Fic: Believe
Title: Believe
Author:
tardisblue
Beta: wildwinterwitch
Characters: Rose, 10th Doctor
Genre: General
Rating: G
Summary: Twelve-year-old Rose doesn't believe in Father Christmas, until someone and something changes her mind.
Disclaimer: The BBC owns everything Doctor Who.
Authors Notes: A huge, enormous, mammoth sized thank-you to wildwinterwitch for her patience, support and for putting up with all of my many questions and revisions. I couldn't have done it without her! A huge, enormous, mammoth sized thank-you also goes out to my sweetie, who gave me the idea of a "catalyst". Also couldn't have done it without him!
Rose Tyler could not believe her mum was making her do this. She was twelve years old, far too old to be visiting Father Christmas, but here she was. Standing in Henrik’s, amidst the hum of carolling voices and the bustling flurry of shoppers, in a long, crowded line consisting of crying babies and squalling children -which she was definitely most not .
“Mum…” Rose whined.
“That’s enough Rose! We’ve been through this before and you are going to have your picture taken with Father Christmas. Besides, I won’t be able to fill up that little photo frame of all your Father Christmas pictures. Gorgeous frame that is. You know, Maggie Stewart’s mother has one and it looks just lovely sitting up on the mantelpiece every Christmas.”
“But Mum!”
“Rose Marion! Enough!”
Rose let out a huff and crossed her arms, glaring at an elaborately decorated Christmas tree covered in a variety of brightly colored, sparkling baubles.
“Alright, you’re up next,” a cheerful voice called out.
Rose looked up to see a bespectacled elf, or rather, a bespectacled lady with heavy eye make-up, dressed as an elf, complete with a pointy green hat upon her blond head, beckoning to her.
“Go on, Rose, it’s your turn! Make sure you smile nicely now. None of that monkey business like last year,” her mum said, fussing with the collar of her jumper.
“But Mum! I - ” Rose pleaded in desperation.
“Rose Marion Tyler! Up there. Now!”
Rose dragged herself forward, scowling.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be that bad. Promise,” the lady said with a grin.
Rose made a face, ignoring the admonishing hisses from her mother and the smothered laughter erupting from the lady as she walked past the weary, harried looking photographer and up the gilded steps to the small platform where Father Christmas sat. Or rather, the man who was pretending to be Father Christmas.
“You’re not real,” Rose stated matter-of-factly as she stopped at the large, red, velvet plush chair, eyeing the man dressed as Father
Christmas. “You’re too skinny.”
The man looked up at Rose, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Of course I’m real. I’m right here, aren’t I?”
Rose stared.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant that Father Christmas isn’t real. You’re not really him,” Rose said, crossing her arms.
“How do you know he’s not real?” the man asked, leaning forward and peering over his dark-rimmed spectacles.
Rose paused, caught off guard by the man’s question.
“’Cos. There’s no such thing. A big, fat man can’t fly in a sled ‘cos reindeer an’ sleds can’t fly. And there’s no way he can give presents to everyone in one night. An’ how could he fit in a chimney? It’s impossible!”
The man raised an eyebrow.
“But how do you know that for sure?”
Rose sighed impatiently, rolling her eyes.
“’Cos no one’s ever really seen it! It’s all just stories. Stories for little kids,” she said with absolute certainty.
The man looked at her thoughtfully.
“But I’ve never seen you before. And you’re real, aren’t you?”
“Yes…but - ”
“And I’ve never seen your mum before,” he continued, pointing at Rose’s mum who was now in a deep conversation with the elf lady. “But she’s real, she’s always been real, hasn’t she? Even before I’ve seen her.”
Rose paused again, blinking as she tried to follow.
“But there’s no way he could fly on a sled!”
“Ah, always ever so brilliant, you are. What if it’s not a sled he uses? What if he uses an airplane? Or a spaceship? Or what about a hang glider? I tried one of those once. Quite nice, actually.”
Rose began to giggle in spite of herself, imagining Father Christmas soaring the night skies on a hang glider.
“Then he’d never get around in time to give presents to everyone!”
