dw fic: cadenza [ten-centric, pg]
cadenza
doctor who; ten-centric; pg; 800 words
he hears all the parts. spoilers for "journey's end"
for synecdoche, because of the music terms.
Cadenza
He stays in his shirtsleeves for oh, ages. Seconds and minutes and all of that. He can feel time beat past in his head like, well, drums, he thinks. Everyone he’s said goodbye to is a different instrument, and in the TARDIS, leaning against the console, he hears all the parts. He shivers.
The rain’s seeped in around his neck and when he loosens his tie it almost squeaks. It’s the sort of sound a man would be a little embarrassed about. “Sorry, sweetheart, I got caught in the rain,” he imagines his half-human self saying to Rose after a long day of paper work and public transport and forgotten umbrellas. And she would smile and take his coat and kiss him. It’s not the first time he’s been jealous of himself, but on that beach he wished he had been the one to whisper in her ear.
Rose is not drums, though. Her flute shines; her notes float high above the steady rhythm his hearts make. That’s the way it always was - she was some lofty level of youth and happiness and life and well isn’t he getting sappy in his loneliness, but he remembers spending time trying to reach her smile. The reaching raised his bass line, a little bit.
Martha is the drums. Because she met the Master. Because she wears a watch, the kind whose second hand clicks audibly in a quiet room. Because she knows schedule, routine. She’s the metronome, and if he only heard her as background noise on the moon and in 1913 and everything well, he should get his ears checked. Martha sets the pace and she isn’t shy about it.
And oh, she’s got cymbals too. They crash and he imagines her with Jack and Mickey and that woman, Gwen Cooper, winning some triumphant battle in Cardiff. She’s got brushes for her snare drum and he thinks they might back up the first song she dances to with her new husband. He knows they’ll keep the beat together well.
Sarah Jane is singing. Hers is the voice he’s heard the longest, through so many different ears, and it’s the one he keeps hearing, calling clearly over the cacophony in his mind. She’ll be at Martha’s wedding, won’t she? With her son, he would love to meet her son, loves kids, he does. He wonders if he’ll be invited. He’ll put on the tux and dance his way around all those companions and eat cake with everyone else -
But he can see everything. The past and quite a few futures and that means he can see who’s missing. There’s Rose and her flutes, of course, a whole army of them and maybe his half-human self has taken up the clarinet or something and they’ve formed a lovely little twee folk band but what’s missing is the brass.
What’s missing is Donna.
The now-cold shirt is sticking to his skin and Donna would have yelled at him until he changed. “Oi, space man, I don’t know about you but us humans get colds and no way I am I making you chicken soup or anything.” He is the only one holding the memories of two people and it weighs him down, makes the music slower until it’s an elegy. His walks out of the room, intending to find his closet and get another shirt. His hands fiddle with the buttons and no one’s there. There’s no one’s favorite color to try to match, not that he ever cared about that but he could have is all. There are no one’s special interests to take into account and he spins some dials and sets course for somewhere.
He’s always been a bit good at improvising, though. The TARDIS quiets, she’s landed, and there’s a wavering line hovering in the air. Notes in a string swooping and swirling a bit haphazardly, but you could call it a tune. Maybe what he’s hearing is his own cadenza. He opens the door to some new new place and the music gets louder.
doctor who; ten-centric; pg; 800 words
he hears all the parts. spoilers for "journey's end"
for synecdoche, because of the music terms.
Cadenza
He stays in his shirtsleeves for oh, ages. Seconds and minutes and all of that. He can feel time beat past in his head like, well, drums, he thinks. Everyone he’s said goodbye to is a different instrument, and in the TARDIS, leaning against the console, he hears all the parts. He shivers.
The rain’s seeped in around his neck and when he loosens his tie it almost squeaks. It’s the sort of sound a man would be a little embarrassed about. “Sorry, sweetheart, I got caught in the rain,” he imagines his half-human self saying to Rose after a long day of paper work and public transport and forgotten umbrellas. And she would smile and take his coat and kiss him. It’s not the first time he’s been jealous of himself, but on that beach he wished he had been the one to whisper in her ear.
Rose is not drums, though. Her flute shines; her notes float high above the steady rhythm his hearts make. That’s the way it always was - she was some lofty level of youth and happiness and life and well isn’t he getting sappy in his loneliness, but he remembers spending time trying to reach her smile. The reaching raised his bass line, a little bit.
Martha is the drums. Because she met the Master. Because she wears a watch, the kind whose second hand clicks audibly in a quiet room. Because she knows schedule, routine. She’s the metronome, and if he only heard her as background noise on the moon and in 1913 and everything well, he should get his ears checked. Martha sets the pace and she isn’t shy about it.
And oh, she’s got cymbals too. They crash and he imagines her with Jack and Mickey and that woman, Gwen Cooper, winning some triumphant battle in Cardiff. She’s got brushes for her snare drum and he thinks they might back up the first song she dances to with her new husband. He knows they’ll keep the beat together well.
Sarah Jane is singing. Hers is the voice he’s heard the longest, through so many different ears, and it’s the one he keeps hearing, calling clearly over the cacophony in his mind. She’ll be at Martha’s wedding, won’t she? With her son, he would love to meet her son, loves kids, he does. He wonders if he’ll be invited. He’ll put on the tux and dance his way around all those companions and eat cake with everyone else -
But he can see everything. The past and quite a few futures and that means he can see who’s missing. There’s Rose and her flutes, of course, a whole army of them and maybe his half-human self has taken up the clarinet or something and they’ve formed a lovely little twee folk band but what’s missing is the brass.
What’s missing is Donna.
The now-cold shirt is sticking to his skin and Donna would have yelled at him until he changed. “Oi, space man, I don’t know about you but us humans get colds and no way I am I making you chicken soup or anything.” He is the only one holding the memories of two people and it weighs him down, makes the music slower until it’s an elegy. His walks out of the room, intending to find his closet and get another shirt. His hands fiddle with the buttons and no one’s there. There’s no one’s favorite color to try to match, not that he ever cared about that but he could have is all. There are no one’s special interests to take into account and he spins some dials and sets course for somewhere.
He’s always been a bit good at improvising, though. The TARDIS quiets, she’s landed, and there’s a wavering line hovering in the air. Notes in a string swooping and swirling a bit haphazardly, but you could call it a tune. Maybe what he’s hearing is his own cadenza. He opens the door to some new new place and the music gets louder.