By Sauscony
E-mail: sauscony@forty-two.co.nz
Rating: G
Summary: This is a short SylvDoc/Ace piece I've had floating around in my mind since seeing Silver Nemesis. Just tying up a loose end really.
Disclaimer: The Doctor is the property of the BBC. He is used here without permission, but with a whole lot of gratitue, and no copyright infringement is intended.
"Aw, Professor. I'm going to feel like a right git in that."
The Doctor surveyed her thoughtfully over the handle of his umbrella. "Nonsense, Ace," he said briskly, brightly. "It's very nice. And we really should keep the king happy."
Ace stared at the dress a bit more, but it didn't change. "Yeah right," she muttered. "We've got to keep the king happy."
The Doctor reached out and tapped her lightly on the nose. "Come along, Ace, there's a good girl. It's not such a great hardship really. You get dressed and someone will show you the way to where Master Alexander is waiting for you."
He was out the door and gone before she had the chance to protest any further. She scowled. She really hated it when he pulled that disappearing act.
He'd suggested this little excursion into England's past with that abstracted look that usually meant he had something more on his mind than just a holiday. But they would have to flush out the monsters this time, he'd said. So they might as well just enjoy themselves while they waited for them to raise their little green heads.
But he seemed to be having a better holiday than she was. He'd taken long walks, played chess with the king - the king of all people - and had just embarked on an exploration of the castle, from cellar to turret. That sounded rather fun and she'd been all prepared to accompany him when he'd shaken his head and explained that the king wanted to have her portrait painted.
The king wanted to have her portrait painted? Her portrait painted! It was ridiculous. But it also seemed to be determined to happen, whether she liked it or not.
The dress lay draped over the chair, all lemon yellow and ruffles. She picked it up and held it out in front of her, turning it this way and that, trying to decide how she should even begin to put it on. Then, with a sigh, she started taking off her shoes.
Done, checking herself out in the mirror, she had to admit she didn't look half bad. Not that you'd ever catch her going around like this all the time. But just for this, it was okay she guessed.
She just hoped getting your portrait painted wasn't too boring. She had a horrible feeling it might be. Then on her way out the door she smiled. A little detour was in order, she thought.
The painter, Master Alexander, was waiting for her when she and her escort finally arrived in the day parlour he had taken over as a studio. He studied the contraption slung over her shoulder, incongruous against the old-fashioned yellow dress, and gave her a quizzical look.
"Am I expected to include this...thing in my work?" he demanded in an outraged voice.
Ace dropped the Doctor's custom designed boom box onto the floor under a window and waved away the young man who had guided her. "Course not," she retorted. She slotted a cassette into place play and hit the switch. The sounds of New Orleans jazz immediately began to fill the air. "Just some background music to work to."
The painter gave her a dubious look, gave the boom box an even more dubious one, and finally settled for guiding her over to a chair.
Ace then found herself spending one of the more excruciating days of her life. First, Master Alexander spent forever artistically arranging her as if she was some kind of store window mannequin. Then she had a sit just the way he wanted, for hours on end, and get treated to some really first class glares if she so much as twitched. If this was what portrait painting was about, no wonder they had invented cameras.
He finally let her go just as it was getting dark and she escaped thankfully, swearing never to return.
But the Doctor talked her into going back. Just like he always could. And sometimes she really hated that more than anything else.
If she was going to be honest about it (and she wasn't), she almost came to enjoy herself as the days went by. Sitting so still was always going to drive her crazy, but she and Master Alexander were getting along very well. They were progressively listening their way through Ace's tape collection, discussing life, the universe and Perivale, and the portrait was apparently coming along very nicely. Master Alexander wouldn't let her look at it, but he assured her she would like it.
The monsters still hadn't put in an appearance, but Ace knew the Doctor. He was a lightning rod for trouble. They'd show up.
At least there was going to be time to get her picture finished before everything blew up.
Two weeks later and the Doctor still hadn't found any monsters. When Ace had confronted him about that he smiled that inscrutable little smile of his and assured her everything was going according to plan. She had a firm suspicion he was up to something completely different, but she hadn't managed to work out what it was yet. But now that the silly portrait was finished she could get on with helping him save the world.
And finished it was, and probably at just the right moment because she was starting to run out of tapes. Master Alexander had promised to let her see it before he showed anyone else, so here she was, delighted to be back in jeans and her bomber jacket, on her way to find out just how much of git she did look, immortalised on canvas.
The painter was waiting for her, the easel unnecessarily covered with a piece of paint-daubed cloth. He ushered her into the room with a pleasant smile, positioned her in front of the easel and swept off the cloth with a dramatic flourish.
She looked at the canvas. At a painting she had seen before.
"Good likeness, isn't it?" said the Doctor's voice from behind her. "One should always try to avoid temporal paradoxes whenever possible, shouldn't one Ace?"
And now she remembered. Racing down a flight of stairs, caught up short by the sight of her own face captured it oils, hanging on the wall. The Doctor had reached back and hurried her on, on to stop the Cybermen, on to foil Lady Peinforte, and she had forgotten all about it.
"Just think of it," the Doctor went on. "You'll be hanging on the wall at Windsor Castle for the next couple of centuries."
Ace looked at the portrait again, seeing it in her mind's eye, already framed and hanging over the stairs. Then she looked at the Doctor. "No monsters?"
He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "No, no monsters."
Ace grinned. "Wicked."