I was thinking about what to do with one of the challenges I had been issued... And as I thought, I wondered what happened between Fear Her and Gridlock to make the Doctor abruptly switch from not liking cats at all to very happily petting Brannigan's kitten... And this is what popped into my head.
Dedication: Capemaynuts, for the challenge. Hope it lives up to any expectations you may have had.
Challenge: There are two references to other things which I do not own in here. One of them should be fairly obvious, and I will be absolutely shocked if anyone gets the second. Locate them and I will give you bananas and chocolate and jelly babies. Speaking of which, I don't remember if I told you, but I ate my first jelly baby a couple of weeks ago. It was beautiful.
SQUEAK!! Where in the name of Rassilon did my spacers go?? AAAAAAAAAAH -runs around screaming-
The first time he saw the fluffy ginger (He wasn't jealous, of course. Okay, maybe a little bit, if he was truthful, but he didn't see the point in being so) lump curled neatly on the chair at the console, he was appalled.
At first he thought it must be some sort of alien tampering or a very strange eddy in the space-time continuum— although he really would have preferred the sofa— but after he had very thoroughly checked and found nothing, there was only one other thing he could think of to bring the offending creature on board.
"Rose?" he called as he wandered the darkened halls. Why the TARDIS wasn't turning her lights on today, he had no idea, and for some reason she wasn't talking to him.
"Yeah?" she inquired from around the corner.
Once again, her bedroom startled him when he went inside. It had originally startled him for being so pink, but now it startled him for being so not-pink. Well, it was sort of pink. More mauvy rose. But it seemed so alien compared to the Barbie-esque shades it had been decorated in when she first started travelling with him...
Oh. Right. Cat.
He considered for a moment how to phrase his protests, and decided on the first one which made some sort of sense. "Why's there a cat sitting in the console room?"
"Oh," she said without the slightest remorse, picking up a shirt from the floor and stuffing it into a backpack. "That's Kyle. I picked him up after the Olympics. You remember him?"
Yes, he remembered him: the cat who had connived his way into getting the title of "beautiful boy".
He still had a grudge against that cat.
"But why's he here?"
Rose gave him an exasperated look as she closed the backpack and slung it over one shoulder. "I asked around. He belonged to some guy who had died a week before and nobody took the cat."
"So you did?"
"He's a cat!" snapped the Doctor, feeling as if this should explain everything.
"What, is the TARDIS allergic to cats? What's wrongwith me having a cat?"
"I don't like cats," he insisted. His voice was going squeaky and petulant again and he really wished it wouldn't do that. Didn't sound like anything anyone's idea of a Time Lord would sound like. "And you didn't let me keep Arthur!"
"Arthur was a horse," she said calmly, with much the same air as the Doctor's pronouncement of Kyle's species, but somehow making it sound much more persuasive.
"So?" he objected, glaring at the corner for a second.
"Doctor, he's only a cat. Look, I can keep him in my room, he can sleep with me."
Oh, yes, that helped. Not only was the bloody cat ginger, but he got to sleep in the same bed as Rose.
"And if you let me keep him, I promise I won't criticise your driving."
And then he was caught.
Not by her promise— they both knew that she'd break it before the week was out— but by the look she was giving him.
Her huge, sweet, honey-toned eyes gazed pleadingly at him. If he looked deeply, he could catch glimpses of the faint golden sheen which was all that was left of the Vortex, and if he looked more deeply still he could see the adoration she strove to hide, drown in the warmth of her love forever—
"Oh, all right," he said eventually, glancing away lest his own emotion be unveiled. She couldn't know. The closer she got to him, the closer she got to her death— and it was already so close he could smell it, hanging heavy on the air all around him and sending ice water through his nerves. She might never understand, but he didn't let himself touch her because he loved her, not because he didn't.
She made a strange, high-pitched squeak and hugged him, and if he held her a little too tightly and for a second too long... Well, she didn't have to know the reason why, and he knew she'd never ask. It was just another part of why he loved her, he supposed.
He wondered if he felt the storm creep closer at the contact and his musings and hated himself for not being able to let go.
Luckily, he didn't have to; she leant up, pressed her lips to his cheek in a swift contact which barely counted as a kiss, disentangled herself from his now-frozen embrace and darted down the hall.
He gaped after her even after her pale blue hoodie faded into the shadows before shaking himself and following her.
I was going to go on, but I had to go to bed. This is Far from Over! I could tell you to keep watch for the next installment of the series, but that would be shameless self-publicity. Wait, hold on... -pokes self- Nope, I have no shame. Okiedokie, keep watch for the next installment.
Ooh, Capemaynuts, you should REALLY be more careful when talking to me. You've gone off and spawned an entirely new series now.