DW fic: Run
Title: Run
Author: Rambling Rose / irishlullaby
Betas: amyo67 & crimedoc1 (who, for serious, cannot look at anything without wanting to beta it)
Rated: PG13
Character(s)/Pairings: Ten.5/Rose, an OC, and mentions of others
Warnings: Super Angst. The Angst Monkeys guard this one well.
Summary: He runs away.
AN: I completely blame the now ignored plotlines of clone_doctor and d_d_f for these Angst Monkeys.
They’re both sweaty and sticky, lying together in bed, basking in the afterglow of making love. Rose asks he has any Gallifreyan names in mind for the little one just beginning to take shape in her belly. When he shrugs noncommittally, a look of concern crosses her features and she asks if he’s all right.
He is, of course, always all right.
He can’t tell her how he feels trapped, bound to this tiny little planet for all the years remaining to him. Nor can he tell her how the feelings have increased in the week since they found out. He feels scared about so many things -- will he be a good father, what if they hand him the baby after it was born and he drops it, how will he keep it from toddling out into the road and getting hit by a car or bus, what if it doesn’t like him at all?
So the Doctor does what the Doctor has always did best.
He runs away.
He steals away in the night like a phantom, after Rose falls asleep in his arms. Then tries his best not to look back.
88888
Two months later, he’s in Australia and sees her on a television programme. Her eyes are dark and empty, worry writ all over her face. Her belly is swollen as she spouts lies to the newsman about why he is gone… “Torchwood sent him out on a secret mission, far away… no one knew about the baby at that time,” she tells them. “I just hope he finishes what he’s doing and… makes it home soon.”
He pulls the cap he’s wearing further down over his eyes. Not that anyone recognises him with the longer hair and scruffy beard. He debates going back, feels that maybe he should face the wrath that would befall him if he did. He knows it wouldn’t be from Rose and, perhaps it would be worth enduring Jackie’s anger just to be with his Rose again.
Instead, he finds himself in Russia.
88888
He’s in Mexico when her face catches his eye. There on a glossy tabloid magazine under the headline “Mum-to-be Tyler Sinks Further Into Depression!” Tears spring to his eyes as he sees the very pregnant woman with a gaunt face and hollow eyes, looking like all her hope is gone. He snatches up a copy and flips it open to read the article. It reports that there are rumours that he’s died on his “secret mission,” although people have claimed to have seen him in various places around the globe.
“Sir if you want to read that you have to buy it,” the pretty girl at the till says. She’s short, barely reaching his shoulder, and her hair is dyed a bright blonde. She has a mouth that reminds him of his Rose and a similar button nose. Her nametag says she’s called Rosa.
She flirts. He flirts.
A few hours later he’s fleeing the hotel before she's even in REM cycle.
88888
Alaska is just a bit too bloody cold.
88888
Brazil is too wet. Japan shakes too much. And... natives with pointy sticks just aren't his cup of tea.
Somewhere along the way he finds a slightly outdated magazine. An accident. Early labour. Still born. A daughter. The tombstone will bear the name Sevillesta -- the only thing he had jotted down on a notepad before running away. It was supposed to have been much longer, but he had panicked and left, the name only half written.
He feels he doesn’t deserve to return.
88888
In India he finds something. It’s not God, but somehow it feels close to it. He’s no longer afraid. He's prepared to face the consequences of his decision. Or at least he thinks he is.
His key still unlocks the door to their flat. She’s not home. The only things in the refrigerator is a few bottles of liquor and some bags of crisps. Same for the cabinets. On the floor of the kitchen, in the midst’s of a faint reddish stain, lie a broken glass, an empty wine bottle, and several empty pill bottles. He stoops, picks up the medicine bottles and examines them. They held a mixture of anti-depressants, sleeping pills, dietary supplements, and other similar things.
A calendar on the freezer says ‘Go See Sevillesta’ in every day of the month, On Sundays it reminds her to also tell her mum to bend over and do something rather rude. Next to the calendar, held to the freezer door by a magnetic picture of them, laughing and happy, taken during the Christmas festivities at her mum’s just days before he ran away, is a tiny pamphlet bearing the name Sevillesta Tyler and containing the list of hymns and speeches given at her funeral and the address of the cemetery where she was buried.
