The Stuff of Legend
So apparently I am ridiculously suggestable at the moment (please not to be taking advantage of this :D). Written as a response to mrv3000's suggestion that no one could include all 23 elements proposed for commentfic at Carnival of Squee.
The prompts were:
moving, boxes, fish, New Gallifrey, children, domesticity, puppies, dressing up, formal event (concert, party, theater - author's choice), couch, nap, heat wave, wrath of Jackie, kitchen scissors, apron, dance marathon competition, "dancing," universe at stake, cargo ships, toffee factories, Carnivale (the festival, not the TV show), Otters otters otters!
Bleary eyed, Rose staggered into the living room and bashed into a cardboard box. ‘DOCTOR!’ she yelled, leaning against the door frame with tears in her eyes, clutching at her leg.
There was a sudden crashing noise from the vicinity of their double bed and the Doctor, hobbling slightly and looking worried, stumbled through calling, ‘Rose? What is it?’
Carefully resting her weight on the sore leg, Rose leant back into the room and grabbed the Doctor by his stripy pyjamas, pulling him down to her level by the lapels. ‘Move,’ she hissed quietly, ‘The. Boxes.’
The Doctor’s eyes widened and he began nodding furiously. ‘Ah, yes, boxes. Will do, right away.’
Fixing him with her inherited “Wrath of Jackie” face, Rose hobbled off to the bathroom. Still shaken by the fearful threat inherent in the “wrath” face, the Doctor quickly headed for the kitchen, concluding that it was better to simply unpack the boxes and put away the contents rather than heft them to somewhere else that Rose would object to.
Leaning over the sink, Rose splashed water over her face and neck, and wondered why she still loved the big dork. It’d been three days since they’d moved in to this house. Three days! And every morning since then she’d tripped over those wretched boxes. Every morning the Doctor had promised to move them, and every morning he’d gotten distracted. She still had no earthly idea what had possessed him to put them there in the first place. She would’ve moved them herself days ago but, in her delicate condition, the Doctor had banned her from lifting so much as a heavy plate.
Wandering back out again, Rose smiled at the sight of the Doctor bent over the nearest box, kitchen scissors in hand, trying to slice open the packing tape she’d swathed the boxes in.
He was grunting and muttering about sonic screwdrivers. And his pyjama bottoms were sliding down. Sneaking forward she bent over and whispered ‘Nice rear bumper,’ in his ear.
Jumping with surprise he thrust the scissors further into the box than he’d intended. They both winced at the sound of something squeaking. ‘Puppies?’ the Doctor asked, looking at her with concern.
‘Puppies,’ Rose agreed, carefully lowering herself onto the nearest couch in their massive living room. ‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘Tell me again why Jackie keeps giving us stuffed animals?’ the Doctor queried, cracking open the box to remove the punctured plush toy. ‘Puppies,’ he said, holding it up before tossing it in to the bin, ‘kittens,’ he added removing a small fluffy cat which, sadly had not been hit by the runaway scissors, ‘and, oh!’ the Doctor cried. ‘Don’t forget the otters! Otters,’ he said, lifting two of them out and throwing them on the floor, ‘otters,’ he continued, tossing two more out of the box, ‘OTTERS!’ He threw the rest on the floor.
‘Because our house, or flat, is too bare,’ Rose explained, in the flat tone that indicated that she was repeating her mother’s words.
'By which she means not filled with tat,' the Doctor muttered. As much as he loved Rose and was looking forward to having children together, there were some elements of domesticity that still escaped him. Like mothers-in-law.
'Oi,' Rose commented wearily, 'don't be disrespecting my mum.'
'I'd never dare,' the Doctor commented emphatically. Rose raised an eyebrow sceptically. 'To her face,' the Doctor added.
Rose chuckled, lifting the damp hair off the back of her neck and waving a hand over the skin to cool herself down a little.
'Why don't you have a nap?' the Doctor suggested, concerned. 'You'll need to be awake for tonight.'
