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Fic: Heritage, Chapter Six

Title: Heritage, Chapter Six
Author: NP-Complete
Rating: General
Characters: OCs; historical Rose/Ten
Spoilers: Doomsday
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close. No money being made.

Summary: Half Time Lord, all human

Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who commented on my previous chapters. Special thanks to kalleah for beta and persistent encouragement.

Previous Chapters

He took that in, dark eyes intense. There was a determined look forming on his face, as of one resolving to meet his fate. She watched as he lifted his head from his hand, moved his elbow forward for balance, and leaned in.

Breakfast was tea and muffins at a small tea specialist’s, sitting at a tiny table. John recommended a particular blend. He was apparently a prodigious drinker of tea. She nibbled the muffin in tiny bites, drawing out their time together, knowing that after it ended politeness would demand that she make some move towards going home. They talked, quietly, about John’s childhood and her own, trading stories about mud puddles and climbed trees. It seemed that, at least until he’d gone to school, John had, like her, spent most of his childhood in the country.

“Feel like looking around some more?” John said, as the shop door closed behind them and they found themselves on the pavement again. “There are some interesting shops in the next street.” He caught her eye. “Unless… you have things you need to do. I shouldn’t keep you.”

“No!” she said, and then, “I didn’t have plans. I’d love to see the shops.”

“Good!” said John, much more cheerfully, and they walked on to the shops.

The next street was one that made a pretense of supplying what a neighborhood might need, in a much more expensive and specialized form. The chemist’s windows advertized that they stocked several lines of expensive skin care products. A yarn shop displayed angora, alpaca, rabbit fur, and silk in exquisitely shaded skeins that made her mouth water in clothing-lust. A specialty food shop called itself “Groceries” but the foods in its windows were set out like wares in a jeweler’s display, each with a card attesting to its origin, its maker, and what distinguished it from all others of its type.

They wandered. A newsagent’s-cum-bookstore appealed, cheap smartpaper sheets taped to its sign, headlines crawling across them. Many of the mastheads were foreign: she supposed the clientele were cosmopolitan enough that they followed the news in other countries. They went in, and spent some time browsing through the books, paper-and-glue or as memory cards stored in neat little envelopes. John leafed through a book of photographs of exotic locations, showing her one of the Arizona landscape, all bleak beauty and alien-looking cactus. "Always wanted to go there, someday,” he said. "Never find the time."

Next to the newsagent’s was a toy store, and of course they had to go in and look. John, as she ought to have predicted, liked the more mechanical toys, watching with delight as tiny motors whirred and little cars ran across display tables, their sensors detecting obstacles and drop-offs and keeping them from falling onto the floor. One in particular seemed to be his favorite, and, seeing him tempted, she urged him to buy it. He did, giving her a delighted smile as he took the wrapped package and put it in his pocket.

Outside on the street, John indicated the food shop. “Do you want to go in?” he said. “We could pick up something for lunch….” He let the sentence trail off and blinked at her hopefully.

“Yes, let’s,” she said happily, and they entered the shop.

The shop was an unusually good one, even for its type. They stood rapt, as the cheese specialist passed them trimmings of what he said were the best cheeses in Europe. They nibbled bits of bread dipped into olive oil, each oil tagged with an explanatory card and trailing its own cloud of meanings. The shelves were laden with boxes of pasta and biscuits and jam, brightly labeled, claiming (not always convincingly) to be artisan-crafted in the country, or else stamped with enough foreign language labels to make them seem a rarity known only to the cognoscenti of some other country. They admired, but did not aspire to buy, the rare and expensive meat, the prohibitively expensive ocean fish, their fattier and somewhat less expensive farmed cousins, the shining sausages and preserved meats, sliced in tiny quantities or served in an absurdly expensive sandwich. They selected cheese slivers, little tubs of bean pate, slabs of dark green vegetable terrine, exotically-flavored cultured milk drained to pudding-thickness, a tall cylindrical container of soup.

He touched her shoulder, getting her attention. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, “I just have to – just for a minute. I’ll be back.” She nodded, and in a few minutes she saw him departing out the door of the shop, coat fluttering behind him. She spotted a shelf of John’s favorite semi-fizzy Italian blood orange drink, and added a few bottles to her basket. She took her basket to the shop clerk, only to find that John had already arranged that anything she bought would be charged to his card. The contents of his basket were already there, in a bag, waiting for her to pick up. She left the shop and stood blinking on the pavement. The door opened at the chemist’s across the road, and John exited, stuffing a bag into his coat pocket.

