Doodle: The Butterfly Effect
Mar. 14th, 2012 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kasihyaWrite for at least 300 words about a hat, and a boot.
In which the Eleventh Doctor steals a shoe that changes the course of British literature. Currently ~1K, not expected to get much longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘What is that?’ is the first thing that Amy asks when she opens the door. She’d been meaning to say something more along the lines of ‘What took you so long?’ or ‘Tea’s ready’, but when she actually takes in the sight before her, the filter over her mouth takes a temporary leave of absence.
‘It’s a headdress.’ The Doctor flicks a few brilliant green feathers back into place on the … well, it looks like he’s stuck a parrot bird over his head with glitter glue.
‘Don’t try to tell me that headdresses are cool,’ she mutters.
The Doctor stops preening long enough to throw a put-out look in his direction. ‘No I don’t, as a matter of fact, but the Inca do; lovely people. They thought I was a woman.’ He stares above Amy’s shoulder for a moment, eyes slipping out of focus. He shakes his head. ‘So tell me, how long has it been?’
‘Two weeks,’ she says. ‘You just missed River, she came by for tea. Told us about your friend Jim the Fish.’ She waggles her eyebrows.
‘Spoilers, shhhh. Can I come in?’ The Doctor shifts from foot to foot, trying to see past her. ‘Where’s Mr. Pond?’
‘Hospital, it’s Thursday. Some people have work, you know.’ She supposes that it shouldn’t come as a surprise — if the man can’t figure out what year he’s in, she shouldn’t expect him to remember that most people (on Earth, in this century and location) have jobs, and that involves working on weekdays.
‘Oh. Funny thing, that. You see, I needed to ask him something.’ The look that crosses his face can only be described as ‘dodgy'; this immediately concerns Amy, and she steps aside to let him into the house.
‘Why? What have you two done this time?’ She leads him into the tiny, wildly decorated kitchen, and sits down on the table next to two mugs of tea.
‘Nothing, nothing!’ He spins around as he enters the kitchen, hands flailing to avoid knocking over the precariously balanced bowl of apples on the counter. ‘Absolutely nothing, and I have definitely not come around because your husband may currently be in possession of Sir Thomas à Becket’s right shoe.’
Amy gets that feeling, that wibbly-wobbly thing her stomach does whenever the Doctor says something that she doesn’t quite understand, except inasmuch as she understands that it will shortly be followed by madcap adventuring and possibly rewriting the history of some poor planet or the next. She very calmly puts aside her tea and does not drop it, or betray the excitement that rises up at the prospect. ‘Why does that name sound so familiar?’ she asks. ‘And what does Rory have to do with it?’
The Doctor picks up one of the apples and tosses it to her. She raises her eyes as she catches it. ‘Early twelfth-century bishop of Canterbury, supposed to have been murdered by four of King Henry’s knights on December 29th, 1170. It was a tremendously enormous deal at the time, whole cults started around him, cathedrals built in his honor, people travelled to see the spot where he’d got his head cut off. Humans,’ he concludes, as though that one word explains everything. Maybe, for him, it does.
Amy riffles through the pages of her mental history textbook, which are a little dusty and tied up with Melody’s deliberate misinterpretations of most events. After a few seconds, she shakes her head. ‘Nope. No bells, sorry.’ The Doctor leans in close to inspect her, concern written in the lines creasing his forehead. She leans back. ‘Hey, it’s not my fault, I’ve got a time brain now. It’s all muddled up in there: Oh, hey, yeah, Scyld Scefing, that guy who tried to kidnap us, bit of a tosser — no, wait, he was King of the Danes or something, right?’
‘No, no, that’s not right,’ he says. ‘See, it’s just like I was afraid of. Come on, Pond, we’ve got a bit of a problem.’ He grabs her by the hand and pulls her to her feet. Amy gives a small hiccup of surprise, and manages to grab the keys off the counter as the Doctor dashes out of the kitchen. However, he doesn’t immediately demand that they throw themselves into the TARDIS without a moment’s notice, as she is expecting. Instead, the Doctor pelts up the stairs with all the grace of a baby giraffe, and runs into Amy’s bedroom.
A small, snide part of her mind wonders if he’s finally realized that he picked the wrong Pond to fall for, and blaming Rory for rewriting history is his way of trying to remove him from the picture; but Amy brushes this aside and focuses on the more immediate problem, which is the Doctor kneeling on the floor of their closet, rummaging through the pile of hers and Rory’s shoes. She ducks as one of her boots goes flying over his shoulder and at her face. ‘Doctor, stop; Doctor, what are you doing?’ she asks. ‘You can’t just go — I don’t care if you found the house for us, that does not mean that you get to just walk in here and — what?’
He turns around with abject horror written across his face. Somehow, it manages to remain unironic despite the several dozen shoes which surround him. ‘It’s not here. Is there anywhere else that Rory keeps his shoes?’
Amy crosses her arms. ‘No. He only has two pairs. And you have a time machine. So whatever it is that happened, it will still be happening when you get back to it; will you please tell me why you’re here?’
The Doctor gets up and starts wandering around the room, alternatively waving his hands about as he talks and smoothing back his feathers. ‘A while ago, my timeline, you and Rory and I went on a … a trip, and it got rather out of hand, but we haven’t gone on it yet, so I’m not going to tell you why. But it did, and we ended up meeting … no, can’t say that … anyway, I stole a shoe.’
‘A shoe?’ Amy settles down, cross-legged, on the floor facing him. ‘Of course you did. Why did you steal a shoe?’
‘I had to,’ he tells the pair of loafers near Amy’s left knee. ‘I was going to give it back.’
