Short Fic: Interlude
Title: Interlude
Author: Kesshin
Characters: Nine, Rose
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor has ideas. Doesn't he always?
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Author's Notes: This one's for northern_magic, my most valued, respected, and Canadian reader. Sorry I haven't been doing much lately; my musical's about to start and MY LAPTOP GOT A VIRUS, I COULD CHOKE SOMEONE!
Anyway.
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In the beginning, he’d asked her where she wanted to go. He still did, when the mood struck. More often, though, she’d wake up with an overly non-chalant Timelord leaning against the doorframe to her room and staring intensely at some speck of dust inches above her head.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Don’t sleep.”
“Liar.”
If it was a lazy morning, he’d smile wide enough to break his face and talk just like that- him against the doorframe, her trying to go back to sleep and failing. If it was the other kind of morning, with his head humming up the possibilities in the stars, eyes glinting with a barely contained intensity, (‘Ideas, Rose.’), then he would tell her to get up. Brusquely. And she’d be tempted to tell him to shove it but never actually would, because… ideas.
“Have I ever led you wrong?”
“I’m thinking bog monsters.”
“Bog aliens. Misunderstood and misconstrued-”
“Ooh, and flight miscalculations.”
“Minor.”
“Twelve months.”
“Big deal.”
“Sod off.”
One time, he got fed up and removed her blankets. Not stolen or moved, removed, as in out of existence. And throwing the law of the conservation of matter his way just made him laugh. Bastard.
Today was one of those ‘ideas’ days. Rose sipped at her tea while the Doctor stuffed objects that may have been food into sacks.
“At this rate,” Rose commented, taking another gulp of tea and deciding that its blue color had no apparent detrimental effect on its taste, “there won’t be anything left in the kitchen.”
The Doctor’s voice echoed back at her from the other end of the vaulted room, “That would be good. I’ve been meaning to clear this place out for ages- in the end, there’s only so long you can cryogenically freeze Caspian seaweed before it becomes sentient. Again.”
“I hope you’re joking.”
“So do I,” the Doctor replied cheerily before taking a quick peek into the cryo-freezer. He poked his head in and yanked it swiftly back out, “Oh, no.”
Rose coughed into her tea, “What?”
“This.”
A handful of packed snow lazed through the air, landing matter-of-factly in the middle of Rose’s face. It was white and drippy and fiendishly cold.
Rose ‘s mouth opened and closed slowly, twice. She struggled to find the right words, then found them.
“Christ.”
“Doctor, actually.”
Rose didn’t finish her tea.
Twenty minutes later, a harried Welsh woman- middle-aged, mother of three, utterly respectable- was treated to an interesting experience whilst walking past the Millenium Center. Two people ran by. They were fast and loud and she couldn’t see their faces. Both rocketed past with a laughed ‘Sorry.’
They left behind a trail of wet footprints and a handful of snowflakes. One landed on the lady's nose. She watched it melt. She watched the water drop slide away. Then, on the spot, she decided that Cardiff was getting too odd, that global warming was a load of crap, and that she should be getting home soon.
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‘Snow in July. Really.’
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Author: Kesshin
Characters: Nine, Rose
Rating: PG
Summary: The Doctor has ideas. Doesn't he always?
-
Author's Notes: This one's for northern_magic, my most valued, respected, and Canadian reader. Sorry I haven't been doing much lately; my musical's about to start and MY LAPTOP GOT A VIRUS, I COULD CHOKE SOMEONE!
Anyway.
-
-
-
In the beginning, he’d asked her where she wanted to go. He still did, when the mood struck. More often, though, she’d wake up with an overly non-chalant Timelord leaning against the doorframe to her room and staring intensely at some speck of dust inches above her head.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“Don’t sleep.”
“Liar.”
If it was a lazy morning, he’d smile wide enough to break his face and talk just like that- him against the doorframe, her trying to go back to sleep and failing. If it was the other kind of morning, with his head humming up the possibilities in the stars, eyes glinting with a barely contained intensity, (‘Ideas, Rose.’), then he would tell her to get up. Brusquely. And she’d be tempted to tell him to shove it but never actually would, because… ideas.
“Have I ever led you wrong?”
“I’m thinking bog monsters.”
“Bog aliens. Misunderstood and misconstrued-”
“Ooh, and flight miscalculations.”
“Minor.”
“Twelve months.”
“Big deal.”
“Sod off.”
One time, he got fed up and removed her blankets. Not stolen or moved, removed, as in out of existence. And throwing the law of the conservation of matter his way just made him laugh. Bastard.
Today was one of those ‘ideas’ days. Rose sipped at her tea while the Doctor stuffed objects that may have been food into sacks.
“At this rate,” Rose commented, taking another gulp of tea and deciding that its blue color had no apparent detrimental effect on its taste, “there won’t be anything left in the kitchen.”
The Doctor’s voice echoed back at her from the other end of the vaulted room, “That would be good. I’ve been meaning to clear this place out for ages- in the end, there’s only so long you can cryogenically freeze Caspian seaweed before it becomes sentient. Again.”
“I hope you’re joking.”
“So do I,” the Doctor replied cheerily before taking a quick peek into the cryo-freezer. He poked his head in and yanked it swiftly back out, “Oh, no.”
Rose coughed into her tea, “What?”
“This.”
A handful of packed snow lazed through the air, landing matter-of-factly in the middle of Rose’s face. It was white and drippy and fiendishly cold.
Rose ‘s mouth opened and closed slowly, twice. She struggled to find the right words, then found them.
“Christ.”
“Doctor, actually.”
Rose didn’t finish her tea.
Twenty minutes later, a harried Welsh woman- middle-aged, mother of three, utterly respectable- was treated to an interesting experience whilst walking past the Millenium Center. Two people ran by. They were fast and loud and she couldn’t see their faces. Both rocketed past with a laughed ‘Sorry.’
They left behind a trail of wet footprints and a handful of snowflakes. One landed on the lady's nose. She watched it melt. She watched the water drop slide away. Then, on the spot, she decided that Cardiff was getting too odd, that global warming was a load of crap, and that she should be getting home soon.
-
‘Snow in July. Really.’
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