*sigh* Doctor Who owns my brain...
Title: Here Come The Drums
Pairing: SaxonMaster/Lucy,
Rating: PG (I know! Tame for this particular pair)
Disclaimers:
Spoilers up to ‘Sound of Drums’. I sure as heck don't own Doctor Who, because it's older than me. I do not condone evil aliens who give themselves interesting names that make Freud go hmm. Nor do I condone evil blonde women - ever, if possible. I definitely don't condone disco-tech, I can tell you that much. Nope, nope. All bad. Ahem.
Summary: Every couple has a song.
~~~~~~~~
The London Ritz Hotel bar was quiet, so quiet that the sound of the beats in his head made him wonder why the glasses standing in such neat rows behind the long mahogany counter weren’t shaking from the vibrations. He wondered what the bartender would do if he leapt behind the counter and helped the drums along, smashed every single glass. No, decimated them. One in every ten, shattered into fragments on the floor.
He took another sip of brandy, smiling at the fancy and his pretty blonde agent. “Tell me about her.”
His agent tapped a few keys on her Blackberry, which he gleefully noted was connected to ArchAngel. “Her name is Lucy Cole, youngest of Lord Cole’s children. Went to Roedean, studied Italian of all things. She’s done a lot of charity work, and now she’s in publishing. She’s not exactly sharp but …”
“But what?” The pause intrigued him, as the rest of the biography had bored in turn.
“You’ll have to see when you meet her. She’s a bit odd.” His agent pursued her painted maroon lips. “No, odd is wrong. She’s … intense. I think that’s why they chose her for you.”
“Huh. She wants to meet me where?” Brandy tasted always like prunes to him. Prunes and fire. However, this is what they drank, and so would he.
“Elysium. Posh dance club.” His agent looked at his thoughtful expression. “If you want, I can call the publishing house back … we can re-arrange everything. New editor, the whole shebang.”
He eyed her, one corner of his mouth curling up. Humans were … so accommodating - and those expressions! ‘Shebang’, just classic of their way of twisting words. He put the glass down, tugging on his cuffs. “I’ll go. Sounds like a … what’s the word, lark? Yes. Lark. Is she pretty?”
“Pretty enough, I suppose. Delicate is the word. She looks like a blonde, porcelain doll.” The agent shrugged, and flashed a little more slender thigh for his benefit. “I hear some people like that.”
He grinned at her, trying not to burst out into laughter. Dear Rassilon, why didn’t this little fleshy, endowed one just tackle him instead? It would be less obvious than her constant display of attached limbs. He considered her, before leaning in to ask softly. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” She asked, looking around the bar, her penciled eyes narrowing in consideration.
“Exactly.” He answered, and polished off the rest of his drink, fire reigning down his throat, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Off I go.”
He felt like sneering at the disappointment in her eyes, he felt like tossing his glass at the display of neat ones still hanging there, pristine and pure. He wanted to break things, destroy them, take them apart and laugh over the pieces. He knew a great deal of that was wrapped up in rage and imprisonment, but he really didn’t know how else to ground himself.
His fingers tapped out the rhythm on his thigh, while his other hand put the glass lovingly on the bar, sliding away from his agent with the smile that said everything, and nothing at all.
* * * * * *
Getting inside the ‘posh’ place was somewhat of a cheap thrill - what he knew to be just another step in many he had to take to get to the position of power he wanted. The burly guard eyed him, his voice short as he asked, “Are you on the list?”
He put his hands into the pockets of the well-cut coat he was wearing, his eyes twinkling and his smile warm. “I’m Harold Saxon. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
He could feel the way the guard looked at him, as his human mind slid sideways. The smile eased to something more private, more pleased, as the guard wordlessly picked up the velvet cord and waved him towards the tightly shut doors. He waggled his fingers at the rest of the waiting crowd, before approaching the large double doors curiously. He’d never been inside one of these places before - and he couldn’t but help to be intrigued. He brushed his fingers along the long, metal door handle, and tugged it open wide, walking face first into a wall of pure thumping music.
For once - the drums in his head were silenced as the primal beat-beat-beat of the song coming from inside the club overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and gasped, thrilling silently at the notes as they slide across clothes and bare skin.
