Fic: "Revisionist History"
Oct. 27th, 2008 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
watch_is_me'Verse: Personal canon.
Words: 992.
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
badcompany_muse, "Vengeance." Yes, this is where that went in my head. With all of the Doctor's potential for Oncoming Stormness, he ends up...doing this.
Sally waved to the Doctor, as he swung out of the movie-rental shop and came sauntering across the parking lot toward her and the TARDIS. He’d parked rather far out—most of the free spaces had been for the handicapped, and he’d insisted that he wasn’t, thank you, no matter what Sally might say about his piloting skills—so she had time to judge his mood by his body language, as he waved back, ducked past a car reversing out of its spot, bounced over to her, hands in pockets, grinning, with that walk he had, like the tarmac was ever so slightly rubber or Time Lords ever so slightly gravity-resistant.
She didn’t need the TARDIS to translate. That body language read: OH, yes, I was up to something, and it went well. Very well, and I’m impressed with myself now, and the universe should share that. My impression. Impressiveness. The degree to which I have left an impressive impression on myself.
Well, maybe the TARDIS didn’t need to translate so much as run grammar-check.
“Did you find what you wanted?”
She pushed open the TARDIS door for him, and he slipped inside, his smile winking up into his eyes, a mischievous, almost-malicious glint, and, yes, that confirmed it. He hadn’t stopped by Earth, November 2000, ye olde strip mall, just to pick up a new film.
“Oh, yes.” He tossed a rental DVD case across to her, blocky plastic, blue and white and barcoded. She caught it neatly, read the title off.
“Doctor Dolittle?”
“Yep. First time on DVD! Fantastic film, have you seen it? The Giant Pink Sea Snail, the Pushme-Pullyu, intrepid adventurers, traveling the world, getting into scrapes.” He swooped over to the console, flying around it, checking the scanner and peering at the controls, making adjustments.
“Doctor.”
“Yes? …You know, wonderful thing about time travelling, never have to return anything and never run late fees either. One of those little perks. Where to next?”
“You didn’t come here just to pick up a film.”
“Oh?” He peered at her over the console, jamming his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Those glasses. A wonder he’d even bothered to put lenses in. “And why wouldn’t I?”
“We have could have gone by the shop, if you’d wanted a film. I haven’t seen Larry in… I don’t even know how long.”
“Thirty-two days. Subjective time.”
“You keep track?”
“WELL…” He bobbed up from the other side of the console, a wild-haired Jack-in-the-Box. “Ballpark figure. Rounding up, rounding down. Just a guess.”
Huh. He kept track. She cocked her head at him, ready to follow that line of questioning further. What did that mean, that he kept track of how long she’d been away from the shop, from home, from Larry?
But then he smiled across at her, an innocent, open smile, and she knew he was putting her off on purpose.
“Strip mall. Video rental. Why?” She tossed the DVD case back across to him, and he caught it one-handed, without looking up from his work. Show-off. “You’ve done DVDs before. Aliens? Leaving secret messages?”
“Nope. Nothing extraterrestrial. One-hundred percent immysterious.”
She snorted. “Don’t know why you like us English so much, you barely speak the language.” She walked around the room, came up beside him, and perched, pointedly, arms crossed, staring down at him as he poked about under the console with his screwdriver. “You still had a reason.”
He pulled back from the console, looked up at her. “Oh, alright.” He pocketed the screwdriver and stood up, pulling the scanner around so that it faced them both. “Look, here.”
“DVD release dates?”
“Yep, year 2000. Now.” He tapped the screen. “Here, schedule for October 24. See anything?”
She scanned the short list, thoughtfully. “Oh, American Beauty. That one’s good, Larry swears by it. Film buffs.” She smiled, a what-can-you-do-with-them, fond smile. “Why didn’t you pick up that one?”
“Oh, I’ve got it already. Bit depressing, anyway. No, look.” He tapped again, pointedly.
“The Patriot?”
“YES. EXACTLY.” He looked at her, triumphant, expectant—another phrase of Doctor-ese that she’d learned to translate. It said, ‘It’s so clear, right there, you get it, of course you get it, you have to get it’; and was always applied to situations where, no, she didn’t. She let her face give that answer for her.
He ran his hand through his hair, intent. “Do you have any idea how—historical inaccuracy can’t begin to describe it. It’s travesty. It’s—really, Mel Gibson impales a horse with the American flag. A horse. With a flag. On a battlefield. Scored to John Williams."
“So…?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
“So…” He rummaged about in his jacket, hand coming back out with a stack of…what, CDs? No.
He tossed them onto the console, and she read the labels on the ones that fell label-side up, flipped the others over to read their labels.
“You stole their copies of The Patriot. All of them?”
“I replaced them.”
“With what?”
“A very good line of documentaries.”
She shot him a look, amused and admonishing at once.
“Oh, your handle on history, you humans, I had to, you haven’t seen it, Sally—"
“Actually, I have.” She winged a disk at him, Frisbee-fashion, and he ducked to the side, letting it fly past and ping off of the TARDIS’ hull. “What should we do with them?” A grin, as she took aim with a second disk, poised to throw it.
“I was thinking—“ he snatched the second disk out of the air and flipped it back at her “—there’s this volcano on Felim Ithen, local custom, you know, throwing in offerings, it’s a hoary old cliché, but…”
“Right.” She answered his inquiring expression with a smile, hopping down from the console and scooping up the DVDs. “A film-burning. Censorship by fire.”
“It’s not censorship, it’s—"
“Oh, come on, Doctor, let’s go. You don't have to explain yourself to me. This time.”
