Ficlet: Doctor Who
For mellaithwen , who asked the other day where I was with my TEN/ROSE obsession. :) Here's something for you, love. Best defined as utter shmoop...
She sits at the table, a cup of tea before her, her trembling hands picking at a non-existent piece of dirt. She doesn't look up as he approaches, though he sees the slightest turn of her lips and feels a bit of a smile on his own. It fades as hers does, hiding behind all the recent fear and heartache and, possibly, despair. They just spent the last day on a planet that shouldn't exist, fighting a creature that couldn't exist, all the while thinking that their future as time travelers didn't exist. A fading smile, he decides, sitting down next to her, should be the smallest of prices to pay and, yet, he hates to see it. Even in the worst of situations, she always manages to joke, to brush it off, to remind him that while there is still hope, the world can endure.
He sits in the chair next to her, scoots it close so their arms brush each other. To his great consternation, her eyes well up a bit and she sniffles. He wants to find some words of comfort, something to say that will make everything all right, but it's difficult to do. They literally faced down hell itself today; or, rather, he did anyway, while she had to stare into the eyes of the Devil and prove herself stronger than temptation. He knew she could, of course, his Rose, she could do anything. But it was different for a human, with the superstition and the beliefs and the imagination, to face down the epitome of evil and not come away somewhat darkened, somewhat different, somewhat scared. It made sense that she would be shaken by the experience. Even his tough Rose had a point where she would break.
She reaches for the tea cup. Some of the tea slops as she brings it to her mouth.
"It would've been a nice house, you know," she says, now focused on swirling the tea about. "Between the two of us, it would've been nice."
Always a surprise, his Rose Tyler, as the tears make sense and he sees not scars of from a demon, but a longing, deep and equally painful. Gently, he wraps his arm around her shoulders, his free hand going to stabilize the cup. Her head rests against his shoulder, his head on top of hers.
"Well, I suppose," he says, slowly, carefully, "I wouldn't mind the mortgage, if it was with you."
She sits at the table, a cup of tea before her, her trembling hands picking at a non-existent piece of dirt. She doesn't look up as he approaches, though he sees the slightest turn of her lips and feels a bit of a smile on his own. It fades as hers does, hiding behind all the recent fear and heartache and, possibly, despair. They just spent the last day on a planet that shouldn't exist, fighting a creature that couldn't exist, all the while thinking that their future as time travelers didn't exist. A fading smile, he decides, sitting down next to her, should be the smallest of prices to pay and, yet, he hates to see it. Even in the worst of situations, she always manages to joke, to brush it off, to remind him that while there is still hope, the world can endure.
He sits in the chair next to her, scoots it close so their arms brush each other. To his great consternation, her eyes well up a bit and she sniffles. He wants to find some words of comfort, something to say that will make everything all right, but it's difficult to do. They literally faced down hell itself today; or, rather, he did anyway, while she had to stare into the eyes of the Devil and prove herself stronger than temptation. He knew she could, of course, his Rose, she could do anything. But it was different for a human, with the superstition and the beliefs and the imagination, to face down the epitome of evil and not come away somewhat darkened, somewhat different, somewhat scared. It made sense that she would be shaken by the experience. Even his tough Rose had a point where she would break.
She reaches for the tea cup. Some of the tea slops as she brings it to her mouth.
"It would've been a nice house, you know," she says, now focused on swirling the tea about. "Between the two of us, it would've been nice."
Always a surprise, his Rose Tyler, as the tears make sense and he sees not scars of from a demon, but a longing, deep and equally painful. Gently, he wraps his arm around her shoulders, his free hand going to stabilize the cup. Her head rests against his shoulder, his head on top of hers.
"Well, I suppose," he says, slowly, carefully, "I wouldn't mind the mortgage, if it was with you."