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Entry tags:
Crossover fic: Thumbelina, PG
Thumbelina
Disclaimer: not mine
Ficlet Project: #35. Dodo - Eight.
Fandoms: Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica (reimaged)
Characters: Dodo Chaplet, random Eight
Rating: PG
Words: 1100
The wind blew Thumbelina far away into a different land until she at last came down on a river... - Hans C. Andersen (paraphrased)
The problem with fairy tales, as Dodo Chaplet had long discovered, was that they didn't really allow for much reality. Finding yourself in the middle of a London street, surrounded by people you don't know must be entirely disconcerting and a cause for alarm, unless you were used to that sort of thing.
If she hadn't been looking right at the shop window the woman appeared in front of, she never would have noticed her arrival.
Dodo's mind shuffled the 'appeared' part of the equation silently away, as the tallish young woman shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, eyes wide.
"It's all right to be afraid," Dodo murmured to her, as she stepped closer. Soothing her like a lost child, she hesitantly touched the other girl's arm. If she thought it strange to accost a woman in the middle of the street, she didn't show it. Something about the young woman had drawn her eyes, some sense of confusion that felt oddly familiar. If a memory whispered about disappearing boxes, Dodo ignored it.
The young woman shook her head, eyes looking strange. "It's not that easy." Her mouth twisted, and she looked away, into the middle distance. "Do you remember your parents?"
"Well, of course." With a practical turn of thought, Dodo placed a hand on the woman's arm. There was a cafe just down the street, and she steered them towards it. "Come and have a seat. We can order tea."
"I don't know if I like tea."
Everyone liked tea, but Dodo didn't contradict her as they entered. "My name's Dodo, like the bird, of course."
"Of course," the woman echoed, allowing herself to be sat down. Her fingers wrapped around each other, then she stopped, flattening her palms against the glass surface of the table.
Tea was ordered, along with slices of chocolate cake. Then Dodo leaned forward and touched her hand. "What's your name, my dear?"
Fear and uncertainty flashed through her eyes, and then she licked her lips. "I don't... I don't have one. I'm an Eight."
"An eight?" Something flashed through Dodo's memory. An old man, a blue box... she felt her mouth tighten, "Haven't you ever wanted a name?"
"Yes."
"Then choose one." Firmly ignoring the incongruity of a woman not knowing her name, or wondering whether she was simply amnesiac, Dodo fixed a steady gaze upon her, and waited.
The Eight's eyes went wide, something surprised and awed in them, "Is it really that simple?" she murmured.
"Isn't it?" A woman without a name other than a number. It was like a ridiculous spy novel, and Dodo wondered where the gun-slinging bad guys were. Would they be up against Russians or something far more sinister? She didn't share her slight amusement, not certain the Eight would understand it.
Tea arrived, and the Eight drank it, fingers poking at the cake while she seemed to think. Her eyes looked calmer when she looked at Dodo, "Will you help me choose a name, Dodo?"
"Certainly. But let's eat our cake first."
A flicker of a smile crossed the Eight's mouth. "Athena said to choose a side. I suppose choosing a name is a start."
"It's an excellent one," Dodo agreed before she silenced her doubts with a forkful of cake.
If ever Dodo had put those doubts into words, they wouldn't have made sense. They simply gnawed away at the back of her mind, coloring the day, like a badly-lit photo had taken the place of sensible, ordinary London. As the Eight worked her way through names--cadged off a newspaper and suggestions from nearby tables, she thought about how this seemed like a story.
Not quite a normal one, of course.
A fairy-tale then, of a little lost girl, who'd no idea where she belonged. Thumbelina, as a tall, young woman, not flitting from flower to flower or looking for her thumb prince, but simply wishing to be known.
They tried more than a dozen, and the Eight wilted a little more with each wrong idea until she looked more lost than before.
"Finding a name isn't easy. Parents usually--"
"I have no parents."
"Were you born under the cabbage, then?" Dodo asked, a smile tilting her lips.
Looking diverted, the Eight leaned forward, "Why would I be?"
Which was when Dodo explained about cabbage, children, and somehow, Thumbelina and fairy tales. She teased gently, "Are you waiting for your prince, then?"
