[Doctor Who] moments (in time) [4-6] - 1730 words
Title: How Do You Know
Rating: G
Summary: a love story in reverse (Barbara/Ian)
"To fifty years," Tory says, raising her glass. The table raises their glasses to her toast and they drink. The whole family's there: John and Ila are holding hands under the table like teenagers instead of a couple heading toward their fifteenth year of marriage. Kavi and Anuj, obviously resigned to their parents' refusal to agree to not touching in public, have cornered Davis and are conducting an intensive interrogation, for two eleven year olds, on his latest paper. Davis is holding up quite well, despite his preference for mixing chemicals to talking to people. Tory is sharing a story with her brother, but she keeps one eye on where Sophie is standing, holding Susan up to see the collection of wooden animals. Barbara looks at Ian and he smiles.
It's Christmas. Ian cooks, humming under his breath, and Barbara makes sure to invites Davis, who would otherwise spend the holiday holed up in h is lab. John is back from America and he's finally brought Ila with him. Barbara smiles at her welcomingly and starts calculating how long it will take until Ian will start teasing their son about how often he's mentioned the 'amazing woman' he's been working with for the last two years. There's a knock on the door. Barbara opens it to find Tory standing there, defiantly, with the girl Barbara had seen her eating lunch with the last time she had visited her at university. She welcomes them in.
Children grow up. John leaves school to play his music. Barbara and Ian worry together about how he'll live but they let him go. They both know how pointless it is to try to steer children into careers a parent might see as appropriate. They leave the relationship open and hope. Tory is brilliant and passionate and when she asks why Barbara is almost overcome with memories of Susan. Each day follows one after the other and there is joy in knowing that tomorrow is coming.
John writes songs about worlds with three moons which reflect in the sapphire oceans. Tory sings along, dancing around the kitchen. Barbara leans against a counter with an arm wrapped around Ian's waist. She doesn't have to look in his eyes to feel her love reflected in his soul.
Ian teaches science at university. Barbara writes. She reads out bits of history to Ian and he tells her stories about his students. At night, she sends John off to bed with tales of great civilizations rising and falling but always living, while Ian shares the stories of the strange worlds they visited and the friends they made there.
They come back changed. You don't notice growth when you're always together but then they step back into their old worlds and realize they've grown together. Barbara is glad. She's glad to be home, happy to have traveled and changed, happy to greet all that's waiting for her: the familiar and the new. She looks into Ian's eyes and knows he's glad too.
Barbara and Ian, the only thing the other can be sure of in this vast, uncertain universe. Between aliens and history and a mysterious old man and his granddaughter they hold on to each other. Sometimes, maybe, even when you step upon solid ground it's still nice to have a familiar hand to hold.
Barbara Wright meets Ian Chesterton when he's backing out of his classroom, arms full with a large box, and almost smashes into her. She helps him up and he smiles.
Title: Links
Rating: G
Summary: most people don't understand (6th Doctor & Mel)
The Doctor is lounging on the blanket, there's no other word for it. Mel wishes there were, she's the one with the eidetic memory. He's propped up on one elbow, flicking through a book in a way she would call idly if she didn't know how fast he could read, clad in a bathing suit which makes his normal outfit look subdued. It's the first time she's seen quite so much of the Doctor and it's odd. By most standards, including those of the rest of the beach goers, it's amazingly conservative, but there is something strange about seeing the Doctor out of his coat.
There's something even stranger in seeing the Doctor relaxing. He often claimed that he enjoyed relaxing pursuits and occasionally landed the TARDIS in places he swore were the most peaceful in the galaxy. On the other hand, he seemed to actually prefer desperate pursuits, usually at high speeds, and the phrase 'most peaceful place in the galaxy' often needed extra description words like, 'were,' 'will be' and 'except for those mind eating worms,' to be entirely correct.
