiness unbound, and he stops at the edge of the ceremony site to pull her into his arms, kissing the side of her neck and promising that from now on he’ll always have what she needs.)
It actually happens like this:
They buy a house in the English countryside a year and a half before, brick with a circular drive and a backyard so like Amelia’s. She plants hydrangeas and he kicks a football against their own wooden shed.
(He’d somehow found a plank of wood from the broken shed from their first episode and carved Smith and Gillan into it before hanging it above the shed door.
She’d kissed him sweetly, touched by the gesture, and then on the way back to the house asked why he got top billing.)
She kicks him out the night before, saying tradition necessitates it; he in turn throws pebbles at their bedroom window at two minutes after midnight. She throws up the sash and leans out, half wanting to scold him from waking her - if she has bags under her eyes in the photos, she will kill him - but melts at the earnest look on his face.
His excitement is barely contained, but somehow his tone is still reverent. “Happy wedding day, Kaz.”
She smiles, pulling her hair tighter as it fights for freedom in the night wind. “Happy wedding day.”
He waggles an eyebrow. “Can I come up?”
She pretends to make a disinterested gesture. “If you like. But just know your mother’s in the next room.”
He covers his chest dramatically and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
He steals from Steven’s script. “It’s always a big day tomorrow. I skip -“
She throws the window closed, and not a minute later answers his text of Thanks for interrupting me with Next time, use your own material.
It pours rain for most of the morning, and the planner (not to mention their mothers) are literally wringing their hands as they fret. Karen sits in front of her bathroom mirror, the hairdresser and make-up artist from the show attending to her. They pull her hair back in loose waves, much like they did for Amy’s wedding, and she slides into the Vera Wang mermaid gown, running her fingers carefully down the delicate lace insets. Looking at her reflection, she adjusts the satin waistband and breathes it all in.
It sometimes jars her, the thought of how different her life could have been. And yet it’s equally breathtaking to think that it was all somehow fated that she and Matt should meet, should experience everything they had together, should fall in love and, cliché or not, live happily ever after.
But she knows nothing is as perfect as it is in the movies, and that’s somehow why it’s so sweet. They’ve worked to get here; pushed through thorny brambles of clashing personalities, of timing, of let’s just jump and see where we land. No good relationship is easy; it’s not about getting to the I love yous that’s important, it’s integrating the day-to-day details with as much excitement as the original pursuit of happiness. They’ve weathered the storms; been each other’s calm at the center and safe harbor in the distance. It’ll take work to maintain and enhance it, but they’re up for the challenge, because they have their past victories - as well as the defeats - as the foundation on which they stand.
Her mother knocks lightly at the door and tells her it’s time. As Karen pauses to pick up her bouquet of lilies off the bed, she smiles to herself, knowing it was time a long, long time ago.
She hooks her arm into the crook of her dad’s elbow and kisses his cheek, tasting the bittersweet. The string quartet begins playing Mendelssohn’s wedding march, and the sun begins to peek through the clouds as Karen’s heels dig in to the soggy ground. But she continues forward, just as she - and they - always have.
He looks dapper in his suit, but she’s distracted by the tears in his eyes. Her dad leans over to kiss her, and as he takes his seat next to her mother, Karen reaches out and brushes her hand against Matt’s face, thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. He presses against her palm briefly, then turns his chin and presses his lips in thanks. She hands off her bouquet and he takes his hands in hers, but not before surreptitiously tugging at his pants and showing off some pretty snazzy striped socks.
(She laughs, he grins, they say I do even though they already did a hundred lifetimes ago.
The party’s great.
Dancing barefoot in the dewy grass after everyone’s gone is even better.)
fin