It Lies Unwritten (1/5)
Jan. 2nd, 2012 07:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberfocusTitle: It Lies Unwritten
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amberfocus
Characters/Pairings: The Doctor/Rose Tyler
Genre: Romance, Mystery, Angst
Betas:amyo67, thetesh
Rating: Teen
Summary: In a tiny village on the edge of nowhere, a man who can't remember his own name tries to hold on to reality, but reality has other ideas. Only one thing remains constant; the woman in the blue jumper.
A/N: Yeah, it's just weird.
It Lies Unwritten
Chapter One
He doesn’t know who the blonde is, but he wants to find out. As long as he’s been here, and admittedly that isn’t long, she’s been a fixture. Every morning when he opens his curtains he sees her there, wrapped in a gray-blue jumper that doesn’t quite fit. She stares off across the snowy, open field, towards the village. It’s as if she’s waiting for someone to come home.
He’s written stories, of course, of women who wait for their men to return. Men lost at sea, men lost at war, men who one day pack up and leave, never to return. Always, it seems, the woman left behind has a broken heart that remains unmended. He wonders if he’s being silly, the romantic fool his father always warned him he was from the time he first set pen to paper, but somehow he can’t help it.
He’s come here to try to break a spate of writer’s block, his agent, his editor, and his publisher all far past the point of losing patience with him. It’s been three years since he’s finished a novel and he’s severely in breach of his contract. They’ve given him time and they’ve given him space, all hoping for the next astronomical best seller. He is sure that locking himself away from the real world in this tiny English town is a surefire way to get his muse flowing again and give them exactly what they want.
But he can’t think of epic romance on highland moors, or dragons and princesses, or sweeping space battles with strong, but romantically inept female ship captains. He can’t think of people torn from each other’s arms due to circumstances beyond their control. All he wants to write, all he can think about, is finally creating a book with a happy ending, but he’s not sure he knows how. For once he wants to take the heart of the heroine and put it back together again. He stares at his hands, wondering if they even have that power, before flicking his eyes back outside.
The woman sighs. He can see it run through her as her shoulders shudder. She seems immune to the cold most days, but today she hugs herself, seeming smaller somehow, and further away. He wants to offer her hot cocoa or tea, take out a steaming mug and introduce himself, ask her who she’s holding vigil for, but he’s always been tongue-tied around women. He’s never even had his heart broken before, because he’s never taken the chance.
She is a mystery to him, occupying too much space in his mind. He wonders why she should. No one ever has before. It’s a sad, sad fact that in his entire existence, he feels like he’s never really lived. It isn’t as if his heart has never yearned to find someone, but he’s always existed more in his head than in the real world. It takes more than just a pretty face to pull him out of the fantastic and into the mundane, but he can tell that’s not all that she is.
The overcast, gray December sky parts suddenly and a ray of light stabs toward Earth. She is bathed in it, her unkempt hair going from blonde to gold. For a moment she glows like an angel. Then the moment is gone as a cloud closes the gap and the sun moves on. He finds himself clutching the windowsill for no reason, his knuckles white with sudden anxiety.
She starts to turn and he quickly steps sideways, away from the window, cursing himself for hiding. He should raise a hand, give a little wave, and smile. He should go out and introduce himself. He should—well, there are too many things he should do and too many things he won’t do. He’s a coward every time; another thing his father had been right about.
He returns to his laptop and stares down at the empty white page. He poises his fingers over the keyboard, thinks for one long moment, and then angrily pushes the chair away from the desk, its wheels squeaking in angry protest at the sudden movement. There is no inspiration in this barren place and he will not find it huddling here in this cozy cabin. Maybe a walk into town will clear his head.
He rises from his chair and searches for his wallet. What had he been wearing the last time he ventured out? He rummages in the pockets of his leather jacket and then his long brown trench coat. It’s not in either. Considering the weather last time, before the snow had hit, it might be in his cardigan. But it’s not. He finally finds it in his blue jeans, flung over a chair in the bedroom, and slips it into his pocket. He really ought to see about hiring a maid in from the village.
