Lost crossover fic: The Boy Under the Bed
Disclaimer: So incredibly not mine.
Warnings: Crossover. Lost spoilers through "Confidence Man," Doctor Who spoilers through "The Girl in the Fireplace."
Author's notes: In case it wasn't obvious from the warning, I am completely insane. I want to say Lost fans should just read it anyway, but honestly, it probably won't even make sense to viewers of both series. (Oh, and it's not that Rose, it's this Rose, in case that needed saying.) Using for fanfic100 #10, Years.
The Boy Under the Bed
by eponine119
May 12, 2006
There's a man in the room. For a moment, he thinks it is his father. Except his father is still sitting on the bed.
White tennis shoes. Moving closer. He isn't alone anymore. He pushes himself tighter into the corner. The wall feels hard against his spine. He squeezes his eyes closed so he wouldn't see the man in the room. If he keeps his eyes closed long enough, maybe the man will go away.
He can feel the man's eyes on him. Hear the soft exhalation of his breath. He thinks he might die of terror, in that moment, before panic forces him to open his eyes.
The man is not a monster. He has brown eyes and freckles across his nose. He doesn't say a word, just holds out his hands.
…
Once in the jungle he saw a man wearing white tennis shoes with a suit. But it wasn't him. It was just Jack's dead dad running around again. A figment of someone else's imagination.
…
"What is this place?" Rose asked as they wandered through the silent halls.
"It's him," the Doctor says. "Step through any of these doors and you'll be inside his world. His life. Or stand out here, where it's safe, and just observe."
"Why?" Rose asks. She turns round as they walk, taking in all the doors, all the windows.
"Why not?" the Doctor asks. He puts his hand on the knob of one of the doors, without even peering through the window first to see where he'll end up. Before Rose can protest, the door's open. A great gust of wind rushes past them, and when Rose opens her eyes again, they're on a plane.
"You'll have to take your seats," a flight attendant says as she brushes past them, chasing someone down the aisle. Rose and the Doctor look at each other. There are two empty seats right here and the plane shudders with violent turbulence, so they sit down. Rose reaches instinctively for the seatbelt. The Doctor looks around as though he loves it, the chaos all around them. He puts his arm down on the rest between them and Rose threads her fingers through his. She loves the chaos, too, just a bit.
There's a man across the aisle from them. Dark blond hair hangs down into eyes that widen slightly with the horror of recognition when he notices them sitting there.
"Do you know him?" Rose whispers, but she never receives her answer because in that moment, the plane goes straight to hell. There's an incredible burst of turbulence, and from behind them comes the scream of wrenching metal. Wind blows past them again and the oxygen masks drop. Rose's hand tightens on the Doctor's because the back half of the plane is simply gone.
For twenty or thirty seconds, they seem to float there. The plane remains aloft as though it intends to stay there, keep flying. With a sickening lurch, they start to fall. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.
There is delight in the Doctor's scream. Horrifying as that is to Rose, it doesn't compare to the look in the blond man's eyes, the way they remain fixed on the Doctor's face. He looks like he thinks he deserves this.
Rose tears her hand away from the Doctor's and it all stops. They're back in the spaceship, safe on solid ground, not falling anymore. Rose's face burns because the Doctor is still smiling like a child who's done a clever trick. "Why?" she demands, low.
"Why not?" he answers, and she sees it now. The darkness just below the surface. The thing that both attracts and repels her.
"Because they all died!" She stares at him, waiting for it to click. Waiting for some sign he gets it.
"No, they didn't," he says, and moves along to the next window. The plane is there, what's left of it, on a beach with lush jungle behind it. People are running back and forth. Someone is screaming in horror, a girl, Rose sees, a girl who reminds her in some way of herself. And right in the middle of it, stunned, his hands shaking as he struggles to light a cigarette, is the blond man who knew the doctor. "See that? Right as rain."
"You don't just make a theme park out of a man's life!" Rose cries, staring at them all. She wants to look away but she can't. It's too real and too fascinating.
"Not a theme park," the Doctor says. "More of a living history museum. A tribute."
"No," says Rose, and she will keep saying it as long as is necessary. Except now the Doctor's looking at her like she's a child who's incapable of understanding, and it infuriates her.
"Perhaps you'd better go back," he says. "Wait for me in the TARDIS. I won't be long."
She wants to refuse. Stand her ground. She is his partner in this adventure, in this trip across the galaxy. She wants to see everything he can show her. He can't dismiss her like this. But in the window behind her, the girl is still screaming, and Rose nods silently. She wants to walk away slowly, with her shoulders stiff and her head up, but she breaks into a run despite herself, and feels ashamed.
…
The second time he sees the man with the white tennis shoes, he's nineteen years old. It's an ozone-scented night early in summer and he's just stared down the barrel of a gun and lived to tell about it.
Next time he won't be so lucky. Six thousand bucks, what a waste. He can't die over six thousand bucks. Not after everything he's lived through.
So he sits in this bar trying not to be afraid, waiting for the answer to come to him. He's not drunk enough yet. Then the man with the white tennis shoes is sitting on the barstool next to him, and he thinks maybe he never will be drunk enough.
