#also shhhhhh i think i've posted these about half midnight on the day after every single time but hey. still posting them. so far.

[i-am-become-a-name]

Prompt - December 4th. Good King Wenceslas.

The wind was howling a lament through the trees above them, but the small hollow they’d tucked themselves into was dry, even if Ace’s hands still ached from the cold. Camping, the Doctor had said. Bloody well camping. Well this was nothing like skiving off with her friends back home, campfires, charring sausages over the fire, being stupid with no adults around to be boring and sensible. 

“C’mon, Professor, can’t we go back yet?” 

“No,” he informed her sternly, and pointed the end of his brolly at the pitiful pile of sticks she had scrounged up, “fire, please. My nose is starting to get a chill.” 

“Yeah, well maybe you can use that to keep the wind off,” she sniped back, and rubbed the sticks together again. Pointlessly. Her hand strayed towards the inner pocket of the jacket, but a pointed cough sent it back down. That would’ve made one hell of a bonfire, she thought mulishly, even if it would’ve blown their shelter sky high. Best place for it, and they could head back to the TARDIS where there was- was there heating? There were blankets anyway, and a kettle for tea.

Something white landed on the sticks in front of her. Then another, and snow was coming thick and fast, and any hope of lighting a fire with these stupid sticks was over. 

“Professor,” she groused, drawing it out, and he relented, propping the brolly behind her and releasing the catch to protect them from the weather. 

“Go on then,” he said, nodding at her pocket, and cast his eyes to the overhanging log that protected them in lieu of the sky as she triumphantly pulled out a lighter and scraps of paper. Old receipts, notes they’d left for each other at various points, handy little firestarters. She screwed them up, tucking them under the sticks, but the Doctor’s hand was lightening fast, snatching a piece back from the brink of destruction to smooth out and tuck back into her pocket. Nope. Mysterious nonsense, she was Not Going to Ask. Survival skills, meet disposable Bic lighter. Hah! At least her hands were warm now, and the brolly was protecting them from the worst of the bitter wind.

“What was the plan next?” and the Doctor screwed up his face. “Campfire songs?” she suggested, grinning. “Stop me if you know this one.” She opened her mouth as if to sing, but was immediately silenced by- pastry? She bit down, and yeah, a croissant. Huh, with chocolate. 

In her distraction, the Doctor had conjured up a cake tray. Tiered and all, like they were having a posh afternoon tea in the middle of the woods in a snowstorm. He hadn’t even brought a bag! Bloody Time Lords. She crossed her eyes, and picked a piece of lint off the end of her croissant. That explained something, she guessed, and her eyes went blurry as she focused back on the Doctor, who was pulling out a teapot so comically out of size compared to his jacket pocket, spout already steaming. 

“An’ yoo ma’muse icks?” she complained through the pastry, ignoring the chiding look at her lack of manners. 

“I won’t always be around to play Prometheus for you, Ace,” and there was a brief old sadness to his voice, before he started patting his pockets, making tutting noises, before he pulled his hat off, and pulled two teacups out of the crown, wiping them out with the end of his scarf. 

He poured hers first, leaning around the side of her cheerily blazing fire to pass it over, and she supposed she could manage without milk or sugar. So long as he passed over one of the muffins off the stand too, and her hopeful eyes bore fruit as he sighed, passing it over balanced on top of his hat. 

There were no sausages, no being silly with her old mates, but when she stretched her legs out to press her boots against the side of the Doctor’s trousers, he didn’t shift away, and it wasn’t too long till dawn when they could get back to the TARDIS. Her jacket clinked reassuringly when she moved, and she hoped she’d be allowed to break camp. Camp would go flying, she promised, as a stray snowflake caught the back of her neck.