He decides to stop in at the market while he’s in town. He looks in the mirror and frowns at his rumpled appearance. He best make himself a bit more presentable. He adjusts his shirt, fixing the buttons he’d done up wrong that morning, and picks up a tie from on top of the bureau, knotting it about his neck. He slips a rusty-colored jumper over his shirt. He has vague memories of someone telling him once that it wasn’t his color, but he likes it anyway. It smells like roses. He pulls his collar up and out, folding it neatly down. His black jeans are clean enough to be presentable.
A glance in the mirror tells him that his hair is sticking up again in ridiculous ways. He’d cut it far too short last time and now it is going in every direction. It isn’t long enough to do anything with it. He sighs, but runs a comb through it anyway, and immediately regrets it, as it just makes things worse.
He contemplates shaving. He hasn’t done it in a couple of days and he looks very scruffy. He decides he doesn’t care. If the cashier at the market is scandalized by the beginnings of a beard then so be it. He’s not here to impress anyone.
He leaves his room and retrieves his winter jacket. It is black and puffy and makes him look twice as big as he actually is, which according to his editor isn’t much bigger than a skinny strip of bacon. Shrugging into it, he pulls on his boots next. He gathers his keys from a bowl on the coffee table and lets himself out of the house, slamming the door firmly shut behind him, then checks the lock.
He turns around and then he goes completely still. There, in the lane, the woman from the next cottage stands, and she is staring at him with wide eyes. He is glad to see she is more appropriately dressed for the cold, wrapped in a bright yellow parka, with black boots and gloves.
“Hello,” she says in greeting, offering him a small, soft smile. His voice freezes in his throat. It doesn’t matter, for she continues. “I’m your neighbor.”
She waits expectantly for him to say something and he almost panics as he frantically tries to find the path back to speech that seems to have completely deserted his brain.
“I’m…I’m…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out and tries again. “Hello.” He wants to introduce himself, but he can’t think of his name. His own name should come tripping off his tongue. He’s a world famous novelist, for goodness sake. He has a stack of his books in the house with the author’s name emblazoned in larger letters than the story titles. His picture is on the backs. He can’t remember, no matter how hard he tries. Panic rises up again, but he squashes it down when she offers him another smile, this one not quite so small.
She doesn’t introduce herself either, so he offers up, “I’m going to the market,” and hopes he doesn’t sound completely inane.
“Me, too,” she tells him. “We could…walk together.”
He smiles and says, “I’d like that. I’ve missed…” He trails off. He’d been about to say you, but that is impossible. He doesn’t know her. His hand twitches, almost reaches out, and he frowns down at it, wondering what it’s up to. It’s almost like he can feel fingers clasped in his. No, not just fingers, but her fingers. “I’ve missed my daily walks since the snow came,” he says instead. “Been cooped up in there trying to write.” He indicates the house.
She smiles at him again. There is something so familiar about her. She begins walking towards the village and he falls into step beside her. “I’ve seen you going out for them,” she says. “I should have asked to join you sooner, but…” She shrugs.
“But?” he encourages.
She laughs. “But I was too nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?” he asks, startled.
“Because you’re quite handsome,” she tells him.
He tries not to show how dumb-founded he feels, and almost rubs his hand across the scruff on his face in disbelief. How can such a stunning woman find him handsome?
“In that geeky, bookworm sort of way,” she continues.
“What’s your name?” he asks, because suddenly he has to know it.
“Ro—.” The world suddenly turns white and the phantom pressure on his hand disappears. The woman vanishes and everything around him dissolves into nothingness. No cottage, no village in the distance, no sky above his head. Nothing. He looks down at his body and it isn’t even there.
He clings desperately to the idea that he somehow still exists, but he’s horribly afraid that he’s wrong.
