Bedtime Story
Title: Bedtime Story
Author: mihane_echo
Rating: Rated F for fluff
Word Count: 1736
Spoilers: Through 4.07 The Unicorn and the Wasp, as well as several SIGNIFICANT hints as to the conclusions of And Then There Were None and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.
Summary: The Doctor and Donna read Agatha Christie together before bed.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it belongs to someone else and I'm borrowing it to play with. I promise I will return them (marginally) unharmed. ;3
Author's Note: FINALLY for the love of all thats rude and ginger, I've finished a fic. Praise be to the responsible deity. It's unbetaed except by myself.
"Ah, here we go!"
With a triumphant laugh, the Doctor pulled a book off the shelf third from the top, and descended his little ladder. It was an older book, hardcover and covered in a dust jacket. On the front the title, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, was clearly displayed. Standing at the base of the ladder was Donna. As lovely a flapper girl she'd made, the Doctor preferred this relaxed, homey Donna; her hair smelled softly of jasmine after her bath and she'd changed into her pajamas for bed. The Doctor liked this particular set best. Yellow striped bottoms and a girlish top with flowers and lace. She had yellow toenails to match.
He set his own bare feet on the floor and then turned to her smartly. "This one. Since you haven't read it yet."
"Thank you," Donna said, watching him warily. The Doctor blinked.
"What?"
"Don't," she warned.
"What??"
She shook a finger at him. "Just don't." And with that, she padded over to the sofa.
They turned the lamps down low for the evening, and the mood was very mellow. After living a murder mystery for real, the last thing Donna had wanted was to read one. Especially after what happened the last time she'd read one with the Doctor. (The man's mouth was too big for his own good.) No, tonight all she'd wanted to do was take a bath and go to bed. But he had insisted.
"Just read me one," he had whined.
"What are you, five?" Donna had rolled her eyes at him. "Doctor, I'm tired. I don't feel like reading, especially not aloud."
He'd smiled at her, that blasted winning smile that she couldn't turn down. "But I love to hear you read."
Which was why she sat curled up on one end of the sofa, her legs drawn up and tucked underneath her; the Doctor lay, stretched out, with his bare feet in her lap. Whenever she read to him, they sat this way. Donna was fond of the position because it enabled her to smack his toes when he interrupted, which was frequently. She also liked it because it was one of the few times he was still. She suspected the Doctor got most of his rest settled on this couch, captivated by her voice. They were safe here, safe and quiet and calm.
"I can't believe you haven't read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It's one of her first." The Doctor leaned his head back against the cushions, getting himself comfortable before Donna began. "One of my favorites."
"Haven't exactly gone out of my way to read everything ever put to page, Spaceman."
"Well, neither have I," he said. Donna raised her eyebrows at him incredulously over the top of the book. He blinked. "What?"
Donna smiled, shook her head and then began to read. "Chapter one: Dr. Sheppard at the Breakfast Table. Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th-17th September-- a Thursday..."
The Doctor interrupted the first time less than twenty pages in.
"Keep an eye on Miss Russell."
"No!" Donna automatically squealed, nearly dropping the book in the rush to cover her ears. She glanced back up at him, saw the mischief and amusement in his dark eyes. She glared at the Doctor from her end of the couch. "Oh, you sneaky little prat! Don't you dare ruin this one for me like you did the other!"
He had the gall to look offended. "I didn't ruin the other--"
"Yes, you did!"
"Right, I didn't mean to ruin the other, let's put it like that." He smiled placatingly at her. "All I said was, 'Philip was right.'"
"Before I'd read the end! Guess how surprised I wasn't when it turned out he was right!"
"I seem to recall you marching into the console room, waving the book at me and yelling, 'See? He's dead! There's no way Philip was right!'" The Doctor chuckled in fond recollection. "It was really funny, actually."
Sure that he wouldn't say anything else to incriminate or clear the fictitious Miss Russell, Donna waggled a finger at him. "I'm not playing with you, alien boy. Don't spoil this for me."
"I didn't say anything," the Doctor said, his tone teasing. "Nothing important, anyway."
"Well, just you keep it that way." She retrieved her page and continued reading.
The Time Lord interjected again only a few pages after that, and before he even finished his sentence, Donna had smacked his toes.
"Ow! Oi, don't start with the hitting again--"
"Then stop interrupting me," commanded Donna. "You're the one that wanted me to read, so let me read."
The Doctor looked a little flush, beaming that wide grin at her again. "Okay, but... You're not reading Poirot right."
"Oh no," Donna said. She shook her head vehemently. "Not again."
