This World I Think I Know
This World I Think I Know. Young!First Doctor/Rose, Implied Nine/Rose. Teen. 1,376 words.
It was supposed to be her birthday, before everything went wrong at home. Now, it’s the day she finds a thieving nutter miles from home that only wants a sodding cherry pie.
Figures.
The sky is streaked the violent color of her mother’s blood, splattered on the lounge wall, the night she meets him.
He moves like a tiger stalking a thicket, moving uneasily through suburbia so far from the Estates she had fled. She sees him peering through a window that smells suspiciously like pie, raven hair sticking every which way and distractedly sucking a finger, clearly imagining he had just swirled it in fruity filling.
“I don’t think they’d appreciate you climbing into their kitchen, you know,” she says boldly, examining her white sandals instead of this dark stranger.
It was supposed to be her birthday, before everything went wrong at home. Now, it’s the day she finds a thieving nutter miles from home that only wants a sodding cherry pie.
Figures.
“Oh!” he exclaims, whirling on her, finger leaving his mouth with a wet pop. “Oh,” he says again, furrowing his brow and frowning at her, “a human.”
“Well, yeah,” she mumbles, “like you’re not.”
“Course not! If I were,” he says conspiratorially, “I’d never get that pie.”
His voice is dark velvet that slithers through the spring air and rubs her skin, gooseflesh rising to meet it. She wants to feel that voice closer. She also wants him, and his pie, to stay as far away as possible.
She doesn’t know why her heart pitter patters at the depth of his eyes, but she’s also pretty sure life would be easier if it didn’t.
“Y’know, cherry’s my favorite,” she says. “But mum doesn’t bake. Doesn’t need to do to get blokes, s’what she tells me.”
His eyes light up against the sunset, and his mouth twists into a beautiful grin that tells of barely restrained madness. Rose thinks maybe she understands a little why her mum throws everything away for tossers, if they look at her like this. The thought terrifies her, that she could be the next Jackie Tyler, hit in front of her daughter and blood on the entryway walls, but she steps toward this stranger anyway.
“Love cherry pie, eh? Just so happens, so do I. Wanna help me get it?”
“What, y’mean steal it?”
“No no no no no,” he insists, dismissively waving a long fingered hand. “Borrow. Borrow and ingest. Just a tiny bit.”
Rose laughs and covers her mouth to stifle the sound. “What, like me distracting them at the door and you slipping it out the window? Are you mad?”
“Yes, yes!” he exclaims, punching the air excitedly. “Yes to both! What’s your name, you brilliant thing?”
“M’Rose Tyler,” she says shyly, toeing the driveway of the soon to be pie-less. “Who’re you?”
“Oh, Rose Tyler,” he muses, scratching the back of his neck. “I haven’t really decided yet. Don’t like my name at school, haven’t picked one for myself yet. Mum’s rubbish at deciding, anyway.”
“Yeah, so is mine,” she says, giving him her first real smile. “Hope you’re great with kitchen windows.” Her tongue pokes out at him, and she is boldly striding to the front door, knocking firmly and clearing her throat.
He watches this human and his eyes go wide, his grin goes wider, and he sneaks to the side of the house to wait.
Maybe they were wrong when they told him about Earth.
The door opens.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry!” says Rose politely, making her voice shift a little higher, younger, decidedly more educated. “I’ve lost my dog, you see, and my Mother will simply be beside herself if I return home without him, and I can’t bear to leave him out here all alone. May I use your telephone, call her to come help me look for him? I’ll be but two minutes, I promise.”
“’Course, my dear!” says a female voice, and he hears the door click shut. He darts forward, sonics the screen out in four seconds flat, silently slides the barely open window all the way to the side, and lifts the hot pie from its cooling perch.
Two minutes pass, as promised. Rose leaves and thanks the woman profusely, promising her she’ll get home safe and thank you so much and doesn’t something smell delicious.
Cheeky girl, he thinks. He likes it.
Rose tells the woman to enjoy her evening, and primly walks away down the street, disappearing around a warmly lit corner.
He runs to catch up with her, and decides he really should figure out his name so that he can tell it to her. He’s struck by how much he wants to hear it tumble from her lips, knows it would be right no matter which sound he chooses.
He sees a flash of white and blonde ahead, and she’s giggling like bells; he’s still running after her, feet pumping and both hearts drumming and he’s never felt such thrill in his life.
They collapse together in a park blocks away, laughing and touching shoulders and breathing deep the scent of their smuggled treasure. He enthusiastically tells her that for her brilliance, the first bite should be hers.
“We’ve no forks!” she laughs, “and I’ll burn my fingers.”
