Dr Who/Buffy fic: Blue Box Blues
title: Blue Box Blues
fandoms: Dr Who, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
pairing: Mickey Smith/Drusilla
rating: PG
wordcount: about 1500
notes: For the ithurtsmybrain crossover challenge #281, here. Set shortly after the episode "World War Three", but no huge spoilers that would ruin it for you.
disclaimer: The worlds and characters of Dr Who and Buffy are owned by many people. I am not one of them. Alas.
Blue Box Blues
Mickey sat on the bin, reading the paper, waiting. Again. Apart from him, the street was empty. No aliens, no blue boxes, no Rose. He wasn't waiting for her, certainly not. It's just that there was nowhere else he particularly needed to be.
He had a nagging feeling that the street wasn't empty, exactly, but was full of her not being there. At any moment, she could be, and more than that, at any moment she could have been there all this time, which was just too weird to think about. He turned the page and read the football scores.
Down the end of the alley, three boys had seen him. One shouted something at him, and the other two laughed. Large boys, teenagers, probably on steroids. He wasn't afraid of them, not now, after all he'd seen. Even so, he gave a little groan when they started towards him. He scowled at the paper and tried to look mean.
“Hoy! Clear off, you!”, a shout echoed off the buildings. Rose's mum came striding from the stairwell behind him, glaring at the kids. “In't you got nothin' better to do? Get off home!” The boys laughed but retreated, loping off around the corner.
He didn't blame them. He'd felt the wrath of Jackie for a whole year, after she'd set the police and the whole neighborhood against him. She used to remind him of a vicious toy dog, all big eyes and painted toenails, that would take your leg off if you weren't careful.
'Course, she had thought he'd murdered her daughter.
“You should go on home, too,” she said quietly. “It's no use waiting 'round here.” She glanced over at the empty space where the Tardis was not, and looked away.
“Anyway, I brought you a curry,” she said, putting a bag on the bin beside him. “Don't worry, I didn't make it. It's from the shop.”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
She gave him an embarrassed little smile. She looked like she wanted to say something more but, after a moment, she turned and walked back to her flat.
It was late. The security light behind him flickered and hummed. When it burned out, he thought, he wouldn't be able to see the paper. Then he'd go.
The stupid thing, he fumed, was that Rose had come back. Everyone had seen her. They knew he hadn't killed her, but most people still thought it was the sort of thing he might do. Why else had they suspected him, right? But these same people had seen the world invaded by aliens, and very nearly destroyed, and convinced themselves it hadn't happened.
People believed what they wanted. Oh, yeah, Mickey Smith was the kind of guy who'd murder his girlfriend, even though he hadn't, but aliens didn't exist, even though they'd been on the news.
He ran a hand over his eyes and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. When he looked up, there was a woman standing inches away, staring at him. He jumped.
“You smell like Christmas,” she sighed, her face next to his, “All wood smoke and screaming.”
“God, 'Sil, you scared me near half to death,” he gasped.
She gave him a puzzled frown. “Which half?”
He glared at her. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that.”
She was Australian or something. He couldn't place the accent. When he'd asked her, she'd just repeated “Down and under?” with a queer little laugh, and then started talking about fish. He figured that was a yes.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, picking up the curry, which was still warm enough to smell tempting. “Have you eaten?”
She gave him a flirty sort of smile. “Three little lambs who have lost our way,” she sang, and stroked his face. “Nobody scares my lovely boy but me.”
“Well, you can have this if you like.”
He knew what she was, of course. Swanning around at night, with the dress and the makeup. It was obvious. Plus, he'd seen her a few times, wandering off with men, never the same one. And she was clearly on drugs. But she was funny and she seemed to like him, which was a nice change. Besides, what kind of girls are you going to meet waiting around in dark alleys at night?
She wandered over to the empty spot, the spot with potential, and began spinning. “Two by two, box of blue,” she chanted.
“Yeah, two by two,” he muttered. “They're off travelin', and you and me left here.” He'd told her all about it, of course. He'd needed to tell someone, and she was the only one who wouldn't think he was mad.
“The thing is," he said, mostly to himself, “if you had a time machine, right? If you could travel in time, then if you made a mistake, you could go back and fix it.”
He pulled out the plastic fork and began picking at the curry.
“For instance," he said bitterly, “if you step out for an hour, but you don't come back for a whole year, and everyone thinks your dead, you could go back and save them all that worrying. Or,” he shrugged, “you could prevent all those people dying. Whatever.”
“And the people this had happened to, this horrible thing, they wouldn't remember it, because it wouldn’t have happened, would it? Then they'd be different people. What else is a time machine for?” He pondered this. “Except getting football scores before the game, that sort of thing.”
Well, that was the point, wasn't it, he thought. He wanted to be the sort of person who thought the best use of a time machine was for placing bets. But it wouldn't be him, would it?
He looked up. Drusilla had stopped dancing. She was looking at him with that weird intensity she sometimes got. Made her eyes look wild.