He reveled in it, pushing himself inside past the gathered groups by the doorway, to get closer to this music. The drums in his head resounded, but they resounded within the beat. His two hearts thudded along with it, keeping time like two perfect metronomes. He loved it - loved it more than he had loved anything. Whoever this Lucy Cole was, she had his eternal gratitude. He might just not kill her along with the rest of her worthless species for this.
Where was that clever little dickens of a human, anyways? He stopped in a pocket of space; made wider by the humans around him simply knowing instinctively to avoid the area he was in. Turning around slowly, before his gaze stopped, just as the music did. Second floor, tiny table with a tiny young woman sitting at it - blonde, pretty, just like a doll, dressed in blue and black. She was sipping from a drink, amber liquid and large hunks of ice, staring off at nothing.
He kept his eyes on her as he stalked up the stairs, careful not to bring attention to himself. He kept her profile in his sights, and then her slender back, sitting so straight and formal. The music switched again, and the beat made him pause, made the drums thud in approval. Where Lucy Cole sat, her fingers began to tap, tap, tap in time with the song against the table.
He watched, fascinated, as her fingers followed along, the words of the music registering in the back of his mind. Baby, baby, baby - You are my voodoo child, my voodoo child. He was right behind her now, looking at how her pale hair curled around her slender shoulders. You're like voodoo baby - You just take hold - Put your cards on the table baby - Do I twist, do I fold? Now he was by her side, dark eyes skimming over her profile - his agent had it right in one. Delicate. Easily breakable, like the glass he had held in his hand earlier. He spoke quietly, as so not to shatter her. “Ms. Cole?”
Blue eyes fluttered open, and he found himself looking into the vortex again, swirling cold intensity that did not belong in such a placid face. Unsettled, he stared back. You're like voodoo honey - All silver and gold - Why don't you tell me my future -Why don't I sell you my soul? She blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by a mild look of reproach, with a voice that was soft and low. “Mr. Saxon, you startled me.”
“My apologies, Ms. Cole. You were into the music…” He closed his own eyes again, smiling. “The glorious music.”
“It is wonderful, isn’t it? And can’t you hear them?” Her voice was appreciative, “Can’t you just hear the drums?”
His eyes snapped open, and he turned slowly to look at her, at the little smile playing around her pale pink lips. Tension made his hands clench - how did she know? It took him a moment to realize that she meant the song, and he eased a touch, “Yes. I can.” He canted his head. “Do you like drums?”
“I love them.” Her fingers were tapping again, this time against the glass, and he could see the shades of infinity in her eyes again. “They’re the only things that keep the quiet out. I loathe the quiet.” She looked at him, “It would just about drive me mad.”
He had often pondered the human phrase, ‘love at first sight’. He thought it silly and trivial before, sentimental gobbledygook from the mouths of apes. How could you love someone when you had no idea of their character, their drives, needs and desires? He suddenly wondered if this was what they had tried to get across in poor prose - the knowledge that you had found someone who could connect with one side of your very soul, no matter how broken and jagged the edges might be.
There was only one other person could fill the rest of the gaps, and he was a trillion years away…
He smiled, slowly, in a way that suddenly brought a flush to her cheeks. “I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Cole.”
She put one hand to her now rosy cheek, before she cleared her throat, straightening a little. Putting a little more proper into her spine as she turned, putting one hand on the table to hoist herself out of her chair. “Let me go get you a drink - and we’ll talk business.”
He cupped his hand over hers; making her look up at him again, gaze both wondrous and wary. He kept on smiling. “I’ll get the drinks … and then, we’ll just talk. Sound good?”
She nodded her head mutely, and he took his hand away, satisfied. He turned to walk towards the bar, pausing halfway to look back at her. She was staring at him, her eyes quiet and calculating, even as she blushed again. He thrilled at it, at the contradictions, at her cracked psyche. She really was quite … perfect, wasn’t she? Perfect for a human, at any rate.
