oldy worldy

Favourite Things (Secret Santa Fic)

This is my Secret Santa gift for the wonderful appalachiansprung - Merry Christmas!

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Twas the night before Christmas…

“Grandma, Grandma, tell us how you met Nana again? Please?” Emily pleaded excitedly, bouncing up and down where she sat in bed.

“Yeah, please Grandma!” Dylan joined in from the neighbouring bed, following his big sister’s lead.

“Okay, if I do, do you both promise you’ll settle down to sleep straight after? You know tomorrow will come quicker if you do,” Gail offered, beaming warmly at her two young grandchildren as they nodded enthusiastically in reply. “Alrighty then.”

She moved the chair from the corner in between the beds, making herself comfortable as she allowed the memories to play in her mind, a sweet smile spreading across her lips. “Well, it all began with a brown paper package, tied up with string…”

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It was the first thing Gail noticed as she let herself into the frathouse, glad to be home after a long shift patrolling the icy cold December streets. There, sat on the kitchen table, was a package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and secured with string. It drew her attention immediately, reminding her of the parcels her grandmother used to send her as a girl.

Who’s ‘Abigail Peacock’?” she asked Chris, reading out the name on the address.

Huh?” Chris mumbled over his shoulder on the couch, his eyes not straying from the intense battle he was engaged in on screen.

The parcel?”

We just thought it was for you,” Chris shrugged, still not looking round.

Peacock, Chris, it says Peacock!” Gail stated bluntly. She was surrounded by idiots.

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Go Viral: Chapter 1

Pairing: Ten/Rose, AU
Rating:
Teen
Summary:
A viral video forces medical researcher John Smith into a fake engagement with Vitex heiress Rose Tyler, who is desperate to keep the tabloids from further blackening her already tattered reputation.

A/N: For anniviech :)


Prologue | 01 | A03


Chapter One: Engagement Rings Must Be Worn At All Times

Under the cover of darkness, John quietly left the premises of the we’re-open-late! convenience shop (rather spy-like, he fancied, though in reality he was a tall, gawky man loitering in front of a magazine rack wearing poorly chosen black clothing that made him stand out rather than blend in as desired). He exited by way of the back entrance, courtesy of a few quid slipped into the palm of the teenaged cashier at the front - just in time to be greeted by a nondescript black car with tinted windows. The passenger door opened with a sinister click to receive him, like a gaping black maw into the pits of some hellish prison he would not be able to escape.

It was quarter after 11PM, Tuesday night. Four days after the Maintenance Closet Incident. Six hours after he’d got a call from an anonymous, private number, giving him the time and location of the rendezvous and further instructions. Five hours-and-fifty-nine minutes since he’d begun to truly understand what he was getting himself into, and to regret his decision to agree to it.

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