DW: Intersections
Title: Intersections
Author: MsCongeniality
Genre: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13 for drugs and alcohol
Character(s): Eighth Doctor, OCs and one Real Person I'd rather people infer than identify directly.
Words: 2,178
Notes: Written for Drox as part of the Eighth Doctor Adventures ficathon on henriettastreet. She wanted 'Amnesiac!Eight in an exciting adventure with hallucinogenic substances' possibly involving the free-love sixties. What we have is...erm, not precisely an exciting adventure, but more of an almost-fairy tale set during Unnatural History but basically about Amnesiac!Eight in the free-love sixties. Hallucinogens are involved, though in perhaps a more oblique fashion than initially desired. Inspirations for this story included Harry Chapin, Investigation Discovery, and Aldous Huxley (don't ask). I apologize for the delay, but life (a.k.a. work deadlines and nasty colds) broadsided me for a bit. Extra credit and a side helping of love go to marag for last minute read-throughs before posting.
It was a slow afternoon, slower than usual, and the tables that had held the lunch rush were now neatly aligned and set. Tim checked his stocks of perfectly cut citrus wedges before giving up and wiping down the immaculate bar just one more time.
The tinkling of the bell and slam of the door reverberated through the empty space and he looked up to see a middle aged woman brush past the host station and make a beeline for the back of the restaurant. He was just able to stash the rag in his pocket before she reached his bar, but before he could welcome her or ask for an order, she barked out in a rough voice, "Vodka. No, double vodka."
He nodded a reply, then turned for the top shelf. She was a regular and he knew her in a general way. They'd never actually spoken, but her table always ordered top shelf drinks. When he'd first started here, it was her and some man he assumed was her husband; always immaculately dressed, always generous with the gratuities. Then, later, it was her alone; sometimes with a friend or a date, but still immaculately dressed, still generous to the staff, and the drinks always came from the top shelf.
He set the glass before her and barely had the time to remove his hand before she took hold and drank the liquor in a single swallow. That initial shot of liquid courage seemed to settle her, somewhat. Enough, that she took a seat before indicating the glass in front of her and nodding.
"Another, please."
Though it was against protocol, Tim grabbed the vodka from behind him, visually judging the measure before setting the bottle directly on the bar and leaning back across from her. Listening for a while never hurt him, and he usually got tipped in direct proportion to the amounts of alcohol and sympathy he could provide.
She spent a few minutes just looking at her drink, as though its clear depths were some kind of crystal holding an answer. Then, apparently finding no wisdom forthcoming, she took another drink; a sip this time, before finally looking up at the man opposite. Her eyes were rimmed red, and her voice rough as she said quietly, but firmly, "I've just seen a ghost."
Tim smiled, and said lightly, "You're going to have to do better than that, these days. I've been hearing about nothing but dragons and man-eating plants in Golden Gate Park for weeks now."
She closed her eyes, then shook her head before downing some more of the vodka.
"This is different." She said, opening her eyes again and looking past him blankly. "This ghost stepped out of my youth and nearly ran me over." She smiled slightly, "Then, he apologized and kept right on running away."
Tim shifted, crossing his arms and tilting his head forward. "Well," he started slowly, "that sounds a bit more corporeal than a dragon, then. Why don't you tell me about this ghost? Guaranteed, that's the best way to exorcize it."
In response, she just sat motionless, once again staring into the depths of hear glass before suddenly reaching for it and draining the contents a second time over.
"It all started," she said quietly, "in the Summer of Love."
The girl was just out of high school, impossibly young and taken with the times and everything they had to offer. She'd wanted to go to college which was, she'd heard, where it was all Happening. But even if her parents had had the money for it, school was not an option. Not even arguments in favor of a well-educated, well-earning husband could sway them and eventually the girl just gave up and settled in to the life they wanted for her.
After graduation, she took a job answering telephones for a little company in town while her mother set about trying to match her to any eligible boy that had managed not to get drafted. It couldn't have been much more than a month later when the girl snuck down to her car in the middle of the night and hid a suitcase in her trunk before quietly making her way back to bed. The next morning, she dressed for work, said her goodbyes as usual and instead of passing the freeway ramp, she took it.