Rose groaned. 'Don't remind me,' she muttered. 'No, there's no way I'll be able to sleep in this heat wave,' she said, referring to the slightly unseasonal warmth they were experiencing. Of course, at eight months pregnant, Rose could experience a heat wave just by standing in front of the tumble dryer. When it was off. 'I'll have a shower,' she decided. 'It's the only way I'll cool down.' Planting her hands firmly on the couch, she pressed down, grunting with the effort of lifting herself from the couch.
Leaning down, the Doctor pressed a kiss to her forehead. 'Enjoy your shower,' he said. Rose smiled up at him.
As one half of the stuff of legend waddled off to the bathroom, the other half hitched up his pyjama trousers and bent over the boxes again.
By the time Rose emerged from her shower, two hours and many wrinkled fingers later, the Doctor had unpacked the offending boxes and was in the kitchen. He was wearing the "Kiss the Chef" apron that Pete had bought him for Christmas, Rose briefly wondered why the Doctor never seemed to mind getting tat from his father-in-law, and was bent over the new cooker, his concentration reflected in the intense expression on his face. 'What are we eating?' she asked, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.
'Fish,' he said absently. 'Or rather, fishcakes to be exact. And don't distract me,' he added, as she pressed a kiss to his collarbone.
'I'm just following instructions,' Rose said mildly, gesturing to the phrase branded across the front of the apron.
'Thank you,' the Doctor said, kissing her forehead without taking his eyes off the frying pan. 'But unless you want burnt fishcakes, you need to go sit down and wait for me.'
Pouting a little, Rose wandered through to their brand new dining room and pottered about looking at the photos and knickknacks that the Doctor had so carefully laid out in their display case. A picture of their first Earth-bound holiday, to Italy, their wedding day, the intergalactic cruise that Jack had arranged for their honeymoon, as a wedding present. She smiled as she looked over the pictures, remembering the way the Doctor had gone all Oncoming Storm on the odious little man on the cruise who'd treated him like a museum exhibit and kept asking why he didn't just start a New Gallifrey the way humans did with all their New Earths. Come to think of it, she realised, that might have been the night she got pregnant. She did love it when he got all passionate and superior.
'Here we go,' the Doctor said, laying the two plates on the table. 'Lunch is served.'
'Oh lovely,' Rose commented, taking her place. She'd been lucky enough to escape morning sickness in her pregnancy, but somehow she'd managed to acquire a voracious appetite instead. With his ban on her doing anything “dangerous”, the Doctor had had to learn how to cook pretty quickly to satisfy her hunger. 'How did we let Jack talk us into a Torchwood awards ceremony again?' she asked, cutting a chunk of the fishcake and popping it in her mouth.
'It's been a long year,' the Doctor explained. 'Jack thought we could use a bit of fun. What with the thing with the Toffee Factories...'
'And the cargo ships,' Rose shuddered. 'You're right,' she said. 'It's just, formal events, dressing up. Not so much fun when you've got a stomach the size of a medicine ball.'
'I know, love,' the Doctor agreed, reaching out and stroking her cheek. 'But, hey,' he said, grinning at her, 'it could be worse. You managed to talk him out of the "Carnivale" theme.'
Rose laughed. 'God, yeah. And what about the Dance Marathon Competition,' she said.
The Doctor frowned. 'I'll tell you the same thing I told him,' he said firmly. 'Not even if the fate of the universe were at stake.'
Rose laughed. 'It's okay,' she assured him, reaching over to pat his hand. 'I promise, no dancing.'
'Well,' the Doctor drawled, smiling at her, 'it's not all bad. I mean,' he raised one eyebrow, 'there's dancing and there's "dancing".'
Rose grinned at him. 'Now, now,' she said, grinning despite her warning tone, 'it's that kind of talk that got us here in the first place.'
'And just what,' the Doctor asked, leaning over to kiss her, 'is so wrong with here?'