Words: 992.
Prompt:
badcompany_muse, "Vengeance." Yes, this is where that went in my head. With all of the Doctor's potential for Oncoming Stormness, he ends up...doing this.Sally waved to the Doctor, as he swung out of the movie-rental shop and came sauntering across the parking lot toward her and the TARDIS. He’d parked rather far out—most of the free spaces had been for the handicapped, and he’d insisted that he wasn’t, thank you, no matter what Sally might say about his piloting skills—so she had time to judge his mood by his body language, as he waved back, ducked past a car reversing out of its spot, bounced over to her, hands in pockets, grinning, with that walk he had, like the tarmac was ever so slightly rubber or Time Lords ever so slightly gravity-resistant.
She didn’t need the TARDIS to translate. That body language read: OH, yes, I was up to something, and it went well. Very well, and I’m impressed with myself now, and the universe should share that. My impression. Impressiveness. The degree to which I have left an impressive impression on myself.
Well, maybe the TARDIS didn’t need to translate so much as run grammar-check.
“Did you find what you wanted?”
She pushed open the TARDIS door for him, and he slipped inside, his smile winking up into his eyes, a mischievous, almost-malicious glint, and, yes, that confirmed it. He hadn’t stopped by Earth, November 2000, ye olde strip mall, just to pick up a new film.
“Oh, yes.” He tossed a rental DVD case across to her, blocky plastic, blue and white and barcoded. She caught it neatly, read the title off.
“Doctor Dolittle?”
“Yep. First time on DVD! Fantastic film, have you seen it? The Giant Pink Sea Snail, the Pushme-Pullyu, intrepid adventurers, traveling the world, getting into scrapes.” He swooped over to the console, flying around it, checking the scanner and peering at the controls, making adjustments.
“Doctor.”
“Yes? …You know, wonderful thing about time travelling, never have to return anything and never run late fees either. One of those little perks. Where to next?”
“You didn’t come here just to pick up a film.”
“Oh?” He peered at her over the console, jamming his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Those glasses. A wonder he’d even bothered to put lenses in. “And why wouldn’t I?”
“We have could have gone by the shop, if you’d wanted a film. I haven’t seen Larry in… I don’t even know how long.”
“Thirty-two days. Subjective time.”
“You keep track?”
“WELL…” He bobbed up from the other side of the console, a wild-haired Jack-in-the-Box. “Ballpark figure. Rounding up, rounding down. Just a guess.”
Huh. He kept track. She cocked her head at him, ready to follow that line of questioning further. What did that mean, that he kept track of how long she’d been away from the shop, from home, from Larry?
But then he smiled across at her, an innocent, open smile, and she knew he was putting her off on purpose.
“Strip mall. Video rental. Why?” She tossed the DVD case back across to him, and he caught it one-handed, without looking up from his work. Show-off. “You’ve done DVDs before. Aliens? Leaving secret messages?”
“Nope. Nothing extraterrestrial. One-hundred percent immysterious.”
She snorted. “Don’t know why you like us English so much, you barely speak the language.” She walked around the room, came up beside him, and perched, pointedly, arms crossed, staring down at him as he poked about under the console with his screwdriver. “You still had a reason.”
He pulled back from the console, looked up at her. “Oh, alright.” He pocketed the screwdriver and stood up, pulling the scanner around so that it faced them both. “Look, here.”
“DVD release dates?”
“Yep, year 2000. Now.” He tapped the screen. “Here, schedule for October 24. See anything?”
She scanned the short list, thoughtfully. “Oh, American Beauty. That one’s good, Larry swears by it. Film buffs.” She smiled, a what-can-you-do-with-them, fond smile. “Why didn’t you pick up that one?”
“Oh, I’ve got it already. Bit depressing, anyway. No, look.” He tapped again, pointedly.
“The Patriot?”
“YES. EXACTLY.” He looked at her, triumphant, expectant—another phrase of Doctor-ese that she’d learned to translate. It said, ‘It’s so clear, right there, you get it, of course you get it, you have to get it’; and was always applied to situations where, no, she didn’t. She let her face give that answer for her.
He ran his hand through his hair, intent. “Do you have any idea how—historical inaccuracy can’t begin to describe it. It’s travesty. It’s—really, Mel Gibson impales a horse with the American flag. A horse. With a flag. On a battlefield. Scored to John Williams."
“So…?” She raised an eyebrow at him.
“So…” He rummaged about in his jacket, hand coming back out with a stack of…what, CDs? No.
He tossed them onto the console, and she read the labels on the ones that fell label-side up, flipped the others over to read their labels.
“You stole their copies of The Patriot. All of them?”
“I replaced them.”
“With what?”
“A very good line of documentaries.”
She shot him a look, amused and admonishing at once.
“Oh, your handle on history, you humans, I had to, you haven’t seen it, Sally—"
“Actually, I have.” She winged a disk at him, Frisbee-fashion, and he ducked to the side, letting it fly past and ping off of the TARDIS’ hull. “What should we do with them?” A grin, as she took aim with a second disk, poised to throw it.
“I was thinking—“ he snatched the second disk out of the air and flipped it back at her “—there’s this volcano on Felim Ithen, local custom, you know, throwing in offerings, it’s a hoary old cliché, but…”
“Right.” She answered his inquiring expression with a smile, hopping down from the console and scooping up the DVDs. “A film-burning. Censorship by fire.”
“It’s not censorship, it’s—"
“Oh, come on, Doctor, let’s go. You don't have to explain yourself to me. This time.”