Hours later, she sat in a luncheonette she'd found just off the road. There'd been enough time for the second thoughts to set in and the girl's boldness was losing its brassy finish. She had the place mainly to herself and her thoughts, except for the disinterested waitress and a single customer at the far end of the counter.
The customer looked like everything she'd run away to find. His long hair curled undisciplined over his collar, and he dressed like he was from another time, yet he somehow managed to make everything that touched him fit perfectly where he was. She watched him while she ate her food, and his quiet calm slowly convinced the girl that she'd been right. That this was what she needed to do.
Maybe the customer sensed this, maybe he felt the intersection of her life and his, but in the end, the girl never asked why it was that he followed her out of the luncheonette that day. With a smile, and a smooth English accent, he asked if he could join the girl on her journey. She stammered out that she didn't exactly know where she was going, but once again he simply smiled at her.
"That's quite all right," he'd said. "I've got no immediate destination, myself, and you can find your life anywhere, if you try."
The girl still wasn't quite sure she understood what he was saying, but it was the kind of freedom she'd left to find. So, she had him put his suitcase in the back seat and together, they took the freeway north, leaving her bland life further behind with every mile.
The customer, this Pied Piper that she followed, or perhaps led, called himself a doctor but refused to give an actual name. In turn, she told the Doctor that she was called Summer. He'd smiled once again and asked if that were really true. She smiled back at him and told him that it wasn't, yet, but would be, soon.
They drove through the day, and into the long evening; talking of things that were inconsequential and, yet, Summer felt they held significant weight. She felt like in his words, his descriptions and explanations, there was an entirely different way of seeing the world. By the time they reached San Francisco, she had been reborn and this man had somehow taken a hand in it. Too tired to drive any farther, she decided to embrace the city as her destination and Summer and the Doctor parted company, each turning to their own path.
Weeks passed, and Summer began to grow into the life she'd sought out for herself. True, she was only occasionally working in a shop and most of her pay went towards paying for a room she'd found with a couple of other girls she'd met at a party, but it was a life on her terms. She was meeting so many people with important things to say, and she was finally learning to open up her mind. Summer gave herself over to the spirit of the city and of that time.
The Doctor crossed her path then, if only briefly. She was leaving work, full of the plans she and a roommate had made to attend a party in Berkeley. Charlie had invited them, and he had a way of making everything seem so clear. The Doctor only frowned and muttered something bland in response, the light of his wonderful way of words barred to her and the disapproval in his eyes cutting like a knife. Summer left angry, determined to enjoy herself despite him, but that night, instead of an expansion of her being, all she felt was the pain from those eyes.
From then on, those eyes haunted her. Not even Charlie could exorcise them, and what had been the greatest feeling she'd ever known turned to nightmare with each dose. The shining new life Summer was creating was even further dimmed when the pigs took her house and she found herself, once again, standing on the street with her suitcase hidden in the trunk of her car and thoughts of the freeway. Only this time, she wouldn't be alone, she'd have a Family of her choosing.
When the Doctor reappeared, Summer knew it was fate and not design. He'd found her at a crossroads once and together they'd come to what she thought was Eden. She understood now that it wasn't, but the promise of a better place still lay ahead, if only she'd follow her prophet.
This time, the Doctor's eyes were gentle. This time, he took Summer away from the Haight, to another, more stolidly square neighborhood and to a luncheonette where they sat in the window and sipped coffee as they talked. He told her then, that he was leaving; that there was something about the city he found unsettling, and for once his words failed him in the describing of it. In turn, Summer asked the Doctor to join her, to join them; to follow Charlie and his answers, wherever he might take them.
The Doctor smiled at that. He shook his head in polite refusal and a light humor touched his eyes as he turned her plans upside down. She should stay in this city for she had truly found herself there, or she would anyway, if she'd put the time into it. He was giving her the key to a small set of rooms above the luncheonette, a space for her to create her own sanctuary and build her dreams rather than finding them in a chemical or a guru.
Summer accepted it, with the same uncertainty she'd felt when they'd first headed north together. Dreams would take a long time to build, but the work would be worth it. Then as the Doctor rose, leaving her to leave her to start her third life, Summer stopped him with a question.
