DW:: Reparations [romana/mr saxon | r]
{Title} Reparations.
{Character/Pairing} romana/mr. saxon.
{Rating} mild R
{Word Count} 1310
{Author's Notes} contains spoilers through New Series 03x11. Really. and technically it has old who spoilers, but can you really be spoiled for something that's been out for 35 years? HOWEVER, I wrote the first 1000 words of this back when Smith & Jones aired and was totally spoiler free. I just couldn't be arsed. Don't hate me for my crackpairing.
The heels are something of particular importance to her. Times have been hard on her, she’s war ravaged, and sometimes, she wishes that a certain someone would remember that while is off wooing the hearts of the populace. Usurping the power, getting his hands somewhat dirty for a bloody change.
Surprise, surprise.
They are (the shoes, please try to come back to focus for at least a little while) Jimmy Choo’s, stiletto heels, a nice shade of red and if this had been two centuries in the future the “animals” that would’ve been “killed” to make them would’ve actually been red. None of that matters, as they are still, fabulous shoes, which for the moment distracts her from the fact that he is six minutes, and forty-three point nine seconds late.
Not that she has been counting. Some instincts are just harder to ignore than others.
A sigh rises up and down from chest and she taps those lovely shoes against the tile. How unprofessional. Typical, very typical. This teaches her to makes plans, to have a farce with, well, with him.
Absently, she twists the ring on her finger and wishes that she hadn’t refused the offer of the maid to bring her tea. Tea fixes nearly everything. Not quite, nearly.
It’s then that he comes bursting in, shoving his coat on a some simpering man behind him before slamming the doors shut in the same man’s face. Double doors, heavy wood, that must’ve hurt, and somewhere deep in her head, she winces.
Still, she doesn’t move from her spot, waiting impatiently behind the desk. Not even her expression changes. It’s upset. Annoyed. Perturbed. It knows that he is late and that she has been waiting. Which she has been, which is why the £400 shoes are tapping against tile.
“You’re late,” she says, and even in the emotionless tone of voice, it sounds accusing.
“I was in a meeting,” he replies, and it’s not kind, it’s not even apologetic.
She doesn’t want one anyway, and her eyebrow lifts for a moment, lips pursing and a smirk appears. “A meeting, I could’ve sworn that’s what this was.”
“This,” he pauses, loosening his cuffs, a smirk of his own on his face. They match, a nearly perfect pair. Ironic. “Is a business function.”
He moves to the far side of the desk, as she folds the newspaper, finished reading the pedantic little snippets of life and culture. Pedestrian, mainstream, and of course, filled with mentions of him. A few of her, namely in the celebrity and gossip section (“Mystery Woman Spotted With Prime Minister” usually or “Evans Makes Promising Announcement At BM Gala; PM to Attend”), nothing really hitting it on the mark. Fools.
Still, with a practiced, flawless motion she sets the artfully folded paper on the heavy wooden desk, enjoying the fact that it’s heavy, large, and definitely sturdy and lets out a sharp laugh.
“Oh right, how could I could I forget?”
He presses his palms to the wood, leaning forward, and part of her is very sickened by the whole thing. The rest of her is thrilled. “How could you not?”
She stands, staring in him in the eyes and the forcefulness of her gaze, the indignant, the almost meanness of it all, would imply that she’s about to storm off. To go right out the door she’s been waiting for him to come bursting through. Instead she grits her teeth, and raises her head definitely and removes her trenchcoat, which was, of course, still buttoned, still waiting, still red.
“Because you’re not that important,” is her answer as it drops to the floor, crumpled heap of nylon and rayon and other things, and she’s still staring as she presses her forearms against the desk, still smirking.
Neither one of them crosses over to the other side, this should be noted. It’s not affectionate, and her slip is something she picked for herself, because like the shoes, those who are the last of their kind (plus their current partner and their former plus one), need a bit of rewarding. Materially. He unbuttons his own shirt, and she gets frustrated, which he knows, and enjoys and she goes after his trousers, right for the button, and then she bites his shoulder.
It all goes down hill from there.
Not that there was an uphill.
“What is it they call you these days? Miss Evans?” he asks casually, as he slides a hand up the inside of her thigh. It’s his turn to be on top, and unlike some, she’s good about respecting the rules of engagement.
“It’s Ms. Surely you’re informed of your voters, Mr Saxon.” She digs a heel into his back, willing to admit that if anything is for him, it would be the red nail varnish on her toes. Nothing else.
Nothing.
“Whatever it is, it’s boring. It doesn’t suit you. It doesn’t break your teeth in half.”
