Sarah/Harry Fic Exchange: Wedding Reception Blues and Greens (G)
Title: Wedding Reception Blues and Greens
Author: renn
For: paranoidangel42, who wanted Sarah and Harry dancing at a wedding that wasn't theirs.
Beta: blessed_colleen
Spoilers: A quick one for "Whatever Happened to Sarah Jane?"
Sypnosis: Sarah feels her age at a wedding reception.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, although I've certainly played Sarah enough in fan videos....
Sarah checked the time, decided she had at least half an hour to go before propriety would allow her to leave the reception, and sighed. Oh, it wasn't like she wasn't enjoying herself-- she was quite happy to see the Brigadier and his missus again, and to renew ties with Mike Yates. She also enjoyed finally meeting Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and Mrs. Josephine Jones, her two immediate predecessors at UNIT. And Benton seemed gloriously happy, despite marrying an obvious trophy wife. (Still, Sarah supposed that the bride's Holy Trinity of Fake-- fake tan, fake tresses, fake titties-- was her main attraction. Certainly wasn't her keen intellect, if the brief,vapid convo in the receiving line was any indication.)
The dinner was fantastic-- prime rib, salmon, salad, vegetables,California chardonnay and shiraz at the table with endless refills (and a good thing, too, considering how frequently Jo and Mike had full glasses). All the UNIT alum sat at the same table, so convo flowed as well as the wine. It was absolutely old-home week, and it made Sarah feel content and connected.
Afters, though, the dancing began.The Brigadier and his missus, along with Captain Whomever and his missus (Sarah never quite caught the name; the Captain had left several years before Sarah pushed her way in, so she had absolutely no clue who he was), swanned off after the first slow dance. Jo monopolized Mike's time on the dance floor. Although as a rule Sarah never had a problem dancing stag, the music selection left much to be desired. Then again, Sarah had stopped paying attention to popular music several years earlier, so she recognized barely any of the tunes played.
The dance floor barely held all the young people-- mostly employees of Benton's used car empire or girlfriends of the bride-- surging on it. Sarah and Liz had spent some time being catty about the youngsters' attempts to appear grown-up, and how today's methods didn't work nearly as well as their own methods worked back in the day. Catty chat, however, can only last so long before one becomes bored of it. So Sarah asked Liz about her current research, and Liz suggested that her research could use the exposure that Sarah writing about it could provide, and the two agreed to meet some place quieter the following week for a proper interview. Their conversation died out then, a victim of both the loud music and the fact that they had no joint reference regarding extraterrestrial (and/or extratemporal) travel.
Liz left soon after, claiming she had an experiment to look in on before retiring. Sarah found herself gazing at the dancers, pouring herself another chardonnay, and wishing she could leave. She was suddenly feeling every one of her 40 years. She supposed that she could leave, but Benton especially told her in the reception line that he had a surprise for her
and if she could be patient it should manifest itself sometime later in the evening. All things considered, it was that intrigue that kept her firmly at the table.
Still, much more of the noise-that-passed-for-music, and she would have to plead a headache and leave.
The thumpa-thumpa died out, replaced by a mushy old Peter and Gordon tune that Sarah remembered having danced to with Jimmy McManus during Michaelmas term 1964. It was an unexpected gesture on his part-- really, he was so spotty and so interested in football to the detriment of having a proper convo with anyone, let alone a girl. Something in her expression, as she leaned back against the wall at the assembly hall, must have spoken to him, though, because he came up to her, said, "you look sad," and pulled her into the fray on the dance floor. He was sweaty and only an inch taller; she didn't care, because it was the first time since Andrea's death that someone talked to her without implying through tone or expression that they thought she had something nefarious to do with the accident.
A hand stretched into her line of vision, shaking her out of her nostalgia and making her frown. She glanced up, breaking into a large grin and a near-squeal of glee as she jumped up to hug Harry Sullivan.
"Steady on, old thing!" Harry said affectionately,returning her hug.
She broke it off after a moment, stepping back to take a good look at him. "NATO's still treating you well, I see."
"So well that they let me go."
"What?!"
"Mutual agreement, actually." Harry shrugged any further commentary off. "Back with UNIT, now, but in Geneva, so I wasn't sure I could get here in time."
"Well, I'm glad you did! You're a sight for sore eyes, Harry…."
"You're not so bad, yourself, Sarah. Sorry I've been such a slug at keeping in touch…."
"You're here now, and you'll now be able to write an 'old thing' the odd letter…."
"Indeed I will."
The music segued into a slow Tremeloes song; Harry grabbed Sarah's hand and tugged her onto the dance floor. "Harry, what--?"
"Come on, old thing-- I was only able to bribe the disc monkey to spin two proper tunes, and we chatted through the first." He pulled her close to him, tucking her head under his chin as he gently turned them in place. She put her arms around him, holding on tightly.
Harry wished they could stay melded like they were for a long time, for he finally felt he had returned home. As exciting as it was, world travel and international intrigue couldn't hold a candle to being with people who had shared experiences… especially extraplanetary ones! All those years attached to NATO-- who couldn't conceive of a threat more extraordinary than Soviet Russia or perhaps the Chinese or North Koreans-- having to keep his mouth firmly shut made him yearn for easy conversation with someone who got it.
That someone was Sarah.
He was foolish for letting security clearances and correspondence censoring get in the way of keeping connected with the one person who understood what he had gone through in that pantomime police call box. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.
The song ended; the thumpa-thumpa that passed for modern music returned. Harry and Sarah looked at each other and made faces. "Ugh!" Sarah pulled away from Harry, determined to take her place at her table again.
Harry caught her hand in his. "Not so fast, eh? Couldn't hurt to try something new."
"Yes, but there's 'new' and there's 'awful,' and this is--"
"--not as bad as that screeching at that one banquet on Alderbaran V." Harry flashed her a charming grin. "What do you say, old thing?"
Sarah made a show of rolling her eyes. "Oh, all right-- as long as you stop calling me an 'old thing.'" At Harry's sudden look of dismay, she added, "At least for this evening."
"Fair cop." He looped her around and back onto the dance floor. They spent the next hour or so trying to make sense out of all the music being played, frequently bursting into giggles (Sarah) or guffaws (Harry) when a step they tried went terribly, horribly wrong. Once in awhile, a modern-yet-surprisingly-danceable song would play, and Harry would twirl Sarah around the floor as if they were swing dancing.
Finally, though, just as Sarah was realizing how badly her feet were starting to hurt and Harry was realizing he might have tromped his partner's toes more than once, the disc monkey announced the final song. As the strains of "Never Gonna Give You Up" filled the mostly-empty ballroom, Sarah sighed. "Can't do it."
"Do what?"
"Dance to the music of someone I've interviewed." She held Harry's hand as she gently brought him back to her table.
"A celebrity piece? A little fluffy, wouldn't you say, old-- er, Sarah?"
She reached under the table for her clutch. "Palate cleanser, really, for what I usually write.Besides, Rick was a very nice young man and kind enough to flirt with me, too."
Harry offered her an arm. "Why wouldn't anyone not flirt with you?"
She took his arm, and they strolled toward the coat check. "I'm old, Harry."
"Ah." He paused a moment. "Funny, that."
"What is?"
"No matter how old you are, I'm always going to be older. So, relatively speaking, you're always going to be a spring chicken." He patted her hand.
"Flatterer." She turned over her claim check to the attendant. Harry grabbed her jacket and helped her into it, then reclaimed his trench coat. They stepped away from the coat check, looked at each other, and suddenly felt awkward.
Sarah forced a lame smile. "So… how long you here for?"
Harry shrugged, looking away slightly as if embarrassed. "Have to hop back to Geneva Monday morning, promptly at 9 for the usual desperately dull What's-Happening-This-Week briefing."
"Too bad."
"I agree. But… we could do something tomorrow, perhaps. Brunch?"
"Brunch. There's a fabulous spread over at Joe Allen. Meet me there?"
"Ten-thirty all right with you?"
"See you then." She stood on tiptoes and kissed Harry on the cheek, then trotted off, waving at him as she reached the door of the hotel. She headed for the car park with a spring in her step and a pleased grin on her face, feeling like herself again for the first time since the calendar had made her 40.
