Doctor Who | Still to Tell
Feb. 28th, 2008 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eponymous_roseTitle: Still to Tell
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eponymous_rose
Word Count: 787
Rating: G
Characters: Third Doctor, Liz Shaw
"A story," the Doctor said, "is an interesting thing."
"Hm," said Liz, because it sounded like he was being contemplative again and the best thing to do in that case was unquestionably to leave him to his own devices. She lifted the rack of test tubes she'd been cleaning and pushed past him to stack it on the shelf next to the rest - he watched her all the way, and she knew he was waiting for her curiosity to get the better of her, for her to ask him what his enigmatic statement was supposed to mean.
"Doctor?" she said, and he smiled, leaning forward in anticipation of her questions.
"Yes?"
"Would you pass me that graduated cylinder, please?" She couldn't help smirking as he sighed and reached around to retrieve the glassware with a grimace that suggested it was utter torture. "All right, all right," she said, laughing. "Go on. What's all this about a story?"
He crossed his arms and leaned back still further against the bench; she remembered spilling a bit of acid there and hoped, for the sake of the Doctor's fancy clothes, that she'd cleaned it well enough. "If you don't want to hear the story," he said, "then I shan't bother telling it."
"No," Liz corrected, "you'll just sit around moping until I give in and listen. It's quicker this way."
The Doctor rolled his eyes, then frowned and darted a glance back at her. "I do not mope," he said.
"All right," Liz allowed. "You sulk. What's this story, then? I was planning on leaving a bit early today, if you don't absolutely need me around to wash any more glassware." She infused her words with as much sarcasm as she could muster, which he cheerfully ignored.
"Well," he said, and leaned forward into the stance he took on those rare occasions he actually explained something to her, like a professor conferring with a favourite student. "It's not so much the story, you see. It's the idea behind stories."
Liz shrugged and turned back to the chemistry stores, making a note to mention to the Brigadier that the recent invasion - by what the Doctor had purported to be beings made entirely of destructive impulses - had severely depleted their stock of Erlenmeyer flasks. "You mean the way they're told? Passing on wisdom and knowledge, that sort of thing?"
"That sort of thing," he said, and there was a sudden earnestness in his voice, as though all the theatricality and bluster had faded at once. She glanced up; he looked uncomfortable, was rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Liz, I was just wondering if you believe me. Really, I mean."
"Believe you?" She'd found it was easiest to simply humour the Doctor when he was being difficult - the same principle likely applied to when he was being, well, honest and open. "Of course I believe you, Doctor."
He sighed, rolled his eyes, and the moment was lost. "You don't even know what I'm talking about, Liz."
"Not particularly, no," she admitted, and closed and locked the storage cupboard. "I'll just be heading off, then."
"Goodnight, Liz," he said, and she'd made it halfway to the door - and from there to home, dinner, and a particularly fascinating paper on internal gravity waves - before he called her name again. "Liz, I was just-" He paused. "You know I'm not lying about travelling through space and time, don't you?"
Liz sighed and leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms and wishing she'd thought to wear more practical shoes today - her legs were already starting to ache. "Doctor, I'm sure you've done whatever it is you said you've done," she said. "Because, well, that's the thing about stories, isn't it?"
The Doctor cast her a puzzled look, but after a moment he smiled. "I see," he said. "You mean that it doesn't matter whether or not they're true, not if you can't prove it one way or the other." And his grin would have been infused with pride, if it weren't for the omnipresent condescension. "How utterly scientific."
With a shrug, Liz straightened. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"Sometimes," the Doctor said, not sadly but as though he were only just discovering some commonplace fact, "I feel like bits and pieces of me have disappeared - simply never were. I wonder how much I've lost."
"Well," said Liz, "I suppose you could argue that everyone feels like that, at one time or another. Just ask Schrodinger's cat." He blinked at her, startled, and she ducked out the door before he could respond. "Goodnight, Doctor," she called back, and by then she was far enough down the hallway that she couldn't tell whether or not he'd replied.