He moves his hand, dropping it back against wood, and going back to using the more, well, primitive methods. All for him, hard and fast, like he’s mining for gold or has been riding Augustine, and her breathing is level, of course, sex only increases one of the two hearts, a bit of the temperature and none of the breathing rate. If one is doing it right. But still her left heart is moving faster, like it should. Bastard. Cocky, on the quid, bastard.
“What you mean you miss the twenty-two letter monosyllabic statosymbollic names? Not nearly enough children like that in Britain to catch your fancy? You forget, Mister Saxon, my name was never your concern. Still isn’t.”
“Miss Evans, as your PM it is my duty to remain concerned, and further more, as the fellow member of your dying race, I feel as if I get a say.”
“I’m not the one who’s dying. And domestic looks ugly on you.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and she can hear his hearts just as clearly as she can hear her own as it’s fast and angry and Rassilon, fuck him, and she keeps her eyes open, banging her head against the wood of the desk as he comes, first, because poor bastard has only that in his existence.
Still, she won’t say that it was bad. It rarely is. He’s been practicing, unlike their triple, probably, and even though he’s finished, could stop at any time and leave her, unsatisfied, just to be a prick (isn’t that what that particular Academy class was good for?), he keeps going.
“I do like this colouring on you. Lovely hair,” he says, smirking and he laughs, manically and that gets her off, light brown curls damp against her neck.
It’s almost ironic.
“I picked it. There’s too much ginger in this universe as is,” she replies, and pushes him up and off her, all force, no kindness, and she sits up, pushing her skirt down.
He smiles.
She smiles.
“Darling,” he says. It’s not affectionate; crazy men are rarely genuine and even less often affectionate.
She kisses him. It’s not affectionate; splintered women just don’t know how.
Instead she stands up on her side of the desk on puts the pins back in her hair, before pulling her coat back on, taking care on the buttons, before turning to watching him as she puts on her shoes. The shoes. He’s not bothering to make much effort to redress. Prime Ministers don’t really have to.
“Master,” she says, checking her face in the compact she pulls from her purse, reapplying her lipstick.
She closes the case with click, and then smiles, blowing him a kiss before walking towards the door.
“See you at the Gala at 8. It’s been a pleasure.”
He calls after her, “It always is, Romana.”
She slams the door. He almost winces.
{Character/Pairing} romana/mr. saxon.
{Rating} mild R
{Word Count} 1310
{Author's Notes} contains spoilers through New Series 03x11. Really. and technically it has old who spoilers, but can you really be spoiled for something that's been out for 35 years? HOWEVER, I wrote the first 1000 words of this back when Smith & Jones aired and was totally spoiler free. I just couldn't be arsed. Don't hate me for my crackpairing.
The heels are something of particular importance to her. Times have been hard on her, she’s war ravaged, and sometimes, she wishes that a certain someone would remember that while is off wooing the hearts of the populace. Usurping the power, getting his hands somewhat dirty for a bloody change.
Surprise, surprise.
They are (the shoes, please try to come back to focus for at least a little while) Jimmy Choo’s, stiletto heels, a nice shade of red and if this had been two centuries in the future the “animals” that would’ve been “killed” to make them would’ve actually been red. None of that matters, as they are still, fabulous shoes, which for the moment distracts her from the fact that he is six minutes, and forty-three point nine seconds late.
Not that she has been counting. Some instincts are just harder to ignore than others.
A sigh rises up and down from chest and she taps those lovely shoes against the tile. How unprofessional. Typical, very typical. This teaches her to makes plans, to have a farce with, well, with him.
Absently, she twists the ring on her finger and wishes that she hadn’t refused the offer of the maid to bring her tea. Tea fixes nearly everything. Not quite, nearly.
It’s then that he comes bursting in, shoving his coat on a some simpering man behind him before slamming the doors shut in the same man’s face. Double doors, heavy wood, that must’ve hurt, and somewhere deep in her head, she winces.
Still, she doesn’t move from her spot, waiting impatiently behind the desk. Not even her expression changes. It’s upset. Annoyed. Perturbed. It knows that he is late and that she has been waiting. Which she has been, which is why the £400 shoes are tapping against tile.
“You’re late,” she says, and even in the emotionless tone of voice, it sounds accusing.
“I was in a meeting,” he replies, and it’s not kind, it’s not even apologetic.
She doesn’t want one anyway, and her eyebrow lifts for a moment, lips pursing and a smirk appears. “A meeting, I could’ve sworn that’s what this was.”