"Doctor," she said, "What do you see in your dreams?"
Again, he seemed to be at a loss for words. She could tell, though, that he wanted to give her an answer. After an awkward silence that felt like an eternity he nodded slightly, as though confirming something to himself before answering.
"Here, I dream of ripples in the air, and something nameless in the bay. I dream of endless corridors and a room full of butterflies. I think that somewhere else, I'll dream of other things and that I need to know what those things are.
"It's time that I move on."
Then, before Summer could fully digest what she had heard, he was gone. She looked out the plate glass window towards the street, but the velvet of his coat was lost among the stolid pinstripe and plaids of the crowd.
"And that," she concluded, "was that. At least, until he bowled me over today. If anything, he looked younger than he did thirty-five years ago." She played idly with the glass in her hands, which had long since gone dry and looked almost expectantly at the bartender.
Tim shifted awkwardly, knowing none of the pat responses of a bartender's repertoire would suffice. Finally, he shook his head. "You know," he said quietly. "I think I'd have liked to see that. Not your ghost reappearing, but the way you built your dreams."
The woman smiled, and a hint of the girl she had been came out in her features. "Who ever said that I was finished with dreams?"
The bartender gave a genuine smile in response, not to an anonymous woman he could profile by habit, but to the lost girl she'd rediscovered. The girl who found her way, only to have the certainty of it taken from her by a chance of crossed paths.
"Then maybe," he said deliberately, "this just means you're at another crossroads."
Her smile broke wider, becoming a full fledged grin and lighting her eyes with all the warmth she'd lacked when he'd poured that first drink.
"You know, I think that I am."
The woman put the empty glass down on the bar with a measure of decisive authority. "I think," she said, with a smile in her voice, "that I've finished my drinking." She tilted her chin up, looking the bartender directly in the eyes.
"Maybe, you'd like to join me in a cup of coffee instead."
Tim, who'd prided himself on a certain amount of detachment, found his face burning red in response. "I think," he said slowly, "that maybe I would."
"Maybe," he continued, "I'm at a crossroads, too."
"That's all right," she said. "I've got no immediate destination, and you can find yourself anywhere, if you try."
Author: MsCongeniality
Genre: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13 for drugs and alcohol
Character(s): Eighth Doctor, OCs and one Real Person I'd rather people infer than identify directly.
Words: 2,178
Notes: Written for Drox as part of the Eighth Doctor Adventures ficathon on henriettastreet. She wanted 'Amnesiac!Eight in an exciting adventure with hallucinogenic substances' possibly involving the free-love sixties. What we have is...erm, not precisely an exciting adventure, but more of an almost-fairy tale set during Unnatural History but basically about Amnesiac!Eight in the free-love sixties. Hallucinogens are involved, though in perhaps a more oblique fashion than initially desired. Inspirations for this story included Harry Chapin, Investigation Discovery, and Aldous Huxley (don't ask). I apologize for the delay, but life (a.k.a. work deadlines and nasty colds) broadsided me for a bit. Extra credit and a side helping of love go to marag for last minute read-throughs before posting.
It was a slow afternoon, slower than usual, and the tables that had held the lunch rush were now neatly aligned and set. Tim checked his stocks of perfectly cut citrus wedges before giving up and wiping down the immaculate bar just one more time.
The tinkling of the bell and slam of the door reverberated through the empty space and he looked up to see a middle aged woman brush past the host station and make a beeline for the back of the restaurant. He was just able to stash the rag in his pocket before she reached his bar, but before he could welcome her or ask for an order, she barked out in a rough voice, "Vodka. No, double vodka."
He nodded a reply, then turned for the top shelf. She was a regular and he knew her in a general way. They'd never actually spoken, but her table always ordered top shelf drinks. When he'd first started here, it was her and some man he assumed was her husband; always immaculately dressed, always generous with the gratuities. Then, later, it was her alone; sometimes with a friend or a date, but still immaculately dressed, still generous to the staff, and the drinks always came from the top shelf.
He set the glass before her and barely had the time to remove his hand before she took hold and drank the liquor in a single swallow. That initial shot of liquid courage seemed to settle her, somewhat. Enough, that she took a seat before indicating the glass in front of her and nodding.
"Another, please."