'Nothing,' Rose beamed, kissing him back. 'Nothing at all.'
The prompts were:
moving, boxes, fish, New Gallifrey, children, domesticity, puppies, dressing up, formal event (concert, party, theater - author's choice), couch, nap, heat wave, wrath of Jackie, kitchen scissors, apron, dance marathon competition, "dancing," universe at stake, cargo ships, toffee factories, Carnivale (the festival, not the TV show), Otters otters otters!
Bleary eyed, Rose staggered into the living room and bashed into a cardboard box. ‘DOCTOR!’ she yelled, leaning against the door frame with tears in her eyes, clutching at her leg.
There was a sudden crashing noise from the vicinity of their double bed and the Doctor, hobbling slightly and looking worried, stumbled through calling, ‘Rose? What is it?’
Carefully resting her weight on the sore leg, Rose leant back into the room and grabbed the Doctor by his stripy pyjamas, pulling him down to her level by the lapels. ‘Move,’ she hissed quietly, ‘The. Boxes.’
The Doctor’s eyes widened and he began nodding furiously. ‘Ah, yes, boxes. Will do, right away.’
Fixing him with her inherited “Wrath of Jackie” face, Rose hobbled off to the bathroom. Still shaken by the fearful threat inherent in the “wrath” face, the Doctor quickly headed for the kitchen, concluding that it was better to simply unpack the boxes and put away the contents rather than heft them to somewhere else that Rose would object to.
Leaning over the sink, Rose splashed water over her face and neck, and wondered why she still loved the big dork. It’d been three days since they’d moved in to this house. Three days! And every morning since then she’d tripped over those wretched boxes. Every morning the Doctor had promised to move them, and every morning he’d gotten distracted. She still had no earthly idea what had possessed him to put them there in the first place. She would’ve moved them herself days ago but, in her delicate condition, the Doctor had banned her from lifting so much as a heavy plate.
Wandering back out again, Rose smiled at the sight of the Doctor bent over the nearest box, kitchen scissors in hand, trying to slice open the packing tape she’d swathed the boxes in.
He was grunting and muttering about sonic screwdrivers. And his pyjama bottoms were sliding down. Sneaking forward she bent over and whispered ‘Nice rear bumper,’ in his ear.
Jumping with surprise he thrust the scissors further into the box than he’d intended. They both winced at the sound of something squeaking. ‘Puppies?’ the Doctor asked, looking at her with concern.
‘Puppies,’ Rose agreed, carefully lowering herself onto the nearest couch in their massive living room. ‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘Tell me again why Jackie keeps giving us stuffed animals?’ the Doctor queried, cracking open the box to remove the punctured plush toy. ‘Puppies,’ he said, holding it up before tossing it in to the bin, ‘kittens,’ he added removing a small fluffy cat which, sadly had not been hit by the runaway scissors, ‘and, oh!’ the Doctor cried. ‘Don’t forget the otters! Otters,’ he said, lifting two of them out and throwing them on the floor, ‘otters,’ he continued, tossing two more out of the box, ‘OTTERS!’ He threw the rest on the floor.
‘Because our house, or flat, is too bare,’ Rose explained, in the flat tone that indicated that she was repeating her mother’s words.
'By which she means not filled with tat,' the Doctor muttered. As much as he loved Rose and was looking forward to having children together, there were some elements of domesticity that still escaped him. Like mothers-in-law.
'Oi,' Rose commented wearily, 'don't be disrespecting my mum.'
'I'd never dare,' the Doctor commented emphatically. Rose raised an eyebrow sceptically. 'To her face,' the Doctor added.
Rose chuckled, lifting the damp hair off the back of her neck and waving a hand over the skin to cool herself down a little.
'Why don't you have a nap?' the Doctor suggested, concerned. 'You'll need to be awake for tonight.'
