Both of Us Knowing
Jan. 31st, 2010 11:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wishiknewwhoTitle: Both of Us Knowing
Author: wishiknewwho
Rating: G
Characters: Ten II / Rose
Dislcaimer: I don't own Doctor Who and it's probably just as well that I don't because it'd be nothing but hugs and hair ruffling for the foreseeable future.
Spoilers: None. Set in my land of denial where Series 2 never ever ended.
Summary: One day she'll say no to him, but today is not that day.
Author Notes: Well, I committed karaoke!fic. Please do not beat me with anything. Written for Challenge 23 at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
then_theres_us .
Beta'ed by my lovely girls![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nipplemuggins and salimali .
There are days for saving the universe.
And then there are days for…other things…
It’s her turn to spin the wheel, her turn to choose the destination, he says as he guides her around the console. It’s only fair, he adds, since last time was certainly his fault and he shouldn’t have said what he said, but really, shouldn’t the Drexellians have been a bit more lenient about what warranted a death sentence? He shuts up quickly at her glare, bowing before her and waving with a flourish at the wheel.
He stands close behind her as she sets it in motion and she tells herself it’s only because he’s anxious to see where they will land. The feel of him behind her, his breath skittering across her neck, unnerves her, making her hand slip as she stops the wheel. Where it’s stopped is no matter, though, and they grin as they race each other down the ramp and out of the ship.
They end up in front a little bar with a red door and soft yellow light pouring from the windows, illuminating the otherwise darkened street. She sees the sign flashing on the door (karaoke) and shakes her head, laughing, as he grabs both of her hands and tugs her forward with a wicked look and raised eyebrows.
She swears she won’t go in, digging in her heels, hoping the treads on her trainers can hold up to the treads on his.
He pleads, though, and he is better at getting his way with her than he should be, than he has any right to be, but she relents and follows him in. One day she’ll say no to him, but today is not that day.
The inside of the bar is an utter contrast to the outside, bright and colourful to the point of being garish. It is crowded, students, business types, a group of women on a hen night, but they manage to snag a table near the front as they settle in to watch the inebriated people make fools of themselves.
He buys her a drink, something soft and pink and innocent, but one sip and she can tell that it’s potent, enough to flood her veins with courage. His own drink is electric yellow and she knows without him telling her that it’s banana flavoured. He tells her anyway. (“Banana, Rose,” his voice dripping with awe until she reminds him that he sort of invented the banana daiquiri.)
She asks him the meaning of the word karaoke and he tells her (a portmanteau of the words empty and orchestra in Japanese) which leads to a history of the word portmanteau and then a bit about Lewis Carroll and then winds back around to Japanese culture and ends with her promising to teach him the art of Dance Dance Revolution. (She was the Year 8 champion.)
She moves closer to him as they talk, or maybe he moves closer to her. She’s not really sure; maybe they are gravitating toward one other, meeting in the middle. She likes that idea.
She’s on her third pink drink (as she’s been calling them in her head) when she decides that singing is a good idea. He grimaces teasingly, warning her that he has heard her in the shower, although it could have just as easily have been a cat. She goes to punch him in the shoulder for being rude, but overbalances or misjudges the distance or something and winds up with her face crushed against his shoulder, both of them trembling with laughter.
His fingers find their way into her hair, tangling deliciously as the pad of his thumb brushes her ear and she shivers. She finally gets herself upright again, but only after noting how she can hear the soft pitter-pat of his hearts through his shirt and jacket. He cups her cheeks in his hands and puts his face very close to hers, his eyes finding hers in the dim light of the lamp coming from the neighbouring table. He tells her that he’s making sure she’s not too drunk to perform, but she thinks that maybe he’s thinking of kissing her.
She knows what she wants but she also knows that she doesn’t want things to get complicated, so she closes her eyes and moves away from him. She stands on unsteady feet and teeters her way to the girl with the list, giving her name and choosing her song. She glances back at him and he gives her an approving nod as he tips his drink at her, scowling when the yellow slush dribbles over the rim and down his fingers. She quickly turns her head as he licks the mess away.