He wanders around the flat, seeing the layers of dust lying thick upon everything. Rose had prepared a nursery for their daughter, all in pink and white with pictures of the two of them together on the walls and dresser. Next to a surprisingly dust-free rocker he finds more empty medicine bottles, and in the bedroom, he finds full bottles of pills on what used to be their bed. His old blue suit coat lies rumpled on the bed, tangled with what used to be his pillow.
He picks up an old battered journal, skims through her hopes of his return, of the accident that took Sevillesta -- his heart aches when he realises it was something he could have prevented easily by fixing the bath when she had asked him, scant weeks before he left. He reads small poems, short stories, dreams, wishes, therapy visits.
He doesn’t notice her walk into the room until her handbag hits the floor with an empty flop and jingle of keys. She stares at him a long moment, tears welling in her eyes. She has a bottle of liquor in her hand. She’s dangerously thin, no make up, hair that hasn’t been dyed in months is pulled into a sloppy ponytail. She walks wordlessly over to the bed, picks up the pill bottles, takes out two of the anti-depressants, two of the sleeping pills, and one each out of the other four bottles.
She looks at him, her eyes vacant as she puts the handful of pills in her mouth. She washes them down with a long drink from the bottle, her eyes never leaving him the entire time. “You’re reading my journal this time,” she whispers. “My therapist says that when I really accept that you’re not coming back, you'll finally go away. I thought I had but you’re still coming… you’re still here every day when I get back.”
He watches her as she shrugs off her simple coat, slips off her shoes, and then goes around to the other side of the bed to crawl under the duvet and bury her face into his pillow and blue jacket. She reaches into the pocket of the jacket and pulls out a full bottle of pills. She holds them up to him, showing him the label. The medicine is one intended to suppress hallucinations. “I don’t want you to go away,” she says softly. The bottle drops from her fingers and she hugs the pillow and jacket close to her body. “This time, you even smell real.”
It takes him three months to convince her that he is.
Author: Rambling Rose / irishlullaby
Betas: amyo67 & crimedoc1 (who, for serious, cannot look at anything without wanting to beta it)
Rated: PG13
Character(s)/Pairings: Ten.5/Rose, an OC, and mentions of others
Warnings: Super Angst. The Angst Monkeys guard this one well.
Summary: He runs away.
AN: I completely blame the now ignored plotlines of clone_doctor and d_d_f for these Angst Monkeys.
They’re both sweaty and sticky, lying together in bed, basking in the afterglow of making love. Rose asks he has any Gallifreyan names in mind for the little one just beginning to take shape in her belly. When he shrugs noncommittally, a look of concern crosses her features and she asks if he’s all right.
He is, of course, always all right.
He can’t tell her how he feels trapped, bound to this tiny little planet for all the years remaining to him. Nor can he tell her how the feelings have increased in the week since they found out. He feels scared about so many things -- will he be a good father, what if they hand him the baby after it was born and he drops it, how will he keep it from toddling out into the road and getting hit by a car or bus, what if it doesn’t like him at all?
So the Doctor does what the Doctor has always did best.
He runs away.
He steals away in the night like a phantom, after Rose falls asleep in his arms. Then tries his best not to look back.
88888
Two months later, he’s in Australia and sees her on a television programme. Her eyes are dark and empty, worry writ all over her face. Her belly is swollen as she spouts lies to the newsman about why he is gone… “Torchwood sent him out on a secret mission, far away… no one knew about the baby at that time,” she tells them. “I just hope he finishes what he’s doing and… makes it home soon.”
He pulls the cap he’s wearing further down over his eyes. Not that anyone recognises him with the longer hair and scruffy beard. He debates going back, feels that maybe he should face the wrath that would befall him if he did. He knows it wouldn’t be from Rose and, perhaps it would be worth enduring Jackie’s anger just to be with his Rose again.
Instead, he finds himself in Russia.
