Author’s Note: Written for the Doctor Who Multifandom Choose Your Own Companion ficathon and for my au_abc claim. Oh yeah, and due to the setting of the story, could be considered a belated 4th of July offering too. *g* Inspired by a line in “The Unquiet Dead.”
It was that smile that had first intrigued him, the Doctor mused, allowing himself the liberty to study the young woman beside him. The same smile that currently lit up her face like a supernova.
If not for that smile and the coal-black hair currently pulled back in a single ponytail tied with a black satin ribbon, he wondered if he would have recognized her, had he met her on the street in her current attire. Black, red and silver studs had been cheerfully traded for a plain white linen shirt, red silk waistcoat and soft brown breeches with knee-high socks, buckle shoes and a gray overcoat as protection against the fierce Boston winter. Gone was the dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner she’d worn when they met, replaced with a subtler natural beauty that was no less striking. He’d tried to tell her so, in the TARDIS when she’d sought his opinion on her outfit, but had only gotten a playful punch in the arm for his efforts. Lovely wasn’t the look she was going for, she’d scolded him, not when she was supposed to be passing for a boy.
But she was lovely, nonetheless. The way her face tipped up towards the sky to take in the buildings that rose above them, her voice exuberantly calling out their names in recognition, the spring in her step that was almost a skip, the lust for life in her gravel-edged voice that he both shared and admired, even more than the bright green eyes and pleasant features, made her beautiful.
It was humans like Abby Sciuto that kept bringing him back to Earth. Humans like her who were the reason the species continued to survive and thrive despite being witness to some of the worst atrocities in any universe.
“Holy Cow, that’s the Old North Church!” she exclaimed suddenly, bouncing on her heels and waving a pointed finger in the direction of a distant steeple. “I’ve seen it in my time, but this is like…before, you know, ‘one if by land, two if by sea’?”
“Yes. Longfellow if I recall correctly,” he answered, that infectious smile impossible not to return.
“You do know your poetry.” The grin turned into a smirk, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m just trying to figure out which came first–you, or the Romantic movement.”
He laughed as they rounded a corner and suddenly found themselves within sight of the Atlantic. Or would have been, however, if not for the late hour and a surprisingly large but quiet crowd gathered on the docks between them and one of the sailing ships. In the dim light of flickering torches, figures could be seen moving about on the decks, voices murmuring in a song still too distant to hear clearly. Ironically, armed soldiers were standing about at some distance from the crowd, making no move to act to disrupt whatever was happening. The Doctor’s smile brightened as he pointed ahead of them. “There you are. There’s our destination.”
“Why, what’s going on?” Abby asked, intrigued.
“It’s the 16th of December, 1773–why don’t you tell me?”
She frowned, eyebrows drawing together and lips pursed in concentration. “…December 16, 1773, Boston Harbor…” Then eyes widened and she turned to him, excitement brimming in every cell. “No way!”
He shrugged modestly. “I thought you might enjoy seeing a bit of your history in action.”
“Hell, yeah!” she enthused, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him towards the crowd. They were able to blend in easily, except for the fact that no one else watching seemed to quite share Abby’s excitement. No surprise, really–he doubted one of them had any true idea that they were witnessing the infancy of a new nation. To them, what was happening before their eyes was still what it would have been had the French not intervened and saved the colonies from a crushing defeat–treason against the crown.
They were closer now, and the voices of the men aboard the ship were clearer, the words of their song discernable between splashes as crate after crate of tea landed in Boston Harbor:
Rally, Mohawks – bring out your axes!
And tell King George we’ll pay no taxes on his foreign tea!
His threats are vain – and vain to think
To force our girls and wives to drink his vile Bohea!
The Doctor tried not to wince, reminding himself that the tea in question was actually the East India Company’s leavings, poor quality at best and at worst probably a bit rotten. Still, it could hardly be improved by a dunking in tepid salt water. Little wonder the Americans had lost their taste for tea, if that was how they chose to steep it.
“This is so cool,” Abby gushed, hopping up and down on the balls of her feet to try to catch a better glimpse of the goings-on. Around them, a few people stopped to stare at the colloquialism, then frown and attempt with varying degrees of subtlety to draw back as if in order not to be tainted by association. Delightfully oblivious to the reaction she was getting, Abby settled back on her heels with a sigh. “I just wish I could see better.”
“We could try to get closer, if you like.”
She seemed to ponder for a moment, then a manic gleam of mischief dawned in the bright green of her eyes. “I have an even better idea. Come on.”
The Doctor frowned but followed. “Where are you going?”
“To the ship, of course.” She grinned again. “Thought I’d give a few boxes the old heave-ho myself.”
Oh dear. This could be problematic–he had no interest in losing her in the crowd. “You’re not precisely dressed for the part,” he pointed out, gesturing towards the figures on the boat in their Mohawk garb and black paint. “They have a chance of not being recognized; I’m afraid we have no such reassurance.”
“So?” She wagged her eyebrows at him. “It’s not like we’ll be here tomorrow to have to worry about it. You coming?”
The Doctor just stared at her, aghast. “You honestly expect me to help destroy all that perfectly good tea?”
“Come on, Doc, live a little.” One eyebrow raised in challenge above dancing eyes, and then the smile reappeared, spreading across her face like a summer sun rising. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be a rebel?”
Startled by the question, the Doctor tipped his head back and laughed, long and joyous. For one eternal moment, he was once again the man who had stolen a TARDIS and fled across the universe, who had been banished to Earth for his meddling, who had run away from the Presidency of Gallifrey like a boy running away from home and responsibility. With the whole of his own history spread out before his mind’s eye, the Doctor didn’t seem so different from those rabble-rousing Sons of Liberty after all.
“Yes, I suppose I have.” He grinned back at her, reaching for her hand. “So. Let’s go make ourselves enemies of the crown then, shall we? Just for a little while.”
Bibliography: