DW fic: "Smoothie" (Eleven/Rose, G)
Smoothie, Doctor/Rose, also Amy/Rory, G
The taste of sunshine frozen, stored up against a colder, rainier day, 344 words
There was a lovely smell in the air. A fruity smell. His nose fell to the allure. He followed it.
Amy and Rory were reclining poolside. The Tardis was shining hot Earth sunlight. Amy had on white framed movie star sunglasses, looking lanky and adorable in an emerald green one piece racing suit. Rory was showing his pale, furred belly, fast asleep on a chaise longue with his mouth hanging open. Amy was reading a novel, her chaise right up next to Rory's. On a small round glass-topped table on her other side, there was a pinkish purplish smoothie in a tall, sweating glass.
One frozen over-ripe banana.
A double handful of frozen strawberries.
Three dollops full fat yoghurt.
Fill with orange juice.
Trace of acai just for tartness.
Blend.
The strawberries they'd picked, itchy from heat and sweat, filling basket after basket, carting them back to the Tardis to wash and bag and freeze. The taste of sunshine frozen, stored up against a colder, rainier day.
"Did you make a smoothie?" he asked, voice soft and steady despite the tightness around his lungs.
"Yeah, found these strawberries. D'you want some?" Amy asked.
Rory tossed and grumbled in his sleep, groped one blind hand toward her, satisfied and subsiding on the smoothness of her thigh.
"Where did you get the recipe?" he asked.
"Dunno, it just came to mind," she said carelessly, resting her free hand on Rory's.
Meddling old Tardis. Well, he would. He just would then, if she was so insistent.
"Yes, I rather fancy a strawberry smoothie," he said, just as carelessly, and whirled toward the galley. All the ingredients were to hand and popped into the blender.
He closed his eyes and filled his mouth. The taste overwhelmed him, rich and sour and sweet. So many hundreds of
days past, months, years, lives.
He refused to spit it out. He insisted upon savoring it, against the will of his sensitive tongue and tender mouth.
He would savor, and remember, and remember, and savor. Just until the bottom of this one cold glass: a surfeit of sweetness, the tart trace of remembrance.
The taste of sunshine frozen, stored up against a colder, rainier day, 344 words
There was a lovely smell in the air. A fruity smell. His nose fell to the allure. He followed it.
Amy and Rory were reclining poolside. The Tardis was shining hot Earth sunlight. Amy had on white framed movie star sunglasses, looking lanky and adorable in an emerald green one piece racing suit. Rory was showing his pale, furred belly, fast asleep on a chaise longue with his mouth hanging open. Amy was reading a novel, her chaise right up next to Rory's. On a small round glass-topped table on her other side, there was a pinkish purplish smoothie in a tall, sweating glass.
One frozen over-ripe banana.
A double handful of frozen strawberries.
Three dollops full fat yoghurt.
Fill with orange juice.
Trace of acai just for tartness.
Blend.
The strawberries they'd picked, itchy from heat and sweat, filling basket after basket, carting them back to the Tardis to wash and bag and freeze. The taste of sunshine frozen, stored up against a colder, rainier day.
"Did you make a smoothie?" he asked, voice soft and steady despite the tightness around his lungs.
"Yeah, found these strawberries. D'you want some?" Amy asked.
Rory tossed and grumbled in his sleep, groped one blind hand toward her, satisfied and subsiding on the smoothness of her thigh.
"Where did you get the recipe?" he asked.
"Dunno, it just came to mind," she said carelessly, resting her free hand on Rory's.
Meddling old Tardis. Well, he would. He just would then, if she was so insistent.
"Yes, I rather fancy a strawberry smoothie," he said, just as carelessly, and whirled toward the galley. All the ingredients were to hand and popped into the blender.
He closed his eyes and filled his mouth. The taste overwhelmed him, rich and sour and sweet. So many hundreds of
days past, months, years, lives.
He refused to spit it out. He insisted upon savoring it, against the will of his sensitive tongue and tender mouth.
He would savor, and remember, and remember, and savor. Just until the bottom of this one cold glass: a surfeit of sweetness, the tart trace of remembrance.