unfinished fic meme
...because I have always wanted to do one of these! When I first discovered lj and Doctor Who and writing fanfiction, I would see people doing these memes and think wistfully, “that will never be me. I can barely come up with an idea for ONE fic, let alone SO MANY IDEAS that I can’t even FINISH them all.” A year and a half later, and here we are.
These first four are the oldest, and more or less abandoned:
I.
Before he can decide whether or not this is a good idea, her lips are pressed determinedly against his, her hand in his hair. It is a kiss without expectation, nothing like the hurried, desperate touches of their last encounter. Her lips are firm and steady against his, just as she held his body a moment ago. This kiss is not a question, but an offering and an affirmation.
II.
Something's been changing between them, something she might not even have noticed if she wasn't so attuned to every nuance of his behaviour, but it's something in the motion of his body, and it's something in his eyes, too. He's still springing towards her and bouncing away, still pulling her along into his whirlwind, but it's almost... more calculated. As if before, his trajectory was all about him, and now it's about them. There's something less haphazard about the way he skips towards her, and something almost wary in his eyes when he bounds away.
III.
So, what now? When you can play with time, manipulate it with your mind, cradle it in your palm, you never have to see darkest night, never have to see the sun rise. Here, in this space and time, though, it does. Light spills over the horizon onto a new day, hope borne on the sunrise.
IV.
Just then, a lone car passed, spraying them both with water. The look on her face was equal parts surprise and dismay, and really, anyone would have kissed her then.
The next three are more or less finished, but just not working for one reason or another:
V.
This is fine. It’s really just a long, slow hug, he reminds himself. It’s fine. With... oh, with nuzzling. That’s... quite warm and pleasant. She moves her head to better fit under his chin, her face to better fit against his chest. He thinks he may have forgotten to move his feet there for a moment. The nuzzling is over disappointingly quickly. Because, he supposes, once you’ve nuzzled, burrowed against someone... well then you’ve arrived at your nuzzling destination and there’s no where else to go. It’s rather a shame. He wonders if he shifted, just a bit, if she’d burrow her way back in, but he finds he’s loathe to be any further apart from her than strictly necessary. This is turning out to be far more distracting than a hug, in the most pleasant of ways, and his body seems intent on reminding him why so many cultures believe that dancing leads to... an altogether different kind of dancing.
VI.
Rose has lost track of the slow rhythm of changing seasons since travelling with the Doctor. Aboard the TARDIS, there's no anticipation of the first snowfall or weeks of waiting for plump buds on the trees to finally burst into joyful green. This planet feels like that first real day of spring, though. That day when you can't help but abandon whatever else you'd planned to throw yourself down on the newly sprouted grass and feel the first warm sunlight on your skin.
VII.
He can’t bear to take her back to his TARDIS. He’s spent too much time missing her there and he’s terrified he won’t be able to find the strength to let her go.
And the last five are things I'm actively working on, if not as quickly as I'd like:
VIII.
It’s a kiss that starts out just for show, maybe as a bit of a tease, but that niggling little worry he’s been nursing all day, the one that he’ll never see her again, it swells to a full blown panic, and all he can think is her lips, her mouth, and he so very nearly lost her, and he’s seized by a wrenching desire, needs to have her right now before she can slip away again. It washes over him as he clings to her, presses himself against her, and it would be terrifying if it wasn’t her, them.
IX.
“Rose, maybe you think I’m being... silly, or... over-reacting, but... While you were sleeping, I spent seventy-three minutes just thinking about... undressing you.” He whispers the last as if he’s confessed he was considering how he might murder her mother. “And do you know what else I thought of during those seventy-three minutes? Nothing.”
X.
Finally, it’s not enough - the hugs and long glances. He means to tell her so, the evening after Krop Tor, but he stalls at her closed door, stands there a long while before slowly turning to walk back to the console room.
XI.
“Okay...” Donna frowns, shaking her head. “But… when did you find this out? When were you poking around New London?”
The Doctor holds up a finger as he finishes chewing, his cheeks bulging. He swallows. “While you’ve been sleeping, of course!” he says as if that should have been obvious, wadding up the chocolate wrapper and stuffing it back inside his coat.
She blinks. “I thought you were buying jam. Having tea. Moping around the universe without me.”
“Well, I was,” he allows, then shakes his head sharply. “Donna, I don’t mope.”
XII.
He sits down next to her, long legs stretched out, toes of his trainers nearly touching the glass in front of them. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn. But she sighs after a moment, and when the tilt of her head doesn’t quite reach his shoulder, he scooches closer to close the distance.
