(no subject)
December 25th, 2005
Days like these, she’s glad she didn’t get the job at Henrik’s. Her mum called her earlier about something strange-a bomb that had gone off in the basement? Set by a man in a leather jacket, a man the police’ve not been able to find? Something like that. No one’d be shopping there anytime soon.
She might not like working as a waitress, selling fish and chips to every American tourist that comes through, it seems, but at least she likes the chips, even if Mickey says she’d better lay off.
There’s an old man in today-someone new, she thinks. He’s reading a novel and picking at his chips, and she’s not even sure why he ordered them. Perhaps he just wants someone to talk to. She would, at his age, if she were eating alone.
She looks around at the other patrons-the few there are have been served and don’t seem to need anything else. She glances back at Michael, the cook-he seems to be done for the night, as he’s cleaning the kitchen for want of anything else to do. No one would mind, she thinks, if she went over to talk to the old man.
“No one to spend the holidays with, mate?” she asks, coming to stand by his table. He looks up from his novel, annoyed.
“I am hardly your ‘mate,’ young lady.”
“Would you want me t’ call you ‘sir,’ then?”
“Doctor.”
“Doctor who?”
He gives a derisive huff, as if he’s heard the one before. He must’ve, she thinks, if he’s going around telling people to just call him Doctor. “The Doctor. That is all.”
“What’re you reading?” she asks, because he makes no move to go back to his novel. He seems to be staring at her as though sheer force of will could make her go away, but she doesn’t want to leave him alone. He seems angry, to the point that it’s almost sad. He seems lonely, she thinks.
“The Old Curiosity Shop. Dickens.”
He goes to pick it up again, but she’s undeterred. “What’s it about?”
“A young woman and her grandfather.” At this, she thinks she catches a flash of something in his eyes. Remorse? Sadness, certainly. “Surely you’ve read it.”
“Never have. Not read any of Dickens, really.”
“Never?”
“Not a thing. Not much time for readin’ even after I get home. Never picked it up anyway, I s’pose. Left school for a bloke who left me. Still owed me money, o’course. Had to take the job here.” She’s rambling and he’s looking at her still, but he seems to have moved his hand off the book, focusing more on the conversation.
“Rose,” he says, seemingly reading her name tag. Then he says something she doesn’t quite catch.
“Pardon?”
“Arkytior,” he repeats under his breath, not that it makes much more sense the second time.
“’Nother language?” she asks, because it sure doesn’t sound like English.
“Not one anyone on this Earth would know.”
This Earth? He says it like there’s others. Or even life outside of Earth. She shrugs it off.
“It was my granddaughter’s name.”
“Sorry?”
“Arkytior. Rose, in your language.”
She smiles some. “You should see her. For Christmas, I mean, if you haven’t planned it. My granddad Prentice used to visit me and my mum for the holidays.”
“She married some time ago-in the future,” he seems to correct himself, and again she shrugs it off. Maybe he loses track of time. Her granddad did that, too. “Just as well.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t want to see you.” Rose puts her hand over his. “Even when I was with Jimmy Stone, I still saw my granddad when he came by. Every girl loves her granddad.”
She thinks he smiles. Between them, they’ve been eating the chips as they talk. The basket is empty and he’s searching the pocket of his coat for cash.
“Forgive me, I’ve always been… vague with money…”
She’s the one who smiles softly this time. “I’ll take care of it.”
He stands and bids her farewell (he actually says farewell; she finds it charming) and he’s out the door before she realizes he forgot his book. She chases after him, finding him outside, walking towards-a police box? She’s sure they didn’t have those anymore; she’s only seen them in old movies…
“Doctor!” She calls, and he turns. “You forgot your book?” she says, holding it up so he can see, even in the semi-dark, with the snow falling lightly around them.
“You should keep it,” he tells her, and again, she thinks she sees that smile. “Perhaps you’ll get a chance to read it someday.”
He starts to walk away again, but she only runs further, catching his hand and making him turn. When he does, she gives him a soft smile before she places her other hand on the back of his head, tilting it down so she can place a soft kiss on his forehead.
“Go see your granddaughter,” she tells him softly when she pulls away, still smiling. “And hey, maybe if this year isn’t what you wanted, maybe next year will be great.”
“Hardly.” He huffs again, just like earlier. “I tolerate this century. I don’t enjoy it.”
She laughs, and they turn away from each other, walking their separate ways. After a few moments she thinks she hears something-a whooshing, like brakes screeching or… actually, she’s not heard anything like it before.
When she turns around, she could swear… hadn’t there been a police box there, just a second ago? And the Doctor-where has he gone? Hadn’t he been walking down the street, just in the other direction?
She supposes she’ll never know. She holds his book in her hands up to her eye level so she can see it more clearly. It’s older than she thought. She strokes the cover lightly with two fingers before she looks one more time in the direction he’d went. Even if she can’t see him, she knows he’s out there, somewhere.
“Merry Christmas, Doctor,” she says softly, and she heads back into the shop.