Ch. 2: http://amberfocus.livejournal.com/508170.html
Author:
amberfocusCharacters/Pairings: The Doctor/Rose Tyler
Genre: Romance, Mystery, Angst
Betas:
amyo67, theteshRating: Teen
Summary: In a tiny village on the edge of nowhere, a man who can't remember his own name tries to hold on to reality, but reality has other ideas. Only one thing remains constant; the woman in the blue jumper.
A/N: Yeah, it's just weird.
He doesn’t know who the blonde is, but he wants to find out. As long as he’s been here, and admittedly that isn’t long, she’s been a fixture. Every morning when he opens his curtains he sees her there, wrapped in a gray-blue jumper that doesn’t quite fit. She stares off across the snowy, open field, towards the village. It’s as if she’s waiting for someone to come home.
He’s written stories, of course, of women who wait for their men to return. Men lost at sea, men lost at war, men who one day pack up and leave, never to return. Always, it seems, the woman left behind has a broken heart that remains unmended. He wonders if he’s being silly, the romantic fool his father always warned him he was from the time he first set pen to paper, but somehow he can’t help it.
He’s come here to try to break a spate of writer’s block, his agent, his editor, and his publisher all far past the point of losing patience with him. It’s been three years since he’s finished a novel and he’s severely in breach of his contract. They’ve given him time and they’ve given him space, all hoping for the next astronomical best seller. He is sure that locking himself away from the real world in this tiny English town is a surefire way to get his muse flowing again and give them exactly what they want.
But he can’t think of epic romance on highland moors, or dragons and princesses, or sweeping space battles with strong, but romantically inept female ship captains. He can’t think of people torn from each other’s arms due to circumstances beyond their control. All he wants to write, all he can think about, is finally creating a book with a happy ending, but he’s not sure he knows how. For once he wants to take the heart of the heroine and put it back together again. He stares at his hands, wondering if they even have that power, before flicking his eyes back outside.
The woman sighs. He can see it run through her as her shoulders shudder. She seems immune to the cold most days, but today she hugs herself, seeming smaller somehow, and further away. He wants to offer her hot cocoa or tea, take out a steaming mug and introduce himself, ask her who she’s holding vigil for, but he’s always been tongue-tied around women. He’s never even had his heart broken before, because he’s never taken the chance.
She is a mystery to him, occupying too much space in his mind. He wonders why she should. No one ever has before. It’s a sad, sad fact that in his entire existence, he feels like he’s never really lived. It isn’t as if his heart has never yearned to find someone, but he’s always existed more in his head than in the real world. It takes more than just a pretty face to pull him out of the fantastic and into the mundane, but he can tell that’s not all that she is.
The overcast, gray December sky parts suddenly and a ray of light stabs toward Earth. She is bathed in it, her unkempt hair going from blonde to gold. For a moment she glows like an angel. Then the moment is gone as a cloud closes the gap and the sun moves on. He finds himself clutching the windowsill for no reason, his knuckles white with sudden anxiety.
She starts to turn and he quickly steps sideways, away from the window, cursing himself for hiding. He should raise a hand, give a little wave, and smile. He should go out and introduce himself. He should—well, there are too many things he should do and too many things he won’t do. He’s a coward every time; another thing his father had been right about.
He returns to his laptop and stares down at the empty white page. He poises his fingers over the keyboard, thinks for one long moment, and then angrily pushes the chair away from the desk, its wheels squeaking in angry protest at the sudden movement. There is no inspiration in this barren place and he will not find it huddling here in this cozy cabin. Maybe a walk into town will clear his head.
He rises from his chair and searches for his wallet. What had he been wearing the last time he ventured out? He rummages in the pockets of his leather jacket and then his long brown trench coat. It’s not in either. Considering the weather last time, before the snow had hit, it might be in his cardigan. But it’s not. He finally finds it in his blue jeans, flung over a chair in the bedroom, and slips it into his pocket. He really ought to see about hiring a maid in from the village.
