(no subject)
Title: Chasing a Destiny Calling
Fandom: Doctor Who (8th Doctor, novel continuity, Fitz)
Pairing: 8th Doctor, Fitz. Gen. (slash if you squint)
Word Count: 1,118
Synopsis: The Doctor takes Fitz to a show.
Notes: This is what happens when I pay too much attention to velvet jackets and music history.
Chasing a Destiny Calling
Fitz was generally bewildered by the Doctor’s choice of stops, and so he usually tried his best not to think about them at all. However, it was difficult when the Doctor bustled about with an air of suppressed excitement even more acute that usual.
“Are you coming, Fitz?” The Doctor’s hopeful voice preceded the curly head around the frame of Fitz’s bedroom door.
“Coming where?” Fitz asked, already getting his jacket.
He followed the Doctor out of the TARDIS and into a narrow street he guessed was probably somewhere in Central London. The Doctor smiled at him, and spread his arms out expansively in a theatrical welcoming gesture.
“November the twelfth, 1973-” the Doctor began.
“Of course, November. That explains why it’s so bloody freezing.”
“1973,” the Doctor said again, rather more forcefully, “And we are going to what will be called the Lyceum Theatre.”
Fitz pulled a face.
“Theatre? Doctor-“
“Ah!” The Doctor held up a silencing finger, “I am ensuring your continued cultural education. Besides, I think you’ll actually enjoy this.”
“I haven’t enjoyed a play since Ted Brown flicked snot at me during our school trip to see ‘Hamlet’ in fourth form.”
The Doctor forbore from further comment, but gave a snort of amusement before turning his back on Fitz and setting off into the crowd, rightly assuming that his companion would follow. They emerged from a side-road on to Wellington Street, and could immediately see the Lyceum ahead. Its imposing columns were hung with colourful posters and banners, and Fitz immediately turned an accusing stare on the Doctor.
“It says ‘Ballroom and Dance Hall’.” Fitz glared harder. “I don’t know if I’m angrier that you’ve brought me to a dance hall when you know I can’t dance to save my life; or that you let me think you were going to make me sit through a play.”
The Doctor didn’t really seem to be listening, since he was investigating the front of the theatre with interest. However, he turned back to Fitz with the bright smile that worked on Fitz without fail.
“All I said was that it will be called the Lyceum Theatre. In any case, I think you’ll be hard-pressed to be able to dance in there tonight.”
“I’d be hard-pressed to be able to dance anywhere,” said Fitz, bitterly.
The Doctor had returned to his examination of the imposing building, and when he next spoke, he did so without looking round.
“The doors aren’t open yet. We must have arrived a little early.”
“Early for what?”
The Doctor turned sparkling eyes on him, and in a tone of glee, announced, “For the concert!”
“Oh, God,” Fitz groaned, “A concert. That’s even worse than a play.”
“Let’s go to the pub,” the Doctor suggested.
Fitz trailed the Doctor across the road and into the nearest pub, bright with a welcoming light in the cold dampness of the November evening. He stopped dead in the doorway as he realised that not one of the patrons had turned to stare at their clothes, nor were any of them steadfastly pretending that he and the Doctor did not exist. It was distinctly unnerving, and he found himself hovering anxiously by the Doctor’s elbow as his friend tried to order the drinks.
The Doctor carried the drinks, one in each hand, over to a side table; the corner of a bag of crisps trapped between two spare fingers. Fitz sidled along with him, keeping his eyes fixed uneasily on the smartly-dressed young men who seemed to be filling the bar with chattering, excited energy.
“Have a pint,” the Doctor said. Fitz took it without arguing and took a deep draught. The taste was so dreadful that he instantly started spluttering, finally attracting the attention of the pair sitting at the next table.
“What is this?” Fitz demanded, when he’d finally managed to get the lager out of his lungs.
“It’s just what everyone else is drinking.”
“Who are these people, anyway?”
“I believe you would call them ‘Mods’. But-”
“Mods?” Fitz dropped his voice to a horrified whisper, “You brought me to a Mod pub? Well, that explains why we don’t stand out as much as usual.”
