Word Count: 2423
Author's Summary: One must be for ever drunken. With wine, with poetry, with virtue, with what you please, but drunken.
Characters/Pairings: Sixth Doctor, Charley Pollard
Recc'ed Because: It is a really striking character study of both Charley and the Doctor, the one she's still getting to know after being left behind in the Girl Who Never Was. Theirs is kind of a prickly relationship, but not in the way Six and Peri are, more so because Charley has to harbor secrets about the fact that she knows the Doctor in his future, daresay fell in love with him, before the days of the reboot when that was a more common occurrence. I love this story because it is quintessentially Charley and Six in the language and characterization, but you see glimpses of others. In the audios, it's hard to see Charley and Six in the same dynamic as she had with the Eighth Doctor. But Six is a romantic at heart beneath his bluster, and this story reminds Charley as well as us that even this most bombastic of regenerations is still the man she loves.
‘I am hardly drunk. Tipsy, I’ll grant you. A trifle intoxicated. A shade submerged, as my good friend Plum would have it. Unlike yourself, Charlotte. I did warn you about the sagacity of drinking absinthe.’
‘Yes, well, one can hardly visit the Moulin Rouge with Tolouse-Lautrec, and Bernard, and Gaugin, and not drink absinthe when it’s offered.’ She pauses for a beat, face creasing up. ‘Even if it did taste rather dreadful. Anyway,’ she sticks out her tongue at him, feeling childish, ‘hark at you, Monsieur Hypocrite; you drank enough yourself.’
‘I,’ he puffs himself up, ‘am a Time Lord. It takes more than a few glasses of La Fée Verte to knock me for six.’
Charley only smiles at him with undisguised fondness. ‘If you say so, Doctor.’
Relaxing out of his magisterial attitude, he reclines back against the arm of the couch to eye her speculatively. However drunk he may or may not be, his green eyes are still sharp.
‘You’re a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?’ He sounds pleasantly surprised by this revelation, as if he’s going to be writing it down later under the heading: Things Learned About the Mysterious Charlotte Pollard.
‘Going all starry-eyed over taking absinthe with post-impressionists in the Montmartre.’
Briefly, she wonders what he’d have thought of all those old journals of hers, full of imaginary adventures; Memoirs of an Edwardian Adventuress. Probably mock her teenaged purple prose; though really, if anyone is in no place to talk about a little bit of floridness in writing, it’s him.