Days like these, she’s glad she didn’t get the job at Henrik’s. Her mum called her earlier about something strange-a bomb that had gone off in the basement? Set by a man in a leather jacket, a man the police’ve not been able to find? Something like that. No one’d be shopping there anytime soon.
She might not like working as a waitress, selling fish and chips to every American tourist that comes through, it seems, but at least she likes the chips, even if Mickey says she’d better lay off.
There’s an old man in today-someone new, she thinks. He’s reading a novel and picking at his chips, and she’s not even sure why he ordered them. Perhaps he just wants someone to talk to. She would, at his age, if she were eating alone.
She looks around at the other patrons-the few there are have been served and don’t seem to need anything else. She glances back at Michael, the cook-he seems to be done for the night, as he’s cleaning the kitchen for want of anything else to do. No one would mind, she thinks, if she went over to talk to the old man.
“No one to spend the holidays with, mate?” she asks, coming to stand by his table. He looks up from his novel, annoyed.
“I am hardly your ‘mate,’ young lady.”
“Would you want me t’ call you ‘sir,’ then?”
“Doctor.”
“Doctor who?”
He gives a derisive huff, as if he’s heard the one before. He must’ve, she thinks, if he’s going around telling people to just call him Doctor. “The Doctor. That is all.”
“What’re you reading?” she asks, because he makes no move to go back to his novel. He seems to be staring at her as though sheer force of will could make her go away, but she doesn’t want to leave him alone. He seems angry, to the point that it’s almost sad. He seems lonely, she thinks.
“The Old Curiosity Shop. Dickens.”
He goes to pick it up again, but she’s undeterred. “What’s it about?”
“A young woman and her grandfather.” At this, she thinks she catches a flash of something in his eyes. Remorse? Sadness, certainly. “Surely you’ve read it.”
“Never have. Not read any of Dickens, really.”
“Never?”
“Not a thing. Not much time for readin’ even after I get home. Never picked it up anyway, I s’pose. Left school for a bloke who left me. Still owed me money, o’course. Had to take the job here.” She’s rambling and he’s looking at her still, but he seems to have moved his hand off the book, focusing more on the conversation.
“Rose,” he says, seemingly reading her name tag. Then he says something she doesn’t quite catch.
“Pardon?”
“Arkytior,” he repeats under his breath, not that it makes much more sense the second time.
“’Nother language?” she asks, because it sure doesn’t sound like English.
“Not one anyone on this Earth would know.”
This Earth? He says it like there’s others. Or even life outside of Earth. She shrugs it off.
“It was my granddaughter’s name.”
“Sorry?”
“Arkytior. Rose, in your language.”
She smiles some. “You should see her. For Christmas, I mean, if you haven’t planned it. My granddad Prentice used to visit me and my mum for the holidays.”
“She married some time ago-in the future,” he seems to correct himself, and again she shrugs it off. Maybe he loses track of time. Her granddad did that, too. “Just as well.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t want to see you.” Rose puts her hand over his. “Even when I was with Jimmy Stone, I still saw my granddad when he came by. Every girl loves her granddad.”
She thinks he smiles. Between them, they’ve been eating the chips as they talk. The basket is empty and he’s searching the pocket of his coat for cash.
“Forgive me, I’ve always been… vague with money…”
She’s the one who smiles softly this time. “I’ll take care of it.”
He stands and bids her farewell (he actually says farewell; she finds it charming) and he’s out the door before she realizes he forgot his book. She chases after him, finding him outside, walking towards-a police box? She’s sure they didn’t have those anymore; she’s only seen them in old movies…
“Doctor!” She calls, and he turns. “You forgot your book?” she says, holding it up so he can see, even in the semi-dark, with the snow falling lightly around them.
“You should keep it,” he tells her, and again, she thinks she sees that smile. “Perhaps you’ll get a chance to read it someday.”
He starts to walk away again, but she only runs further, catching his hand and making him turn. When he does, she gives him a soft smile before she places her other hand on the back of his head, tilting it down so she can place a soft kiss on his forehead.
“Go see your granddaughter,” she tells him softly when she pulls away, still smiling. “And hey, maybe if this year isn’t what you wanted, maybe next year will be great.”
“Hardly.” He huffs again, just like earlier. “I tolerate this century. I don’t enjoy it.”
She laughs, and they turn away from each other, walking their separate ways. After a few moments she thinks she hears something-a whooshing, like brakes screeching or… actually, she’s not heard anything like it before.
When she turns around, she could swear… hadn’t there been a police box there, just a second ago? And the Doctor-where has he gone? Hadn’t he been walking down the street, just in the other direction?
She supposes she’ll never know. She holds his book in her hands up to her eye level so she can see it more clearly. It’s older than she thought. She strokes the cover lightly with two fingers before she looks one more time in the direction he’d went. Even if she can’t see him, she knows he’s out there, somewhere.
“Merry Christmas, Doctor,” she says softly, and she heads back into the shop.