blue shutters
Blue Shutters, Nine/Rose, G
there's an abandoned house on his way to work, not haunted, but still untouched for decades. it has blue shutters. 1098 words
There’s an old building down one of the side roads, and he passes every day on his way to work. It’s crumbling, weeds grow in the wounds where people have stolen the marble window sill. They haven’t touched the shutters with their flaking blue paint, the shutters that don’t close properly anymore because they wood has rotted where it’s exposed to the elements - because the marble is missing. He never pays attention to the door, or the number that has been encased in the plaster of the house; how it still sticks to the wall, he couldn’t say. Of course, the plaster has started crumbling as well, most notably because of acqua alta and the explosion in the building opposite. The sturdy walls bore the brunt of the shock wave and the spray of debris when the building, home to a mad scientist, exploded one day. Of course, the neighbours had seen it coming, they say, but it’s been such a long time that only one little old man is still living and remembers. The others have all gone.
He has taken pictures of the blue shutters across the years, long as they are. In every light, every season, every type of weather, and at every time of day he has peered at the house through a lens, but he has never tried to get inside. For some reason, no one ever has. Lord knows there were enough homeless people in this city, and they have their favourite places to squat, but this is not one of them. It’s not haunted, they claim. It never has been. But somehow, even in the harshest of winters or hottest of summers, this house is never taken. No one breaks in and squats here. Ask the little old man, and he’ll tell you.
“What is there to tell?” he’ll ask. “No one touches the house. He might come out one day, he and his beautiful bride.”
-:-
There’s a mobile of cups above her, and through the gaps in it she glimpses the deep blue sky. A gentle breeze plays in the mobile, and as the cups move against each other they tinkle. They’ll break if the wind picks up, she thinks. It’d be a shame, it’s so pretty. Some of the cups are chipped already.
Coarse string of different length is tied to the handles, and the other ends are woven into the charred twigs of a branch that has been wedged into the hole in the roof and ceiling. She reaches for the lowest cups, but they are not hers to touch. She drops her hand and it comes to rest, palm up, next to her head.
The material she does touch is nothing like porcelain. It is soft, cool at this time of night, and, it occurs to her, it should be covering her. She turns her head and sniffs it. There is a hint of sweat and soap, very male, and a coppery note. He's taken off and folded his jumper to give her a pillow.
She remembers the blow to the head the Doctor suffered, and how her fingers had come away bloody as she’d run her fingers gently through the short hair at the back of his head. He’d winced and sat up a little straighter.
“Doctor?” she sits up.
He rushes to her side from the shadows he’s been hiding in. His torso is bare. It is a surprise, although she knows the jumper serves as her pillow. Wearing a vest doesn't seem to be in character for the Doctor. She sees the power of his muscles ripple beneath his skin. She is reminded of a panther, and a poem that goes with it, about a caged wildcat. He’s certainly like one now.
His skin is covered in cuts and bruises, his deep green jumper ruined by the shockwave. But he smiles when he sees she’s up, and well. She’s still wearing her t-shirt, although it’s pretty much ruined too.
“You all right, Doctor?” she asks, tearing her gaze away from his chest.
“Right as rain,” he says. “Or I will be.” He hands her the sonic. “I’ve put it on the right setting. Just run it over the cut in my head.”
“How long have I been out?” she asks, taking the tool he rarely handed it over. It’s surprisingly heavy and solid. It certainly looks bigger in her hand than it does in his.
“A couple of hours. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” He hesitates before he gazes deeply into her eyes. She tries hard not to drown in the bottomless blue.
She nods.
“Fantastic.” He grins and takes her by the wrist. “Now, if you’d be so kind?”
“Sure”, she mumbles, rising to her knees and scooting behind him. He flinches a little as she feels for the wound. His hair is caked in dark blood, but she’s sure it looks worse than it is. He’ll be fine in no time. She pushes the button and the sonic whirrs to life. The scab crumbles away, leaving pale skin and then a patch of newly grown hair in its wake. It’s a bit longer than the rest of his hair because she’s pointed the sonic there a little longer than necessary.
“What happened, anyway?” she asks.
“The lab blew up. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Frekisherrek?” she asks. He’s the Silurian they’d traced for a while once they’d found out flooding the Venetian lagoon would bring some much-needed climate change to the caves beneath, where his small colony lived in hibernation. The climate had dried up as attempts were made to protect the city above from sinking into the sea.
“Perished, I’m afraid,” the Doctor sighs.
Rose sags a little, sits on her heels.
“They’ll live. His colony.”
She looks at him and he cups her face.
He leans in for a kiss to her forehead. It’s always her forehead.
“Cuppa?” he asks.
They sit on big travelling trunks and sip tea.
“Why don’t we go back to the TARDIS?” she asks. The room smells damp and mouldy, and only little light comes in through the gaps between the shutters and the hole above.
“Oh, didn’t I say?” he asks with an insouciant grin. “We’re wrapped in a protective bubble. It’s time-locked and will burst in a few hours, when the poisonous gas from the explosion has evaporated. It’s not an entirely harmless mixture for Time Lords.”
“Ah,” she says. “Shame this place is such a tip.”