To her surprise, the Eight seemed to think about that rather seriously. "God does say that we should be fruitful. But," her face fell a little, "There must be love for it to work. And besides, I don't have time for that if I'm not sure who I am, anyway."
"Let's be practical about it," suggested Dodo, disturbed by the reference to a demanding God. "You aren't a Katye or a Martha or a Brenda, correct?"
"Definitely not. Nor Sarah, Leia, Colbee or Gaga." The Eight frowned for a moment, "Where is your name from?"
"It's short for Dorothy." With a self-deprecating grin, Dodo continued, "My mother was a fan of L. Frank Baum, when she was pregnant with me."
"Frank." That seemed to resonate with the Eight, and she tilted her head, "Frankie, yes?"
"Short for Francesca."
"Frankie," the Eight agreed, beaming suddenly. "I like that."
It wasn't a name Dodo would have chosen, but it seemed to fit the other girl, and they were both smiling now. "It's a good name."
"Francesca... I need a last name, don't I?"
"That's usually advisable, yes," though Dodo wasn't sure how that would work out. If the Eight-Frankie--had no real standing in the world, a last name wouldn't do her much good.
"Eight. Are there other words for Eight?"
"Octet? Ocho? What about something less obvious, like Smith, Jones or Tully?" She didn't suggest Chaplet. That belonged to Dodo and no one else, and sharing it sounded like a bad idea, even here, where she was safe.
Frankie smiled, "Francesca Tully it is. Do I look like one?"
"Not particularly," Dodo replied, giggling. She drank her tea and let her eyes drift towards the door. There were no black-booted men there to take them away. "So, now we find you a prince, yeah?"
A giggle escaped Frankie, and she leaned back in her chair. "Maybe."
With a name, she was like a real girl, all laughter and flirtatious glances and noticing the world around her as though it were her own personal oyster. It was infectious, and Dodo found herself offering Frankie the couch in her flat as the evening waned down.
Tomorrow, they would see about papers and a job, or perhaps Frankie would go with the wind, as the old man in his blue box had. Dodo wasn't counting anything before her chickens hatched.
-f-
Disclaimer: not mine
Ficlet Project: #35. Dodo - Eight.
Fandoms: Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica (reimaged)
Characters: Dodo Chaplet, random Eight
Rating: PG
Words: 1100
The wind blew Thumbelina far away into a different land until she at last came down on a river... - Hans C. Andersen (paraphrased)
The problem with fairy tales, as Dodo Chaplet had long discovered, was that they didn't really allow for much reality. Finding yourself in the middle of a London street, surrounded by people you don't know must be entirely disconcerting and a cause for alarm, unless you were used to that sort of thing.
If she hadn't been looking right at the shop window the woman appeared in front of, she never would have noticed her arrival.
Dodo's mind shuffled the 'appeared' part of the equation silently away, as the tallish young woman shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, eyes wide.
"It's all right to be afraid," Dodo murmured to her, as she stepped closer. Soothing her like a lost child, she hesitantly touched the other girl's arm. If she thought it strange to accost a woman in the middle of the street, she didn't show it. Something about the young woman had drawn her eyes, some sense of confusion that felt oddly familiar. If a memory whispered about disappearing boxes, Dodo ignored it.
The young woman shook her head, eyes looking strange. "It's not that easy." Her mouth twisted, and she looked away, into the middle distance. "Do you remember your parents?"
"Well, of course." With a practical turn of thought, Dodo placed a hand on the woman's arm. There was a cafe just down the street, and she steered them towards it. "Come and have a seat. We can order tea."
"I don't know if I like tea."
Everyone liked tea, but Dodo didn't contradict her as they entered. "My name's Dodo, like the bird, of course."
"Of course," the woman echoed, allowing herself to be sat down. Her fingers wrapped around each other, then she stopped, flattening her palms against the glass surface of the table.
Tea was ordered, along with slices of chocolate cake. Then Dodo leaned forward and touched her hand. "What's your name, my dear?"
Fear and uncertainty flashed through her eyes, and then she licked her lips. "I don't... I don't have one. I'm an Eight."