He swallows another shot before he can find the courage to speak. "Are you real?" he asks, and the words are too earnest in his mouth, even as the liquor tugs at the consonants, pulling them out of his control. He digs his hand through his hair, because he knows the man isn't real. He's a figment from his tortured past, one he's worked very hard to put out of his mind.
This man sat with him in his bedroom. Held him until someone came. It won't be okay, he said, but you'll live. There'll be days you wish you didn't, but you'll live. You'll live.
"Why're you here?" he asks.
"Why not," the man says. There's a storm brewing on his face, but then he blinks and it clears for a moment. "I just wanted to meet you, Sawyer," he says. He slides off the barstool and slinks back through the door.
Sawyer! He's on his feet in a flash, hand in his pocket for the letter. But the floor tilts and as he sways, reality sinks in. It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't him. He's drunk enough he's seen the boogeyman, the boogeyman who is once again his savior.
He knows how to get the six grand to save his life. Sawyer is the answer. There was never any other choice for him. He can see that clearly now.
…
That first night, when they hear the monster for the first time even though they don't know yet what it is, the sound is familiar and yet disturbing to them.
"I know I've heard it before," someone says.
Sawyer listens to them speculate but doesn't say a word. He recognizes the sound, but there's no way he can tell them what it is. He can't tell them it's the sound he heard echoing in his ears in the silence after the gunshot. It's a deep throb, it's blood rushing in your ears, it's pure unescapable terror. It's the sound of the boogeyman coming, even if the boogeyman turns out to wear white tennis shoes and whisper in your ear so you're not alone anymore.
…
In the end, Rose is back by the Doctor's side. They stand in front of the window, and she says, "You never told me who he was. Is. Was?" That's the thing about time: it bends.
"He's just a man," the Doctor says.
"He's not special? Got a museum, he must be special." Rose cocks her head as she looks at him. "He looks special."
He can't tell her this is the boy under the bed. It would mean nothing to her. He didn't save the world that time. Just one small child, that's all. "Bit old for you, don't you think?"
"Nine hundred years old and you're not?" Rose teases him.
"You never look at me like that," the Doctor points out.
"You're looking at him too," Rose scoffs.
"Am not," the Doctor protests, except he is and he knows it. But not the same way Rose is looking. He's held this man's hands in his, when they were soft and small because he was just a boy. A lonely, scared little boy who'd just lost his parents. Something the Doctor could relate to in his own sad little way. So when Rose takes his hand in hers, he holds on very tight.
…
end.
Warnings: Crossover. Lost spoilers through "Confidence Man," Doctor Who spoilers through "The Girl in the Fireplace."
Author's notes: In case it wasn't obvious from the warning, I am completely insane. I want to say Lost fans should just read it anyway, but honestly, it probably won't even make sense to viewers of both series. (Oh, and it's not that Rose, it's this Rose, in case that needed saying.) Using for fanfic100 #10, Years.
The Boy Under the Bed
by eponine119
May 12, 2006
There's a man in the room. For a moment, he thinks it is his father. Except his father is still sitting on the bed.
White tennis shoes. Moving closer. He isn't alone anymore. He pushes himself tighter into the corner. The wall feels hard against his spine. He squeezes his eyes closed so he wouldn't see the man in the room. If he keeps his eyes closed long enough, maybe the man will go away.
He can feel the man's eyes on him. Hear the soft exhalation of his breath. He thinks he might die of terror, in that moment, before panic forces him to open his eyes.
The man is not a monster. He has brown eyes and freckles across his nose. He doesn't say a word, just holds out his hands.
…
Once in the jungle he saw a man wearing white tennis shoes with a suit. But it wasn't him. It was just Jack's dead dad running around again. A figment of someone else's imagination.
…
"What is this place?" Rose asked as they wandered through the silent halls.
"It's him," the Doctor says. "Step through any of these doors and you'll be inside his world. His life. Or stand out here, where it's safe, and just observe."
"Why?" Rose asks. She turns round as they walk, taking in all the doors, all the windows.
"Why not?" the Doctor asks. He puts his hand on the knob of one of the doors, without even peering through the window first to see where he'll end up. Before Rose can protest, the door's open. A great gust of wind rushes past them, and when Rose opens her eyes again, they're on a plane.
"You'll have to take your seats," a flight attendant says as she brushes past them, chasing someone down the aisle. Rose and the Doctor look at each other. There are two empty seats right here and the plane shudders with violent turbulence, so they sit down. Rose reaches instinctively for the seatbelt. The Doctor looks around as though he loves it, the chaos all around them. He puts his arm down on the rest between them and Rose threads her fingers through his. She loves the chaos, too, just a bit.
There's a man across the aisle from them. Dark blond hair hangs down into eyes that widen slightly with the horror of recognition when he notices them sitting there.
"Do you know him?" Rose whispers, but she never receives her answer because in that moment, the plane goes straight to hell. There's an incredible burst of turbulence, and from behind them comes the scream of wrenching metal. Wind blows past them again and the oxygen masks drop. Rose's hand tightens on the Doctor's because the back half of the plane is simply gone.
