fractured fics: part two.
As usual, nothing I post will fit in just one entry. Here's the last of the fic fragments.
Fragment #3: Conservatory
Unlike the fragment #2, this wasn't meant to be an AU fic. It was going to be a sort of alternate version of a Human Nature AU, but it's Rose who's lost her memories and gained a new life, not the Doctor. It ran out of steam pretty quickly.
++
He arrives on a Tuesday.
She’s standing at the conservatory sink, her elbows propped up on the cool steel of the edge as scrubs the stubborn earth from beneath her fingernails. She’s run the water too hot, and she’s watching her skin flush red when she hears footsteps in the open doorway.
A tall, thin man leans against the doorframe - his shoulder against the molding, his hands in the pockets of his brown overcoat. His narrow face is a polite blank, pleasant but otherwise unreadable. He looks human, more or less, but she’s learnt not to assume. She drops her nail brush to the bottom of the sink, shuts off the water with the heel of her palm and turns to face him fully, wiping her dirt-stained fingers on her tunic. “Let me guess,” she says. “You’re looking for the dean’s office.”
“That depends,” the man says. “What sort of dean is he?”
“The sort of dean with an office across the hall.” She leans back against the sink, her fingers curling around the edge. “If you have an appointment, you’d better get over there. He has strong feelings about tardiness.”
“I don’t have an appointment,” the man says.
“He also,” she says, “has strong feelings about unexpected visitors.”
He steps into the room, up to one of her growing tables. He reaches out and rubs a leaf of Astragalus propinquus between his fingers. “How do you feel about them?”
“My plants?”
He looks up from the growing table and meets her eyes. He smiles, and it changes his face. “No,” he says. “Unexpected visitors.”
She turns back to the sink, hiding a smile. “I feel a lot better about them,” she says, “if they’re willing to be useful.” She fills her dented tin watering can with cool water from the tap, then walks over to the stranger and presses the can into his hands. “Start with the hanging plants by the windows. Footstool’s beneath the potted Cornus sanguinea.”
He takes the watering can and glances over his shoulder at the potted trees, frowning. “Common Dogwood?”
“That’s the one.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t look like a botanist.”
He shakes his head. “Enthusiastic amateur. My specialties lie elsewhere.” He tucks the watering can against his side with one arm and offers her his hand. “I’m the Doctor.”
“You and every other man in this building.” She shakes his hand. “Rose Tyler.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Rose the gardener? That’s a bit precious, isn’t it?”
“Says an academic called the Doctor.” She grins, hands moving to her hips. “My uncle is the dean of medicine, and I’m the college herbalist. Which you would’ve known, if you’d bothered to read the sign on the door.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Rose Tyler.” He leans in close, still smiling. “I’m not really one for reading signs.”
++
Fragment #4: VIP
With the slightest bit of timeline-twisting, this actually works. I'd love to finish this, but I think my Amy needs a little work.
++
Six months before the Atraxi nearly incinerate the planet, Amy Pond quits her job.
“Ames, darling, listen,” Sheila says over the phone, her gum popping in Amy’s ear. “I know you’ve given notice, but I need you for one last gig. Very posh, very VIP, very big tips. And if you’re going to retire, why not go out with a bang, yeah?”
Amy turns in her armchair until her feet are in the air and her hair brushes the floor. She stretches, her mobile tucked precariously between her shoulder and her ear. “Sheila, you do know that the V in VIP stands for very?”
“So?”
“So, you said the gig was very VIP.”
Sheila pauses, and the pop of her gum fills the silence. “So?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “What sort of getup is it this time, then? Cowgirl? Nun? Naughty chemist?”
Sheila snorts. “Nothing so exciting, darling. Seems the gentleman in question is a fan of the classics - just your usual French maid will do.”
“Brilliant,” Amy says, already bored.
++
The house at the address she’s given is huge, and new, and rather ugly. She parks in the front drive alongside two dozen other cars - expensive, sleek cars with leather interiors and glittering paint jobs. She pauses in front of a red Jag and bends down until she can see her reflection in the bonnet. Her hair is restrained in a neat bun, her makeup dramatic with the slightest touch of camp. She curls her upper lip and swipes her thumb over her front teeth, checking for a stray smear of lipstick.
