OOC | Way Way Back in the Day
An early draft of one of Fitz's first scenes. Not much changed from this to the actual book so...yeah. FOR REFERENCE.
'It's like something, you know, out of R.J. Tolkien.'
Fitz regarded the large woman as she proudly patted the head of her newly wrapped garden gnome, his face blank. It was at moments like this that he felt life was truly too cruel to endure -- the woman had spent ten minutes making snide remarks about his appearance, his goods and possibly his morals, and then expected to have a friendly chat with him afterwards just because she'd bought something.
She grinned at him suddenly, and it took him a few moments to realise he was meant to respond. He pulled back his lips in an attempt at a smile but it rapidly twisted into a noisy yawn.
'You mean J.R.R,' he got out, as the yawn died away.
'I'm sorry?'
Fitz sighed. Tourists. They weren't too good with accents, he'd come to realise, particularly his French one, which he was employing to divert himself today. He tried again. 'I think you mean J. R.- '
The woman squealed with delight, her face furrowing as the grin threatened to engulf them all. 'You mean there's an R.J. Tolkien Junior? Neat!'
Fitz kept his face deadpan as he nodded and lit up a cigarette. 'R.J. conceived him in France. He slept with a beggar woman in the Boulevard Sainte-Germaine. The only tooth in her head was made of gold, and they pawned it to buy diapers.' At the woman's gasp of appropriate astonishment, Fitz leant forward conspiratorially. 'The woman's name,' he said in a low voice, 'was Frodo.'
The woman gasped. 'You're kidding me!'
Fitz exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke into the woman's grimace. 'There are many women called Frodo in France. It was my own mother's middle name.'
'I have got to visit your country!'
Fitz nodded with a smile, and pushed away a clump of straggly brown hair from his eyes as he pulled out a paper bag from under the counter. 'You old bag, you're so ugly ' he muttered.
The woman's face froze. 'What did you say?'
Fitz looked up, his grey eyes wide and innocent. 'This bag. It seems to fit him so snugly. Au revoir!'
The woman took the proffered parcel with a confused smile and wandered off along the leafy path in the direction of the tea rooms.
Fitz sighed lazily, watching her go. 'Why are people all so stupid?'
'All? That's a gross generalisation, surely,' came a polite, quiet voice that somehow made Fitz spin round as if he'd been given an order. 'I'd like this begonia, please.'
The man was looking at him. There was something slightly aloof about his manner, about his whole bearing; a sense of detachment from the quiet and the greenery about them. Only the eyes seemed definite, anchored on to his own as if peering inside him.
'This begonia?' He broke eye contact and studied the plant. 'But it's nearly dead.'
The man smiled, and Fitz wondered for a moment, looking at the stranger's bizarre clothes and shoulder-length hair, if this man was a kindred spirit, some kind of drop-out himself.
'I know,' said the man. 'I intend to rescue it.'
'Rescue it?'
'Indeed. You could say it was a calling.'
Fitz looked at him with his long-practised look of studied boredom. 'A calling.'
'Oh, you just did. Do you simply like my turn of phrase, or were you raised by parrots?'
Fitz realised with a surge of annoyance that his own act was being turned back on him. 'One and six for the begonia,' he growled with a puff of a cigarette smoke.
'One and six,' sighed the stranger. 'The price of compassion.' The man's face crumpled into a sorrowful frown as he checked the pockets of his dark green velvet jacket. 'I don't have one and six. Would tuppence suffice?'
'Can't do that,' said Fitz vaguely, the hint of a jobsworth smile on his lips and glancing about to see if anyone else was in sight. He noticed some old women strolling towards his stall and found himself looking forward to the boredom of their presence.
'Oh, please,' asked the strange man, looking longingly at the begonia.
'One and six or it goes back.'
'But I only want to help it --' The man broke off and stared at him, suddenly baffled. 'Why are you putting on that French accent?'
Fitz felt his face redden as the old ladies approached closer. He affected anger as the cause for this rush of his dubiously Gallic blood.
'How dare you --'
[[The Doctor speaks in fluent French: 'When pretence becomes second nature to you, what in your life can ever be truly natural?']]
The stranger looked expectantly at him, and Fitz realised he was expected to reply. Or had that been gibberish? He opened his mouth mechanically a couple of times as he thought desperately how to regain control of the situation. Finally he straightened up, stubbed out the cigarette, smiled at the old ladies now queuing patiently behind this loony, and with accent and dignity only barely intact, glared at the man with the infuriatingly bright smile.
'All right.' Fitz held out his hand and slipped the begonia into a bag. 'Tuppence.'