She climbs the three steps to the stage carefully, taking care to put her feet down in the right spots. She’s drunk, but sober enough to know that she should avoid the humiliation of falling at all costs.
It’s hot up on the stage as she waits for the music to start and feels the weight of fifty-odd pairs of eyes watching her expectantly. She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it to him. He holds it in his lap instead of draping it around her chair like she thought he would.
The music starts and she has a moment of fear, paralyzed under the bright lights. The Doctor must see it on her face, because moments later he’s in front of the stage, her drink in hand. She takes a gulp and flashes him a smile. She’s ready.
She shimmies around a little, earning some cheers and catcalls from a rowdy group of boys in the back. Her eyes fix on him, though. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, his fingers toying absently with the collar of her jacket, his gaze glued to her every move. She feels a thrill of anticipation as she begins to sing.
As he is about so many other things, the Doctor was right about her voice: she’s a terrible singer. Lucky for her, the patrons have all been drinking steadily and no one seems to notice.
The lyrics scroll across the blue screen, and although she can make them out just fine, she chooses to ignore them. She remembers the song well enough from her childhood, from Friday nights when Jackie was getting ready to go out. Rose would sit on the dresser, legs swinging along with the music on the radio as Jackie gave her tips about makeup, occasionally swiping her plump cheeks with blush.
The Doctor is grinning at her, swaying along with the music, mocking her. She shakes her finger at him as she sings.
She loses herself in the song for a bit, singing her heart out and not caring at all that she’s off key and mangling the lyrics. She thinks about how true the words are, how love really is a battlefield and how she stands heartache to heartache and oh God, is she really relating her life to an eighties pop song? (No more of the pink drinks for her then.) She pushes Pat Benatar to the back of her mind and puts all her energy into getting through her performance.
She forgot how long the song was, and it feels interminable. But she’s got herself into this, and she’ll have to see it through. She has that lingering feeling in the back of her mind that she’ll be embarrassed about this tomorrow, when she’s sober. She finishes to applause, the Doctor standing and putting his clapping hands above his head.
She bows quickly and leaves the stage, stumbling down the steps, forgetting her earlier plan not to fall, but the Doctor catches her with a steadying hand on her waist. She feels silly for a moment, and wishes that she’d never had the stupid idea to sing, but then he tells her she’s brave for sharing that with the world, his arm bumping hers as he takes her hand. He asks her if she wants to leave, but she tells him no, that it’s his turn now.
He tells her there aren’t enough banana-flavoured drinks in the universe, but she begs and cajoles, winding his fingers with hers and fluttering her eyes at him until he relents. (She can get her way with him, too.)
He’s actually a good singer, even though she hates the song he’s chosen. The crowd erupts in riotous cheers when he’s finished, and she notices that his cheeks are flushed pink as he jumps off the stage, grabs her hand, and pulls her from the bar and out into the cool air of the street.
They run laughing to the TARDIS, and she is not sure why they are running when nothing is chasing them, but they are both a little drunk and a little high on the pleasure and the mortification of doing something silly in front of a large group of people and that seems to be reason enough.
She is searching for her key when he turns her clumsily, pressing her up against the door of the ship and kissing her before she has a chance to think about what is about to happen. (And maybe that’s for the best.) Her hands clutch at his jacket in her surprise and she scrambles to kiss him back.
She knows he means it when he pulls away long moments later and whispers that he loves her against her skin, but she also knows that he wouldn’t be saying it at all if it weren’t for all the neon yellow drinks he’s had. She doesn’t care; the words warm her from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes and make her chest ache in the most wonderful way. She won’t say the words back (not right now), but she kisses him with everything she has and hopes that he knows.
Author: wishiknewwho
Rating: G
Characters: Ten II / Rose
Dislcaimer: I don't own Doctor Who and it's probably just as well that I don't because it'd be nothing but hugs and hair ruffling for the foreseeable future.