“This,” he pauses, loosening his cuffs, a smirk of his own on his face. They match, a nearly perfect pair. Ironic. “Is a business function.”
He moves to the far side of the desk, as she folds the newspaper, finished reading the pedantic little snippets of life and culture. Pedestrian, mainstream, and of course, filled with mentions of him. A few of her, namely in the celebrity and gossip section (“Mystery Woman Spotted With Prime Minister” usually or “Evans Makes Promising Announcement At BM Gala; PM to Attend”), nothing really hitting it on the mark. Fools.
Still, with a practiced, flawless motion she sets the artfully folded paper on the heavy wooden desk, enjoying the fact that it’s heavy, large, and definitely sturdy and lets out a sharp laugh.
“Oh right, how could I could I forget?”
He presses his palms to the wood, leaning forward, and part of her is very sickened by the whole thing. The rest of her is thrilled. “How could you not?”
She stands, staring in him in the eyes and the forcefulness of her gaze, the indignant, the almost meanness of it all, would imply that she’s about to storm off. To go right out the door she’s been waiting for him to come bursting through. Instead she grits her teeth, and raises her head definitely and removes her trenchcoat, which was, of course, still buttoned, still waiting, still red.
“Because you’re not that important,” is her answer as it drops to the floor, crumpled heap of nylon and rayon and other things, and she’s still staring as she presses her forearms against the desk, still smirking.
Neither one of them crosses over to the other side, this should be noted. It’s not affectionate, and her slip is something she picked for herself, because like the shoes, those who are the last of their kind (plus their current partner and their former plus one), need a bit of rewarding. Materially. He unbuttons his own shirt, and she gets frustrated, which he knows, and enjoys and she goes after his trousers, right for the button, and then she bites his shoulder.
It all goes down hill from there.
Not that there was an uphill.
“What is it they call you these days? Miss Evans?” he asks casually, as he slides a hand up the inside of her thigh. It’s his turn to be on top, and unlike some, she’s good about respecting the rules of engagement.
“It’s Ms. Surely you’re informed of your voters, Mr Saxon.” She digs a heel into his back, willing to admit that if anything is for him, it would be the red nail varnish on her toes. Nothing else.
Nothing.
“Whatever it is, it’s boring. It doesn’t suit you. It doesn’t break your teeth in half.”
He moves his hand, dropping it back against wood, and going back to using the more, well, primitive methods. All for him, hard and fast, like he’s mining for gold or has been riding Augustine, and her breathing is level, of course, sex only increases one of the two hearts, a bit of the temperature and none of the breathing rate. If one is doing it right. But still her left heart is moving faster, like it should. Bastard. Cocky, on the quid, bastard.
“What you mean you miss the twenty-two letter monosyllabic statosymbollic names? Not nearly enough children like that in Britain to catch your fancy? You forget, Mister Saxon, my name was never your concern. Still isn’t.”
“Miss Evans, as your PM it is my duty to remain concerned, and further more, as the fellow member of your dying race, I feel as if I get a say.”
“I’m not the one who’s dying. And domestic looks ugly on you.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, and she can hear his hearts just as clearly as she can hear her own as it’s fast and angry and Rassilon, fuck him, and she keeps her eyes open, banging her head against the wood of the desk as he comes, first, because poor bastard has only that in his existence.
Still, she won’t say that it was bad. It rarely is. He’s been practicing, unlike their triple, probably, and even though he’s finished, could stop at any time and leave her, unsatisfied, just to be a prick (isn’t that what that particular Academy class was good for?), he keeps going.
“I do like this colouring on you. Lovely hair,” he says, smirking and he laughs, manically and that gets her off, light brown curls damp against her neck.
It’s almost ironic.
“I picked it. There’s too much ginger in this universe as is,” she replies, and pushes him up and off her, all force, no kindness, and she sits up, pushing her skirt down.
He smiles.
She smiles.
“Darling,” he says. It’s not affectionate; crazy men are rarely genuine and even less often affectionate.
She kisses him. It’s not affectionate; splintered women just don’t know how.
Instead she stands up on her side of the desk on puts the pins back in her hair, before pulling her coat back on, taking care on the buttons, before turning to watching him as she puts on her shoes. The shoes. He’s not bothering to make much effort to redress. Prime Ministers don’t really have to.
“Master,” she says, checking her face in the compact she pulls from her purse, reapplying her lipstick.
She closes the case with click, and then smiles, blowing him a kiss before walking towards the door.
“See you at the Gala at 8. It’s been a pleasure.”
He calls after her, “It always is, Romana.”
She slams the door. He almost winces.