Oh, The Places You'll Go

Askew

Notes: Two comment fics written for the on-line con rat_jam. What a fantastic weekend that was. Fangirls are awesome!

Prompt: Caroline, wonky


Off-balance. That's how she feels. To be honest, she's never felt particularly on-balance, not since the accident had put a rod in her spine and a wobble in her walk. That had put paid to her career as a prima ballerina. Well, more accurately it had put paid to her starring role as a daisy in the Second Year Infants' Easter Parade (though if anyone asked she always said she would have been the Anna Pavlova of her generation and then things would inevitably degenerate into a conversation about meringue and she'd have to find something sweet to eat and fast).

But at this moment in time, Caroline feels more off-balance than ever. Twenty-two tequila shots and bottles of beer (quantity: some) would do that to a woman. Even a doctor woman. It wasn't that, though. Or, at least, not just that.

It had been an inauspicious start to her new job, turning up unwashed, unkempt and ever so slightly unhinged. And then there had been the whole not-sleeping with the hospital Lothario to contend with on Day Two. That anyone gave her the time of day at all she considered a miracle. But that was just the thing. It wasn't only the time of day they were giving her. By her — still drunken — count, three men were at least a little in love with her (and possibly one woman, although she had her doubts about the sanity of that one) and that fact was hastening past the realms of 'aww' and 'nice' and 'mmm' into 'slightly disturbing'. Because. Three men? In love with her? Whatever for?

Okay, so Guy may just want to get into her knickers (she is still wearing them, isn't she?) and Martin may just assume he's in love because he'd only had to tell her his name once and she'd rescued him from the attentions of Crazy Mildred in bed 7 that time, and Mac may have been having some kind of bet with himself (or Guy) — who kisses a sicky mouth? Really? — but still, it's unprecedented. Caroline knows she makes rather a shoddy girl — small tits, manly gait, hair with which she is constantly at war, inability to appreciate the finer points of scrunchies and Heat magazine. Not like pretty, perfect Angela. If they'd all snogged Angela that would've made sense, but they didn't. They chose her. Which. No.

So here she lies, drunk in the dark, the world tipping askew and it works for her. She wonders if things will straighten out in the morning. She wonders if she wants them to.


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