When the Doctor had announced his desire for a nice beach holiday, jabbing at the ceiling with his umbrella to make his point, Mel had nodded and smiled and gone off to fetch a swim suit and a good pair of shoes. She had been absolutely sure that even if they did manage to reach a beach, which was not a particularly high probability, it would be a private beach of angry nobleman/royalty/dictators/other who would have them arrested, or they would be attacked by invading aliens, or dragged into some ones personal problems which would inevitably lead to the overthrow of some corrupt government/monarchy/etcetera.
Yet, it's just a beach. The TARDIS had landed behind a confectionery stand from which the Doctor had bought them both candy floss. He had then proclaimed that it was early 21st century, spread out the blanket on the sand and started to read a thick novel (the title of which, Mel notices with some slight horror, was something along the lines of 'Burning Passions') with the determined sort of enjoyment the Doctor brought to pretty much everything he did.
The beach is loud and crowded but peaceful just the same time. Mel watches the Doctor read. The Station of Titus 3 had blown. She'd watch it happen from where the TARDIS hung in space. They'd barely made it out of there in time, some of the other people hadn't made it at all. The Doctor hadn't said anything about it, had looked away uncomfortably from her tears, as he always did. He had started declaiming about beaches like they were his true home, one that he was pulled away from only by the TARDIS and the lure of the wider universe. The Doctor is prickly and soft hearted, overly verbose and too loud in all situations, brilliant, occasionally cruel, and her best friend. Mel doesn't thank him, but she sends him her brightest smile as she goes to join a group of college students playing beach volleyball. She never has to worry he won't get her message.
Title: answer to existence
Rating: G
Summary: you need them (Companion & Doctor)
New Beijing, mid 25th century, there's a woman. An old fashioned artist in a time where beauty is found in the swooping silver lines of robots and a cityscape of vast skyscrapers linked together by a multitude of bridges that sway with the earthquakes. She uses watercolors. She paints people; the two old men from three rooms down with their grandchild, the mass of faces staring out from train windows, lines of school children making their way to the park. Humanity captured in broad strokes across white walls.
If she had been born three hundred years later she could have been someone. The importance of art will rise, after the revolution, the war, the horror and the blankness that makes them remember how important it is to do more than just exist. Her paintings could have captured a whole generation with their simple elegance, the obvious love the artist has for her subjects and for the world. As it is, the robotic-landlord charges her for marking up her walls and she goes to work in a factory everyday as she will until she dies, unknown. That's important.
You wonder if that's the next step in your addiction: the justification. No one who would have been important someday without you, no one important, at all, except that they are but isn't keeping you sane necessary to the universe? You know it's a problem, the need you have to have someone there, watching you, loving you, the pleasure cells build and it takes more and more to fill them. You used to be able to let them go, you knew you could give it up any time you wanted, you traveled alone for hundreds of years until you just couldn't. Now you bargain with the universe, no one important, no one's getting hurt. They just die.
It's funny. You've smoked and gotten drunk and done an amazing range of recreational narcotics and even, occasionally, had sex but this is the only thing that's got you snared. Of course, those are human things, addictions. You don't remember if that sort of thing happened on Gallifrey, it's been so long and you were so young when you left. But that's not the point. The point is that you can't let them go anymore and so you hold them too tight until they are ripped away (or just can't stand it anymore and run but don't think about that) and it hurts them and it hurts you so you know you should stop. Not forever, just step back a bit until it doesn't feel like you're Schrodinger's cat with no one watching every time they look at someone else.
But, there's a woman. New Beijing, mid 25th century. She paints on her walls because there is no paper and visits the museum to look at pictures of animals and nature and how the world used to be. You're at the museum and maybe the history you remember doesn't always line up with what's printed on the walls but that's practically part of human history in itself, reality and remembrance lying at odds to one another. There's an attack: maybe from the ghosts in the machine who want to step out from being crushed between the gears but they're hurting people (it's not their time year) and you don't let that happen so you run at them. She comes with you, ready to help, and you know that you should ignore her or thank her and then hurry away before she can ask any of the questions that hover at the tip of her tongue. You should leave before anything more can happen. You aren't going to.