Author: renn
For: paranoidangel42, who wanted Sarah and Harry dancing at a wedding that wasn't theirs.
Beta: blessed_colleen
Spoilers: A quick one for "Whatever Happened to Sarah Jane?"
Sypnosis: Sarah feels her age at a wedding reception.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, although I've certainly played Sarah enough in fan videos....
Sarah checked the time, decided she had at least half an hour to go before propriety would allow her to leave the reception, and sighed. Oh, it wasn't like she wasn't enjoying herself-- she was quite happy to see the Brigadier and his missus again, and to renew ties with Mike Yates. She also enjoyed finally meeting Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and Mrs. Josephine Jones, her two immediate predecessors at UNIT. And Benton seemed gloriously happy, despite marrying an obvious trophy wife. (Still, Sarah supposed that the bride's Holy Trinity of Fake-- fake tan, fake tresses, fake titties-- was her main attraction. Certainly wasn't her keen intellect, if the brief,vapid convo in the receiving line was any indication.)
The dinner was fantastic-- prime rib, salmon, salad, vegetables,California chardonnay and shiraz at the table with endless refills (and a good thing, too, considering how frequently Jo and Mike had full glasses). All the UNIT alum sat at the same table, so convo flowed as well as the wine. It was absolutely old-home week, and it made Sarah feel content and connected.
Afters, though, the dancing began.The Brigadier and his missus, along with Captain Whomever and his missus (Sarah never quite caught the name; the Captain had left several years before Sarah pushed her way in, so she had absolutely no clue who he was), swanned off after the first slow dance. Jo monopolized Mike's time on the dance floor. Although as a rule Sarah never had a problem dancing stag, the music selection left much to be desired. Then again, Sarah had stopped paying attention to popular music several years earlier, so she recognized barely any of the tunes played.
The dance floor barely held all the young people-- mostly employees of Benton's used car empire or girlfriends of the bride-- surging on it. Sarah and Liz had spent some time being catty about the youngsters' attempts to appear grown-up, and how today's methods didn't work nearly as well as their own methods worked back in the day. Catty chat, however, can only last so long before one becomes bored of it. So Sarah asked Liz about her current research, and Liz suggested that her research could use the exposure that Sarah writing about it could provide, and the two agreed to meet some place quieter the following week for a proper interview. Their conversation died out then, a victim of both the loud music and the fact that they had no joint reference regarding extraterrestrial (and/or extratemporal) travel.
Liz left soon after, claiming she had an experiment to look in on before retiring. Sarah found herself gazing at the dancers, pouring herself another chardonnay, and wishing she could leave. She was suddenly feeling every one of her 40 years. She supposed that she could leave, but Benton especially told her in the reception line that he had a surprise for her
and if she could be patient it should manifest itself sometime later in the evening. All things considered, it was that intrigue that kept her firmly at the table.
Still, much more of the noise-that-passed-for-music, and she would have to plead a headache and leave.
The thumpa-thumpa died out, replaced by a mushy old Peter and Gordon tune that Sarah remembered having danced to with Jimmy McManus during Michaelmas term 1964. It was an unexpected gesture on his part-- really, he was so spotty and so interested in football to the detriment of having a proper convo with anyone, let alone a girl. Something in her expression, as she leaned back against the wall at the assembly hall, must have spoken to him, though, because he came up to her, said, "you look sad," and pulled her into the fray on the dance floor. He was sweaty and only an inch taller; she didn't care, because it was the first time since Andrea's death that someone talked to her without implying through tone or expression that they thought she had something nefarious to do with the accident.
A hand stretched into her line of vision, shaking her out of her nostalgia and making her frown. She glanced up, breaking into a large grin and a near-squeal of glee as she jumped up to hug Harry Sullivan.
"Steady on, old thing!" Harry said affectionately,returning her hug.
She broke it off after a moment, stepping back to take a good look at him. "NATO's still treating you well, I see."
"So well that they let me go."
"What?!"
"Mutual agreement, actually." Harry shrugged any further commentary off. "Back with UNIT, now, but in Geneva, so I wasn't sure I could get here in time."