Oh, hell, he thought, and hopped off the bin. From what he'd gathered, his own past was sunshine and daisies compared to hers. If things had been different, who else might she have been?
“A hundred years gone,” she said with a faraway look. “All the little angels rest in peace.”
“Forget all that, yeah?” He coaxed. “Gotta look to the future.”
“Mummy said I mustn't. Mummy said it's a sin.”
“Oh, that's rubbish. That's a gift, that is.” He knew lots of girls said they were psychic. Best to play along, he figured.
“Hey,” he grinned, “can you see my future?”
She gave him a long, slow look that sent shivers down his spine.
“Tell you what,” he said, encouragingly, “Next time machine we get, we take a trip to the future. You and me, what do you say?” He grinned at her. “Let's see what the world's like in a hundred year's time.”
She smiled at him, and there it was. In one moment, she was suddenly, overwhelmingly present. She'd stepped out of her dreamy little world, and she was older and smarter and stronger than he could imagine, and she was looking right at him. He felt pinned in place.
“All right,” she said. “One hundred years.”
And then it was gone.
She lay her head on his shoulder and absently wrapped an arm around his waist. She was humming one of her tuneless little lullabies, the kind which, when she sang them, always ended with drowned kittens.
He tried to swallow. Well, that was, what? Bizarre? Terrifying? No, told himself. It was… sentimental, sort of. Nice. She was being nice, he insisted, and tried to believe it.
“Hmm. Christmas,” she whispered, as she nuzzled his neck. He stood very, very still.
Here's the thing, he told himself carefully. Either you're standing in a dark alley with a dangerous, possibly alien, monster who's wrapped herself around you and is singing songs about death, or there's a pretty girl with a slightly dark sense of humor who said she wants to be with you. If it's the first one, there's nothing much you can do about it. So, your choice. What do you want to believe?
He wished Rose were here, he thought miserably. But that was true in either case, and she wasn't here, was she?
“I saved the world once, did I tell you?” he said wistfully.
Drusilla gave him a look of infinite sympathy.
“Oh, how horrible for you,” she said.
Mickey looked at her uncertainly, then chuckled. He took a deep breath and put his arm around her shoulder. Yeah, decided, this was nice.
He loved Rose. He'd do anything for her. Well, he'd do most things for her. If she really needed him. But he was glad she was out doing what she wanted, having adventures.
And this was what he wanted. Out in London on a Friday night, joking with his girlfriend. His mad psychic girlfriend, but still. A girl he had a future with.
A nice, normal girl.
fandoms: Dr Who, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
pairing: Mickey Smith/Drusilla
rating: PG
wordcount: about 1500
notes: For the ithurtsmybrain crossover challenge #281, here. Set shortly after the episode "World War Three", but no huge spoilers that would ruin it for you.
disclaimer: The worlds and characters of Dr Who and Buffy are owned by many people. I am not one of them. Alas.
Blue Box Blues
Mickey sat on the bin, reading the paper, waiting. Again. Apart from him, the street was empty. No aliens, no blue boxes, no Rose. He wasn't waiting for her, certainly not. It's just that there was nowhere else he particularly needed to be.
He had a nagging feeling that the street wasn't empty, exactly, but was full of her not being there. At any moment, she could be, and more than that, at any moment she could have been there all this time, which was just too weird to think about. He turned the page and read the football scores.
Down the end of the alley, three boys had seen him. One shouted something at him, and the other two laughed. Large boys, teenagers, probably on steroids. He wasn't afraid of them, not now, after all he'd seen. Even so, he gave a little groan when they started towards him. He scowled at the paper and tried to look mean.
“Hoy! Clear off, you!”, a shout echoed off the buildings. Rose's mum came striding from the stairwell behind him, glaring at the kids. “In't you got nothin' better to do? Get off home!” The boys laughed but retreated, loping off around the corner.
He didn't blame them. He'd felt the wrath of Jackie for a whole year, after she'd set the police and the whole neighborhood against him. She used to remind him of a vicious toy dog, all big eyes and painted toenails, that would take your leg off if you weren't careful.
'Course, she had thought he'd murdered her daughter.
“You should go on home, too,” she said quietly. “It's no use waiting 'round here.” She glanced over at the empty space where the Tardis was not, and looked away.
“Anyway, I brought you a curry,” she said, putting a bag on the bin beside him. “Don't worry, I didn't make it. It's from the shop.”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
She gave him an embarrassed little smile. She looked like she wanted to say something more but, after a moment, she turned and walked back to her flat.
It was late. The security light behind him flickered and hummed. When it burned out, he thought, he wouldn't be able to see the paper. Then he'd go.
The stupid thing, he fumed, was that Rose had come back. Everyone had seen her. They knew he hadn't killed her, but most people still thought it was the sort of thing he might do. Why else had they suspected him, right? But these same people had seen the world invaded by aliens, and very nearly destroyed, and convinced themselves it hadn't happened.