Rating: G
Summary: a love story in reverse (Barbara/Ian)
"To fifty years," Tory says, raising her glass. The table raises their glasses to her toast and they drink. The whole family's there: John and Ila are holding hands under the table like teenagers instead of a couple heading toward their fifteenth year of marriage. Kavi and Anuj, obviously resigned to their parents' refusal to agree to not touching in public, have cornered Davis and are conducting an intensive interrogation, for two eleven year olds, on his latest paper. Davis is holding up quite well, despite his preference for mixing chemicals to talking to people. Tory is sharing a story with her brother, but she keeps one eye on where Sophie is standing, holding Susan up to see the collection of wooden animals. Barbara looks at Ian and he smiles.
It's Christmas. Ian cooks, humming under his breath, and Barbara makes sure to invites Davis, who would otherwise spend the holiday holed up in h is lab. John is back from America and he's finally brought Ila with him. Barbara smiles at her welcomingly and starts calculating how long it will take until Ian will start teasing their son about how often he's mentioned the 'amazing woman' he's been working with for the last two years. There's a knock on the door. Barbara opens it to find Tory standing there, defiantly, with the girl Barbara had seen her eating lunch with the last time she had visited her at university. She welcomes them in.
Children grow up. John leaves school to play his music. Barbara and Ian worry together about how he'll live but they let him go. They both know how pointless it is to try to steer children into careers a parent might see as appropriate. They leave the relationship open and hope. Tory is brilliant and passionate and when she asks why Barbara is almost overcome with memories of Susan. Each day follows one after the other and there is joy in knowing that tomorrow is coming.
John writes songs about worlds with three moons which reflect in the sapphire oceans. Tory sings along, dancing around the kitchen. Barbara leans against a counter with an arm wrapped around Ian's waist. She doesn't have to look in his eyes to feel her love reflected in his soul.
Ian teaches science at university. Barbara writes. She reads out bits of history to Ian and he tells her stories about his students. At night, she sends John off to bed with tales of great civilizations rising and falling but always living, while Ian shares the stories of the strange worlds they visited and the friends they made there.
They come back changed. You don't notice growth when you're always together but then they step back into their old worlds and realize they've grown together. Barbara is glad. She's glad to be home, happy to have traveled and changed, happy to greet all that's waiting for her: the familiar and the new. She looks into Ian's eyes and knows he's glad too.
Barbara and Ian, the only thing the other can be sure of in this vast, uncertain universe. Between aliens and history and a mysterious old man and his granddaughter they hold on to each other. Sometimes, maybe, even when you step upon solid ground it's still nice to have a familiar hand to hold.
Barbara Wright meets Ian Chesterton when he's backing out of his classroom, arms full with a large box, and almost smashes into her. She helps him up and he smiles.
Title: Links
Rating: G
Summary: most people don't understand (6th Doctor & Mel)
The Doctor is lounging on the blanket, there's no other word for it. Mel wishes there were, she's the one with the eidetic memory. He's propped up on one elbow, flicking through a book in a way she would call idly if she didn't know how fast he could read, clad in a bathing suit which makes his normal outfit look subdued. It's the first time she's seen quite so much of the Doctor and it's odd. By most standards, including those of the rest of the beach goers, it's amazingly conservative, but there is something strange about seeing the Doctor out of his coat.
There's something even stranger in seeing the Doctor relaxing. He often claimed that he enjoyed relaxing pursuits and occasionally landed the TARDIS in places he swore were the most peaceful in the galaxy. On the other hand, he seemed to actually prefer desperate pursuits, usually at high speeds, and the phrase 'most peaceful place in the galaxy' often needed extra description words like, 'were,' 'will be' and 'except for those mind eating worms,' to be entirely correct.
