(no subject)
space, time and rock and roll, (Ten/Rose), G
She imagined New York, old theatres and Ed Sullivan, but instead they’re in a crowded auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana, stomachs full of greasy cheeseburgers and malted milkshakes from a diner called Moe’s., 1,071
A/N: Fluff, because I’m drowning in sadness and angst, and another one I started and didn’t get done in time. Written for challenge 9: Music.
Rose shuffles her feet faster, straining to keep up with the Doctor as he pushes past people. The mass of bodies gets thicker and the din louder the closer they get to the stage. The air is thick and heavy, smelling of sweat and spilled soda, and aside from the occasional thump of the drums, she can barely hear the band warming up.
A security guard stops them but the Doctor just smiles and fishes the psychic paper out of his coat pocket. The guard eyes the paper carefully, looking back and forth from the paper to the Doctor’s face before stepping aside with a nod. They amble along the row of seats, apologizing as they brush past foreign knees and toes.
They started out from the Tardis almost four hours ago, walking this time instead of taking the scooter. He’d promised her they would try this again, without the interference of aliens or coronations, and definitely without anyone ending up stranded in a telly.
She imagined New York, old theatres and Ed Sullivan, but instead they’re in a crowded auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana, stomachs full of greasy cheeseburgers and malted milkshakes from a diner called Moe’s. She watches the Doctor from the corner of her eye, grateful that he didn’t find it necessary to grease up his hair again into some outlandish 50’s pompadour. She’d teased him that with his dark specs and skinny suit they’d be lucky not to get attacked by people looking for Buddy Holly autographs.
They haven’t.
Yet.
“So?” he asks, practically vibrating with excitement. “I promised you we’d see the King. What do you think?”
She gives him a look. “I think, Doctor, that I haven’t actually seen him yet.”
“Right,” he frowns, “but I said I’d try again and we’re here! Right time, right city, right everything.” He grins, pleased with himself for both his promise keeping and successful navigation.
She smiles, patting him on the arm. “Yes we are, and so far so good.” Her tone implies that there is still plenty of time for things to go pear-shaped.
There is a crackle in the air, like a revolution, and in some ways it is because the world of music will never be the same. The screaming starts point-three seconds after the announcer says the words Elvis and Presley; people abandon their seats to push as close to the stage as they can. A girl in a pink poodle skirt next to him swoons and falls backwards into her seat, fanning herself with her hand.
The energy of the mass is staggering, and a feeling courses through him.
This is one of those moments, fixed and poignant, that can never be changed and he’s literally right in the middle of it. It still surprises him, the things that are meant to be.
The first strings of ‘Hound Dog’ reverberate through the packed hall, between the crack in the doors at the back of the hall and out into time and space. He turns to say something to Rose and realizes she isn’t by his side. He looks around, craning his neck into odd angles, but can’t see anything except the arms, legs and bodies in motion, dancing and waving to the beat. Standing up on his tip toes he makes out a familiar blonde, standing right in front of the stage.
She’s laughing and dancing in her baby blue dress, ponytail swinging in time with the song. Her white sweater lies discarded over the back of their seats, leaving her shoulders bare. He watches her hips, twisting side to side, skirt swishing against her calves, flaring ever so slightly as she twirls.
Just before he can get her attention, he hears the bluesy strains of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ begin. Elvis begins jerking his hips back and forth in his trademark style and three more girls (and possibly one young gentleman) are heard fainting behind him. He has to admit, the man has good moves, though of course not as good as his. If the King had been a Time Lord though -
He lets the thought trail off when he catches the look on Rose’s face. She’s not dancing anymore, just watching the twitch of Mr. Presley’s pelvis in denim that’s far too tight to be decent in 1956. A twinge of jealousy flashes through him, fading as soon as she turns her eyes to him. They’re sparkling and happy, her hand outstretched towards him.
He grasps her fingers, pulling her back to him, and spins her once just to hear her laughter mix with the melody.
The audience is still cheering ten minutes after the encore has ended. The Doctor looks around nervously, unable to see the exit doors, and finding himself with his back against the stage. The announcer hurries out to the stage, shouting orders, but his words are unintelligible, drowned out by the chanting of a mob that seems to be in denial that the show is over.
The announcer starts pleading with the insistent crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, please, we need you to return to your seats!”
Bodies push for the exits, hopeful that they can catch their idol as he comes out the back. The Doctor looks around and then boosts himself up onto the stage, reaching over the edge to pull Rose up after him.
“Can I borrow this?” the Doctor asks, dropping Rose’s hand and snatching the microphone from the stand before the man can answer.
Rose shifts from one foot to the other, anxious and half expecting a fight to break out as her eyes scan the audience. She’s been to plenty of concerts, but never in such a confined space. The Doctor gives her a reassuring look as he points his trusty sonic screwdriver at the microphone, briefly, tweaking the setting a few times. He nods in satisfaction and slips the screwdriver back in his pocket.
“There,” the Doctor says, smiling at Rose. “Now let’s see how it works.” He excuses himself as he steps around the gray haired announcer, taking up position at the front of the stage.
“Please, young people,” the Doctor shouts, the adjustment to the microphone amplifying his voice, overwhelming the noise of the spectators. The din of the crowd settles as ten thousand pairs of teenage eyes fall on the skinny man in the pinstripe suit.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Elvis has left the building!”