Spoilers: None. Set in my land of denial where Series 2 never ever ended.
Summary: One day she'll say no to him, but today is not that day.
Author Notes: Well, I committed karaoke!fic. Please do not beat me with anything. Written for Challenge 23 at
then_theres_us . Beta'ed by my lovely girls
nipplemuggins and salimali . B. Spirits (of the alcoholic kind)
There are days for saving the universe.
And then there are days for…other things…
It’s her turn to spin the wheel, her turn to choose the destination, he says as he guides her around the console. It’s only fair, he adds, since last time was certainly his fault and he shouldn’t have said what he said, but really, shouldn’t the Drexellians have been a bit more lenient about what warranted a death sentence? He shuts up quickly at her glare, bowing before her and waving with a flourish at the wheel.
He stands close behind her as she sets it in motion and she tells herself it’s only because he’s anxious to see where they will land. The feel of him behind her, his breath skittering across her neck, unnerves her, making her hand slip as she stops the wheel. Where it’s stopped is no matter, though, and they grin as they race each other down the ramp and out of the ship.
They end up in front a little bar with a red door and soft yellow light pouring from the windows, illuminating the otherwise darkened street. She sees the sign flashing on the door (karaoke) and shakes her head, laughing, as he grabs both of her hands and tugs her forward with a wicked look and raised eyebrows.
She swears she won’t go in, digging in her heels, hoping the treads on her trainers can hold up to the treads on his.
He pleads, though, and he is better at getting his way with her than he should be, than he has any right to be, but she relents and follows him in. One day she’ll say no to him, but today is not that day.
The inside of the bar is an utter contrast to the outside, bright and colourful to the point of being garish. It is crowded, students, business types, a group of women on a hen night, but they manage to snag a table near the front as they settle in to watch the inebriated people make fools of themselves.
He buys her a drink, something soft and pink and innocent, but one sip and she can tell that it’s potent, enough to flood her veins with courage. His own drink is electric yellow and she knows without him telling her that it’s banana flavoured. He tells her anyway. (“Banana, Rose,” his voice dripping with awe until she reminds him that he sort of invented the banana daiquiri.)
She asks him the meaning of the word karaoke and he tells her (a portmanteau of the words empty and orchestra in Japanese) which leads to a history of the word portmanteau and then a bit about Lewis Carroll and then winds back around to Japanese culture and ends with her promising to teach him the art of Dance Dance Revolution. (She was the Year 8 champion.)
She moves closer to him as they talk, or maybe he moves closer to her. She’s not really sure; maybe they are gravitating toward one other, meeting in the middle. She likes that idea.
She’s on her third pink drink (as she’s been calling them in her head) when she decides that singing is a good idea. He grimaces teasingly, warning her that he has heard her in the shower, although it could have just as easily have been a cat. She goes to punch him in the shoulder for being rude, but overbalances or misjudges the distance or something and winds up with her face crushed against his shoulder, both of them trembling with laughter.
His fingers find their way into her hair, tangling deliciously as the pad of his thumb brushes her ear and she shivers. She finally gets herself upright again, but only after noting how she can hear the soft pitter-pat of his hearts through his shirt and jacket. He cups her cheeks in his hands and puts his face very close to hers, his eyes finding hers in the dim light of the lamp coming from the neighbouring table. He tells her that he’s making sure she’s not too drunk to perform, but she thinks that maybe he’s thinking of kissing her.
She knows what she wants but she also knows that she doesn’t want things to get complicated, so she closes her eyes and moves away from him. She stands on unsteady feet and teeters her way to the girl with the list, giving her name and choosing her song. She glances back at him and he gives her an approving nod as he tips his drink at her, scowling when the yellow slush dribbles over the rim and down his fingers. She quickly turns her head as he licks the mess away.
She climbs the three steps to the stage carefully, taking care to put her feet down in the right spots. She’s drunk, but sober enough to know that she should avoid the humiliation of falling at all costs.