...and there you have it! Too many things, and lots of shallow, fluffy fluff.
These first four are the oldest, and more or less abandoned:
I.
Before he can decide whether or not this is a good idea, her lips are pressed determinedly against his, her hand in his hair. It is a kiss without expectation, nothing like the hurried, desperate touches of their last encounter. Her lips are firm and steady against his, just as she held his body a moment ago. This kiss is not a question, but an offering and an affirmation.
II.
Something's been changing between them, something she might not even have noticed if she wasn't so attuned to every nuance of his behaviour, but it's something in the motion of his body, and it's something in his eyes, too. He's still springing towards her and bouncing away, still pulling her along into his whirlwind, but it's almost... more calculated. As if before, his trajectory was all about him, and now it's about them. There's something less haphazard about the way he skips towards her, and something almost wary in his eyes when he bounds away.
III.
So, what now? When you can play with time, manipulate it with your mind, cradle it in your palm, you never have to see darkest night, never have to see the sun rise. Here, in this space and time, though, it does. Light spills over the horizon onto a new day, hope borne on the sunrise.
IV.
Just then, a lone car passed, spraying them both with water. The look on her face was equal parts surprise and dismay, and really, anyone would have kissed her then.
The next three are more or less finished, but just not working for one reason or another:
V.
This is fine. It’s really just a long, slow hug, he reminds himself. It’s fine. With... oh, with nuzzling. That’s... quite warm and pleasant. She moves her head to better fit under his chin, her face to better fit against his chest. He thinks he may have forgotten to move his feet there for a moment. The nuzzling is over disappointingly quickly. Because, he supposes, once you’ve nuzzled, burrowed against someone... well then you’ve arrived at your nuzzling destination and there’s no where else to go. It’s rather a shame. He wonders if he shifted, just a bit, if she’d burrow her way back in, but he finds he’s loathe to be any further apart from her than strictly necessary. This is turning out to be far more distracting than a hug, in the most pleasant of ways, and his body seems intent on reminding him why so many cultures believe that dancing leads to... an altogether different kind of dancing.
VI.
Rose has lost track of the slow rhythm of changing seasons since travelling with the Doctor. Aboard the TARDIS, there's no anticipation of the first snowfall or weeks of waiting for plump buds on the trees to finally burst into joyful green. This planet feels like that first real day of spring, though. That day when you can't help but abandon whatever else you'd planned to throw yourself down on the newly sprouted grass and feel the first warm sunlight on your skin.
VII.
He can’t bear to take her back to his TARDIS. He’s spent too much time missing her there and he’s terrified he won’t be able to find the strength to let her go.
And the last five are things I'm actively working on, if not as quickly as I'd like:
VIII.
It’s a kiss that starts out just for show, maybe as a bit of a tease, but that niggling little worry he’s been nursing all day, the one that he’ll never see her again, it swells to a full blown panic, and all he can think is her lips, her mouth, and he so very nearly lost her, and he’s seized by a wrenching desire, needs to have her right now before she can slip away again. It washes over him as he clings to her, presses himself against her, and it would be terrifying if it wasn’t her, them.
IX.
“Rose, maybe you think I’m being... silly, or... over-reacting, but... While you were sleeping, I spent seventy-three minutes just thinking about... undressing you.” He whispers the last as if he’s confessed he was considering how he might murder her mother. “And do you know what else I thought of during those seventy-three minutes? Nothing.”
X.
Finally, it’s not enough - the hugs and long glances. He means to tell her so, the evening after Krop Tor, but he stalls at her closed door, stands there a long while before slowly turning to walk back to the console room.
XI.
“Okay...” Donna frowns, shaking her head. “But… when did you find this out? When were you poking around New London?”
The Doctor holds up a finger as he finishes chewing, his cheeks bulging. He swallows. “While you’ve been sleeping, of course!” he says as if that should have been obvious, wadding up the chocolate wrapper and stuffing it back inside his coat.
She blinks. “I thought you were buying jam. Having tea. Moping around the universe without me.”
“Well, I was,” he allows, then shakes his head sharply. “Donna, I don’t mope.”
XII.
He sits down next to her, long legs stretched out, toes of his trainers nearly touching the glass in front of them. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn. But she sighs after a moment, and when the tilt of her head doesn’t quite reach his shoulder, he scooches closer to close the distance.
...and there you have it! Too many things, and lots of shallow, fluffy fluff.