People believed what they wanted. Oh, yeah, Mickey Smith was the kind of guy who'd murder his girlfriend, even though he hadn't, but aliens didn't exist, even though they'd been on the news.
He ran a hand over his eyes and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. When he looked up, there was a woman standing inches away, staring at him. He jumped.
“You smell like Christmas,” she sighed, her face next to his, “All wood smoke and screaming.”
“God, 'Sil, you scared me near half to death,” he gasped.
She gave him a puzzled frown. “Which half?”
He glared at her. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that.”
She was Australian or something. He couldn't place the accent. When he'd asked her, she'd just repeated “Down and under?” with a queer little laugh, and then started talking about fish. He figured that was a yes.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, picking up the curry, which was still warm enough to smell tempting. “Have you eaten?”
She gave him a flirty sort of smile. “Three little lambs who have lost our way,” she sang, and stroked his face. “Nobody scares my lovely boy but me.”
“Well, you can have this if you like.”
He knew what she was, of course. Swanning around at night, with the dress and the makeup. It was obvious. Plus, he'd seen her a few times, wandering off with men, never the same one. And she was clearly on drugs. But she was funny and she seemed to like him, which was a nice change. Besides, what kind of girls are you going to meet waiting around in dark alleys at night?
She wandered over to the empty spot, the spot with potential, and began spinning. “Two by two, box of blue,” she chanted.
“Yeah, two by two,” he muttered. “They're off travelin', and you and me left here.” He'd told her all about it, of course. He'd needed to tell someone, and she was the only one who wouldn't think he was mad.
“The thing is," he said, mostly to himself, “if you had a time machine, right? If you could travel in time, then if you made a mistake, you could go back and fix it.”
He pulled out the plastic fork and began picking at the curry.
“For instance," he said bitterly, “if you step out for an hour, but you don't come back for a whole year, and everyone thinks your dead, you could go back and save them all that worrying. Or,” he shrugged, “you could prevent all those people dying. Whatever.”
“And the people this had happened to, this horrible thing, they wouldn't remember it, because it wouldn’t have happened, would it? Then they'd be different people. What else is a time machine for?” He pondered this. “Except getting football scores before the game, that sort of thing.”
Well, that was the point, wasn't it, he thought. He wanted to be the sort of person who thought the best use of a time machine was for placing bets. But it wouldn't be him, would it?
He looked up. Drusilla had stopped dancing. She was looking at him with that weird intensity she sometimes got. Made her eyes look wild.
Oh, hell, he thought, and hopped off the bin. From what he'd gathered, his own past was sunshine and daisies compared to hers. If things had been different, who else might she have been?
“A hundred years gone,” she said with a faraway look. “All the little angels rest in peace.”
“Forget all that, yeah?” He coaxed. “Gotta look to the future.”
“Mummy said I mustn't. Mummy said it's a sin.”
“Oh, that's rubbish. That's a gift, that is.” He knew lots of girls said they were psychic. Best to play along, he figured.
“Hey,” he grinned, “can you see my future?”
She gave him a long, slow look that sent shivers down his spine.
“Tell you what,” he said, encouragingly, “Next time machine we get, we take a trip to the future. You and me, what do you say?” He grinned at her. “Let's see what the world's like in a hundred year's time.”
She smiled at him, and there it was. In one moment, she was suddenly, overwhelmingly present. She'd stepped out of her dreamy little world, and she was older and smarter and stronger than he could imagine, and she was looking right at him. He felt pinned in place.
“All right,” she said. “One hundred years.”
And then it was gone.
She lay her head on his shoulder and absently wrapped an arm around his waist. She was humming one of her tuneless little lullabies, the kind which, when she sang them, always ended with drowned kittens.
He tried to swallow. Well, that was, what? Bizarre? Terrifying? No, told himself. It was… sentimental, sort of. Nice. She was being nice, he insisted, and tried to believe it.
“Hmm. Christmas,” she whispered, as she nuzzled his neck. He stood very, very still.
Here's the thing, he told himself carefully. Either you're standing in a dark alley with a dangerous, possibly alien, monster who's wrapped herself around you and is singing songs about death, or there's a pretty girl with a slightly dark sense of humor who said she wants to be with you. If it's the first one, there's nothing much you can do about it. So, your choice. What do you want to believe?
He wished Rose were here, he thought miserably. But that was true in either case, and she wasn't here, was she?
“I saved the world once, did I tell you?” he said wistfully.
Drusilla gave him a look of infinite sympathy.
“Oh, how horrible for you,” she said.
Mickey looked at her uncertainly, then chuckled. He took a deep breath and put his arm around her shoulder. Yeah, decided, this was nice.
He loved Rose. He'd do anything for her. Well, he'd do most things for her. If she really needed him. But he was glad she was out doing what she wanted, having adventures.
And this was what he wanted. Out in London on a Friday night, joking with his girlfriend. His mad psychic girlfriend, but still. A girl he had a future with.
A nice, normal girl.