“Well,” he says haughtily, “it’s a good thing my biology is simply fantastic then, isn’t it?” And he’s scooping those long, slender fingers into the bubbling pie, smearing them wetly with red juice that slides like a kiss down his knuckles, bits of sweet crust dotting the fruit like freckles. He blows gently, and holds his prize closer to her mouth, a clear invitation.
She blushes hotly but looks at him through her lashes as she leans forward, shyly opening her mouth and circling it around his fingers and pulling the dessert from them, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy as she tastes the bite of tart cherries and the sugar in the running red juice, the crunch in the crust, and the ache of something her mind suggests is time racing through his fingers like magic or ether or something else she was never raised to believe in.
“Adventure,” she realizes out loud. “You taste like adventure.”
Slowly, so she can see it coming, he moves closer. His vibrant eyes that she swears keep shifting colors are so close, and questioning, cocky but still so wide and vulnerable. She wants to be part of him.
She closes the distance, pink and sugared lips crushing against his as his tongue quests for remnants of cherries against her, his still red fingers absent mindedly tangling in her hair. It is a clumsy, messy affair, and suddenly she is laughing against his mouth and opening for him, and he sweeps inside, grinning as the sun is finally under the horizon and they are both well and truly intoxicated on delicious madness and stolen cherry pie.
He rests his forehead to hers, noses tangling together like awkward dancers. “You taste like adventure, too,” he whispers, and curls his fingers into hers.
Until the pie is gone, he tells her stories. They kiss when he pauses, and sometimes she grabs his hand by the wrist and cleans it of all fruity remnants. She soaks up every moment like she’s storing them for a long, long winter, and falls a little more in love for every minute that ticks and every cherry that disappears into one of their mouths.
He walks her home, and thanks her, and holds her hand. He says she is fantastic, brilliant, and he’ll see her again. When he can’t find his adventure, he’ll find her.
She isn’t afraid to go back inside anymore, but she snogs him thoroughly for courage, just in case.
Three years later, after Jimmy and Mickey and a bloke behind the bleachers whose name she can never remember, she knows that none of them will ever taste the same. So when a stranger with cerulean eyes that shift color every now and then asks her to travel the stars, she stamps out the hope and recognition that flares in her heart, telling her it’s him she’s been looking for.
She says no and tastes cherries in every word, smells spring wind and feels cool blades of grass under her feet. She remembers how they collided like the only celestial bodies left in the universe.
And she knows.
And she says yes.
It was supposed to be her birthday, before everything went wrong at home. Now, it’s the day she finds a thieving nutter miles from home that only wants a sodding cherry pie.
Figures.
The sky is streaked the violent color of her mother’s blood, splattered on the lounge wall, the night she meets him.
He moves like a tiger stalking a thicket, moving uneasily through suburbia so far from the Estates she had fled. She sees him peering through a window that smells suspiciously like pie, raven hair sticking every which way and distractedly sucking a finger, clearly imagining he had just swirled it in fruity filling.
“I don’t think they’d appreciate you climbing into their kitchen, you know,” she says boldly, examining her white sandals instead of this dark stranger.
It was supposed to be her birthday, before everything went wrong at home. Now, it’s the day she finds a thieving nutter miles from home that only wants a sodding cherry pie.
Figures.
“Oh!” he exclaims, whirling on her, finger leaving his mouth with a wet pop. “Oh,” he says again, furrowing his brow and frowning at her, “a human.”
“Well, yeah,” she mumbles, “like you’re not.”
“Course not! If I were,” he says conspiratorially, “I’d never get that pie.”
His voice is dark velvet that slithers through the spring air and rubs her skin, gooseflesh rising to meet it. She wants to feel that voice closer. She also wants him, and his pie, to stay as far away as possible.
She doesn’t know why her heart pitter patters at the depth of his eyes, but she’s also pretty sure life would be easier if it didn’t.
“Y’know, cherry’s my favorite,” she says. “But mum doesn’t bake. Doesn’t need to do to get blokes, s’what she tells me.”
His eyes light up against the sunset, and his mouth twists into a beautiful grin that tells of barely restrained madness. Rose thinks maybe she understands a little why her mum throws everything away for tossers, if they look at her like this. The thought terrifies her, that she could be the next Jackie Tyler, hit in front of her daughter and blood on the entryway walls, but she steps toward this stranger anyway.
“Love cherry pie, eh? Just so happens, so do I. Wanna help me get it?”
“What, y’mean steal it?”
“No no no no no,” he insists, dismissively waving a long fingered hand. “Borrow. Borrow and ingest. Just a tiny bit.”
Rose laughs and covers her mouth to stifle the sound. “What, like me distracting them at the door and you slipping it out the window? Are you mad?”