"Well, I'm glad you did! You're a sight for sore eyes, Harry…."
"You're not so bad, yourself, Sarah. Sorry I've been such a slug at keeping in touch…."
"You're here now, and you'll now be able to write an 'old thing' the odd letter…."
"Indeed I will."
The music segued into a slow Tremeloes song; Harry grabbed Sarah's hand and tugged her onto the dance floor. "Harry, what--?"
"Come on, old thing-- I was only able to bribe the disc monkey to spin two proper tunes, and we chatted through the first." He pulled her close to him, tucking her head under his chin as he gently turned them in place. She put her arms around him, holding on tightly.
Harry wished they could stay melded like they were for a long time, for he finally felt he had returned home. As exciting as it was, world travel and international intrigue couldn't hold a candle to being with people who had shared experiences… especially extraplanetary ones! All those years attached to NATO-- who couldn't conceive of a threat more extraordinary than Soviet Russia or perhaps the Chinese or North Koreans-- having to keep his mouth firmly shut made him yearn for easy conversation with someone who got it.
That someone was Sarah.
He was foolish for letting security clearances and correspondence censoring get in the way of keeping connected with the one person who understood what he had gone through in that pantomime police call box. He wasn't going to make that mistake again.
The song ended; the thumpa-thumpa that passed for modern music returned. Harry and Sarah looked at each other and made faces. "Ugh!" Sarah pulled away from Harry, determined to take her place at her table again.
Harry caught her hand in his. "Not so fast, eh? Couldn't hurt to try something new."
"Yes, but there's 'new' and there's 'awful,' and this is--"
"--not as bad as that screeching at that one banquet on Alderbaran V." Harry flashed her a charming grin. "What do you say, old thing?"
Sarah made a show of rolling her eyes. "Oh, all right-- as long as you stop calling me an 'old thing.'" At Harry's sudden look of dismay, she added, "At least for this evening."
"Fair cop." He looped her around and back onto the dance floor. They spent the next hour or so trying to make sense out of all the music being played, frequently bursting into giggles (Sarah) or guffaws (Harry) when a step they tried went terribly, horribly wrong. Once in awhile, a modern-yet-surprisingly-danceable song would play, and Harry would twirl Sarah around the floor as if they were swing dancing.
Finally, though, just as Sarah was realizing how badly her feet were starting to hurt and Harry was realizing he might have tromped his partner's toes more than once, the disc monkey announced the final song. As the strains of "Never Gonna Give You Up" filled the mostly-empty ballroom, Sarah sighed. "Can't do it."
"Do what?"
"Dance to the music of someone I've interviewed." She held Harry's hand as she gently brought him back to her table.
"A celebrity piece? A little fluffy, wouldn't you say, old-- er, Sarah?"
She reached under the table for her clutch. "Palate cleanser, really, for what I usually write.Besides, Rick was a very nice young man and kind enough to flirt with me, too."
Harry offered her an arm. "Why wouldn't anyone not flirt with you?"
She took his arm, and they strolled toward the coat check. "I'm old, Harry."
"Ah." He paused a moment. "Funny, that."
"What is?"
"No matter how old you are, I'm always going to be older. So, relatively speaking, you're always going to be a spring chicken." He patted her hand.
"Flatterer." She turned over her claim check to the attendant. Harry grabbed her jacket and helped her into it, then reclaimed his trench coat. They stepped away from the coat check, looked at each other, and suddenly felt awkward.
Sarah forced a lame smile. "So… how long you here for?"
Harry shrugged, looking away slightly as if embarrassed. "Have to hop back to Geneva Monday morning, promptly at 9 for the usual desperately dull What's-Happening-This-Week briefing."
"Too bad."
"I agree. But… we could do something tomorrow, perhaps. Brunch?"
"Brunch. There's a fabulous spread over at Joe Allen. Meet me there?"
"Ten-thirty all right with you?"
"See you then." She stood on tiptoes and kissed Harry on the cheek, then trotted off, waving at him as she reached the door of the hotel. She headed for the car park with a spring in her step and a pleased grin on her face, feeling like herself again for the first time since the calendar had made her 40.