For twenty or thirty seconds, they seem to float there. The plane remains aloft as though it intends to stay there, keep flying. With a sickening lurch, they start to fall. Slowly at first, then picking up speed.
There is delight in the Doctor's scream. Horrifying as that is to Rose, it doesn't compare to the look in the blond man's eyes, the way they remain fixed on the Doctor's face. He looks like he thinks he deserves this.
Rose tears her hand away from the Doctor's and it all stops. They're back in the spaceship, safe on solid ground, not falling anymore. Rose's face burns because the Doctor is still smiling like a child who's done a clever trick. "Why?" she demands, low.
"Why not?" he answers, and she sees it now. The darkness just below the surface. The thing that both attracts and repels her.
"Because they all died!" She stares at him, waiting for it to click. Waiting for some sign he gets it.
"No, they didn't," he says, and moves along to the next window. The plane is there, what's left of it, on a beach with lush jungle behind it. People are running back and forth. Someone is screaming in horror, a girl, Rose sees, a girl who reminds her in some way of herself. And right in the middle of it, stunned, his hands shaking as he struggles to light a cigarette, is the blond man who knew the doctor. "See that? Right as rain."
"You don't just make a theme park out of a man's life!" Rose cries, staring at them all. She wants to look away but she can't. It's too real and too fascinating.
"Not a theme park," the Doctor says. "More of a living history museum. A tribute."
"No," says Rose, and she will keep saying it as long as is necessary. Except now the Doctor's looking at her like she's a child who's incapable of understanding, and it infuriates her.
"Perhaps you'd better go back," he says. "Wait for me in the TARDIS. I won't be long."
She wants to refuse. Stand her ground. She is his partner in this adventure, in this trip across the galaxy. She wants to see everything he can show her. He can't dismiss her like this. But in the window behind her, the girl is still screaming, and Rose nods silently. She wants to walk away slowly, with her shoulders stiff and her head up, but she breaks into a run despite herself, and feels ashamed.
…
The second time he sees the man with the white tennis shoes, he's nineteen years old. It's an ozone-scented night early in summer and he's just stared down the barrel of a gun and lived to tell about it.
Next time he won't be so lucky. Six thousand bucks, what a waste. He can't die over six thousand bucks. Not after everything he's lived through.
So he sits in this bar trying not to be afraid, waiting for the answer to come to him. He's not drunk enough yet. Then the man with the white tennis shoes is sitting on the barstool next to him, and he thinks maybe he never will be drunk enough.
He swallows another shot before he can find the courage to speak. "Are you real?" he asks, and the words are too earnest in his mouth, even as the liquor tugs at the consonants, pulling them out of his control. He digs his hand through his hair, because he knows the man isn't real. He's a figment from his tortured past, one he's worked very hard to put out of his mind.
This man sat with him in his bedroom. Held him until someone came. It won't be okay, he said, but you'll live. There'll be days you wish you didn't, but you'll live. You'll live.
"Why're you here?" he asks.
"Why not," the man says. There's a storm brewing on his face, but then he blinks and it clears for a moment. "I just wanted to meet you, Sawyer," he says. He slides off the barstool and slinks back through the door.
Sawyer! He's on his feet in a flash, hand in his pocket for the letter. But the floor tilts and as he sways, reality sinks in. It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't him. He's drunk enough he's seen the boogeyman, the boogeyman who is once again his savior.
He knows how to get the six grand to save his life. Sawyer is the answer. There was never any other choice for him. He can see that clearly now.
…
That first night, when they hear the monster for the first time even though they don't know yet what it is, the sound is familiar and yet disturbing to them.
"I know I've heard it before," someone says.
Sawyer listens to them speculate but doesn't say a word. He recognizes the sound, but there's no way he can tell them what it is. He can't tell them it's the sound he heard echoing in his ears in the silence after the gunshot. It's a deep throb, it's blood rushing in your ears, it's pure unescapable terror. It's the sound of the boogeyman coming, even if the boogeyman turns out to wear white tennis shoes and whisper in your ear so you're not alone anymore.
…
In the end, Rose is back by the Doctor's side. They stand in front of the window, and she says, "You never told me who he was. Is. Was?" That's the thing about time: it bends.
"He's just a man," the Doctor says.
"He's not special? Got a museum, he must be special." Rose cocks her head as she looks at him. "He looks special."
He can't tell her this is the boy under the bed. It would mean nothing to her. He didn't save the world that time. Just one small child, that's all. "Bit old for you, don't you think?"
"Nine hundred years old and you're not?" Rose teases him.
"You never look at me like that," the Doctor points out.
"You're looking at him too," Rose scoffs.
"Am not," the Doctor protests, except he is and he knows it. But not the same way Rose is looking. He's held this man's hands in his, when they were soft and small because he was just a boy. A lonely, scared little boy who'd just lost his parents. Something the Doctor could relate to in his own sad little way. So when Rose takes his hand in hers, he holds on very tight.
…
end.