“I wouldn’t worry,” says a voice. “You’re perfect.”
A man in a well-cut black suit stands behind her, a dark silhouette against the fading evening sun. He’s handsome in a neat, compact way - well-groomed, clean cut and razor sharp. He steps forward and offers her his hand; when she takes it, his raises hers to his lips and kisses the air just above her skin.
“Harold Saxon, Minister of Defense,” he says. He gives her an ironic little bow and releases her hand. “At your service, mademoiselle.”
“On the contrary,” she says with an expression as close to coquetry as she can manage without laughing, “I believe, sir, that I’m here to serve you.”
“You don’t say.” He stands back and slowly looks her up and down, from the starched white of her maid’s cap to the wicked heels of her stilettos. The shoes put her well over six feet and she towers above him; judging by the subtle heat in his eyes, he doesn’t seem to mind. “I suppose,” he says, “that the house could use a good dusting.”
“Oh dear,” she says, unable to hide her smile. “I’ve forgotten my feather duster. Whatever will I use instead?”
He tucks her arm through his and leads her into the house, grinning. “I’m sure,” he says, “that we’ll think of something.”
++
The party is one of the easier ones she’s ever worked.
Saxon’s guests seem desperate for distraction, for a laugh, and Amy is happy to help lighten the mood. She recognises a few of the male guests from watching them shout at each other on television; the women she knows from working other parties, for other men. They’re all dressed as French maids, but most are not the sort of professionals whose repertoire ends at a few kisses.
While she works, she watches Saxon out of the corner of her eye.
She knows he notices.
++
It’s quarter ‘til midnight when he slips away from the crowd.
She slips after him, leaves her long-abandoned heels in the dining room and pads barefoot through dark corridors, thick carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The noise of the party fades as she passes deeper into the house, and the air grows colder, almost stale.
A faint sliver of light cuts across the darkness - a door, slightly open. She pauses, her hand on the doorknob.
“If you don’t come in soon,” Saxon says, “I’ll be forced to drag you through the door myself.”
She steps into the dim room, closing the door softly behind her. “Bit impatient, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary,” he sing-songs, aping her earlier pantomime flirtation. He sits behind a large, solid oak desk, his feet propped up on the blotter. The only light in the study comes from the green-glass lamp sitting in front of him; the rest of the room is in shadow. He rubs one finger over the slight curve of his smile, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re curious about me.”
Amy moves further into the room, folds her arms over the back of a tall-backed leather chair and leans in. “Of course I am. Word is, you’re our next prime minister.”
He points one finger at her. “And you’re wondering what sort of idiot politician throws a party like this less than a month before election.”
She smirks. “Well, you are married.”
“To a very understanding woman.”
She moves around the tall-backed chair, dragging her fingers along the aged leather. “How understanding, exactly?”
His grin is slow, suggestive, and genuinely amused. “Are you trying to blackmail me, mademoiselle, or seduce me?”
She hops up onto the edge of his desk, bare feet swinging. “Neither,” she replies with perfect honesty. “I’m only curious.”
“Yes,” he says, “and that’s never ended badly for anyone.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, his head tipping to one side as he watches her. “What’s your name?”
“Check your bill from the agency. I’m sure it’s on there somewhere.”
Saxon chuckles. “No,” he says, “not your whore name - your real one. The one your mother gave you.”
Her fists clench. “My name,” she says, “is Amy Pond, and I hardly think a politician has any right to go around calling other people whore.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Righteous indignation? Really?” He sighs, looking rather put out. “You’re not a prostitute at all, are you? You’re one of those kissogram things they hire to keep down the cost of the entertainment.” He looks away. “How disappointing.”
She picks up a pencil holder from the desk, dumps its contents onto the floor, and throws it at him. It bounces lightly off his forehead, then falls into his lap.