It’s hot up on the stage as she waits for the music to start and feels the weight of fifty-odd pairs of eyes watching her expectantly. She shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it to him. He holds it in his lap instead of draping it around her chair like she thought he would.
The music starts and she has a moment of fear, paralyzed under the bright lights. The Doctor must see it on her face, because moments later he’s in front of the stage, her drink in hand. She takes a gulp and flashes him a smile. She’s ready.
She shimmies around a little, earning some cheers and catcalls from a rowdy group of boys in the back. Her eyes fix on him, though. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, his fingers toying absently with the collar of her jacket, his gaze glued to her every move. She feels a thrill of anticipation as she begins to sing.
As he is about so many other things, the Doctor was right about her voice: she’s a terrible singer. Lucky for her, the patrons have all been drinking steadily and no one seems to notice.
The lyrics scroll across the blue screen, and although she can make them out just fine, she chooses to ignore them. She remembers the song well enough from her childhood, from Friday nights when Jackie was getting ready to go out. Rose would sit on the dresser, legs swinging along with the music on the radio as Jackie gave her tips about makeup, occasionally swiping her plump cheeks with blush.
The Doctor is grinning at her, swaying along with the music, mocking her. She shakes her finger at him as she sings.
She loses herself in the song for a bit, singing her heart out and not caring at all that she’s off key and mangling the lyrics. She thinks about how true the words are, how love really is a battlefield and how she stands heartache to heartache and oh God, is she really relating her life to an eighties pop song? (No more of the pink drinks for her then.) She pushes Pat Benatar to the back of her mind and puts all her energy into getting through her performance.
She forgot how long the song was, and it feels interminable. But she’s got herself into this, and she’ll have to see it through. She has that lingering feeling in the back of her mind that she’ll be embarrassed about this tomorrow, when she’s sober. She finishes to applause, the Doctor standing and putting his clapping hands above his head.
She bows quickly and leaves the stage, stumbling down the steps, forgetting her earlier plan not to fall, but the Doctor catches her with a steadying hand on her waist. She feels silly for a moment, and wishes that she’d never had the stupid idea to sing, but then he tells her she’s brave for sharing that with the world, his arm bumping hers as he takes her hand. He asks her if she wants to leave, but she tells him no, that it’s his turn now.
He tells her there aren’t enough banana-flavoured drinks in the universe, but she begs and cajoles, winding his fingers with hers and fluttering her eyes at him until he relents. (She can get her way with him, too.)
He’s actually a good singer, even though she hates the song he’s chosen. The crowd erupts in riotous cheers when he’s finished, and she notices that his cheeks are flushed pink as he jumps off the stage, grabs her hand, and pulls her from the bar and out into the cool air of the street.
They run laughing to the TARDIS, and she is not sure why they are running when nothing is chasing them, but they are both a little drunk and a little high on the pleasure and the mortification of doing something silly in front of a large group of people and that seems to be reason enough.
She is searching for her key when he turns her clumsily, pressing her up against the door of the ship and kissing her before she has a chance to think about what is about to happen. (And maybe that’s for the best.) Her hands clutch at his jacket in her surprise and she scrambles to kiss him back.
She knows he means it when he pulls away long moments later and whispers that he loves her against her skin, but she also knows that he wouldn’t be saying it at all if it weren’t for all the neon yellow drinks he’s had. She doesn’t care; the words warm her from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes and make her chest ache in the most wonderful way. She won’t say the words back (not right now), but she kisses him with everything she has and hopes that he knows.
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-31 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-31 10:43 pm (UTC)And me too! They could've kept going and going and going and I would've been thrilled.
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Date: 2010-04-09 08:03 am (UTC)Anyway onto the review, Loved it!! Especially the part where Rose cannot sing ;)
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Date: 2010-04-27 01:08 am (UTC)And as for Rose not being able to sing, I based on the real-life actresses abilities. ;)