Besides, after all, what politician didn’t need a neat little wife at his side? One who would understand all his ambitions? He winked at her, before sauntering back over to the bar, the refrain of the song humming from his lips. “So here it comes, the sound of drums…”
Here come the drums, here come the drums…
Pairing: SaxonMaster/Lucy,
Rating: PG (I know! Tame for this particular pair)
Disclaimers:
Spoilers up to ‘Sound of Drums’. I sure as heck don't own Doctor Who, because it's older than me. I do not condone evil aliens who give themselves interesting names that make Freud go hmm. Nor do I condone evil blonde women - ever, if possible. I definitely don't condone disco-tech, I can tell you that much. Nope, nope. All bad. Ahem.
Summary: Every couple has a song.
~~~~~~~~
The London Ritz Hotel bar was quiet, so quiet that the sound of the beats in his head made him wonder why the glasses standing in such neat rows behind the long mahogany counter weren’t shaking from the vibrations. He wondered what the bartender would do if he leapt behind the counter and helped the drums along, smashed every single glass. No, decimated them. One in every ten, shattered into fragments on the floor.
He took another sip of brandy, smiling at the fancy and his pretty blonde agent. “Tell me about her.”
His agent tapped a few keys on her Blackberry, which he gleefully noted was connected to ArchAngel. “Her name is Lucy Cole, youngest of Lord Cole’s children. Went to Roedean, studied Italian of all things. She’s done a lot of charity work, and now she’s in publishing. She’s not exactly sharp but …”
“But what?” The pause intrigued him, as the rest of the biography had bored in turn.
“You’ll have to see when you meet her. She’s a bit odd.” His agent pursued her painted maroon lips. “No, odd is wrong. She’s … intense. I think that’s why they chose her for you.”
“Huh. She wants to meet me where?” Brandy tasted always like prunes to him. Prunes and fire. However, this is what they drank, and so would he.
“Elysium. Posh dance club.” His agent looked at his thoughtful expression. “If you want, I can call the publishing house back … we can re-arrange everything. New editor, the whole shebang.”
He eyed her, one corner of his mouth curling up. Humans were … so accommodating - and those expressions! ‘Shebang’, just classic of their way of twisting words. He put the glass down, tugging on his cuffs. “I’ll go. Sounds like a … what’s the word, lark? Yes. Lark. Is she pretty?”
“Pretty enough, I suppose. Delicate is the word. She looks like a blonde, porcelain doll.” The agent shrugged, and flashed a little more slender thigh for his benefit. “I hear some people like that.”
He grinned at her, trying not to burst out into laughter. Dear Rassilon, why didn’t this little fleshy, endowed one just tackle him instead? It would be less obvious than her constant display of attached limbs. He considered her, before leaning in to ask softly. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” She asked, looking around the bar, her penciled eyes narrowing in consideration.
“Exactly.” He answered, and polished off the rest of his drink, fire reigning down his throat, waggling his eyebrows at her. “Off I go.”
He felt like sneering at the disappointment in her eyes, he felt like tossing his glass at the display of neat ones still hanging there, pristine and pure. He wanted to break things, destroy them, take them apart and laugh over the pieces. He knew a great deal of that was wrapped up in rage and imprisonment, but he really didn’t know how else to ground himself.
His fingers tapped out the rhythm on his thigh, while his other hand put the glass lovingly on the bar, sliding away from his agent with the smile that said everything, and nothing at all.
* * * * * *
Getting inside the ‘posh’ place was somewhat of a cheap thrill - what he knew to be just another step in many he had to take to get to the position of power he wanted. The burly guard eyed him, his voice short as he asked, “Are you on the list?”
He put his hands into the pockets of the well-cut coat he was wearing, his eyes twinkling and his smile warm. “I’m Harold Saxon. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
He could feel the way the guard looked at him, as his human mind slid sideways. The smile eased to something more private, more pleased, as the guard wordlessly picked up the velvet cord and waved him towards the tightly shut doors. He waggled his fingers at the rest of the waiting crowd, before approaching the large double doors curiously. He’d never been inside one of these places before - and he couldn’t but help to be intrigued. He brushed his fingers along the long, metal door handle, and tugged it open wide, walking face first into a wall of pure thumping music.
For once - the drums in his head were silenced as the primal beat-beat-beat of the song coming from inside the club overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and gasped, thrilling silently at the notes as they slide across clothes and bare skin.
