Doc is expressively challenged. (docisarock) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2009-09-15 17:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !backhistory, caradoc dearborn, charity burbage |
Back History Log: Doc & Char
Who: Doc Dearborn, Charity Burbage.
When: Backstory time! It's 1967!
Where: What was formerly Doc's eensy flat, and is now Doc and Charity's eensy flat.
What: Once upon a time Doc was human. He smiled and the world didn't end. And then Charity and Doc discovered the fun in daring each other to do stupid things, and it was good. (AAAH, CHANCE TO USE A DOC ICON THAT ISN'T :|!!!)
Rating: PG-13.
Status: Complete!
It wasn't an immensely large flat, but then again, it wasn't bought with any expectations of spaciousness. Doc had moved out on his own at eighteen years of age, and it seemed to sit well enough with his parents. He liked peace, he liked quiet, and the combination followed suit. The white walls didn't need painting by his judgement, and the nearest grocer's was a fifteen minute walk and decidedly not a jaunt down to the corner. Close, but not too close. They never listed those things in the adverts, but Doc never considered his tastes as common. Somehow 'somewhat drab white interior, not conveniently close to anything, and minimal... well, just minimal in all ways, trust us' didn't pluck the interest of too many buyers. And it had stayed that way for the past four years. White. No grocer opened up nearer. Maybe Doc wasn't against change, but consistency never upset him, either. Besides, there had been changes made if one ever looked at the details. Two toothbrushes on the sink. Two sets of towels to the left and hanging on holders fixed to the wall. In the living room area were two drinks, and Doc had just set his bottle down next to Charity's. And, well... his other bottle. Bottles, actually. Doctor Who was playing on the telly -- Charity's pick. Charity herself was beside him, and that was really the whole of it: things clicked, and now as dull as that small flat was, there was always something to meet Doc's eyes that was worth one of those subtle Dearborn smiles. For once the place looked lived in, and lived in by her. Even through the haziness of a somewhat alcohol-saturated mind, he could recognise what that all meant, and asking her to move in with him definitely read as only the start of things. There'd be a time and place for the rest of what would follow, he knew. "I'm pretty cert that this isn't going to make any sense to me right now, but..." Doc shifted his arm around Charity, looking intently at the screen. The other arm was raised, hand vaguely indicting the Doctor on the screen. "He's supposed to be an alien? I don't get it." "He's a Time Lord, a race of beings from the planet Gallifrey who can travel through time," Charity explained. She was still a little behind Doc in terms of alcohol imbibing, but the room was pleasantly warm and cozy. She didn't mind the Spartan nature of the place because it was still far nicer than anything she'd ever lived in on her own. At 24, Charity Burbage was only ten years away from the scared girl who stole oranges from the local grocer for her mum. Maybe it was scandalous to move in with one's boyfriend before there had been a wedding, but Charity liked to think that she was progressive enough to ignore the folderol of local gossips. All that mattered was that her mother approved (and she did!), and that Doc had his arm around her (which he did!). "He's sort of a professional traveller. See, this is his second incarnation. The first one travelled around with his granddaughter." Doc nodded. No one could ever fault him for not (at least) trying to keep on the same page. As it was, Doctor Who had only just come out when he got his own place, and the telly hadn't seen much use back then. Sitting alone in a flat and flipping the dials on the set didn't exactly seem like a good time when the whole of the world was available to peruse. And so Charity had been the one that introduced him to the programme. Naturally, there were questions, and she didn't seem to mind answering them. Only, usually the questions were a bit more profound than: "And he always wears plaid trousers with a matching bow-tie?" "Nope. The First Doctor wore an Edwardian-style suit. Sack coat, waistcoat, high-waisted trousers," Charity answered, shifting and tucked her shoulder against his side. As soon as she was settled, she realised she'd left her bottle on the table and would need to retrieve it. Indeed, she didn't seem to mind answering the questions, despite missing half of what was going on on-screen. She never minded talking to Doc, especially since he talked to her, a fact that most people who met him seemed baffled by. "Why? Are you thinking about getting a set of matching trousers and bow-tie?" No sooner than Charity had gotten comfortable against his side did Doc reach for her bottle on the coffee table, handing it over. He took his, as well, not even aware of her thoughts mere seconds before as he settled back against the cushions. For a moment the screen was blocked by the almost opaque bottle that Doc lifted in front of him for a swig, but then the Doctor was back in his view. He mulled over Charity's question with a vague interest before shaking his head slightly. "Wouldn't work with my eyes," he returned, deadpan as his jokes usually were -- although he was having a hard time