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Ficlet: Restaurant at the End of the Universe
This isn't anything new. I wrote this about a month ago for a Nine/Rose comment ficathon, figured I should just go ahead and post it here as well.
Title: Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
“It’s a tourist trap, really.” Rose’s eyes were big as she took in the restaurant, with it’s chandeliers shaped in the form of glittering, crystal planets--all revolving in the exact imitation of their solar systems, the Doctor told her--and the high, domed walls and ceiling made of thick glass so it looked like they were floating in the stars. “All the well-to-do come here to eat at the ‘End of the Universe.’”
Rose turned back to the Doctor. “Is it? The end of the universe?”
“Nah. It’s not even the furthest stretch of space exploration. This is just how far ‘civilization’ has gone. Past here its not comfortable for these people. Only the explorers and the space miners go out there right now. That’ll change in a hundred years or so. Once the planets are colonized.”
“Space miners?”
“Big ships that go from planet to planet, digging for minerals that can only be found there.”
“Ah.” She linked her arm with his. “Well, shall we head on into the tourist trap, then?”
He grinned down at her, squeezed her arm against his side. “Yeah.”
The Maitre d’ sneered slightly when he saw the Doctor in his typical jumper and leather jacket, but his gaze turned carefully neutral when it fell on the simple but elegant black dress Rose had found in the wardrobe, so she supposed that she, at least, passed the dress code.
“May I help you?” he asked as they approached. His voice had a very proper English accent, (the TARDIS, she supposed) but despite that there was something off about it; a low, sibilant hiss underlying every word. Looking closer she noticed he wasn’t human; his skin had a faint blue tint, and his fingers were longer than a humans, thin and spindly, with an extra knuckle. There was also, she noticed, six fingers on each hand.
The Doctor smiled cheerily at him. “Yes you can! Reservations for two, please.”
“And under what name are these reservations, sir?”
“The Doctor.”
The Maitre d’ pause for a minute, as if waiting for something more and then said, “I see. Doctor who, may I ask?”
“Just The Doctor.”
“Sir, I don’t believe we can take any reservations under that. If you would please just give me your name, we can get you a table.”
“That is my name.”
The Maitre d’s carefully neutral expression was falling away, replaced with annoyance. “Sir--”
“Why don’t you check the list, yeah? Should be right on there. The. Doctor.” When the man continued to just stare at him the Doctor nodded his head impatiently. “Go on! Have a look.”
With a very put upon sigh, the man did so. When he looked down, Rose saw the Doctor pull out his sonic screw driver and point it at the list. He winked at her when he put it back in his pocket and she couldn’t help but grin back at him.
“Oh.” The man blinked. “I see. Here it is. Yes--The Doctor, reservations for two. Well,” he put the list down and turned back to them, perfect, charming smile now on his lips, “let me show you to one of our finest tables.” He took them there himself and Rose looked curiously at the Doctor.
He grinned and bent closer to her as they followed him. “You see, Rose,” he gave her arm, which was still linked with his, another small squeeze, “the psychic paper isn’t the only trick I have up my sleeve.”
The restaurant’s “finest” tables were on an inside balcony, beside the windows so they could see out at the stars that surrounded them, and so close to the ceiling that the glowing planets swirled and weaved an arm’s reach above her head. Rose didn’t remember what she ate, except that it was new and different than anything she’d ever had before, but whenever she thought back to the experience, she had the impression of floating in a sea of warm gold light, fractured and reflected until it seemed the stars were actually in the restaurant itself. And of course the Doctor, who sat across from her and watched her the whole time, smile on his lips as he took in her excitement and awe.
Later, when they left the restaurant, and Rose’s arm was once again tucked against his side, and she was leaning against him as they walked, full and giddy and slightly tipsy from the wine, he smiled down at her said, “That place is a bit of alright. For a tourist trap.”
Title: Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Nine/Rose
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
“It’s a tourist trap, really.” Rose’s eyes were big as she took in the restaurant, with it’s chandeliers shaped in the form of glittering, crystal planets--all revolving in the exact imitation of their solar systems, the Doctor told her--and the high, domed walls and ceiling made of thick glass so it looked like they were floating in the stars. “All the well-to-do come here to eat at the ‘End of the Universe.’”
Rose turned back to the Doctor. “Is it? The end of the universe?”
“Nah. It’s not even the furthest stretch of space exploration. This is just how far ‘civilization’ has gone. Past here its not comfortable for these people. Only the explorers and the space miners go out there right now. That’ll change in a hundred years or so. Once the planets are colonized.”
“Space miners?”
“Big ships that go from planet to planet, digging for minerals that can only be found there.”
“Ah.” She linked her arm with his. “Well, shall we head on into the tourist trap, then?”
He grinned down at her, squeezed her arm against his side. “Yeah.”
The Maitre d’ sneered slightly when he saw the Doctor in his typical jumper and leather jacket, but his gaze turned carefully neutral when it fell on the simple but elegant black dress Rose had found in the wardrobe, so she supposed that she, at least, passed the dress code.
“May I help you?” he asked as they approached. His voice had a very proper English accent, (the TARDIS, she supposed) but despite that there was something off about it; a low, sibilant hiss underlying every word. Looking closer she noticed he wasn’t human; his skin had a faint blue tint, and his fingers were longer than a humans, thin and spindly, with an extra knuckle. There was also, she noticed, six fingers on each hand.
The Doctor smiled cheerily at him. “Yes you can! Reservations for two, please.”
“And under what name are these reservations, sir?”
“The Doctor.”
The Maitre d’ pause for a minute, as if waiting for something more and then said, “I see. Doctor who, may I ask?”
“Just The Doctor.”
“Sir, I don’t believe we can take any reservations under that. If you would please just give me your name, we can get you a table.”
“That is my name.”
The Maitre d’s carefully neutral expression was falling away, replaced with annoyance. “Sir--”
“Why don’t you check the list, yeah? Should be right on there. The. Doctor.” When the man continued to just stare at him the Doctor nodded his head impatiently. “Go on! Have a look.”
With a very put upon sigh, the man did so. When he looked down, Rose saw the Doctor pull out his sonic screw driver and point it at the list. He winked at her when he put it back in his pocket and she couldn’t help but grin back at him.
“Oh.” The man blinked. “I see. Here it is. Yes--The Doctor, reservations for two. Well,” he put the list down and turned back to them, perfect, charming smile now on his lips, “let me show you to one of our finest tables.” He took them there himself and Rose looked curiously at the Doctor.
He grinned and bent closer to her as they followed him. “You see, Rose,” he gave her arm, which was still linked with his, another small squeeze, “the psychic paper isn’t the only trick I have up my sleeve.”
The restaurant’s “finest” tables were on an inside balcony, beside the windows so they could see out at the stars that surrounded them, and so close to the ceiling that the glowing planets swirled and weaved an arm’s reach above her head. Rose didn’t remember what she ate, except that it was new and different than anything she’d ever had before, but whenever she thought back to the experience, she had the impression of floating in a sea of warm gold light, fractured and reflected until it seemed the stars were actually in the restaurant itself. And of course the Doctor, who sat across from her and watched her the whole time, smile on his lips as he took in her excitement and awe.
Later, when they left the restaurant, and Rose’s arm was once again tucked against his side, and she was leaning against him as they walked, full and giddy and slightly tipsy from the wine, he smiled down at her said, “That place is a bit of alright. For a tourist trap.”