SPOILER ALTER: the begonia is a metaphor for Fitz. Later on it gets squashed and the Doctor asks for a replacement. AHAHAHA /sobs
'It's like something, you know, out of R.J. Tolkien.'
Fitz regarded the large woman as she proudly patted the head of her newly wrapped garden gnome, his face blank. It was at moments like this that he felt life was truly too cruel to endure -- the woman had spent ten minutes making snide remarks about his appearance, his goods and possibly his morals, and then expected to have a friendly chat with him afterwards just because she'd bought something.
She grinned at him suddenly, and it took him a few moments to realise he was meant to respond. He pulled back his lips in an attempt at a smile but it rapidly twisted into a noisy yawn.
'You mean J.R.R,' he got out, as the yawn died away.
'I'm sorry?'
Fitz sighed. Tourists. They weren't too good with accents, he'd come to realise, particularly his French one, which he was employing to divert himself today. He tried again. 'I think you mean J. R.- '
The woman squealed with delight, her face furrowing as the grin threatened to engulf them all. 'You mean there's an R.J. Tolkien Junior? Neat!'
Fitz kept his face deadpan as he nodded and lit up a cigarette. 'R.J. conceived him in France. He slept with a beggar woman in the Boulevard Sainte-Germaine. The only tooth in her head was made of gold, and they pawned it to buy diapers.' At the woman's gasp of appropriate astonishment, Fitz leant forward conspiratorially. 'The woman's name,' he said in a low voice, 'was Frodo.'
The woman gasped. 'You're kidding me!'
Fitz exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke into the woman's grimace. 'There are many women called Frodo in France. It was my own mother's middle name.'
'I have got to visit your country!'
Fitz nodded with a smile, and pushed away a clump of straggly brown hair from his eyes as he pulled out a paper bag from under the counter. 'You old bag, you're so ugly ' he muttered.
The woman's face froze. 'What did you say?'
Fitz looked up, his grey eyes wide and innocent. 'This bag. It seems to fit him so snugly. Au revoir!'
The woman took the proffered parcel with a confused smile and wandered off along the leafy path in the direction of the tea rooms.
Fitz sighed lazily, watching her go. 'Why are people all so stupid?'
'All? That's a gross generalisation, surely,' came a polite, quiet voice that somehow made Fitz spin round as if he'd been given an order. 'I'd like this begonia, please.'
The man was looking at him. There was something slightly aloof about his manner, about his whole bearing; a sense of detachment from the quiet and the greenery about them. Only the eyes seemed definite, anchored on to his own as if peering inside him.
'This begonia?' He broke eye contact and studied the plant. 'But it's nearly dead.'
The man smiled, and Fitz wondered for a moment, looking at the stranger's bizarre clothes and shoulder-length hair, if this man was a kindred spirit, some kind of drop-out himself.
'I know,' said the man. 'I intend to rescue it.'
'Rescue it?'
'Indeed. You could say it was a calling.'
Fitz looked at him with his long-practised look of studied boredom. 'A calling.'
'Oh, you just did. Do you simply like my turn of phrase, or were you raised by parrots?'
Fitz realised with a surge of annoyance that his own act was being turned back on him. 'One and six for the begonia,' he growled with a puff of a cigarette smoke.
'One and six,' sighed the stranger. 'The price of compassion.' The man's face crumpled into a sorrowful frown as he checked the pockets of his dark green velvet jacket. 'I don't have one and six. Would tuppence suffice?'
'Can't do that,' said Fitz vaguely, the hint of a jobsworth smile on his lips and glancing about to see if anyone else was in sight. He noticed some old women strolling towards his stall and found himself looking forward to the boredom of their presence.
'Oh, please,' asked the strange man, looking longingly at the begonia.
'One and six or it goes back.'
'But I only want to help it --' The man broke off and stared at him, suddenly baffled. 'Why are you putting on that French accent?'
Fitz felt his face redden as the old ladies approached closer. He affected anger as the cause for this rush of his dubiously Gallic blood.
'How dare you --'
[[The Doctor speaks in fluent French: 'When pretence becomes second nature to you, what in your life can ever be truly natural?']]
The stranger looked expectantly at him, and Fitz realised he was expected to reply. Or had that been gibberish? He opened his mouth mechanically a couple of times as he thought desperately how to regain control of the situation. Finally he straightened up, stubbed out the cigarette, smiled at the old ladies now queuing patiently behind this loony, and with accent and dignity only barely intact, glared at the man with the infuriatingly bright smile.
'All right.' Fitz held out his hand and slipped the begonia into a bag. 'Tuppence.'
SPOILER ALTER: the begonia is a metaphor for Fitz. Later on it gets squashed and the Doctor asks for a replacement. AHAHAHA /sobs