“Got everything?” he said, smiling at her.

“I think so,” she said.

They walked back towards his flat, hands brushing together and then taking hold, each carrying a shopping bag in their other hand. The sky was partly overcast, and the light seemed to be all glare, shining directly in her eyes, and she wished she’d had her sunglasses. The headache from this morning was back, stronger now and seeming to pulse as her heart beat.

Back in his flat, they deposited the bags in the kitchen. John caught her rubbing her temples. “What’s wrong?”

“I have a headache,” she said.

“Do you want anything? Paracetamol? To lie down?”

“Paracetamol would be good.”

He fetched it, and poured her a glass of water. Now, all she had to do was wait for it to start working.

“Go lie down,” he said. “Use my room.” He strode ahead of her, opening the door to his bedroom, pulling down the shades to darken it.

“There you are,” he said, stood looking at her for a minute, and then closed the door behind him. She lay down on top of the duvet in the semi-darkness. There was a distant, rhythmic noise, as of someone’s washing machine, and the faint suggestion of music from one of the other floors. In his room there was no sound except for the faint tick of his clock.


She had a sense of becoming aware, and opened her eyes, finding that she’d been asleep. She was on her side, curled up. John was on the bed, too, some small distance away, stretched out on his side atop the bedclothes, propped up on his elbow, watching her. In the shaded light, his eyes were large, dark, unfathomable.

“Feel better?” he said, as she uncurled and stretched.

“Yes,” she said. The headache was gone; what was left was a sense of being extra sensitive to light and sound. “How long was I asleep?”

“About an hour,” said John, still looking at her. His gaze was not demanding: he merely watched, as if for the sake of watching. He didn’t offer any explanation for why he was on the bed. Nor did he move to get up.

Was he waiting for her to do something? She propped herself up on her own elbow and watched him back. Brown hair, pale skin, sweet freckles, that mobile mouth, the dark and velvety eyes. He was quite a good-looking man, and she felt a creeping excitement insinuating itself through her, one that she kept banked, not showing on the outside.

“I like this room,” she said, mostly for the sake of saying something.

“So do I,” he said. His right hand was resting on top of the bed, and he drummed his fingers against the duvet.

“Thanks for letting me stay here last night,” she said again.

“I like having you here,” he said, simply. She had the sense that not many people were told that.

“Why did you speak to me?” she asked. “Back when—with the flower. The alien lily. Why did you show it to me?”

His gaze did not waver from hers. “It was blooming,” he said, voice serious. “You were there.”

“Because I was there?” It was a discordant thought, breaking the mood. All the smiles and glances and seeking of his gaze, all that silent coaxing him to come to her—had it all been for nothing?

“It was blooming,” he said again. “Somebody had to see it happen. And there you were. Perfect.”

He spoke as if he found it romantic. She did not. It must have shown on her face, for he added, “I thought you would like it. You seemed … nice.”

That did not seem to help. In the same even, sober tone, he added, “And I thought you were very pretty.”

She huffed a laugh and dropped her eyes. She might occasionally deserve the adjective, but never the intensifier.

“I did,” he insisted. “You were pretty and you were nice and you didn’t know enough not to speak to me. It was blooming, I thought of you, and there you were, just outside my door. It was perfect.”

Put that way, it actually did sound a bit romantic. She could see why he thought of it that way.

“I thought you were good-looking, too.” she said, raising her eyes to his. “And … nice.”

He took that in, dark eyes intense. There was a determined look forming on his face, as of one resolving to meet his fate. She watched as he lifted his head from his hand, moved his elbow forward for balance, and leaned in.

Very softly, he touched his lips to hers.

It was a gentle kiss, a soft movement of lip against lip, and it was over almost before she had processed that it was actually happening. She felt a tingle under her skin, almost like an electrical shock, and that hidden place between her legs twinged, hard. She gazed at his mouth, still feeling its touch against hers, and spared a few last thoughts, for form’s sake, on propriety, collegiality, professionalism.

In those moments, John’s face went from a look of tender expectation to uncertainty, confusion, and then dismay, all covered within seconds with the rigid, shut down look she knew from work. It gave her pain to see it. She leaned forward and returned the kiss.

He hesitated before responding, but she persisted, working her mouth against his, kissing him over and over. At last he sighed, leaned forward again, and began kissing her back.

He tasted slightly sweet and slightly like coffee, and she thought, I can live with that. They kissed, mouths parting and touching again and again. She leaned even closer, and John moved, reaching out to pull her close to him.