88888
He’s in Mexico when her face catches his eye. There on a glossy tabloid magazine under the headline “Mum-to-be Tyler Sinks Further Into Depression!” Tears spring to his eyes as he sees the very pregnant woman with a gaunt face and hollow eyes, looking like all her hope is gone. He snatches up a copy and flips it open to read the article. It reports that there are rumours that he’s died on his “secret mission,” although people have claimed to have seen him in various places around the globe.
“Sir if you want to read that you have to buy it,” the pretty girl at the till says. She’s short, barely reaching his shoulder, and her hair is dyed a bright blonde. She has a mouth that reminds him of his Rose and a similar button nose. Her nametag says she’s called Rosa.
She flirts. He flirts.
A few hours later he’s fleeing the hotel before she's even in REM cycle.
88888
Alaska is just a bit too bloody cold.
88888
Brazil is too wet. Japan shakes too much. And... natives with pointy sticks just aren't his cup of tea.
Somewhere along the way he finds a slightly outdated magazine. An accident. Early labour. Still born. A daughter. The tombstone will bear the name Sevillesta -- the only thing he had jotted down on a notepad before running away. It was supposed to have been much longer, but he had panicked and left, the name only half written.
He feels he doesn’t deserve to return.
88888
In India he finds something. It’s not God, but somehow it feels close to it. He’s no longer afraid. He's prepared to face the consequences of his decision. Or at least he thinks he is.
His key still unlocks the door to their flat. She’s not home. The only things in the refrigerator is a few bottles of liquor and some bags of crisps. Same for the cabinets. On the floor of the kitchen, in the midst’s of a faint reddish stain, lie a broken glass, an empty wine bottle, and several empty pill bottles. He stoops, picks up the medicine bottles and examines them. They held a mixture of anti-depressants, sleeping pills, dietary supplements, and other similar things.
A calendar on the freezer says ‘Go See Sevillesta’ in every day of the month, On Sundays it reminds her to also tell her mum to bend over and do something rather rude. Next to the calendar, held to the freezer door by a magnetic picture of them, laughing and happy, taken during the Christmas festivities at her mum’s just days before he ran away, is a tiny pamphlet bearing the name Sevillesta Tyler and containing the list of hymns and speeches given at her funeral and the address of the cemetery where she was buried.
He wanders around the flat, seeing the layers of dust lying thick upon everything. Rose had prepared a nursery for their daughter, all in pink and white with pictures of the two of them together on the walls and dresser. Next to a surprisingly dust-free rocker he finds more empty medicine bottles, and in the bedroom, he finds full bottles of pills on what used to be their bed. His old blue suit coat lies rumpled on the bed, tangled with what used to be his pillow.
He picks up an old battered journal, skims through her hopes of his return, of the accident that took Sevillesta -- his heart aches when he realises it was something he could have prevented easily by fixing the bath when she had asked him, scant weeks before he left. He reads small poems, short stories, dreams, wishes, therapy visits.
He doesn’t notice her walk into the room until her handbag hits the floor with an empty flop and jingle of keys. She stares at him a long moment, tears welling in her eyes. She has a bottle of liquor in her hand. She’s dangerously thin, no make up, hair that hasn’t been dyed in months is pulled into a sloppy ponytail. She walks wordlessly over to the bed, picks up the pill bottles, takes out two of the anti-depressants, two of the sleeping pills, and one each out of the other four bottles.
She looks at him, her eyes vacant as she puts the handful of pills in her mouth. She washes them down with a long drink from the bottle, her eyes never leaving him the entire time. “You’re reading my journal this time,” she whispers. “My therapist says that when I really accept that you’re not coming back, you'll finally go away. I thought I had but you’re still coming… you’re still here every day when I get back.”
He watches her as she shrugs off her simple coat, slips off her shoes, and then goes around to the other side of the bed to crawl under the duvet and bury her face into his pillow and blue jacket. She reaches into the pocket of the jacket and pulls out a full bottle of pills. She holds them up to him, showing him the label. The medicine is one intended to suppress hallucinations. “I don’t want you to go away,” she says softly. The bottle drops from her fingers and she hugs the pillow and jacket close to her body. “This time, you even smell real.”
It takes him three months to convince her that he is.