She imagined New York, old theatres and Ed Sullivan, but instead they’re in a crowded auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana, stomachs full of greasy cheeseburgers and malted milkshakes from a diner called Moe’s., 1,071
A/N: Fluff, because I’m drowning in sadness and angst, and another one I started and didn’t get done in time. Written for challenge 9: Music.
Rose shuffles her feet faster, straining to keep up with the Doctor as he pushes past people. The mass of bodies gets thicker and the din louder the closer they get to the stage. The air is thick and heavy, smelling of sweat and spilled soda, and aside from the occasional thump of the drums, she can barely hear the band warming up.
A security guard stops them but the Doctor just smiles and fishes the psychic paper out of his coat pocket. The guard eyes the paper carefully, looking back and forth from the paper to the Doctor’s face before stepping aside with a nod. They amble along the row of seats, apologizing as they brush past foreign knees and toes.
They started out from the Tardis almost four hours ago, walking this time instead of taking the scooter. He’d promised her they would try this again, without the interference of aliens or coronations, and definitely without anyone ending up stranded in a telly.
She imagined New York, old theatres and Ed Sullivan, but instead they’re in a crowded auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana, stomachs full of greasy cheeseburgers and malted milkshakes from a diner called Moe’s. She watches the Doctor from the corner of her eye, grateful that he didn’t find it necessary to grease up his hair again into some outlandish 50’s pompadour. She’d teased him that with his dark specs and skinny suit they’d be lucky not to get attacked by people looking for Buddy Holly autographs.
They haven’t.
Yet.
“So?” he asks, practically vibrating with excitement. “I promised you we’d see the King. What do you think?”
She gives him a look. “I think, Doctor, that I haven’t actually seen him yet.”
“Right,” he frowns, “but I said I’d try again and we’re here! Right time, right city, right everything.” He grins, pleased with himself for both his promise keeping and successful navigation.
She smiles, patting him on the arm. “Yes we are, and so far so good.” Her tone implies that there is still plenty of time for things to go pear-shaped.
There is a crackle in the air, like a revolution, and in some ways it is because the world of music will never be the same. The screaming starts point-three seconds after the announcer says the words Elvis and Presley; people abandon their seats to push as close to the stage as they can. A girl in a pink poodle skirt next to him swoons and falls backwards into her seat, fanning herself with her hand.
The energy of the mass is staggering, and a feeling courses through him.
This is one of those moments, fixed and poignant, that can never be changed and he’s literally right in the middle of it. It still surprises him, the things that are meant to be.
The first strings of ‘Hound Dog’ reverberate through the packed hall, between the crack in the doors at the back of the hall and out into time and space. He turns to say something to Rose and realizes she isn’t by his side. He looks around, craning his neck into odd angles, but can’t see anything except the arms, legs and bodies in motion, dancing and waving to the beat. Standing up on his tip toes he makes out a familiar blonde, standing right in front of the stage.
She’s laughing and dancing in her baby blue dress, ponytail swinging in time with the song. Her white sweater lies discarded over the back of their seats, leaving her shoulders bare. He watches her hips, twisting side to side, skirt swishing against her calves, flaring ever so slightly as she twirls.
Just before he can get her attention, he hears the bluesy strains of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ begin. Elvis begins jerking his hips back and forth in his trademark style and three more girls (and possibly one young gentleman) are heard fainting behind him. He has to admit, the man has good moves, though of course not as good as his. If the King had been a Time Lord though -
He lets the thought trail off when he catches the look on Rose’s face. She’s not dancing anymore, just watching the twitch of Mr. Presley’s pelvis in denim that’s far too tight to be decent in 1956. A twinge of jealousy flashes through him, fading as soon as she turns her eyes to him. They’re sparkling and happy, her hand outstretched towards him.
He grasps her fingers, pulling her back to him, and spins her once just to hear her laughter mix with the melody.
The audience is still cheering ten minutes after the encore has ended. The Doctor looks around nervously, unable to see the exit doors, and finding himself with his back against the stage. The announcer hurries out to the stage, shouting orders, but his words are unintelligible, drowned out by the chanting of a mob that seems to be in denial that the show is over.
The announcer starts pleading with the insistent crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, please, we need you to return to your seats!”
Bodies push for the exits, hopeful that they can catch their idol as he comes out the back. The Doctor looks around and then boosts himself up onto the stage, reaching over the edge to pull Rose up after him.
“Can I borrow this?” the Doctor asks, dropping Rose’s hand and snatching the microphone from the stand before the man can answer.
Rose shifts from one foot to the other, anxious and half expecting a fight to break out as her eyes scan the audience. She’s been to plenty of concerts, but never in such a confined space. The Doctor gives her a reassuring look as he points his trusty sonic screwdriver at the microphone, briefly, tweaking the setting a few times. He nods in satisfaction and slips the screwdriver back in his pocket.
“There,” the Doctor says, smiling at Rose. “Now let’s see how it works.” He excuses himself as he steps around the gray haired announcer, taking up position at the front of the stage.
“Please, young people,” the Doctor shouts, the adjustment to the microphone amplifying his voice, overwhelming the noise of the spectators. The din of the crowd settles as ten thousand pairs of teenage eyes fall on the skinny man in the pinstripe suit.
He takes a deep breath and says, “Elvis has left the building!”