“As you can see, they’ve mellowed somewhat since 1963. And it’s not technically a Mod pub,” said the Doctor, conversationally. He opened the bag of crisps and began to eat them, noisily.
“It’s a pub full of Mods,” Fitz said, “I think that qualifies it as a Mod pub.”
“It’s an artifact of the temporal location,” the Doctor said, with dignity. “Crisp?”
“No, thank you,” Fitz replied distractedly, “So what you’re saying is, we happen to be here on the only bloody day ever that this pub has been taken over by a vicious gang of thugs?” Fitz was worried he might have been becoming hysterical. It was one of those things that happened when he was in mortal fear.
“Interesting origin, that word has, did you know? ‘Thug’ from the Sanskrit ‘sthaga’ meaning thief or villain. The things you learn from listening to Radio 4…” The Doctor continued to eat the crisps, examining the packet critically.
“… and since Mods aren’t known for their love of Beethoven, I take it this isn’t a classical concert after all.”
“Not classical for the 1970s, I admit. I wouldn’t like to speak for later generations.”
“So who are we going to see?”
“A rock band I rather like. Shame you missed them. They became quite well known in 1964. This is a particularly good year for them, I checked.”
The crowd in the bar began to stir and rise, and the Doctor craned his neck to look out of the window. The hubbub built to an excited chatter, and a trickle of people began to leave the pub and head towards the Lyceum.
“Ah, we seem to have movement.”
They got to their feet, leaving the barely touched pints of lager forlornly foaming on the table.
Fitz could see now, as they approached the venue from this new angle, that the banners held the name of the band that they were going to see. They read, in large, black capitals “PETE TOWNSHEND AND THE WHO”.
The Doctor caught his arm, and blasted him with another of his brilliant smiles.
“You’re going to love it, Fitz. Trust me.”
The beaming grin shone on him for a second longer, and then the Doctor was off, mingling perfectly with the Mods in their velvet and mohair suits, their tight jeans, clipped or curled hair and their pointed shoes. Fitz smiled and shook his head.
“I always do trust you, Doctor.”
He set off into the crowd, once more following the well known velvet coat-tails.
Fandom: Doctor Who (8th Doctor, novel continuity, Fitz)
Pairing: 8th Doctor, Fitz. Gen. (slash if you squint)
Word Count: 1,118
Synopsis: The Doctor takes Fitz to a show.
Notes: This is what happens when I pay too much attention to velvet jackets and music history.
Chasing a Destiny Calling
Fitz was generally bewildered by the Doctor’s choice of stops, and so he usually tried his best not to think about them at all. However, it was difficult when the Doctor bustled about with an air of suppressed excitement even more acute that usual.
“Are you coming, Fitz?” The Doctor’s hopeful voice preceded the curly head around the frame of Fitz’s bedroom door.
“Coming where?” Fitz asked, already getting his jacket.
He followed the Doctor out of the TARDIS and into a narrow street he guessed was probably somewhere in Central London. The Doctor smiled at him, and spread his arms out expansively in a theatrical welcoming gesture.
“November the twelfth, 1973-” the Doctor began.
“Of course, November. That explains why it’s so bloody freezing.”
“1973,” the Doctor said again, rather more forcefully, “And we are going to what will be called the Lyceum Theatre.”
Fitz pulled a face.
“Theatre? Doctor-“
“Ah!” The Doctor held up a silencing finger, “I am ensuring your continued cultural education. Besides, I think you’ll actually enjoy this.”
“I haven’t enjoyed a play since Ted Brown flicked snot at me during our school trip to see ‘Hamlet’ in fourth form.”
The Doctor forbore from further comment, but gave a snort of amusement before turning his back on Fitz and setting off into the crowd, rightly assuming that his companion would follow. They emerged from a side-road on to Wellington Street, and could immediately see the Lyceum ahead. Its imposing columns were hung with colourful posters and banners, and Fitz immediately turned an accusing stare on the Doctor.
“It says ‘Ballroom and Dance Hall’.” Fitz glared harder. “I don’t know if I’m angrier that you’ve brought me to a dance hall when you know I can’t dance to save my life; or that you let me think you were going to make me sit through a play.”
