(no subject)
Title: And he's no Open Book (1/1)
Author: dashafeather
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff, angst.
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Doctor Who © BBC.
Summary: She stares at him; his eyes are venerable and his jaw is locked in a sort of defiance. Her throat is suddenly tight.
Author's Note: Written for the writerinatardis, challenge 2:05; the prompt was 'Scavenger Hunt, the Fic. This list of things must appear in some capacity: A snatch of song lyrics, an unusual color, the name of a band, a Shakespearean character, an item usually found in a child's room, and a quote from page 57 of the book closest to the author at the time of writing.'
She senses rather than hears the breath whispering over the back of her neck. She buries her face further into her pillow; her eyes shut tighter, even as the Doctor’s slight weight causes the bed to creak. His distinct smell (it reminds her of rain in autumn, tea and that breath of time forgotten) fills her nostrils as she feels his arm touch her shoulder. “Rose,” he says in a voice too loud to be a whisper.
Her eyes don’t open and she mumbles into the pillow, “’M asleep.”
His chuckle warms her more than the quilt she lies under ever could. “Obviously not anymore,” he says matter-of-factly. There is a pause but Rose doesn’t move, though her hand unconsciously moves into his. He squeezes it tightly and she hears him say her name once again.
Finally, she sighs a breath and opens her eyes, caught for a moment in a brown, chestnut gaze. “Hello,” he says, and he grins without ever looking away.
Rose fidgets, moving her body away so he can slip beside her, hand hovering over her thigh. “You woke me up,” she tells him, only a little bit annoyed and even less so as his head rests next to her on the pillow, breath warming her nose.
“I know,” he sighs. “But you were bored, and you were lonely.”
“I was not,” she says, frowning at him.
“Oh, you were,” he nods knowingly. “Most definitely. I can sense these things.”
She sighs. “I was asleep, Doctor.”
“And now you’re not,” he adds, sitting upright a little and tilting his head. “Time to get up, Rose Tyler. Worlds to explore, parties to dine at, a Beatles concert to go to - come on, Rose!” He grasps her hand and unsuccessfully tries to pull her up.
She buries herself further into the duvet, eyes light and smiling. “Beatles concert?”
He grins all the more. “Yes, if you’d like,” he says, enthusiasm colouring his words. “Or how about a Shakespearian play? Any you like? I bet, Rose Tyler, you have never seen Romeo and Juliet in true theatre fashion in the sixteenth century, have you?”
“Can’t say I have,” Rose admits, watching him in amusement. She closes her eyes again, breathing softly against his shoulder. “But it’s way too early now. In the mornin’, Doctor,” she mumbles, feeling comfort sway her towards sleep again.
“There is no morning on the TARDIS,” his voice chuckles, and he sounds right by her ear. She doesn’t reply, and he sighs. “Rose,” he says, and she thinks he must like saying her name. She can’t say she minds much either.
“Doctor.” She opens her eyes, smiling lightly at him. “Could you possibly be the one that’s bored?”
He frowns at her and then turns, giving a cautious glance to the door. “If you’d rather I left…” he says slowly, hesitantly. He tries to suppress the slight horror from his tone.
“No,” she says a bit too quickly, “I don’t want you to go anywhere.” Then she grins at him pointedly. “But I’m not getting up either.”
The Doctor sighs, and his eyes roll as he lies down beside her. They lay in silence for a few moments long, the whisper of three heartbeats the only sound (strangely loud, strangely fast, so little space between them). She closes her eyes.
“Rose?” His voice sounds strange, thoughtful yet afraid.
She frowns at his tone, so near. “Yeah?”
There is a tender pause. “Do you know…” There is a long pause as his voice trails off and what he was going to say along with it. “Your hair smells funny.”
Her eyes open enough to shoot him a glare. His nose is resting next to her head, her hair falling over his face.
“Not bad or anything,” he quickly adds, “Just… very fruity.”
“And there’s something wrong with fruit now, is there?”
“No, of course not, as long as it’s not kiwi, or lemon.” He pauses. “Or pear.” Rose closes her eyes again before she can roll them, feeling the Doctor’s body move, the bed creaking as he fidgets.
Her gaze filters open curiously as his shoulder knocks hers, and she sees him with his hand in his pocket, tongue peeking as he pulls out bits and pieces of things Rose has never seen before, placing them on the duvet. “What are you doing?” she asks as he picks up a yo-yo and examines it fondly.
His glance tells her he wasn’t expecting her eyes to open. “Well,” he says. “If you don’t want me to leave, but don’t want to talk either, I have to do something to pass the time.”
Sighing, she sits up, frowning at the things on the bed between them. “A yo-yo?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He grins at her. “Oh, yes! No one is ever too old for a yo-yo, Rose.”
She grins back. “I can imagine.” Her curiosity peaks further as she sees a small, rectangular piece of card. “One Beatles ticket,” she says, picking it up and pointing at it unnecessarily.
He nods. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.”
