Fic: ‘Tis the Season: ‘Praying to Santa.’
Title: ‘Tis the Season: Praying to Santa.
Fandom: Doctor Who.
Rating: (G)
Time Period: The first year she expects him for Christmas.
Summary: He’s family.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
This was inspired by the end of The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe. Don’t read further if you’ve not watched The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe; I’d hate to give any kind of spoilers.
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of the BBC & Steven Moffat; I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
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Rory places the fork beside the placemat. “Tell me why I’m doing this,” he asks as he moves around the table.
“He might come,” Amy replies as she walks into the room.
“He hasn’t yet,” Rory reminds her and she shoots him a look, sharp and fierce. “Of course,” Rory hastily amends, “he might.”
“We should be prepared,” she says as she puts the glasses in their places, following him round the table. “You never know.”
He turns, an arm around her shoulder. “He might not come,” he says quietly, gently.
She looks to him, stopping under his arm. “I know,” she whispers. “But he might, Rory, and that’s what counts.” She pauses, biting her lip briefly. “He’s family,” she finally tells him. “We can’t not, Rory. We can’t not.”
Rory nods and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, “should we make sure there’s a cracker next to him?”
“Do we want him to sonic it?”
“Whereupon it might explode. Good point.” Rory puts a knife on the table. “And we know he hates wine,” he says as he moves around the table once more before he looks to his wife. “Did you get the fish fingers?”
“Of course,” she laughs then suddenly stops, clapping a hand to her forehead. “I forgot the custard!”
“I’ll see if there’s a shop open where we can buy some.” He drops the cutlery on the table and brushes past her for his coat. “Be right back,” he calls from the front door and she hears it bang after him.
She kneels, half-set table to one side, and puts her hands together, eyes closed. “Dear Santa,” she begins. “Please let him come, dead or not. Preferably not. He’ll be messy enough as it is.”
Then she opens her eyes, stands and begins to finish setting the table.
Fandom: Doctor Who.
Rating: (G)
Time Period: The first year she expects him for Christmas.
Summary: He’s family.
Author's Note: This is quick ‘n’ dirty (for definition see the F. A. Q.).
This was inspired by the end of The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe. Don’t read further if you’ve not watched The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe; I’d hate to give any kind of spoilers.
Disclaimer
All characters contained herein are the intellectual property of the BBC & Steven Moffat; I am not affiliated with nor endorsed by them.
_______________________
Rory places the fork beside the placemat. “Tell me why I’m doing this,” he asks as he moves around the table.
“He might come,” Amy replies as she walks into the room.
“He hasn’t yet,” Rory reminds her and she shoots him a look, sharp and fierce. “Of course,” Rory hastily amends, “he might.”
“We should be prepared,” she says as she puts the glasses in their places, following him round the table. “You never know.”
He turns, an arm around her shoulder. “He might not come,” he says quietly, gently.
She looks to him, stopping under his arm. “I know,” she whispers. “But he might, Rory, and that’s what counts.” She pauses, biting her lip briefly. “He’s family,” she finally tells him. “We can’t not, Rory. We can’t not.”
Rory nods and clears his throat. “So,” he begins, “should we make sure there’s a cracker next to him?”
“Do we want him to sonic it?”
“Whereupon it might explode. Good point.” Rory puts a knife on the table. “And we know he hates wine,” he says as he moves around the table once more before he looks to his wife. “Did you get the fish fingers?”
“Of course,” she laughs then suddenly stops, clapping a hand to her forehead. “I forgot the custard!”
“I’ll see if there’s a shop open where we can buy some.” He drops the cutlery on the table and brushes past her for his coat. “Be right back,” he calls from the front door and she hears it bang after him.
She kneels, half-set table to one side, and puts her hands together, eyes closed. “Dear Santa,” she begins. “Please let him come, dead or not. Preferably not. He’ll be messy enough as it is.”
Then she opens her eyes, stands and begins to finish setting the table.