"Oh c'mon!" He wiggled his toes, nudging her arm affectionately. "I love your little Poirot voice."
"It's embarrassing."
"So what? It's just you and me!"
Donna sighed. Who could argue with that? Poirot voice, indeed. He was such a little boy sometimes. She picked up again, this time reading Poirot's parts with a terrible --she felt-- French accent, but to which the Doctor listened with an ever-present grin. The next few hours passed with almost no interruptions, the only sounds being Donna's voice and the careful turn of the page. As the plot slowly thickened, Donna kept making little noises --Mhm. Ooh. Uh-oh-- as she read, depositing in the back corner of her mind details of note to recall later.
After about four hours, they were more than three-quarters in and the oohs and uh-ohs had become gasps of surprise and long sighs. The Doctor had lifted his head now, arms crossed over his chest as he listened with rapt attention. He wished Donna could see herself reading, the way he saw her. There was a little flush of excitement in her cheeks, a distant attentiveness as her eyes; even as she read aloud, it was clear she was enjoying the story on her own account as well. And she was very theatric, reading with great gusto and matching the tone whenever she could. She whispered during quiet moments and yelled when the characters yelled. For all her embarrassment, once she got into it, she was extraordinary.
They were nearly at the end, only a few pages to go, when she suddenly gasped at the return of a previously missing character.
"Oh my god!"
"I know," the Doctor said. "Surprise, he's been in the asylum all this time."
"No, not that."
"What then?"
Donna's cheeks colored, out of excitement, surprise, frustration. "The narrator is a lying scumbag!"
The Doctor laughed mirthfully. "Well, yes, that's the point, I believe."
"No, but... That isn't even the littlest bit fair! How am I expected to try and figure out who's killed the man if the narrator isn't telling us everything?"
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. It'd been obvious to him; after all, there were giant discrepancies in Sheppard's story, and it was often made mention (always by someone else) of him going somewhere he himself hadn't mentioned. It was easy to suspect him once you realized he was omitting his own actions from the story half the time.
But the Doctor didn't say this to Donna. Instead, he said, "You can't just read it to enjoy being fooled?"
"No!" She looked indignant. "Not when you're travelling with an alien who thinks he knows everything," Donna remarked snarkily. "I've got to keep on my toes or otherwise, before I know it, I'll have willfully and unknowingly wandered into the den of some pig-wolf who wants to eat me and instead of saving me, you're going to cut back to this moment and go, Now why did I ever keep her around, she couldn't even figure out who killed Roger Ackroyd."
The Doctor didn't know whether to laugh very, very hard, or stifle it out of discretion for her obviously deep concerns on the matter. He chose to laugh. "Donna Noble, you have the most amazing imagination."
Donna rolled her eyes. "Why? Are you telling me there're no pig-wolves looking for ginger dinner?"
The Doctor wiggled his toes again, giving her arm another nudge. "No. For thinking for a moment I've ever wondered why I keep you around. I know why I keep you around, thank you very much."
Donna turned her beautiful, indignant eyes on him. "Oh yeah? Why, exactly?"
He grinned. "Because you're brilliant."
There was just a moment's blush, and a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. Then she snorted, shaking her hair off her shoulder. "Oh yeah, I'm brilliant all right. Kissing a man who tasted like walnuts and anchovies... That's smarts." She leaned back into the cushions again, smirking to herself at the way the Doctor glanced away bashfully. She sighed. "I should've just set your pants on fire."
The Doctor abruptly pulled his legs away as if to protect his pants from Donna's wrath. His head seemed to be shaking of its own accord. "Uhm, no. No, no. How would that have done me any good?"
"Woulda done me some," Donna said. "I still can't get the anchovy taste out of my mouth."
There was a beat, and Donna looked up at him curiously; it wasn't often he hushed so simply. The Doctor was studying her face, his gaze tender, longing. As though he were considering... something. And then his eyes flickered briefly to her lips, and she knew what he was considering. For a moment Donna felt that if she had a little less inhibition, she might've taken advantage of that look. Of that desire. Pulled him to her, kiss his mouth, find which part of the exchange earlier had been the Doctor's own distinct taste and which had been proteins and salt.
But she didn't. And he didn't. It was better this way, wasn't it? Just friends. Best mates. Partners.
The awkward moment passed and Donna settled back against the cushions. The Doctor stretched out once more, plopping his long legs onto her lap; affectionately, Donna caught his toes and shook them. She smiled at him, and he returned it. Then she opened the book where they'd left off and continued reading.