“I suppose not,” the man agreed with a wide grin. “Then again, speaking of presents - and I do love presents, love giving them, love getting them - what is it that you would like for Christmas?”
Rose’s face hardened.
“I told you. He’s not real,” she said flatly.
The man persisted. “But say if he was real, even if nobody’s seen him. And if he did fly using a hang glider, or even a spaceship and that the sled and chimney things were just stories- ”
“But he’s - ”
“If he was, and even though you don’t think he is, but if he just was. Pretend he was, just for a minute. What is it that you’d want?”
Rose stared at the man for a moment, then lowered her gaze, playing with a stray thread on her jumper. She knew exactly what she wanted. Every day, the bus to school passed by a large shop window. And in that shop window was a beautiful, gleaming red bicycle. On the way to school, and on the way home, every time the bus would pass the shop, \Rose would gaze longingly out the window at the bicycle, imagining herself flying through the streets on it, the wind in her hair, on her way to some grand and glorious adventure. She had not told anyone this. Not her mum, not Mickey, not even Shareen. She could never have that bicycle. They couldn’t afford it.
“If he was. Even though he isn’t. But if he was…” Rose struggled, biting her lip. “A bicycle,” she finally said quietly. “A red one.”
Rose looked up again, raising her chin, bravely staring the man in the eyes.
“But we can’t afford it. And he’s not real.”
The man smiled and leaned in towards her conspiratorially.
“You never know, Rose Tyler. You just never know.”
Rose furrowed her brow. Wait a minute. How did he -
“Alright, love! Look up and smile!”
Rose looked up in surprise, forgetting for those few moments where she was, as a bright flash blinded her. Suddenly, Rose was being hurried away by another elf and found herself standing next to her mother.
“Rose! Why didn’t you smile? I thought you said you were going to smile nicely,” her mum complained, examining the photograph. “You’re
not even smiling in this one.”
“I…forgot,” Rose answered truthfully, slipping her arms into her coat while craning her neck to stare back at the man playing Father Christmas, who now had a screaming toddler upon his lap.
“You forgot? How could you forget? Oh, Rose. Sometimes I just don’t know about you,” her mum continued, beginning to tow her through the sea of shoppers, laden with brightly coloured, crinkling shopping bags.
Rose looked back again, trying to get a glimpse of the man before he disappeared from view in the bustling crowds. Suddenly, he looked straight up at her, and winked.
“Rose! Pay attention! You’ve nearly walked into somebody,” her mum’s voice admonished, tugging Rose back from her thoughts.
Rose murmured an apology to a glaring, disgruntled looking elderly lady and followed her mum out the doors and into the blustery, snowy night.
~:~
Later that evening, Rose sat perched on the edge of the armchair, silently debating while fiddling with a small ornamental angel that would soon sit upon the top of the small tree as her mum struggled with untangling the unruly line of lights from its carefully labelled box.
She could not stop thinking about the man in Henrik’s…he had been so strange. First of all, most adults she knew would never have reacted the way he did when she stated that Father Christmas wasn’t real. Most adults would either smile uncomfortably and state what a precocious child she was, glare, or completely ignore what she had said. But the man was completely at ease and seemed merely curious at her statement. The things he said…it was like he was trying to convince her that Father Christmas was real, and not through the usual stupid, childish reasons either. His arguments seemed to make some sort of sense. It was odd. But it did. It had gotten her thinking; she had never thought about things that way before. To top it all off, he had known her name, which was very, very strange. Rose was certain she had never told the man her name, and her mother had been standing too far away for the man to have overheard any earlier conversations. It was almost as if…
No. It couldn’t be.
Or could it?
Rose had known from a very young age that Father Christmas wasn’t real. She knew that her mum couldn’t afford to spend money on the numerous extravagant toys that all the kids at school dreamed of. She wasn’t stupid. She had known for a long time. Yet, despite this, every year her mum still carefully penned the words “From Father Christmas” upon the tags attached to the few presents that Rose received. Though neither of them would say anything, both of them knew that Rose wasn’t fooled. Truthfully, Rose loved her mum the more for it.