Rose groaned. 'Don't remind me,' she muttered. 'No, there's no way I'll be able to sleep in this heat wave,' she said, referring to the slightly unseasonal warmth they were experiencing. Of course, at eight months pregnant, Rose could experience a heat wave just by standing in front of the tumble dryer. When it was off. 'I'll have a shower,' she decided. 'It's the only way I'll cool down.' Planting her hands firmly on the couch, she pressed down, grunting with the effort of lifting herself from the couch.
Leaning down, the Doctor pressed a kiss to her forehead. 'Enjoy your shower,' he said. Rose smiled up at him.
As one half of the stuff of legend waddled off to the bathroom, the other half hitched up his pyjama trousers and bent over the boxes again.
By the time Rose emerged from her shower, two hours and many wrinkled fingers later, the Doctor had unpacked the offending boxes and was in the kitchen. He was wearing the "Kiss the Chef" apron that Pete had bought him for Christmas, Rose briefly wondered why the Doctor never seemed to mind getting tat from his father-in-law, and was bent over the new cooker, his concentration reflected in the intense expression on his face. 'What are we eating?' she asked, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.
'Fish,' he said absently. 'Or rather, fishcakes to be exact. And don't distract me,' he added, as she pressed a kiss to his collarbone.
'I'm just following instructions,' Rose said mildly, gesturing to the phrase branded across the front of the apron.
'Thank you,' the Doctor said, kissing her forehead without taking his eyes off the frying pan. 'But unless you want burnt fishcakes, you need to go sit down and wait for me.'
Pouting a little, Rose wandered through to their brand new dining room and pottered about looking at the photos and knickknacks that the Doctor had so carefully laid out in their display case. A picture of their first Earth-bound holiday, to Italy, their wedding day, the intergalactic cruise that Jack had arranged for their honeymoon, as a wedding present. She smiled as she looked over the pictures, remembering the way the Doctor had gone all Oncoming Storm on the odious little man on the cruise who'd treated him like a museum exhibit and kept asking why he didn't just start a New Gallifrey the way humans did with all their New Earths. Come to think of it, she realised, that might have been the night she got pregnant. She did love it when he got all passionate and superior.
'Here we go,' the Doctor said, laying the two plates on the table. 'Lunch is served.'
'Oh lovely,' Rose commented, taking her place. She'd been lucky enough to escape morning sickness in her pregnancy, but somehow she'd managed to acquire a voracious appetite instead. With his ban on her doing anything “dangerous”, the Doctor had had to learn how to cook pretty quickly to satisfy her hunger. 'How did we let Jack talk us into a Torchwood awards ceremony again?' she asked, cutting a chunk of the fishcake and popping it in her mouth.
'It's been a long year,' the Doctor explained. 'Jack thought we could use a bit of fun. What with the thing with the Toffee Factories...'
'And the cargo ships,' Rose shuddered. 'You're right,' she said. 'It's just, formal events, dressing up. Not so much fun when you've got a stomach the size of a medicine ball.'
'I know, love,' the Doctor agreed, reaching out and stroking her cheek. 'But, hey,' he said, grinning at her, 'it could be worse. You managed to talk him out of the "Carnivale" theme.'
Rose laughed. 'God, yeah. And what about the Dance Marathon Competition,' she said.
The Doctor frowned. 'I'll tell you the same thing I told him,' he said firmly. 'Not even if the fate of the universe were at stake.'
Rose laughed. 'It's okay,' she assured him, reaching over to pat his hand. 'I promise, no dancing.'
'Well,' the Doctor drawled, smiling at her, 'it's not all bad. I mean,' he raised one eyebrow, 'there's dancing and there's "dancing".'
Rose grinned at him. 'Now, now,' she said, grinning despite her warning tone, 'it's that kind of talk that got us here in the first place.'
'And just what,' the Doctor asked, leaning over to kiss her, 'is so wrong with here?'
'Nothing,' Rose beamed, kissing him back. 'Nothing at all.'