These were written for the OTP central challenge
ineffort put up, the first from a prompt and the second just 'cause when I think OTP, I think Literati.
doctor who, sally sparrow/ten, simple, pg
She does see him again. Not when she’s expecting it, of course, but three years later she’s standing outside a church in London’s East End, her camera slung around her neck and a mediocre cup of scalding hot tea in her left hand, and she spots the TARDIS, just ten feet in front of her, as ordinary-and not-as she remembers it.
She feels a bit silly, just standing there gaping as people push past her on the pavement, so she steps up to the blue box, runs her fingers along the grain of the wood, and then, her heart racing with thoughts of the adventures waiting within, she reaches her fist up to rap at the door.
From within, she hears a muffled crash, and then a cry of “just a moment!” A few seconds later, the door is swinging open and there’s the Doctor, his hair wild, a look of confusion/panic/joy/excitement lighting up his face. It takes him a moment, but then a smile bursts forth and he says, “Sally Sparrow!” with such happiness.
She sighs. “Doctor!”
--
The thing about love stories is, they don’t always work out. Even the ones that start off with wild promise and grand adventure can fall by the wayside. Sally’s always thought of herself as a practical person with a tendency toward the romantic-she wants happiness with Larry, but she doesn’t find it.
So she goes back to her simple life, the one from before her brief encounter with time travel and the sort of monsters that frequented her childhood nightmares. Good books and coffee, and a flat devoid of the sort of knick-knacks that might start moving while she sleeps. She makes friends and tries to forget all those Almosts that coincided with the Doctor.
--
“Fancy an adventure?” he asks her. She’s standing in the TARDIS, even bigger, it seems, than in her memory. “Just a quick one, pop back in time for tea.”
“Will it be dangerous?” she asks.
“Always.”
She laughs. She thinks of her simple life, the one that leaves her drained-that led her out into the streets, today, hoping for…something. “Yes,” she says. “Of course.”
gilmore girls, rory/jess, pg
The back room is gray, dimly lit by two fluorescent bulbs and light from the diner, filtering around the corners of the curtain that puffs inward each time the outside door is opened. She hasn’t been back here since high school, when Jess would loop his fingers around her wrist and tug her past the curtain, to find some kind of privacy from her mother and his uncle and the rest of the town.
When he would press her against shelves until they left imprints on the soft skin of her back, little circles where the metal was notched and once, even, the words “Made in Taiwan,” backwards, at the nape of her neck.
Now, she relaxes in the quiet space, while the reception rages on in the diner. Her dress-beautiful this morning, when she slid the zipper up her side-feels heavy and hot after all those damp bodies pressed together. (When the rain started they had all rushed indoors, their make-up running and their hair stringy, but their smiles intact.)
“Not having a good time?” She watches as the shadow of the curtain falls back into place.
“Just needed a break.” She turns to face him in the dark room. “You?”
“I was hoping to change out of this suit.”
“If I have to stay in my dress,” she tells him, swinging a leg forward to take a step closer, “then you have to stay in your suit.”
He grins, his best wolf grin, and the light glances off of his teeth and the beer bottle swinging from his hand. “Who said you had to stay in your dress?”
She’s close enough to slap her bag against his shoulder, and it makes a dull thud as her hardback connects. He winces in mock pain.
“Shouldn’t you be out there, keeping the party going?” he asks her.
She nods. “Probably. I think Mom’s got it under control, though.” She leans back against the wall, then slowly slides down until her legs stretch out in front of her. “Besides, she’s set to throw the bouquet any minute, now.”
“And you want to miss that particular tradition?”
“Absolutely, I do. Have you got any idea how evil the person who thought that one up must have been? The last wedding I was at, the crowd of single women split straight down the middle and the bouquet landed on the floor.” She laughs. “It was very biblical.”
He slides down next to her and leans his head back against the wall. “How’s work?” he asks.
“Good. It’s nice to not be living out of hotels and buses anymore.”
“I read your last piece. The one in the Post.”
She turns her head to look at him. “What did you think?”
“I thought it was excellent,” he tells her, then takes a swig of his beer. “But they’ve all been excellent, Rory.”
She shakes her head. “Well thank you, but you know I don’t believe you,” then reaches for the neck of his beer bottle, steals a sip. “It’s strange, but the deeper I get into professional writing, the less confidence I have in my ability.”
He nods. “I was the same. By the time my second book came out I felt like a fraud.”
“You’re anything but.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, each sipping from the bottle of beer that sits between them on the concrete floor.
“So what are we now,” he asks, “cousins?”
“God.” She laughs. “I think we’re…step-cousins? Something like that.” She brings her knees up to her chest, and her dress, dry now and stiff in ways it wasn’t before, seems to crinkle with each movement. “Let’s just try not to think about it.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
On the floor, she curls her fingers and reaches for his hand beside hers.
--
As always, I love and welcome comments.