He stares at her, mouth open. “Are you completely mad?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Certifiable.” She jumps down from the desk, smoothing the ruffled skirts of her uniform. “If this is your idea of courting a constituency, Mr. Saxon, I think come election day you’re going to be rather disappointed. You’re not nearly as charming as you seem to think.”
“Dear me,” he says, a nasty edge to his smile. “Have I lost your vote, Miss Pond?”
She lifts her chin. “No, Mr. Saxon. You never had it to start with.”
It’s a perfect exit line, so she turns on her heel and strides towards the door. She’s reaching for the doorknob when strong fingers seize her wrist, snapping her back around to face him. There’s a sudden, unnerving focus in his dark eyes, a tension in his slim frame that makes him look like another man entirely. There’s nothing like flirtation in his smile. “What do you mean, I never had it to start with?”
Amy rips her wrist free. “I mean, I never had any intention of voting for you. To be perfectly honest, I just don’t see the appeal.”
Saxon pauses, watching her face. Even barefoot she has the advantage of height; he has to tilt back his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Amy Pond,” he says slowly, drawing out the syllables like a caress. “A name to remember.”
Fear pricks needle-sharp along the back of her neck - she grins through it, fiercely, and hooks her fingers around the knot of his tie. “I’ll give you something to remember,” she says, and kisses him.
His lips are cool, almost cold, and perfectly still beneath hers. Like a kiss from a corpse, she thinks, and she’s about to pull away when his fingers fist in the thin satin of her dress. He yanks her to him, his knuckles hard against her stomach, and the seams of her uniform pop with the strain. He doesn’t kiss her; just draws her close, his eyes closed and his breath harsh.
“When I rule the world,” he says against her mouth, “you’ll learn the dangers of a curious mind.” He grips her shoulders and spins her until she’s facing the door. “Now it’s back to the party for you, mademoiselle. You know what they say - a good slut’s work is never done.” He opens the door with one hand and gives her a stinging slap on the arse with the other. “Ta ta for now, Miss Pond. I’ll be in touch.”
The door slams shut behind her, and she stands alone in the dark corridor, her pulse like a drumbeat between her thighs.
++
The next time Sheila phones, Amy answers on the first ring.
++
Fragment #3: Conservatory
Unlike the fragment #2, this wasn't meant to be an AU fic. It was going to be a sort of alternate version of a Human Nature AU, but it's Rose who's lost her memories and gained a new life, not the Doctor. It ran out of steam pretty quickly.
++
He arrives on a Tuesday.
She’s standing at the conservatory sink, her elbows propped up on the cool steel of the edge as scrubs the stubborn earth from beneath her fingernails. She’s run the water too hot, and she’s watching her skin flush red when she hears footsteps in the open doorway.
A tall, thin man leans against the doorframe - his shoulder against the molding, his hands in the pockets of his brown overcoat. His narrow face is a polite blank, pleasant but otherwise unreadable. He looks human, more or less, but she’s learnt not to assume. She drops her nail brush to the bottom of the sink, shuts off the water with the heel of her palm and turns to face him fully, wiping her dirt-stained fingers on her tunic. “Let me guess,” she says. “You’re looking for the dean’s office.”
“That depends,” the man says. “What sort of dean is he?”
“The sort of dean with an office across the hall.” She leans back against the sink, her fingers curling around the edge. “If you have an appointment, you’d better get over there. He has strong feelings about tardiness.”
“I don’t have an appointment,” the man says.
“He also,” she says, “has strong feelings about unexpected visitors.”
He steps into the room, up to one of her growing tables. He reaches out and rubs a leaf of Astragalus propinquus between his fingers. “How do you feel about them?”
“My plants?”
He looks up from the growing table and meets her eyes. He smiles, and it changes his face. “No,” he says. “Unexpected visitors.”
She turns back to the sink, hiding a smile. “I feel a lot better about them,” she says, “if they’re willing to be useful.” She fills her dented tin watering can with cool water from the tap, then walks over to the stranger and presses the can into his hands. “Start with the hanging plants by the windows. Footstool’s beneath the potted Cornus sanguinea.”
He takes the watering can and glances over his shoulder at the potted trees, frowning. “Common Dogwood?”