He reveled in it, pushing himself inside past the gathered groups by the doorway, to get closer to this music. The drums in his head resounded, but they resounded within the beat. His two hearts thudded along with it, keeping time like two perfect metronomes. He loved it - loved it more than he had loved anything. Whoever this Lucy Cole was, she had his eternal gratitude. He might just not kill her along with the rest of her worthless species for this.
Where was that clever little dickens of a human, anyways? He stopped in a pocket of space; made wider by the humans around him simply knowing instinctively to avoid the area he was in. Turning around slowly, before his gaze stopped, just as the music did. Second floor, tiny table with a tiny young woman sitting at it - blonde, pretty, just like a doll, dressed in blue and black. She was sipping from a drink, amber liquid and large hunks of ice, staring off at nothing.
He kept his eyes on her as he stalked up the stairs, careful not to bring attention to himself. He kept her profile in his sights, and then her slender back, sitting so straight and formal. The music switched again, and the beat made him pause, made the drums thud in approval. Where Lucy Cole sat, her fingers began to tap, tap, tap in time with the song against the table.
He watched, fascinated, as her fingers followed along, the words of the music registering in the back of his mind. Baby, baby, baby - You are my voodoo child, my voodoo child. He was right behind her now, looking at how her pale hair curled around her slender shoulders. You're like voodoo baby - You just take hold - Put your cards on the table baby - Do I twist, do I fold? Now he was by her side, dark eyes skimming over her profile - his agent had it right in one. Delicate. Easily breakable, like the glass he had held in his hand earlier. He spoke quietly, as so not to shatter her. “Ms. Cole?”
Blue eyes fluttered open, and he found himself looking into the vortex again, swirling cold intensity that did not belong in such a placid face. Unsettled, he stared back. You're like voodoo honey - All silver and gold - Why don't you tell me my future -Why don't I sell you my soul? She blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by a mild look of reproach, with a voice that was soft and low. “Mr. Saxon, you startled me.”
“My apologies, Ms. Cole. You were into the music…” He closed his own eyes again, smiling. “The glorious music.”
“It is wonderful, isn’t it? And can’t you hear them?” Her voice was appreciative, “Can’t you just hear the drums?”
His eyes snapped open, and he turned slowly to look at her, at the little smile playing around her pale pink lips. Tension made his hands clench - how did she know? It took him a moment to realize that she meant the song, and he eased a touch, “Yes. I can.” He canted his head. “Do you like drums?”
“I love them.” Her fingers were tapping again, this time against the glass, and he could see the shades of infinity in her eyes again. “They’re the only things that keep the quiet out. I loathe the quiet.” She looked at him, “It would just about drive me mad.”
He had often pondered the human phrase, ‘love at first sight’. He thought it silly and trivial before, sentimental gobbledygook from the mouths of apes. How could you love someone when you had no idea of their character, their drives, needs and desires? He suddenly wondered if this was what they had tried to get across in poor prose - the knowledge that you had found someone who could connect with one side of your very soul, no matter how broken and jagged the edges might be.
There was only one other person could fill the rest of the gaps, and he was a trillion years away…
He smiled, slowly, in a way that suddenly brought a flush to her cheeks. “I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Cole.”
She put one hand to her now rosy cheek, before she cleared her throat, straightening a little. Putting a little more proper into her spine as she turned, putting one hand on the table to hoist herself out of her chair. “Let me go get you a drink - and we’ll talk business.”
He cupped his hand over hers; making her look up at him again, gaze both wondrous and wary. He kept on smiling. “I’ll get the drinks … and then, we’ll just talk. Sound good?”
She nodded her head mutely, and he took his hand away, satisfied. He turned to walk towards the bar, pausing halfway to look back at her. She was staring at him, her eyes quiet and calculating, even as she blushed again. He thrilled at it, at the contradictions, at her cracked psyche. She really was quite … perfect, wasn’t she? Perfect for a human, at any rate.
Besides, after all, what politician didn’t need a neat little wife at his side? One who would understand all his ambitions? He winked at her, before sauntering back over to the bar, the refrain of the song humming from his lips. “So here it comes, the sound of drums…”
Here come the drums, here come the drums…