“Oh, Rose. I don’t know about these lights. Every year. Every year I wind them up so carefully. And yet, every year when I have to take them out again...I don’t know why I bother…” her mum muttered, attempting to vigorously shake out the tangles.
“Mum,” Rose finally said, making up her mind. “The man in Henrik’s. The one pretending to be Father Christmas…”
“Hmm? What’s that Rose?” her mum murmured absentmindedly as she succeeded in untangling a particularly nasty knot.
“It was…He seemed like…He was…nice,” Rose said, cringing.
“Oh yes. Quite handsome too, I thought. A bit on the skinny side though. Still, quite handsome. Here. Help me with these lights. I can’t seem to get the awful things right.”
Rose tried to forget about the man from Henrik’s as she tried to help her mum untangle the remaining length of lights.
He wasn’t real anyway. She was just being silly.
-:-
Despite her inward vow to stop thinking about Father Christmas, during the next few days, Rose could not stop her mind from drifting to the strange afternoon that she’d had in Henrik’s. She thought about it on the way to school. She thought about it during class. She even thought about it during lunch hour while Mickey blew bubbles into his milk and Shareen rolled her eyes. And she thought about it on the bus ride home.
“My mum is going to love the ornaments we made,” Shareen said in satisfaction, digging out a small cardboard box from her tattered school bag.
Rose was only half listening, as she gazed out the window, deep in thought as she waited in anticipation for the shop window.
“Mine’s better,” came Mickey’s voice from the seat in front of them, as he turned around, waving a rather messily painted glass ornament in his fist.
Shareen wrinkled her nose.
“No, it isn’t. It’s got horrid ugly green things on it. What’s it supposed to be anyway?”
“Aliens,” Mickey said proudly. “Gran’s going to love it.”
“I think Rose’s is prettier. She spent so much time on it. Didn’t you see it? Even the teacher said so. Your gran doesn’t even like aliens anyway. Right, Rose?”
Rose had not heard a single word of the conversation or the ensuing argument as the bus drew up near the shop window. There it was. The bicycle. Oh, how she wished she could have that bicycle. Then she could ride it whenever she wanted, instead of having to ask the other children at the Powell Estates for a turn on one of their rickety bicycles. And she could go wherever she wanted on it. Travel the streets and see all sorts of wonderful things. Travel all over London. Maybe. Just maybe if the man was Father Christmas. Maybe he could bring it to her.
“Rose? Rose! It’s your stop.”
Rose only turned from the window when she felt Shareen shaking her shoulder, long after they had passed the shop window.
“Are you alright, Rose?” Shareen asked, her dark brows knit in worry. “You’ve been a bit strange lately.”
“’Course,” Rose said with a grin. “I was just thinking of the best place to hide my mum’s gift. I don’t want her to see it ‘til she opens it.”
Rose stood up, picked up her schoolbag, and waved goodbye to Shareen as she followed Mickey out the bus and home.
Maybe. Just maybe.
-:-
Late that Christmas Eve, Rose was still thinking about Father Christmas, though, rather sleepily, while lying tucked into her warm bed, blinking blearily at the darkened ceiling.
She was being silly. Stupid, even.
But maybe the man was right. Perhaps Father Christmas didn’t travel using a flying sled but had some other way of travelling. Maybe he was real, even if nobody had ever seen him.
Maybe the man truly was Father Christmas.
Rose let out a large yawn, her eyes fluttering shut involuntarily. Maybe he was. Maybe he really, truly was. And maybe if he really, truly was, maybe -
Rose started, her eyes flying open.
What was that?
Rose strained her ears, listening.
She could have sworn she had heard something. Almost like a strange hum and the faint snick of a lock.
Rose shook her head, listening again.
Nothing.
She must have been imagining things. After all, the old flat had the tendency to let out strange creaks and groans.
Wait. There it was again! Was it him?
Rose turned over and stared at the bright red numbers on her small alarm clock.
Twelve midnight.