"An eight?" Something flashed through Dodo's memory. An old man, a blue box... she felt her mouth tighten, "Haven't you ever wanted a name?"
"Yes."
"Then choose one." Firmly ignoring the incongruity of a woman not knowing her name, or wondering whether she was simply amnesiac, Dodo fixed a steady gaze upon her, and waited.
The Eight's eyes went wide, something surprised and awed in them, "Is it really that simple?" she murmured.
"Isn't it?" A woman without a name other than a number. It was like a ridiculous spy novel, and Dodo wondered where the gun-slinging bad guys were. Would they be up against Russians or something far more sinister? She didn't share her slight amusement, not certain the Eight would understand it.
Tea arrived, and the Eight drank it, fingers poking at the cake while she seemed to think. Her eyes looked calmer when she looked at Dodo, "Will you help me choose a name, Dodo?"
"Certainly. But let's eat our cake first."
A flicker of a smile crossed the Eight's mouth. "Athena said to choose a side. I suppose choosing a name is a start."
"It's an excellent one," Dodo agreed before she silenced her doubts with a forkful of cake.
If ever Dodo had put those doubts into words, they wouldn't have made sense. They simply gnawed away at the back of her mind, coloring the day, like a badly-lit photo had taken the place of sensible, ordinary London. As the Eight worked her way through names--cadged off a newspaper and suggestions from nearby tables, she thought about how this seemed like a story.
Not quite a normal one, of course.
A fairy-tale then, of a little lost girl, who'd no idea where she belonged. Thumbelina, as a tall, young woman, not flitting from flower to flower or looking for her thumb prince, but simply wishing to be known.
They tried more than a dozen, and the Eight wilted a little more with each wrong idea until she looked more lost than before.
"Finding a name isn't easy. Parents usually--"
"I have no parents."
"Were you born under the cabbage, then?" Dodo asked, a smile tilting her lips.
Looking diverted, the Eight leaned forward, "Why would I be?"
Which was when Dodo explained about cabbage, children, and somehow, Thumbelina and fairy tales. She teased gently, "Are you waiting for your prince, then?"
To her surprise, the Eight seemed to think about that rather seriously. "God does say that we should be fruitful. But," her face fell a little, "There must be love for it to work. And besides, I don't have time for that if I'm not sure who I am, anyway."
"Let's be practical about it," suggested Dodo, disturbed by the reference to a demanding God. "You aren't a Katye or a Martha or a Brenda, correct?"
"Definitely not. Nor Sarah, Leia, Colbee or Gaga." The Eight frowned for a moment, "Where is your name from?"
"It's short for Dorothy." With a self-deprecating grin, Dodo continued, "My mother was a fan of L. Frank Baum, when she was pregnant with me."
"Frank." That seemed to resonate with the Eight, and she tilted her head, "Frankie, yes?"
"Short for Francesca."
"Frankie," the Eight agreed, beaming suddenly. "I like that."
It wasn't a name Dodo would have chosen, but it seemed to fit the other girl, and they were both smiling now. "It's a good name."
"Francesca... I need a last name, don't I?"
"That's usually advisable, yes," though Dodo wasn't sure how that would work out. If the Eight-Frankie--had no real standing in the world, a last name wouldn't do her much good.
"Eight. Are there other words for Eight?"
"Octet? Ocho? What about something less obvious, like Smith, Jones or Tully?" She didn't suggest Chaplet. That belonged to Dodo and no one else, and sharing it sounded like a bad idea, even here, where she was safe.
Frankie smiled, "Francesca Tully it is. Do I look like one?"
"Not particularly," Dodo replied, giggling. She drank her tea and let her eyes drift towards the door. There were no black-booted men there to take them away. "So, now we find you a prince, yeah?"
A giggle escaped Frankie, and she leaned back in her chair. "Maybe."
With a name, she was like a real girl, all laughter and flirtatious glances and noticing the world around her as though it were her own personal oyster. It was infectious, and Dodo found herself offering Frankie the couch in her flat as the evening waned down.
Tomorrow, they would see about papers and a job, or perhaps Frankie would go with the wind, as the old man in his blue box had. Dodo wasn't counting anything before her chickens hatched.
-f-