He decides to stop in at the market while he’s in town. He looks in the mirror and frowns at his rumpled appearance. He best make himself a bit more presentable. He adjusts his shirt, fixing the buttons he’d done up wrong that morning, and picks up a tie from on top of the bureau, knotting it about his neck. He slips a rusty-colored jumper over his shirt. He has vague memories of someone telling him once that it wasn’t his color, but he likes it anyway. It smells like roses. He pulls his collar up and out, folding it neatly down. His black jeans are clean enough to be presentable.
A glance in the mirror tells him that his hair is sticking up again in ridiculous ways. He’d cut it far too short last time and now it is going in every direction. It isn’t long enough to do anything with it. He sighs, but runs a comb through it anyway, and immediately regrets it, as it just makes things worse.
He contemplates shaving. He hasn’t done it in a couple of days and he looks very scruffy. He decides he doesn’t care. If the cashier at the market is scandalized by the beginnings of a beard then so be it. He’s not here to impress anyone.
He leaves his room and retrieves his winter jacket. It is black and puffy and makes him look twice as big as he actually is, which according to his editor isn’t much bigger than a skinny strip of bacon. Shrugging into it, he pulls on his boots next. He gathers his keys from a bowl on the coffee table and lets himself out of the house, slamming the door firmly shut behind him, then checks the lock.
He turns around and then he goes completely still. There, in the lane, the woman from the next cottage stands, and she is staring at him with wide eyes. He is glad to see she is more appropriately dressed for the cold, wrapped in a bright yellow parka, with black boots and gloves.
“Hello,” she says in greeting, offering him a small, soft smile. His voice freezes in his throat. It doesn’t matter, for she continues. “I’m your neighbor.”
She waits expectantly for him to say something and he almost panics as he frantically tries to find the path back to speech that seems to have completely deserted his brain.
“I’m…I’m…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out and tries again. “Hello.” He wants to introduce himself, but he can’t think of his name. His own name should come tripping off his tongue. He’s a world famous novelist, for goodness sake. He has a stack of his books in the house with the author’s name emblazoned in larger letters than the story titles. His picture is on the backs. He can’t remember, no matter how hard he tries. Panic rises up again, but he squashes it down when she offers him another smile, this one not quite so small.
She doesn’t introduce herself either, so he offers up, “I’m going to the market,” and hopes he doesn’t sound completely inane.
“Me, too,” she tells him. “We could…walk together.”
He smiles and says, “I’d like that. I’ve missed…” He trails off. He’d been about to say you, but that is impossible. He doesn’t know her. His hand twitches, almost reaches out, and he frowns down at it, wondering what it’s up to. It’s almost like he can feel fingers clasped in his. No, not just fingers, but her fingers. “I’ve missed my daily walks since the snow came,” he says instead. “Been cooped up in there trying to write.” He indicates the house.
She smiles at him again. There is something so familiar about her. She begins walking towards the village and he falls into step beside her. “I’ve seen you going out for them,” she says. “I should have asked to join you sooner, but…” She shrugs.
“But?” he encourages.
She laughs. “But I was too nervous.”
“Nervous? Why?” he asks, startled.
“Because you’re quite handsome,” she tells him.
He tries not to show how dumb-founded he feels, and almost rubs his hand across the scruff on his face in disbelief. How can such a stunning woman find him handsome?
“In that geeky, bookworm sort of way,” she continues.
“What’s your name?” he asks, because suddenly he has to know it.
“Ro—.” The world suddenly turns white and the phantom pressure on his hand disappears. The woman vanishes and everything around him dissolves into nothingness. No cottage, no village in the distance, no sky above his head. Nothing. He looks down at his body and it isn’t even there.
He clings desperately to the idea that he somehow still exists, but he’s horribly afraid that he’s wrong.
Ch. 2: http://amberfocus.livejournal.com/508170.html
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