"It was a very uncomfortable minute for me. I hardly took in what happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise..."
end
Followed by Borderline
Author: mihane_echo
Rating: Rated F for fluff
Word Count: 1736
Spoilers: Through 4.07 The Unicorn and the Wasp, as well as several SIGNIFICANT hints as to the conclusions of And Then There Were None and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.
Summary: The Doctor and Donna read Agatha Christie together before bed.
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it belongs to someone else and I'm borrowing it to play with. I promise I will return them (marginally) unharmed. ;3
Author's Note: FINALLY for the love of all thats rude and ginger, I've finished a fic. Praise be to the responsible deity. It's unbetaed except by myself.
"Ah, here we go!"
With a triumphant laugh, the Doctor pulled a book off the shelf third from the top, and descended his little ladder. It was an older book, hardcover and covered in a dust jacket. On the front the title, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, was clearly displayed. Standing at the base of the ladder was Donna. As lovely a flapper girl she'd made, the Doctor preferred this relaxed, homey Donna; her hair smelled softly of jasmine after her bath and she'd changed into her pajamas for bed. The Doctor liked this particular set best. Yellow striped bottoms and a girlish top with flowers and lace. She had yellow toenails to match.
He set his own bare feet on the floor and then turned to her smartly. "This one. Since you haven't read it yet."
"Thank you," Donna said, watching him warily. The Doctor blinked.
"What?"
"Don't," she warned.
"What??"
She shook a finger at him. "Just don't." And with that, she padded over to the sofa.
They turned the lamps down low for the evening, and the mood was very mellow. After living a murder mystery for real, the last thing Donna had wanted was to read one. Especially after what happened the last time she'd read one with the Doctor. (The man's mouth was too big for his own good.) No, tonight all she'd wanted to do was take a bath and go to bed. But he had insisted.
"Just read me one," he had whined.
"What are you, five?" Donna had rolled her eyes at him. "Doctor, I'm tired. I don't feel like reading, especially not aloud."
He'd smiled at her, that blasted winning smile that she couldn't turn down. "But I love to hear you read."
Which was why she sat curled up on one end of the sofa, her legs drawn up and tucked underneath her; the Doctor lay, stretched out, with his bare feet in her lap. Whenever she read to him, they sat this way. Donna was fond of the position because it enabled her to smack his toes when he interrupted, which was frequently. She also liked it because it was one of the few times he was still. She suspected the Doctor got most of his rest settled on this couch, captivated by her voice. They were safe here, safe and quiet and calm.
"I can't believe you haven't read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It's one of her first." The Doctor leaned his head back against the cushions, getting himself comfortable before Donna began. "One of my favorites."
"Haven't exactly gone out of my way to read everything ever put to page, Spaceman."
"Well, neither have I," he said. Donna raised her eyebrows at him incredulously over the top of the book. He blinked. "What?"
Donna smiled, shook her head and then began to read. "Chapter one: Dr. Sheppard at the Breakfast Table. Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th-17th September-- a Thursday..."
The Doctor interrupted the first time less than twenty pages in.
"Keep an eye on Miss Russell."
"No!" Donna automatically squealed, nearly dropping the book in the rush to cover her ears. She glanced back up at him, saw the mischief and amusement in his dark eyes. She glared at the Doctor from her end of the couch. "Oh, you sneaky little prat! Don't you dare ruin this one for me like you did the other!"
He had the gall to look offended. "I didn't ruin the other--"
"Yes, you did!"
"Right, I didn't mean to ruin the other, let's put it like that." He smiled placatingly at her. "All I said was, 'Philip was right.'"
"Before I'd read the end! Guess how surprised I wasn't when it turned out he was right!"
"I seem to recall you marching into the console room, waving the book at me and yelling, 'See? He's dead! There's no way Philip was right!'" The Doctor chuckled in fond recollection. "It was really funny, actually."
Sure that he wouldn't say anything else to incriminate or clear the fictitious Miss Russell, Donna waggled a finger at him. "I'm not playing with you, alien boy. Don't spoil this for me."
"I didn't say anything," the Doctor said, his tone teasing. "Nothing important, anyway."
"Well, just you keep it that way." She retrieved her page and continued reading.
The Time Lord interjected again only a few pages after that, and before he even finished his sentence, Donna had smacked his toes.
"Ow! Oi, don't start with the hitting again--"
"Then stop interrupting me," commanded Donna. "You're the one that wanted me to read, so let me read."
The Doctor looked a little flush, beaming that wide grin at her again. "Okay, but... You're not reading Poirot right."
"Oh no," Donna said. She shook her head vehemently. "Not again."
