Doctor Who fic: On the Mechanics of Tinsel
Title: On the Mechanics of Tinsel
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Rose, Rose/Ten
Prompt: All things Christmas, if I recall
Word Count: 1268
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday
Summary: They were a strange pair together. But it was sensible to her. A year later, Rose is back at the beach and with wandering musings on Christmas. And of course, there’s tinsel.
Author's Notes: croc_rocketfan, this is dedicated to you. My very first Doctor Who fic. And of course, since I’m secretly a romantic at heart… Yeah, I’ve just had too much ice cream.
-You are a great stranger now.
-Yes. I was born to be a monk.
-I am afraid you are a heretic.
-Are you much afraid?
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Rose Tyler remembers Christmas. And Tinsel.
Well, not exactly Christmas (but there was tinsel). In fact, in a manner of speaking, she thinks it was a time that it was supposed to be Christmas but they were stuck in the summer of ’72 and it could’ve been New York. (Memories are slipping into holes and time, as vicious and obtusely poetic that it is, is already pushing past her.) It could’ve been San Francisco. It could’ve been anywhere really.
Funny thing is, time never mattered when she was with him.
Christmas was still very much Christmas with him. Once and then twice. And then maybe a third time. He took her to the shops. To spend a bit of money on tinsel. Good tinsel, he had said. And she had laughed and laughed and-
They were a strange pair together. But it was sensible to her.
She remembers Christmas out of semantics and out of a course that she could’ve taken. She could’ve kissed him then (she did before too, but by then, time already had started to take the path it was apparently meant to take, without considering what they felt.) It’s much easier to be angry with time and spaces of time even though what happened, had to happen. Like everything else. (Or so she rationalizes.)
It’s also easier to blame him for the box of tinsel sitting on her coffee table. Green and obnoxiously clashing with the carpet. Or her mum’s idea of Christmas ornaments (Jackie sent an old box to her for the holiday. Apparently, there’s still Christmas when she’s still mourning)- We’re going traditional, love. She supposes it’s the new baby on the way. A new sibling. A reminder. Getting in the habit of bringing him or her (Jackie wishes for another girl. She wonders if it’s because she’s too lost to this recourse of a plan) in the spirit of holidays.
Christmas makes her miss him.
And it’s how she finds herself back on the beach. Walking. Watching. Wandering aimlessly around. It’s cold sometimes. Sometimes it’s not. She tries the rhythm of association. Juliet looking for Romeo if she had survived and lived on after he had gone and offed himself. But Shakespeare makes her wrinkle her nose in disgust because she can’t quite associate her lack of a love life (he was going to say it, she knows) with the first teenage drama that wasn’t in stereo.
She knows she misses him and perhaps, it’s what she’s meant to do. Miss a man that she can only think that she had touched. Or was close to touching. Perhaps it had to be like this.
Why? She’ll understand soon enough. She’s good at drowning herself with excuses. Or something to that effect. She should’ve had tea before she left. Something. It’s a bit colder than she expected.
“Come here often? I hear that empty, gray beaches are the latest rages.”
She freezes. And doesn’t turn. It’s Christmas. But Christmas can be this cruel. Memories are even worse. She remembers the bottle of rum from Mickey’s birthday. Remembers-
“I’m not going to go away. You figure a guy would get a bit more appreciation for traveling troubles and so on. We could get into the so on, of course. But that would be a long and rather boring tale. Of course, you were the one who told me that I could never be the boring sort-”
She breathes. Or tries. “Oh, shut up.”
There’s a chuckle or at least, she thinks there’s a chuckle. It could be the fact that her bum starting to get wet from the rock she’s sitting on. She thinks she hears a step forward. And, oh god, she thinks there’s a hand on her shoulder.
And there can’t be. There can’t be. It’s impossible. But she should be used to this. In and out. Appear. Disappear. Her fingers itch to touch him.
“You should turn around, you know,” comes a murmur, “or I could walk around to see you. But I’m not a fan of hysterical women. Don’t need a handprint on my cheek. But I’d really like to see you, Rose Tyler.”
Her lips tremble. And her eyes close and she can’t, she can’t break apart. She’s spent weeks telling herself that he couldn’t come back. Couldn’t.
She licks her lips. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
She shakes her head. The tears start to burn and she tries to breathe. One. Two. Three. “Can’t.”
There’s a chuckle again. “I believe you can.”
And it’s as if the universe seemed to write it’s own ending because if there’s one thing she could never do, it’s refuse him. Anything really. In fact, she’s quite certain that he could tell her to do anything. Attempt to hop on one foot while trying to touch her nose with her tongue. Or something stupid and silly like that.
She turns. And there are tears. His hand is still tight on her shoulder and she’s looking right at him. He’s touching her. He still looks like- well, hers. She can’t think about semantics and adjectives (she was always terribly bored in her classes) because he’s hers. And he’s-
“You’re here.”
He nods, kneeling in front of her. “I am. Took a bottle of some nasty scotch I found under my bed. And several late nights- a year really. And then POOF!”