keeping from cracking a grin. It could have been the alcohol, but that came and went. Charity had gotten that elusive grin out of him more times than anyone ever did when he was sober. "Oh, I don't think that would be a problem, really. This Doctor's hair doesn't go with much of anything. I think you could pull it off, actually," she told him. Charity took a long drink from her bottle, then settled it on top of her skirt-covered thigh. Saturday nights were much nicer now that she got to spend them with Doc; he really had been the best thing to happen to her. She twisted her neck to look at... his cheek. Nibbling her lower lip, she snickered. "In fact... now I really want to see you in that much plaid. I think we should get you one of those outfits." Doc had to pull his attention off the screen at the sound of light laughter, turning to face Charity, whom he had to assume was the culprit. So close to her already that their noses almost touched, he gave in to the urge to simply rest his forehead against hers. "You have plenty of good ideas, Char," he returned, before stealing a quick kiss. The closeness begged for that one. "But there's no way," he finished as he swivelled back around, unashamed to hope that she'd protest going back to simply watching the telly after that little move. Charity outright pouted as he turned back to the television. That was hardly fair, she thought in a slight haze. She might not have been drunk, but she was definitely tipsy. Her weight on the couch shifted as she pushed her palm into the couch to reach, her lips pressing a small kiss at the vein on the side of his neck. "You can't just do that, Doc." Oh, she was laying it on thick, but in the alcohol haze, it might not have been completely fabricated. "I like it when you're close. Of course, I like it when you kiss me, too." And Doc had given in a mere second after she finished. It was never his intention to tease her, but the dizziness of his head and the way his thoughts were arranging themselves were shuffled up a bit. They immediately shifted into a decently logical order as Charity had inched up for that pleading kiss. He couldn't stop a mild laugh as he coaxed those lips up to his. Maybe Charity held her own case that he was the best thing to happen to her, but it was entirely a two-way street: whatever it was Charity Burbage had done, she'd more than opened silent, sullen Caradoc Dearborn up. No small feat, at that. "You're missing your programme, you know," he told her as he broke away for a brief rest. "Am I? What programme were we watching?" Flushed, Charity didn't even bother to glance at the television. Oh, she knew exactly what they had been watching, she simply didn't care any-more. Perhaps she was a Doctor Who fan, but Merlin help her if she ever chose Doctor Who over snogging. Her bottle ended up discarded on the table. For that matter, she'd taken Doc's bottle and set it right next to hers. Slipping her arms around his neck, she straddled his lap, getting right in the way of his being able to see anything going on on the telly. Not without looking around her, of course, and should he choose that, well... she'd let him have it. She'd probably stalk off to her -- their -- bedroom, but he could have it. Leaning down, she kissed his cheeks, forehead, corners of his mouth, his jawline, neck. That accomplished, Charity looked back up at him. "You know, I think you're protesting too much about the bow-tie and trousers. You'd be a hit at work, you know." Doctor Who was well out of the frame of Doc's mind as Charity sidled over. He didn't even argue with her hands taking away his bottle, willingly giving it up as any smart man would when his girlfriend climbed into his lap. There were priorities at work, and Doctor Who was notching in at dead last -- forgotten entirely, actually, as Charity carried on. It was easy enough to slip his hands around her waist, locking his fingers together on the other side and tugging her closer -- if she was at all able to get any nearer. "Everyone would worry," he remarked. Direct as ever, he pulled her straight back down with a kiss on her lips, taking the time to fully enjoy the contact before even thinking to say much more. She was warm and inviting, and that was hardly making him want to draw away, but even in his current state Doc could understand how pacing worked. Rushing this along would spend away the time without getting its full worth. "Would look like a royal prat." "Since when did you care what everyone thought?" she asked, lips ghosting over his throat as she spoke. The faint scent of beer lingered over both of them as she tilted her head as she inched her way toward his ear. Once there, she leaned in, teeth grazing his earlobe. With a faint smile, she whispered, "Come on, Doc. I dare you. Plaid bow-tie and trousers to work." Doc couldn't give her a proper Look without leaning back far enough to locate where Charity was lingering by his ear. Brow quirked, face otherwise a clean slate -- even if the suggestion of a smile was still traced along the corners of his mouth -- he considered her issued challenge. Even if she wasn't serious about it, something was driving him to nod in return. "All right. On Monday -- just you watch, Charity," he replied, adjusting his arms around her and closing up the gap he'd made seconds before. He paused a barely an inch away, with an almost smirk across his face. "Less talking now?" |