“That’s the one.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t look like a botanist.”
He shakes his head. “Enthusiastic amateur. My specialties lie elsewhere.” He tucks the watering can against his side with one arm and offers her his hand. “I’m the Doctor.”
“You and every other man in this building.” She shakes his hand. “Rose Tyler.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Rose the gardener? That’s a bit precious, isn’t it?”
“Says an academic called the Doctor.” She grins, hands moving to her hips. “My uncle is the dean of medicine, and I’m the college herbalist. Which you would’ve known, if you’d bothered to read the sign on the door.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Rose Tyler.” He leans in close, still smiling. “I’m not really one for reading signs.”
++
Fragment #4: VIP
With the slightest bit of timeline-twisting, this actually works. I'd love to finish this, but I think my Amy needs a little work.
++
Six months before the Atraxi nearly incinerate the planet, Amy Pond quits her job.
“Ames, darling, listen,” Sheila says over the phone, her gum popping in Amy’s ear. “I know you’ve given notice, but I need you for one last gig. Very posh, very VIP, very big tips. And if you’re going to retire, why not go out with a bang, yeah?”
Amy turns in her armchair until her feet are in the air and her hair brushes the floor. She stretches, her mobile tucked precariously between her shoulder and her ear. “Sheila, you do know that the V in VIP stands for very?”
“So?”
“So, you said the gig was very VIP.”
Sheila pauses, and the pop of her gum fills the silence. “So?”
Amy rolls her eyes. “What sort of getup is it this time, then? Cowgirl? Nun? Naughty chemist?”
Sheila snorts. “Nothing so exciting, darling. Seems the gentleman in question is a fan of the classics - just your usual French maid will do.”
“Brilliant,” Amy says, already bored.
++
The house at the address she’s given is huge, and new, and rather ugly. She parks in the front drive alongside two dozen other cars - expensive, sleek cars with leather interiors and glittering paint jobs. She pauses in front of a red Jag and bends down until she can see her reflection in the bonnet. Her hair is restrained in a neat bun, her makeup dramatic with the slightest touch of camp. She curls her upper lip and swipes her thumb over her front teeth, checking for a stray smear of lipstick.
“I wouldn’t worry,” says a voice. “You’re perfect.”
A man in a well-cut black suit stands behind her, a dark silhouette against the fading evening sun. He’s handsome in a neat, compact way - well-groomed, clean cut and razor sharp. He steps forward and offers her his hand; when she takes it, his raises hers to his lips and kisses the air just above her skin.
“Harold Saxon, Minister of Defense,” he says. He gives her an ironic little bow and releases her hand. “At your service, mademoiselle.”
“On the contrary,” she says with an expression as close to coquetry as she can manage without laughing, “I believe, sir, that I’m here to serve you.”
“You don’t say.” He stands back and slowly looks her up and down, from the starched white of her maid’s cap to the wicked heels of her stilettos. The shoes put her well over six feet and she towers above him; judging by the subtle heat in his eyes, he doesn’t seem to mind. “I suppose,” he says, “that the house could use a good dusting.”
“Oh dear,” she says, unable to hide her smile. “I’ve forgotten my feather duster. Whatever will I use instead?”
He tucks her arm through his and leads her into the house, grinning. “I’m sure,” he says, “that we’ll think of something.”
++
The party is one of the easier ones she’s ever worked.
Saxon’s guests seem desperate for distraction, for a laugh, and Amy is happy to help lighten the mood. She recognises a few of the male guests from watching them shout at each other on television; the women she knows from working other parties, for other men. They’re all dressed as French maids, but most are not the sort of professionals whose repertoire ends at a few kisses.
While she works, she watches Saxon out of the corner of her eye.
She knows he notices.
++
It’s quarter ‘til midnight when he slips away from the crowd.
She slips after him, leaves her long-abandoned heels in the dining room and pads barefoot through dark corridors, thick carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The noise of the party fades as she passes deeper into the house, and the air grows colder, almost stale.
A faint sliver of light cuts across the darkness - a door, slightly open. She pauses, her hand on the doorknob.