When the Doctor had announced his desire for a nice beach holiday, jabbing at the ceiling with his umbrella to make his point, Mel had nodded and smiled and gone off to fetch a swim suit and a good pair of shoes. She had been absolutely sure that even if they did manage to reach a beach, which was not a particularly high probability, it would be a private beach of angry nobleman/royalty/dictators/other who would have them arrested, or they would be attacked by invading aliens, or dragged into some ones personal problems which would inevitably lead to the overthrow of some corrupt government/monarchy/etcetera.
Yet, it's just a beach. The TARDIS had landed behind a confectionery stand from which the Doctor had bought them both candy floss. He had then proclaimed that it was early 21st century, spread out the blanket on the sand and started to read a thick novel (the title of which, Mel notices with some slight horror, was something along the lines of 'Burning Passions') with the determined sort of enjoyment the Doctor brought to pretty much everything he did.
The beach is loud and crowded but peaceful just the same time. Mel watches the Doctor read. The Station of Titus 3 had blown. She'd watch it happen from where the TARDIS hung in space. They'd barely made it out of there in time, some of the other people hadn't made it at all. The Doctor hadn't said anything about it, had looked away uncomfortably from her tears, as he always did. He had started declaiming about beaches like they were his true home, one that he was pulled away from only by the TARDIS and the lure of the wider universe. The Doctor is prickly and soft hearted, overly verbose and too loud in all situations, brilliant, occasionally cruel, and her best friend. Mel doesn't thank him, but she sends him her brightest smile as she goes to join a group of college students playing beach volleyball. She never has to worry he won't get her message.
Title: answer to existence
Rating: G
Summary: you need them (Companion & Doctor)
New Beijing, mid 25th century, there's a woman. An old fashioned artist in a time where beauty is found in the swooping silver lines of robots and a cityscape of vast skyscrapers linked together by a multitude of bridges that sway with the earthquakes. She uses watercolors. She paints people; the two old men from three rooms down with their grandchild, the mass of faces staring out from train windows, lines of school children making their way to the park. Humanity captured in broad strokes across white walls.
If she had been born three hundred years later she could have been someone. The importance of art will rise, after the revolution, the war, the horror and the blankness that makes them remember how important it is to do more than just exist. Her paintings could have captured a whole generation with their simple elegance, the obvious love the artist has for her subjects and for the world. As it is, the robotic-landlord charges her for marking up her walls and she goes to work in a factory everyday as she will until she dies, unknown. That's important.
You wonder if that's the next step in your addiction: the justification. No one who would have been important someday without you, no one important, at all, except that they are but isn't keeping you sane necessary to the universe? You know it's a problem, the need you have to have someone there, watching you, loving you, the pleasure cells build and it takes more and more to fill them. You used to be able to let them go, you knew you could give it up any time you wanted, you traveled alone for hundreds of years until you just couldn't. Now you bargain with the universe, no one important, no one's getting hurt. They just die.
It's funny. You've smoked and gotten drunk and done an amazing range of recreational narcotics and even, occasionally, had sex but this is the only thing that's got you snared. Of course, those are human things, addictions. You don't remember if that sort of thing happened on Gallifrey, it's been so long and you were so young when you left. But that's not the point. The point is that you can't let them go anymore and so you hold them too tight until they are ripped away (or just can't stand it anymore and run but don't think about that) and it hurts them and it hurts you so you know you should stop. Not forever, just step back a bit until it doesn't feel like you're Schrodinger's cat with no one watching every time they look at someone else.
But, there's a woman. New Beijing, mid 25th century. She paints on her walls because there is no paper and visits the museum to look at pictures of animals and nature and how the world used to be. You're at the museum and maybe the history you remember doesn't always line up with what's printed on the walls but that's practically part of human history in itself, reality and remembrance lying at odds to one another. There's an attack: maybe from the ghosts in the machine who want to step out from being crushed between the gears but they're hurting people (it's not their time year) and you don't let that happen so you run at them. She comes with you, ready to help, and you know that you should ignore her or thank her and then hurry away before she can ask any of the questions that hover at the tip of her tongue. You should leave before anything more can happen. You aren't going to.