She grins. “’Let it be, let it be, Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.’” It’s a moment before she realises he’s staring at her. “What?”
“Don’t give up your day job,” he says, smirking.
She gives a small laugh. “And what day job would that be? Saving worlds from the evils of the universe in our bigger-on-the-inside police box.”
“That’s exactly it,” he nods. “If we ever should make business cards, that’ll be our motto.”
She smiles before she notices the largest item in the pile (she would say fitting all of this in one pocket is impossible except that the Doctor delves in that too much for it to be odd), a leather bound book - looking gloriously old, it’s colour a dark sort of red. “What’s that?” She finds her voice soft as she picks it up, not opening for fear of ripping the tattered pages.
“What?” says the Doctor; he doesn’t look up, he’s still examining his yo-yo.
“This dark red sort of book,” she says, staring at the book placed in her open palms. She doesn’t open it.
He finally looks up, sees the colour. “Rose,” he says with a frown. “That’s carmine, not red.” His gaze changes though, when he sees it as the book it is. “Oh,” is all he says.
“Oh?” Rose frowns at him, noticing the deep lines of his expression; his eyes are as dark as night.
“That’s… that’s a note book.” He swallows and she waits for him to continue. “It has… notes in it.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” But her tone softens at his expression. “What notes?”
He takes the book gingerly from her hands. “Notes… things I wrote. I forgot... thought I might have lost it.” He frowns.
She stares at him; his eyes are venerable and his jaw is locked in a sort of defiance. Her throat is suddenly tight. “You wrote in it… before you met me?” she whispers, but he hears the implied question, before the Time War?
“Yes,” his voice is quiet, strangely husky.
There is a silence that takes over the room, over the TARDIS. A million things unsaid hang between them, and the ghosts of the past in the eyes of this Time Lord make Rose’s heart ache. She touches his arm. They both stare at the book in his hands.
“Do you want me to put it away?” she asks, uncertain. She points to his pockets; if he wants to leave, to read that book in peace (or perhaps put it somewhere he’ll never read it). She knows he’ll want to do it alone.
He looks up and for a long moment their eyes are locked. She sees a man, old and tired, and… maybe desperate for something more, maybe he’s desperate for a burden to be lifted. Maybe. But then, he’s no open book.
She swallows and wonders what he sees.
His hand touches hers in a whisper. He opens the first page and there is a picture of a young girl, dark haired and smiling. “Would you like to see?” he whispers.
She answers with tearful eyes. And they begin to read the ghosts of a past long gone.
Author: dashafeather
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff, angst.
Spoilers: No
Disclaimer: Doctor Who © BBC.
Summary: She stares at him; his eyes are venerable and his jaw is locked in a sort of defiance. Her throat is suddenly tight.
Author's Note: Written for the writerinatardis, challenge 2:05; the prompt was 'Scavenger Hunt, the Fic. This list of things must appear in some capacity: A snatch of song lyrics, an unusual color, the name of a band, a Shakespearean character, an item usually found in a child's room, and a quote from page 57 of the book closest to the author at the time of writing.'
She senses rather than hears the breath whispering over the back of her neck. She buries her face further into her pillow; her eyes shut tighter, even as the Doctor’s slight weight causes the bed to creak. His distinct smell (it reminds her of rain in autumn, tea and that breath of time forgotten) fills her nostrils as she feels his arm touch her shoulder. “Rose,” he says in a voice too loud to be a whisper.
Her eyes don’t open and she mumbles into the pillow, “’M asleep.”
His chuckle warms her more than the quilt she lies under ever could. “Obviously not anymore,” he says matter-of-factly. There is a pause but Rose doesn’t move, though her hand unconsciously moves into his. He squeezes it tightly and she hears him say her name once again.
Finally, she sighs a breath and opens her eyes, caught for a moment in a brown, chestnut gaze. “Hello,” he says, and he grins without ever looking away.
Rose fidgets, moving her body away so he can slip beside her, hand hovering over her thigh. “You woke me up,” she tells him, only a little bit annoyed and even less so as his head rests next to her on the pillow, breath warming her nose.
“I know,” he sighs. “But you were bored, and you were lonely.”
“I was not,” she says, frowning at him.
“Oh, you were,” he nods knowingly. “Most definitely. I can sense these things.”
She sighs. “I was asleep, Doctor.”
“And now you’re not,” he adds, sitting upright a little and tilting his head. “Time to get up, Rose Tyler. Worlds to explore, parties to dine at, a Beatles concert to go to - come on, Rose!” He grasps her hand and unsuccessfully tries to pull her up.
She buries herself further into the duvet, eyes light and smiling. “Beatles concert?”
He grins all the more. “Yes, if you’d like,” he says, enthusiasm colouring his words. “Or how about a Shakespearian play? Any you like? I bet, Rose Tyler, you have never seen Romeo and Juliet in true theatre fashion in the sixteenth century, have you?”