Letting out her breath, Rose made up her mind and sat up throwing her blankets aside, shivering as the cool air enveloped her. Sliding from the warmth of her bed, she pushed her feet into her threadbare slippers and began to creep towards the door, hesitating as her hand closed around the cool brass doorknob. Rose began to turn it slowly, holding her breath as she eased the door open as quietly as she could. Peeping her head out, she could see that the rest of the small flat was dark, her mum’s snoring audible through her closed bedroom door. Rose let go of the doorknob with great care and slipped through the door, wincing as the floor let out a loud, protesting creak. She froze, scarcely daring to take a breath, listening. There was, however, no other noise, save the steady snoring of her mum. Rose let out her breath. Continuing her journey, Rose crept toward the corner, hesitating. Taking a deep breath, she peeked around the corner of the wall.
No one there.
Rose’s shoulder sagged in disappointment.
“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. Rose swallowed down the lump in her throat, her eyes resting on the small, crooked tree perched in the corner, the soft glow of the small twinkling lights glinting off of the -
No. No way. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t!
Rose rubbed her eyes, blinked and stared again, her mouth falling open in surprise.
Propped up beside the small glowing tree was a shiny, red bicycle with a large elaborate blue bow resting upon the jet black rubber of the handlebars.
Rose rushed over to the bicycle, all thoughts of attempting to be silent gone from her head as she let out a shout of joy. It was real. Her bicycle. It was really there. She ran her hands upon the cool gleaming red metal. It was gorgeous. Just like the one she had seen in the shop window every day. But this was even better, this was hers. A wide smile began to grow upon Rose’s face as she imagined herself sailing the streets on her brand new bicycle. She would have all sorts of adventures and see all sorts of things and…
But wait. Then this had to mean that -
The man. Henrik’s. Father Christmas.
Rose froze as the realization dawned upon her. There was no other way. Rose knew that her mum couldn’t afford a bicycle, never mind a brand new one. And she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. Nobody knew; nobody except him.
Rose’s smile grew even wider.
Father Christmas was real. She had spoken to him. And he had been right here, right in this very spot. To bring a present to her.
Rose let out a breath and stared at the bicycle in awe, stretching out her hand and letting her fingers trail over the velvet of the large, intricate bow.
“Rose? What’s all this noise about?” came her mum’s voice, sounding both gravelly from sleep and faintly annoyed.
Rose whirled around, her eyes shining, and all but practically flew to her mother.
“Mum! Look! Look at what Father Christmas brought me! He’s real, he really is! ‘Cos I know we can’t afford one an’ he’s the only one that knew!” Rose said all in one breath, tugging insistently on her mum’s hand while dancing on the balls of her feet.
Jackie Tyler’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, her jaw dropping in shock.
“Rose,” she said weakly, edging her way to the lumpy armchair, eyes still fixed upon the shining red bicycle, “Rose, where did that come from?”
“I just said! It’s from Father Christmas,” Rose said impatiently.
Her mum then uttered a word that Rose was certain she was never allowed to say.
“But how did…how did that get there? Who could have - ” her mum muttered to herself. “It couldn’t have been. He’s not. Rose, you’ve always known he’s not - ”
“But he is. Mum! He really is.”
Her mum shook her head, bringing a shaky hand up to her mouth, continuing to murmur fervently to herself. “Can’t be Father Christmas. We don’t have a chimney.”
“But Mum, maybe he doesn’t really use the chimney. Maybe he has other ways,” Rose tried again, remembering the twinkling deep brown eyes in Henrik’s.
“But then how did - how did that get there? The landlord’s the only other person with a key. But why would he give us a bicycle? The last time I talked to him he said he wanted to give me a kick up the - ”
Rose sighed, deciding to leave her mum alone while she worked it out. Her mum was a smart woman. She’d figure it out sooner or later.
Rose turned her attention back to her shining bicycle.
It was there. It was really there. A bicycle. For her. From Father Christmas. She could hardly believe it herself.
Rose bit her lower lip, thinking.
If only she could see him again. If only she could tell him how much she loved the bicycle, how much it meant to her and how much she was sorry for accusing him of not being real when he truly was.
Padding over to the window, Rose drew back the faded curtain and pressed her palm upon the frosted glass. She looked up into the dark night sky, gazing into the swirling mass of snowflakes.
“Thank you,” Rose whispered softly, hoping, wishing and yet somehow knowing, that wherever Father Christmas was, he knew.