Though it was against protocol, Tim grabbed the vodka from behind him, visually judging the measure before setting the bottle directly on the bar and leaning back across from her. Listening for a while never hurt him, and he usually got tipped in direct proportion to the amounts of alcohol and sympathy he could provide.
She spent a few minutes just looking at her drink, as though its clear depths were some kind of crystal holding an answer. Then, apparently finding no wisdom forthcoming, she took another drink; a sip this time, before finally looking up at the man opposite. Her eyes were rimmed red, and her voice rough as she said quietly, but firmly, "I've just seen a ghost."
Tim smiled, and said lightly, "You're going to have to do better than that, these days. I've been hearing about nothing but dragons and man-eating plants in Golden Gate Park for weeks now."
She closed her eyes, then shook her head before downing some more of the vodka.
"This is different." She said, opening her eyes again and looking past him blankly. "This ghost stepped out of my youth and nearly ran me over." She smiled slightly, "Then, he apologized and kept right on running away."
Tim shifted, crossing his arms and tilting his head forward. "Well," he started slowly, "that sounds a bit more corporeal than a dragon, then. Why don't you tell me about this ghost? Guaranteed, that's the best way to exorcize it."
In response, she just sat motionless, once again staring into the depths of hear glass before suddenly reaching for it and draining the contents a second time over.
"It all started," she said quietly, "in the Summer of Love."
The girl was just out of high school, impossibly young and taken with the times and everything they had to offer. She'd wanted to go to college which was, she'd heard, where it was all Happening. But even if her parents had had the money for it, school was not an option. Not even arguments in favor of a well-educated, well-earning husband could sway them and eventually the girl just gave up and settled in to the life they wanted for her.
After graduation, she took a job answering telephones for a little company in town while her mother set about trying to match her to any eligible boy that had managed not to get drafted. It couldn't have been much more than a month later when the girl snuck down to her car in the middle of the night and hid a suitcase in her trunk before quietly making her way back to bed. The next morning, she dressed for work, said her goodbyes as usual and instead of passing the freeway ramp, she took it.
Hours later, she sat in a luncheonette she'd found just off the road. There'd been enough time for the second thoughts to set in and the girl's boldness was losing its brassy finish. She had the place mainly to herself and her thoughts, except for the disinterested waitress and a single customer at the far end of the counter.
The customer looked like everything she'd run away to find. His long hair curled undisciplined over his collar, and he dressed like he was from another time, yet he somehow managed to make everything that touched him fit perfectly where he was. She watched him while she ate her food, and his quiet calm slowly convinced the girl that she'd been right. That this was what she needed to do.
Maybe the customer sensed this, maybe he felt the intersection of her life and his, but in the end, the girl never asked why it was that he followed her out of the luncheonette that day. With a smile, and a smooth English accent, he asked if he could join the girl on her journey. She stammered out that she didn't exactly know where she was going, but once again he simply smiled at her.
"That's quite all right," he'd said. "I've got no immediate destination, myself, and you can find your life anywhere, if you try."
The girl still wasn't quite sure she understood what he was saying, but it was the kind of freedom she'd left to find. So, she had him put his suitcase in the back seat and together, they took the freeway north, leaving her bland life further behind with every mile.
The customer, this Pied Piper that she followed, or perhaps led, called himself a doctor but refused to give an actual name. In turn, she told the Doctor that she was called Summer. He'd smiled once again and asked if that were really true. She smiled back at him and told him that it wasn't, yet, but would be, soon.
They drove through the day, and into the long evening; talking of things that were inconsequential and, yet, Summer felt they held significant weight. She felt like in his words, his descriptions and explanations, there was an entirely different way of seeing the world. By the time they reached San Francisco, she had been reborn and this man had somehow taken a hand in it. Too tired to drive any farther, she decided to embrace the city as her destination and Summer and the Doctor parted company, each turning to their own path.
Weeks passed, and Summer began to grow into the life she'd sought out for herself. True, she was only occasionally working in a shop and most of her pay went towards paying for a room she'd found with a couple of other girls she'd met at a party, but it was a life on her terms. She was meeting so many people with important things to say, and she was finally learning to open up her mind. Summer gave herself over to the spirit of the city and of that time.