"Oh c'mon!" He wiggled his toes, nudging her arm affectionately. "I love your little Poirot voice."
"It's embarrassing."
"So what? It's just you and me!"
Donna sighed. Who could argue with that? Poirot voice, indeed. He was such a little boy sometimes. She picked up again, this time reading Poirot's parts with a terrible --she felt-- French accent, but to which the Doctor listened with an ever-present grin. The next few hours passed with almost no interruptions, the only sounds being Donna's voice and the careful turn of the page. As the plot slowly thickened, Donna kept making little noises --Mhm. Ooh. Uh-oh-- as she read, depositing in the back corner of her mind details of note to recall later.
After about four hours, they were more than three-quarters in and the oohs and uh-ohs had become gasps of surprise and long sighs. The Doctor had lifted his head now, arms crossed over his chest as he listened with rapt attention. He wished Donna could see herself reading, the way he saw her. There was a little flush of excitement in her cheeks, a distant attentiveness as her eyes; even as she read aloud, it was clear she was enjoying the story on her own account as well. And she was very theatric, reading with great gusto and matching the tone whenever she could. She whispered during quiet moments and yelled when the characters yelled. For all her embarrassment, once she got into it, she was extraordinary.
They were nearly at the end, only a few pages to go, when she suddenly gasped at the return of a previously missing character.
"Oh my god!"
"I know," the Doctor said. "Surprise, he's been in the asylum all this time."
"No, not that."
"What then?"
Donna's cheeks colored, out of excitement, surprise, frustration. "The narrator is a lying scumbag!"
The Doctor laughed mirthfully. "Well, yes, that's the point, I believe."
"No, but... That isn't even the littlest bit fair! How am I expected to try and figure out who's killed the man if the narrator isn't telling us everything?"
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. It'd been obvious to him; after all, there were giant discrepancies in Sheppard's story, and it was often made mention (always by someone else) of him going somewhere he himself hadn't mentioned. It was easy to suspect him once you realized he was omitting his own actions from the story half the time.
But the Doctor didn't say this to Donna. Instead, he said, "You can't just read it to enjoy being fooled?"
"No!" She looked indignant. "Not when you're travelling with an alien who thinks he knows everything," Donna remarked snarkily. "I've got to keep on my toes or otherwise, before I know it, I'll have willfully and unknowingly wandered into the den of some pig-wolf who wants to eat me and instead of saving me, you're going to cut back to this moment and go, Now why did I ever keep her around, she couldn't even figure out who killed Roger Ackroyd."
The Doctor didn't know whether to laugh very, very hard, or stifle it out of discretion for her obviously deep concerns on the matter. He chose to laugh. "Donna Noble, you have the most amazing imagination."
Donna rolled her eyes. "Why? Are you telling me there're no pig-wolves looking for ginger dinner?"
The Doctor wiggled his toes again, giving her arm another nudge. "No. For thinking for a moment I've ever wondered why I keep you around. I know why I keep you around, thank you very much."
Donna turned her beautiful, indignant eyes on him. "Oh yeah? Why, exactly?"
He grinned. "Because you're brilliant."
There was just a moment's blush, and a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. Then she snorted, shaking her hair off her shoulder. "Oh yeah, I'm brilliant all right. Kissing a man who tasted like walnuts and anchovies... That's smarts." She leaned back into the cushions again, smirking to herself at the way the Doctor glanced away bashfully. She sighed. "I should've just set your pants on fire."
The Doctor abruptly pulled his legs away as if to protect his pants from Donna's wrath. His head seemed to be shaking of its own accord. "Uhm, no. No, no. How would that have done me any good?"
"Woulda done me some," Donna said. "I still can't get the anchovy taste out of my mouth."
There was a beat, and Donna looked up at him curiously; it wasn't often he hushed so simply. The Doctor was studying her face, his gaze tender, longing. As though he were considering... something. And then his eyes flickered briefly to her lips, and she knew what he was considering. For a moment Donna felt that if she had a little less inhibition, she might've taken advantage of that look. Of that desire. Pulled him to her, kiss his mouth, find which part of the exchange earlier had been the Doctor's own distinct taste and which had been proteins and salt.
But she didn't. And he didn't. It was better this way, wasn't it? Just friends. Best mates. Partners.
The awkward moment passed and Donna settled back against the cushions. The Doctor stretched out once more, plopping his long legs onto her lap; affectionately, Donna caught his toes and shook them. She smiled at him, and he returned it. Then she opened the book where they'd left off and continued reading.
"It was a very uncomfortable minute for me. I hardly took in what happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise..."
end
Followed by Borderline