“If you don’t come in soon,” Saxon says, “I’ll be forced to drag you through the door myself.”
She steps into the dim room, closing the door softly behind her. “Bit impatient, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary,” he sing-songs, aping her earlier pantomime flirtation. He sits behind a large, solid oak desk, his feet propped up on the blotter. The only light in the study comes from the green-glass lamp sitting in front of him; the rest of the room is in shadow. He rubs one finger over the slight curve of his smile, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re curious about me.”
Amy moves further into the room, folds her arms over the back of a tall-backed leather chair and leans in. “Of course I am. Word is, you’re our next prime minister.”
He points one finger at her. “And you’re wondering what sort of idiot politician throws a party like this less than a month before election.”
She smirks. “Well, you are married.”
“To a very understanding woman.”
She moves around the tall-backed chair, dragging her fingers along the aged leather. “How understanding, exactly?”
His grin is slow, suggestive, and genuinely amused. “Are you trying to blackmail me, mademoiselle, or seduce me?”
She hops up onto the edge of his desk, bare feet swinging. “Neither,” she replies with perfect honesty. “I’m only curious.”
“Yes,” he says, “and that’s never ended badly for anyone.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach, his head tipping to one side as he watches her. “What’s your name?”
“Check your bill from the agency. I’m sure it’s on there somewhere.”
Saxon chuckles. “No,” he says, “not your whore name - your real one. The one your mother gave you.”
Her fists clench. “My name,” she says, “is Amy Pond, and I hardly think a politician has any right to go around calling other people whore.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Righteous indignation? Really?” He sighs, looking rather put out. “You’re not a prostitute at all, are you? You’re one of those kissogram things they hire to keep down the cost of the entertainment.” He looks away. “How disappointing.”
She picks up a pencil holder from the desk, dumps its contents onto the floor, and throws it at him. It bounces lightly off his forehead, then falls into his lap.
He stares at her, mouth open. “Are you completely mad?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “Certifiable.” She jumps down from the desk, smoothing the ruffled skirts of her uniform. “If this is your idea of courting a constituency, Mr. Saxon, I think come election day you’re going to be rather disappointed. You’re not nearly as charming as you seem to think.”
“Dear me,” he says, a nasty edge to his smile. “Have I lost your vote, Miss Pond?”
She lifts her chin. “No, Mr. Saxon. You never had it to start with.”
It’s a perfect exit line, so she turns on her heel and strides towards the door. She’s reaching for the doorknob when strong fingers seize her wrist, snapping her back around to face him. There’s a sudden, unnerving focus in his dark eyes, a tension in his slim frame that makes him look like another man entirely. There’s nothing like flirtation in his smile. “What do you mean, I never had it to start with?”
Amy rips her wrist free. “I mean, I never had any intention of voting for you. To be perfectly honest, I just don’t see the appeal.”
Saxon pauses, watching her face. Even barefoot she has the advantage of height; he has to tilt back his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Amy Pond,” he says slowly, drawing out the syllables like a caress. “A name to remember.”
Fear pricks needle-sharp along the back of her neck - she grins through it, fiercely, and hooks her fingers around the knot of his tie. “I’ll give you something to remember,” she says, and kisses him.
His lips are cool, almost cold, and perfectly still beneath hers. Like a kiss from a corpse, she thinks, and she’s about to pull away when his fingers fist in the thin satin of her dress. He yanks her to him, his knuckles hard against her stomach, and the seams of her uniform pop with the strain. He doesn’t kiss her; just draws her close, his eyes closed and his breath harsh.
“When I rule the world,” he says against her mouth, “you’ll learn the dangers of a curious mind.” He grips her shoulders and spins her until she’s facing the door. “Now it’s back to the party for you, mademoiselle. You know what they say - a good slut’s work is never done.” He opens the door with one hand and gives her a stinging slap on the arse with the other. “Ta ta for now, Miss Pond. I’ll be in touch.”
The door slams shut behind her, and she stands alone in the dark corridor, her pulse like a drumbeat between her thighs.
++
The next time Sheila phones, Amy answers on the first ring.
++