The Doctor crossed her path then, if only briefly. She was leaving work, full of the plans she and a roommate had made to attend a party in Berkeley. Charlie had invited them, and he had a way of making everything seem so clear. The Doctor only frowned and muttered something bland in response, the light of his wonderful way of words barred to her and the disapproval in his eyes cutting like a knife. Summer left angry, determined to enjoy herself despite him, but that night, instead of an expansion of her being, all she felt was the pain from those eyes.
From then on, those eyes haunted her. Not even Charlie could exorcise them, and what had been the greatest feeling she'd ever known turned to nightmare with each dose. The shining new life Summer was creating was even further dimmed when the pigs took her house and she found herself, once again, standing on the street with her suitcase hidden in the trunk of her car and thoughts of the freeway. Only this time, she wouldn't be alone, she'd have a Family of her choosing.
When the Doctor reappeared, Summer knew it was fate and not design. He'd found her at a crossroads once and together they'd come to what she thought was Eden. She understood now that it wasn't, but the promise of a better place still lay ahead, if only she'd follow her prophet.
This time, the Doctor's eyes were gentle. This time, he took Summer away from the Haight, to another, more stolidly square neighborhood and to a luncheonette where they sat in the window and sipped coffee as they talked. He told her then, that he was leaving; that there was something about the city he found unsettling, and for once his words failed him in the describing of it. In turn, Summer asked the Doctor to join her, to join them; to follow Charlie and his answers, wherever he might take them.
The Doctor smiled at that. He shook his head in polite refusal and a light humor touched his eyes as he turned her plans upside down. She should stay in this city for she had truly found herself there, or she would anyway, if she'd put the time into it. He was giving her the key to a small set of rooms above the luncheonette, a space for her to create her own sanctuary and build her dreams rather than finding them in a chemical or a guru.
Summer accepted it, with the same uncertainty she'd felt when they'd first headed north together. Dreams would take a long time to build, but the work would be worth it. Then as the Doctor rose, leaving her to leave her to start her third life, Summer stopped him with a question.
"Doctor," she said, "What do you see in your dreams?"
Again, he seemed to be at a loss for words. She could tell, though, that he wanted to give her an answer. After an awkward silence that felt like an eternity he nodded slightly, as though confirming something to himself before answering.
"Here, I dream of ripples in the air, and something nameless in the bay. I dream of endless corridors and a room full of butterflies. I think that somewhere else, I'll dream of other things and that I need to know what those things are.
"It's time that I move on."
Then, before Summer could fully digest what she had heard, he was gone. She looked out the plate glass window towards the street, but the velvet of his coat was lost among the stolid pinstripe and plaids of the crowd.
"And that," she concluded, "was that. At least, until he bowled me over today. If anything, he looked younger than he did thirty-five years ago." She played idly with the glass in her hands, which had long since gone dry and looked almost expectantly at the bartender.
Tim shifted awkwardly, knowing none of the pat responses of a bartender's repertoire would suffice. Finally, he shook his head. "You know," he said quietly. "I think I'd have liked to see that. Not your ghost reappearing, but the way you built your dreams."
The woman smiled, and a hint of the girl she had been came out in her features. "Who ever said that I was finished with dreams?"
The bartender gave a genuine smile in response, not to an anonymous woman he could profile by habit, but to the lost girl she'd rediscovered. The girl who found her way, only to have the certainty of it taken from her by a chance of crossed paths.
"Then maybe," he said deliberately, "this just means you're at another crossroads."
Her smile broke wider, becoming a full fledged grin and lighting her eyes with all the warmth she'd lacked when he'd poured that first drink.
"You know, I think that I am."
The woman put the empty glass down on the bar with a measure of decisive authority. "I think," she said, with a smile in her voice, "that I've finished my drinking." She tilted her chin up, looking the bartender directly in the eyes.
"Maybe, you'd like to join me in a cup of coffee instead."
Tim, who'd prided himself on a certain amount of detachment, found his face burning red in response. "I think," he said slowly, "that maybe I would."
"Maybe," he continued, "I'm at a crossroads, too."
"That's all right," she said. "I've got no immediate destination, and you can find yourself anywhere, if you try."