“Can’t say I have,” Rose admits, watching him in amusement. She closes her eyes again, breathing softly against his shoulder. “But it’s way too early now. In the mornin’, Doctor,” she mumbles, feeling comfort sway her towards sleep again.
“There is no morning on the TARDIS,” his voice chuckles, and he sounds right by her ear. She doesn’t reply, and he sighs. “Rose,” he says, and she thinks he must like saying her name. She can’t say she minds much either.
“Doctor.” She opens her eyes, smiling lightly at him. “Could you possibly be the one that’s bored?”
He frowns at her and then turns, giving a cautious glance to the door. “If you’d rather I left…” he says slowly, hesitantly. He tries to suppress the slight horror from his tone.
“No,” she says a bit too quickly, “I don’t want you to go anywhere.” Then she grins at him pointedly. “But I’m not getting up either.”
The Doctor sighs, and his eyes roll as he lies down beside her. They lay in silence for a few moments long, the whisper of three heartbeats the only sound (strangely loud, strangely fast, so little space between them). She closes her eyes.
“Rose?” His voice sounds strange, thoughtful yet afraid.
She frowns at his tone, so near. “Yeah?”
There is a tender pause. “Do you know…” There is a long pause as his voice trails off and what he was going to say along with it. “Your hair smells funny.”
Her eyes open enough to shoot him a glare. His nose is resting next to her head, her hair falling over his face.
“Not bad or anything,” he quickly adds, “Just… very fruity.”
“And there’s something wrong with fruit now, is there?”
“No, of course not, as long as it’s not kiwi, or lemon.” He pauses. “Or pear.” Rose closes her eyes again before she can roll them, feeling the Doctor’s body move, the bed creaking as he fidgets.
Her gaze filters open curiously as his shoulder knocks hers, and she sees him with his hand in his pocket, tongue peeking as he pulls out bits and pieces of things Rose has never seen before, placing them on the duvet. “What are you doing?” she asks as he picks up a yo-yo and examines it fondly.
His glance tells her he wasn’t expecting her eyes to open. “Well,” he says. “If you don’t want me to leave, but don’t want to talk either, I have to do something to pass the time.”
Sighing, she sits up, frowning at the things on the bed between them. “A yo-yo?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He grins at her. “Oh, yes! No one is ever too old for a yo-yo, Rose.”
She grins back. “I can imagine.” Her curiosity peaks further as she sees a small, rectangular piece of card. “One Beatles ticket,” she says, picking it up and pointing at it unnecessarily.
He nods. “I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.”
She grins. “’Let it be, let it be, Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.’” It’s a moment before she realises he’s staring at her. “What?”
“Don’t give up your day job,” he says, smirking.
She gives a small laugh. “And what day job would that be? Saving worlds from the evils of the universe in our bigger-on-the-inside police box.”
“That’s exactly it,” he nods. “If we ever should make business cards, that’ll be our motto.”
She smiles before she notices the largest item in the pile (she would say fitting all of this in one pocket is impossible except that the Doctor delves in that too much for it to be odd), a leather bound book - looking gloriously old, it’s colour a dark sort of red. “What’s that?” She finds her voice soft as she picks it up, not opening for fear of ripping the tattered pages.
“What?” says the Doctor; he doesn’t look up, he’s still examining his yo-yo.
“This dark red sort of book,” she says, staring at the book placed in her open palms. She doesn’t open it.
He finally looks up, sees the colour. “Rose,” he says with a frown. “That’s carmine, not red.” His gaze changes though, when he sees it as the book it is. “Oh,” is all he says.
“Oh?” Rose frowns at him, noticing the deep lines of his expression; his eyes are as dark as night.
“That’s… that’s a note book.” He swallows and she waits for him to continue. “It has… notes in it.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” But her tone softens at his expression. “What notes?”
He takes the book gingerly from her hands. “Notes… things I wrote. I forgot... thought I might have lost it.” He frowns.
She stares at him; his eyes are venerable and his jaw is locked in a sort of defiance. Her throat is suddenly tight. “You wrote in it… before you met me?” she whispers, but he hears the implied question, before the Time War?
“Yes,” his voice is quiet, strangely husky.
There is a silence that takes over the room, over the TARDIS. A million things unsaid hang between them, and the ghosts of the past in the eyes of this Time Lord make Rose’s heart ache. She touches his arm. They both stare at the book in his hands.
“Do you want me to put it away?” she asks, uncertain. She points to his pockets; if he wants to leave, to read that book in peace (or perhaps put it somewhere he’ll never read it). She knows he’ll want to do it alone.
He looks up and for a long moment their eyes are locked. She sees a man, old and tired, and… maybe desperate for something more, maybe he’s desperate for a burden to be lifted. Maybe. But then, he’s no open book.
She swallows and wonders what he sees.
His hand touches hers in a whisper. He opens the first page and there is a picture of a young girl, dark haired and smiling. “Would you like to see?” he whispers.
She answers with tearful eyes. And they begin to read the ghosts of a past long gone.