The Doctor didn’t really seem to be listening, since he was investigating the front of the theatre with interest. However, he turned back to Fitz with the bright smile that worked on Fitz without fail.
“All I said was that it will be called the Lyceum Theatre. In any case, I think you’ll be hard-pressed to be able to dance in there tonight.”
“I’d be hard-pressed to be able to dance anywhere,” said Fitz, bitterly.
The Doctor had returned to his examination of the imposing building, and when he next spoke, he did so without looking round.
“The doors aren’t open yet. We must have arrived a little early.”
“Early for what?”
The Doctor turned sparkling eyes on him, and in a tone of glee, announced, “For the concert!”
“Oh, God,” Fitz groaned, “A concert. That’s even worse than a play.”
“Let’s go to the pub,” the Doctor suggested.
Fitz trailed the Doctor across the road and into the nearest pub, bright with a welcoming light in the cold dampness of the November evening. He stopped dead in the doorway as he realised that not one of the patrons had turned to stare at their clothes, nor were any of them steadfastly pretending that he and the Doctor did not exist. It was distinctly unnerving, and he found himself hovering anxiously by the Doctor’s elbow as his friend tried to order the drinks.
The Doctor carried the drinks, one in each hand, over to a side table; the corner of a bag of crisps trapped between two spare fingers. Fitz sidled along with him, keeping his eyes fixed uneasily on the smartly-dressed young men who seemed to be filling the bar with chattering, excited energy.
“Have a pint,” the Doctor said. Fitz took it without arguing and took a deep draught. The taste was so dreadful that he instantly started spluttering, finally attracting the attention of the pair sitting at the next table.
“What is this?” Fitz demanded, when he’d finally managed to get the lager out of his lungs.
“It’s just what everyone else is drinking.”
“Who are these people, anyway?”
“I believe you would call them ‘Mods’. But-”
“Mods?” Fitz dropped his voice to a horrified whisper, “You brought me to a Mod pub? Well, that explains why we don’t stand out as much as usual.”
“As you can see, they’ve mellowed somewhat since 1963. And it’s not technically a Mod pub,” said the Doctor, conversationally. He opened the bag of crisps and began to eat them, noisily.
“It’s a pub full of Mods,” Fitz said, “I think that qualifies it as a Mod pub.”
“It’s an artifact of the temporal location,” the Doctor said, with dignity. “Crisp?”
“No, thank you,” Fitz replied distractedly, “So what you’re saying is, we happen to be here on the only bloody day ever that this pub has been taken over by a vicious gang of thugs?” Fitz was worried he might have been becoming hysterical. It was one of those things that happened when he was in mortal fear.
“Interesting origin, that word has, did you know? ‘Thug’ from the Sanskrit ‘sthaga’ meaning thief or villain. The things you learn from listening to Radio 4…” The Doctor continued to eat the crisps, examining the packet critically.
“… and since Mods aren’t known for their love of Beethoven, I take it this isn’t a classical concert after all.”
“Not classical for the 1970s, I admit. I wouldn’t like to speak for later generations.”
“So who are we going to see?”
“A rock band I rather like. Shame you missed them. They became quite well known in 1964. This is a particularly good year for them, I checked.”
The crowd in the bar began to stir and rise, and the Doctor craned his neck to look out of the window. The hubbub built to an excited chatter, and a trickle of people began to leave the pub and head towards the Lyceum.
“Ah, we seem to have movement.”
They got to their feet, leaving the barely touched pints of lager forlornly foaming on the table.
Fitz could see now, as they approached the venue from this new angle, that the banners held the name of the band that they were going to see. They read, in large, black capitals “PETE TOWNSHEND AND THE WHO”.
The Doctor caught his arm, and blasted him with another of his brilliant smiles.
“You’re going to love it, Fitz. Trust me.”
The beaming grin shone on him for a second longer, and then the Doctor was off, mingling perfectly with the Mods in their velvet and mohair suits, their tight jeans, clipped or curled hair and their pointed shoes. Fitz smiled and shook his head.
“I always do trust you, Doctor.”
He set off into the crowd, once more following the well known velvet coat-tails.