“Yes, yes!” he exclaims, punching the air excitedly. “Yes to both! What’s your name, you brilliant thing?”
“M’Rose Tyler,” she says shyly, toeing the driveway of the soon to be pie-less. “Who’re you?”
“Oh, Rose Tyler,” he muses, scratching the back of his neck. “I haven’t really decided yet. Don’t like my name at school, haven’t picked one for myself yet. Mum’s rubbish at deciding, anyway.”
“Yeah, so is mine,” she says, giving him her first real smile. “Hope you’re great with kitchen windows.” Her tongue pokes out at him, and she is boldly striding to the front door, knocking firmly and clearing her throat.
He watches this human and his eyes go wide, his grin goes wider, and he sneaks to the side of the house to wait.
Maybe they were wrong when they told him about Earth.
The door opens.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry!” says Rose politely, making her voice shift a little higher, younger, decidedly more educated. “I’ve lost my dog, you see, and my Mother will simply be beside herself if I return home without him, and I can’t bear to leave him out here all alone. May I use your telephone, call her to come help me look for him? I’ll be but two minutes, I promise.”
“’Course, my dear!” says a female voice, and he hears the door click shut. He darts forward, sonics the screen out in four seconds flat, silently slides the barely open window all the way to the side, and lifts the hot pie from its cooling perch.
Two minutes pass, as promised. Rose leaves and thanks the woman profusely, promising her she’ll get home safe and thank you so much and doesn’t something smell delicious.
Cheeky girl, he thinks. He likes it.
Rose tells the woman to enjoy her evening, and primly walks away down the street, disappearing around a warmly lit corner.
He runs to catch up with her, and decides he really should figure out his name so that he can tell it to her. He’s struck by how much he wants to hear it tumble from her lips, knows it would be right no matter which sound he chooses.
He sees a flash of white and blonde ahead, and she’s giggling like bells; he’s still running after her, feet pumping and both hearts drumming and he’s never felt such thrill in his life.
They collapse together in a park blocks away, laughing and touching shoulders and breathing deep the scent of their smuggled treasure. He enthusiastically tells her that for her brilliance, the first bite should be hers.
“We’ve no forks!” she laughs, “and I’ll burn my fingers.”
“Well,” he says haughtily, “it’s a good thing my biology is simply fantastic then, isn’t it?” And he’s scooping those long, slender fingers into the bubbling pie, smearing them wetly with red juice that slides like a kiss down his knuckles, bits of sweet crust dotting the fruit like freckles. He blows gently, and holds his prize closer to her mouth, a clear invitation.
She blushes hotly but looks at him through her lashes as she leans forward, shyly opening her mouth and circling it around his fingers and pulling the dessert from them, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy as she tastes the bite of tart cherries and the sugar in the running red juice, the crunch in the crust, and the ache of something her mind suggests is time racing through his fingers like magic or ether or something else she was never raised to believe in.
“Adventure,” she realizes out loud. “You taste like adventure.”
Slowly, so she can see it coming, he moves closer. His vibrant eyes that she swears keep shifting colors are so close, and questioning, cocky but still so wide and vulnerable. She wants to be part of him.
She closes the distance, pink and sugared lips crushing against his as his tongue quests for remnants of cherries against her, his still red fingers absent mindedly tangling in her hair. It is a clumsy, messy affair, and suddenly she is laughing against his mouth and opening for him, and he sweeps inside, grinning as the sun is finally under the horizon and they are both well and truly intoxicated on delicious madness and stolen cherry pie.
He rests his forehead to hers, noses tangling together like awkward dancers. “You taste like adventure, too,” he whispers, and curls his fingers into hers.
Until the pie is gone, he tells her stories. They kiss when he pauses, and sometimes she grabs his hand by the wrist and cleans it of all fruity remnants. She soaks up every moment like she’s storing them for a long, long winter, and falls a little more in love for every minute that ticks and every cherry that disappears into one of their mouths.
He walks her home, and thanks her, and holds her hand. He says she is fantastic, brilliant, and he’ll see her again. When he can’t find his adventure, he’ll find her.
She isn’t afraid to go back inside anymore, but she snogs him thoroughly for courage, just in case.
Three years later, after Jimmy and Mickey and a bloke behind the bleachers whose name she can never remember, she knows that none of them will ever taste the same. So when a stranger with cerulean eyes that shift color every now and then asks her to travel the stars, she stamps out the hope and recognition that flares in her heart, telling her it’s him she’s been looking for.
She says no and tastes cherries in every word, smells spring wind and feels cool blades of grass under her feet. She remembers how they collided like the only celestial bodies left in the universe.
And she knows.
And she says yes.