She stretched to meet his mouth, and then pushed herself up on her hands, breaking his hold, and held herself above him. His hands moved up to rest on her sides, lightly touching her, and he looked up at her. She drank in the picture he made, below her, hair disarranged, eyes huge and dark, lips parted, finally ready for her, her touch, her kisses. She wanted to laugh and shriek and jump on the bed, but all she did was smile.

He smiled back, helplessly. She pounced. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close, her body against his, still kissing, kissing, kissing. Her tongue ventured forward and found his waiting for her, welcoming her like a lost love. They rolled to one side and she pressed against him, feeling a growing hardness finding a space for itself between her legs. One of John’s hands landed on her lower back, scrabbled a bit with her T-shirt, and then spread itself flat on her bare skin, hot and real against her flesh. The shock sent sparks flashing through her breasts and between her legs, and she gasped.

And then he was pulling away, getting to his knees, shirt loose, panting. “Listen,” he said.

She listened, half sitting up. There was a high, insistent beeping coming from somewhere.

“Oven,” he said, climbing off the bed and getting to his feet. She flopped back on the bed as he walked, a bit unsteadily, towards the door.


She waited for a bit, thinking he would be back any minute, but he didn’t come. Her heart calmed down and her breathing slowed. Eventually she climbed out of bed, smoothed down her shirt, and went to find him.

The smell of fresh bread filled the front of the flat. John was in the kitchen, cutting slices of a rustic-looking loaf, the bread resisting the knife and the insides squishing as he sliced. He should have let it cool some more, she thought. A wrapper describing its contents as bakery-fresh country-style bread dough lay empty to one side. The table was set and the little containers from this morning were arranged in the center, surrounded by plates and soup bowls.

“I wondered if you were coming back,” she said, leaning against the counter.

He gave her a surprised look. “The bread,” he said. “I just—if I’d left it, it would have burned. It wouldn’t have been safe.”

That explained why he’d left, but not why he hadn’t come back. “So you started lunch,” she said.

“I just –“ said John. “I just thought I’d give you a chance to reconsider.”


“Whether you… want …” He seemed to run out of words, looking at her uncertainly.

Was he anxious about her feelings, or was this some other kind of anxiety? “Have you been reconsidering?” she asked.

“No!” he said, hastening to get the words out. “Not at all. I just—I just—“

She searched his face. He seemed earnest, if a trifle flustered. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said. They stared at each other. “Absolutely,” he added, more determinedly.

She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. “It looks like a nice lunch.”

He looked around. “Yes,” he said, “I believe it is.”

She reached out and touched his arm, leaving her hand there, staying in contact. “How can I help?” she asked.

“You can pour some water—or orange drink, if you like,” he said, visibly more at ease. “Glasses are over there.”

“Let’s eat,” she said.


Lunch was a success. The food was certainly very good, but that was the least of it. There was something exciting about nibbling on soup and cheese and pate-spread bread, staring at the person you’ve been snogging, your breasts feeling heavy, your limbs twitchy. John gave her smoldering looks, something he was very good at, his eyes burning as they looked at her. She made eyes at him, thinking of things they might do after lunch, tempted to play tricks with her tongue but not quite daring.

They finished eating, and she helped him gather up the plates and wrap up the last of the cheese and terrine. Their motions seemed to make an excessive amount of noise, the plates clattering, the glasses clinking, the refrigerator door closing with a smack.

At last they were done, John wiping his hands on a dishtowel. They stared at each other.

It was John who moved, putting down the dishtowel and moving towards her. He put his hands on her shoulders to bring her nearer to him.

“I think we stopped about here,” he murmured, and kissed her, smoothing a hand down her back to pull her against him. There was nothing tentative about this kiss, no hesitation. This was the kiss of a man who has decided what he wants.

Fortunately she knew what she wanted, too, and it seemed to be the same thing.

Next Chapter


Jul. 21st, 2007 01:03 am (UTC)
Oh, dear! I know what that feels like! So sorry to have brought it on!

Chapter 7 has been sent for beta, but I'm not very satisfied with it. If my beta likes it, then I'll probably post in a day or two. If not, it'll have to go under the knife. It's been a hard chapter to write.

I'm averaging about two weeks between chapters. I generally need a week to prepare and write snippets, a weekend to really write, and then a week to edit. Speaking as a reader, I know that's horribly slow. I hope that as I write more I'll learn to get in the proper groove on weeknights as well as weekends.

Thanks for the comment! I'm not blocked, or out of ideas, or anything like that, but knowing people out there are looking forward to the next chapter makes me even more enthusiastic about the project.