There’s an unexpected turn of events. Amy mentally rolls her eyes.
In which the Eleventh Doctor steals a shoe that changes the course of British literature. Currently ~1K, not expected to get much longer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘What is that?’ is the first thing that Amy asks when she opens the door. She’d been meaning to say something more along the lines of ‘What took you so long?’ or ‘Tea’s ready’, but when she actually takes in the sight before her, the filter over her mouth takes a temporary leave of absence.
‘It’s a headdress.’ The Doctor flicks a few brilliant green feathers back into place on the … well, it looks like he’s stuck a parrot bird over his head with glitter glue.
‘Don’t try to tell me that headdresses are cool,’ she mutters.
The Doctor stops preening long enough to throw a put-out look in his direction. ‘No I don’t, as a matter of fact, but the Inca do; lovely people. They thought I was a woman.’ He stares above Amy’s shoulder for a moment, eyes slipping out of focus. He shakes his head. ‘So tell me, how long has it been?’
‘Two weeks,’ she says. ‘You just missed River, she came by for tea. Told us about your friend Jim the Fish.’ She waggles her eyebrows.
‘Spoilers, shhhh. Can I come in?’ The Doctor shifts from foot to foot, trying to see past her. ‘Where’s Mr. Pond?’
‘Hospital, it’s Thursday. Some people have work, you know.’ She supposes that it shouldn’t come as a surprise — if the man can’t figure out what year he’s in, she shouldn’t expect him to remember that most people (on Earth, in this century and location) have jobs, and that involves working on weekdays.
‘Oh. Funny thing, that. You see, I needed to ask him something.’ The look that crosses his face can only be described as ‘dodgy'; this immediately concerns Amy, and she steps aside to let him into the house.
‘Why? What have you two done this time?’ She leads him into the tiny, wildly decorated kitchen, and sits down on the table next to two mugs of tea.
‘Nothing, nothing!’ He spins around as he enters the kitchen, hands flailing to avoid knocking over the precariously balanced bowl of apples on the counter. ‘Absolutely nothing, and I have definitely not come around because your husband may currently be in possession of Sir Thomas à Becket’s right shoe.’
Amy gets that feeling, that wibbly-wobbly thing her stomach does whenever the Doctor says something that she doesn’t quite understand, except inasmuch as she understands that it will shortly be followed by madcap adventuring and possibly rewriting the history of some poor planet or the next. She very calmly puts aside her tea and does not drop it, or betray the excitement that rises up at the prospect. ‘Why does that name sound so familiar?’ she asks. ‘And what does Rory have to do with it?’
The Doctor picks up one of the apples and tosses it to her. She raises her eyes as she catches it. ‘Early twelfth-century bishop of Canterbury, supposed to have been murdered by four of King Henry’s knights on December 29th, 1170. It was a tremendously enormous deal at the time, whole cults started around him, cathedrals built in his honor, people travelled to see the spot where he’d got his head cut off. Humans,’ he concludes, as though that one word explains everything. Maybe, for him, it does.
Amy riffles through the pages of her mental history textbook, which are a little dusty and tied up with Melody’s deliberate misinterpretations of most events. After a few seconds, she shakes her head. ‘Nope. No bells, sorry.’ The Doctor leans in close to inspect her, concern written in the lines creasing his forehead. She leans back. ‘Hey, it’s not my fault, I’ve got a time brain now. It’s all muddled up in there: Oh, hey, yeah, Scyld Scefing, that guy who tried to kidnap us, bit of a tosser — no, wait, he was King of the Danes or something, right?’
‘No, no, that’s not right,’ he says. ‘See, it’s just like I was afraid of. Come on, Pond, we’ve got a bit of a problem.’ He grabs her by the hand and pulls her to her feet. Amy gives a small hiccup of surprise, and manages to grab the keys off the counter as the Doctor dashes out of the kitchen. However, he doesn’t immediately demand that they throw themselves into the TARDIS without a moment’s notice, as she is expecting. Instead, the Doctor pelts up the stairs with all the grace of a baby giraffe, and runs into Amy’s bedroom.
A small, snide part of her mind wonders if he’s finally realized that he picked the wrong Pond to fall for, and blaming Rory for rewriting history is his way of trying to remove him from the picture; but Amy brushes this aside and focuses on the more immediate problem, which is the Doctor kneeling on the floor of their closet, rummaging through the pile of hers and Rory’s shoes. She ducks as one of her boots goes flying over his shoulder and at her face. ‘Doctor, stop; Doctor, what are you doing?’ she asks. ‘You can’t just go — I don’t care if you found the house for us, that does not mean that you get to just walk in here and — what?’
He turns around with abject horror written across his face. Somehow, it manages to remain unironic despite the several dozen shoes which surround him. ‘It’s not here. Is there anywhere else that Rory keeps his shoes?’
Amy crosses her arms. ‘No. He only has two pairs. And you have a time machine. So whatever it is that happened, it will still be happening when you get back to it; will you please tell me why you’re here?’
The Doctor gets up and starts wandering around the room, alternatively waving his hands about as he talks and smoothing back his feathers. ‘A while ago, my timeline, you and Rory and I went on a … a trip, and it got rather out of hand, but we haven’t gone on it yet, so I’m not going to tell you why. But it did, and we ended up meeting … no, can’t say that … anyway, I stole a shoe.’
‘A shoe?’ Amy settles down, cross-legged, on the floor facing him. ‘Of course you did. Why did you steal a shoe?’
‘I had to,’ he tells the pair of loafers near Amy’s left knee. ‘I was going to give it back.’
There’s an unexpected turn of events. Amy mentally rolls her eyes.