Author:
eponymous_roseWord Count: 787
Rating: G
Characters: Third Doctor, Liz Shaw
"A story," the Doctor said, "is an interesting thing."
"Hm," said Liz, because it sounded like he was being contemplative again and the best thing to do in that case was unquestionably to leave him to his own devices. She lifted the rack of test tubes she'd been cleaning and pushed past him to stack it on the shelf next to the rest - he watched her all the way, and she knew he was waiting for her curiosity to get the better of her, for her to ask him what his enigmatic statement was supposed to mean.
"Doctor?" she said, and he smiled, leaning forward in anticipation of her questions.
"Yes?"
"Would you pass me that graduated cylinder, please?" She couldn't help smirking as he sighed and reached around to retrieve the glassware with a grimace that suggested it was utter torture. "All right, all right," she said, laughing. "Go on. What's all this about a story?"
He crossed his arms and leaned back still further against the bench; she remembered spilling a bit of acid there and hoped, for the sake of the Doctor's fancy clothes, that she'd cleaned it well enough. "If you don't want to hear the story," he said, "then I shan't bother telling it."
"No," Liz corrected, "you'll just sit around moping until I give in and listen. It's quicker this way."
The Doctor rolled his eyes, then frowned and darted a glance back at her. "I do not mope," he said.
"All right," Liz allowed. "You sulk. What's this story, then? I was planning on leaving a bit early today, if you don't absolutely need me around to wash any more glassware." She infused her words with as much sarcasm as she could muster, which he cheerfully ignored.
"Well," he said, and leaned forward into the stance he took on those rare occasions he actually explained something to her, like a professor conferring with a favourite student. "It's not so much the story, you see. It's the idea behind stories."
Liz shrugged and turned back to the chemistry stores, making a note to mention to the Brigadier that the recent invasion - by what the Doctor had purported to be beings made entirely of destructive impulses - had severely depleted their stock of Erlenmeyer flasks. "You mean the way they're told? Passing on wisdom and knowledge, that sort of thing?"
"That sort of thing," he said, and there was a sudden earnestness in his voice, as though all the theatricality and bluster had faded at once. She glanced up; he looked uncomfortable, was rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Liz, I was just wondering if you believe me. Really, I mean."
"Believe you?" She'd found it was easiest to simply humour the Doctor when he was being difficult - the same principle likely applied to when he was being, well, honest and open. "Of course I believe you, Doctor."
He sighed, rolled his eyes, and the moment was lost. "You don't even know what I'm talking about, Liz."
"Not particularly, no," she admitted, and closed and locked the storage cupboard. "I'll just be heading off, then."
"Goodnight, Liz," he said, and she'd made it halfway to the door - and from there to home, dinner, and a particularly fascinating paper on internal gravity waves - before he called her name again. "Liz, I was just-" He paused. "You know I'm not lying about travelling through space and time, don't you?"
Liz sighed and leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms and wishing she'd thought to wear more practical shoes today - her legs were already starting to ache. "Doctor, I'm sure you've done whatever it is you said you've done," she said. "Because, well, that's the thing about stories, isn't it?"
The Doctor cast her a puzzled look, but after a moment he smiled. "I see," he said. "You mean that it doesn't matter whether or not they're true, not if you can't prove it one way or the other." And his grin would have been infused with pride, if it weren't for the omnipresent condescension. "How utterly scientific."
With a shrug, Liz straightened. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
"Sometimes," the Doctor said, not sadly but as though he were only just discovering some commonplace fact, "I feel like bits and pieces of me have disappeared - simply never were. I wonder how much I've lost."
"Well," said Liz, "I suppose you could argue that everyone feels like that, at one time or another. Just ask Schrodinger's cat." He blinked at her, startled, and she ducked out the door before he could respond. "Goodnight, Doctor," she called back, and by then she was far enough down the hallway that she couldn't tell whether or not he'd replied.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-01 12:06 am (UTC)