He grins and bends over a decade-old newspaper he’s found somewhere.
there's an abandoned house on his way to work, not haunted, but still untouched for decades. it has blue shutters. 1098 words
There’s an old building down one of the side roads, and he passes every day on his way to work. It’s crumbling, weeds grow in the wounds where people have stolen the marble window sill. They haven’t touched the shutters with their flaking blue paint, the shutters that don’t close properly anymore because they wood has rotted where it’s exposed to the elements - because the marble is missing. He never pays attention to the door, or the number that has been encased in the plaster of the house; how it still sticks to the wall, he couldn’t say. Of course, the plaster has started crumbling as well, most notably because of acqua alta and the explosion in the building opposite. The sturdy walls bore the brunt of the shock wave and the spray of debris when the building, home to a mad scientist, exploded one day. Of course, the neighbours had seen it coming, they say, but it’s been such a long time that only one little old man is still living and remembers. The others have all gone.
He has taken pictures of the blue shutters across the years, long as they are. In every light, every season, every type of weather, and at every time of day he has peered at the house through a lens, but he has never tried to get inside. For some reason, no one ever has. Lord knows there were enough homeless people in this city, and they have their favourite places to squat, but this is not one of them. It’s not haunted, they claim. It never has been. But somehow, even in the harshest of winters or hottest of summers, this house is never taken. No one breaks in and squats here. Ask the little old man, and he’ll tell you.
“What is there to tell?” he’ll ask. “No one touches the house. He might come out one day, he and his beautiful bride.”
-:-
There’s a mobile of cups above her, and through the gaps in it she glimpses the deep blue sky. A gentle breeze plays in the mobile, and as the cups move against each other they tinkle. They’ll break if the wind picks up, she thinks. It’d be a shame, it’s so pretty. Some of the cups are chipped already.
Coarse string of different length is tied to the handles, and the other ends are woven into the charred twigs of a branch that has been wedged into the hole in the roof and ceiling. She reaches for the lowest cups, but they are not hers to touch. She drops her hand and it comes to rest, palm up, next to her head.
The material she does touch is nothing like porcelain. It is soft, cool at this time of night, and, it occurs to her, it should be covering her. She turns her head and sniffs it. There is a hint of sweat and soap, very male, and a coppery note. He's taken off and folded his jumper to give her a pillow.
She remembers the blow to the head the Doctor suffered, and how her fingers had come away bloody as she’d run her fingers gently through the short hair at the back of his head. He’d winced and sat up a little straighter.
“Doctor?” she sits up.
He rushes to her side from the shadows he’s been hiding in. His torso is bare. It is a surprise, although she knows the jumper serves as her pillow. Wearing a vest doesn't seem to be in character for the Doctor. She sees the power of his muscles ripple beneath his skin. She is reminded of a panther, and a poem that goes with it, about a caged wildcat. He’s certainly like one now.
His skin is covered in cuts and bruises, his deep green jumper ruined by the shockwave. But he smiles when he sees she’s up, and well. She’s still wearing her t-shirt, although it’s pretty much ruined too.
“You all right, Doctor?” she asks, tearing her gaze away from his chest.
“Right as rain,” he says. “Or I will be.” He hands her the sonic. “I’ve put it on the right setting. Just run it over the cut in my head.”
“How long have I been out?” she asks, taking the tool he rarely handed it over. It’s surprisingly heavy and solid. It certainly looks bigger in her hand than it does in his.
“A couple of hours. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” He hesitates before he gazes deeply into her eyes. She tries hard not to drown in the bottomless blue.
She nods.
“Fantastic.” He grins and takes her by the wrist. “Now, if you’d be so kind?”
“Sure”, she mumbles, rising to her knees and scooting behind him. He flinches a little as she feels for the wound. His hair is caked in dark blood, but she’s sure it looks worse than it is. He’ll be fine in no time. She pushes the button and the sonic whirrs to life. The scab crumbles away, leaving pale skin and then a patch of newly grown hair in its wake. It’s a bit longer than the rest of his hair because she’s pointed the sonic there a little longer than necessary.
“What happened, anyway?” she asks.
“The lab blew up. I couldn’t stop it.”
“Frekisherrek?” she asks. He’s the Silurian they’d traced for a while once they’d found out flooding the Venetian lagoon would bring some much-needed climate change to the caves beneath, where his small colony lived in hibernation. The climate had dried up as attempts were made to protect the city above from sinking into the sea.
“Perished, I’m afraid,” the Doctor sighs.
Rose sags a little, sits on her heels.
“They’ll live. His colony.”
She looks at him and he cups her face.
He leans in for a kiss to her forehead. It’s always her forehead.
“Cuppa?” he asks.
They sit on big travelling trunks and sip tea.
“Why don’t we go back to the TARDIS?” she asks. The room smells damp and mouldy, and only little light comes in through the gaps between the shutters and the hole above.
“Oh, didn’t I say?” he asks with an insouciant grin. “We’re wrapped in a protective bubble. It’s time-locked and will burst in a few hours, when the poisonous gas from the explosion has evaporated. It’s not an entirely harmless mixture for Time Lords.”
“Ah,” she says. “Shame this place is such a tip.”
He grins and bends over a decade-old newspaper he’s found somewhere.