“Poof?”
And then there’s that big, wide grin that makes her shift and give a little laugh. She feels her lips curling. Smiling. She’s smiling again.
He brushes his fingers against her cheek. The line of her jaw. “Poof,” he murmurs. “There was a cloud of smoke and I’m quite sure there was a bit of glitter. You would’ve liked the glitter, Rose.”
She sniffs. “I bought tinsel.”
His eyes light up. “You did, did you? Tinsel’s fantastic for the holiday. It makes Christmas much shinier.”
“I don’t like tinsel.”
“Rose, Rose, Rose. We’ve been over this. There can’t be Christmas without tinsel. I suppose I’m going to have to go and inspect it. You still can’t be trusted with the tinsel-purchasing.”
She starts to laugh. And wonders if there’s a bit of hysteria laced in the sound. She still thinks that she’s going a bit insane, but that’s okay because she can reach for him and there’s a sense of tangibility when she touches him. Her lips press against his forehead. If this is insanity, she can deal.
“We have a bit of unfinished business though, Doctor.”
His voice is soft. And there’s a nod. “Oh, yes. About that.”
She’d be lying if she didn’t say she was waiting and he seems to understand because his hands cup her face. He looks at her and she looks back at him, her lips curl into a soft smile. She’s tired and it’s understandable, but her smile is his nonetheless. He’s here, she keeps repeating to herself.
“I love you.”
The wait for those words will never compare to actually hearing them. They’re soft and certain, curling around her like a lifetime. She breathes. She counts and makes herself dizzy with numbers. I love you. And then she laughs.
She’s okay.
Smiling, she brushes her lips against his. Tentative because of exhaustion (and because a part of her is still used to the idea that she can touch him). But she stands and pulls him to his feet.
“Come on then,” she murmurs. “So you can mock my tinsel purchasing and I can give you a proper snog.”
One thing’s for certain, the doctor has never failed to give her a proper Christmas.
end.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairings: Rose, Rose/Ten
Prompt: All things Christmas, if I recall
Word Count: 1268
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Doomsday
Summary: They were a strange pair together. But it was sensible to her. A year later, Rose is back at the beach and with wandering musings on Christmas. And of course, there’s tinsel.
Author's Notes: croc_rocketfan, this is dedicated to you. My very first Doctor Who fic. And of course, since I’m secretly a romantic at heart… Yeah, I’ve just had too much ice cream.
-You are a great stranger now.
-Yes. I was born to be a monk.
-I am afraid you are a heretic.
-Are you much afraid?
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Rose Tyler remembers Christmas. And Tinsel.
Well, not exactly Christmas (but there was tinsel). In fact, in a manner of speaking, she thinks it was a time that it was supposed to be Christmas but they were stuck in the summer of ’72 and it could’ve been New York. (Memories are slipping into holes and time, as vicious and obtusely poetic that it is, is already pushing past her.) It could’ve been San Francisco. It could’ve been anywhere really.
Funny thing is, time never mattered when she was with him.
Christmas was still very much Christmas with him. Once and then twice. And then maybe a third time. He took her to the shops. To spend a bit of money on tinsel. Good tinsel, he had said. And she had laughed and laughed and-
They were a strange pair together. But it was sensible to her.
She remembers Christmas out of semantics and out of a course that she could’ve taken. She could’ve kissed him then (she did before too, but by then, time already had started to take the path it was apparently meant to take, without considering what they felt.) It’s much easier to be angry with time and spaces of time even though what happened, had to happen. Like everything else. (Or so she rationalizes.)
It’s also easier to blame him for the box of tinsel sitting on her coffee table. Green and obnoxiously clashing with the carpet. Or her mum’s idea of Christmas ornaments (Jackie sent an old box to her for the holiday. Apparently, there’s still Christmas when she’s still mourning)- We’re going traditional, love. She supposes it’s the new baby on the way. A new sibling. A reminder. Getting in the habit of bringing him or her (Jackie wishes for another girl. She wonders if it’s because she’s too lost to this recourse of a plan) in the spirit of holidays.
Christmas makes her miss him.
And it’s how she finds herself back on the beach. Walking. Watching. Wandering aimlessly around. It’s cold sometimes. Sometimes it’s not. She tries the rhythm of association. Juliet looking for Romeo if she had survived and lived on after he had gone and offed himself. But Shakespeare makes her wrinkle her nose in disgust because she can’t quite associate her lack of a love life (he was going to say it, she knows) with the first teenage drama that wasn’t in stereo.
She knows she misses him and perhaps, it’s what she’s meant to do. Miss a man that she can only think that she had touched. Or was close to touching. Perhaps it had to be like this.
Why? She’ll understand soon enough. She’s good at drowning herself with excuses. Or something to that effect. She should’ve had tea before she left. Something. It’s a bit colder than she expected.
“Come here often? I hear that empty, gray beaches are the latest rages.”
She freezes. And doesn’t turn. It’s Christmas. But Christmas can be this cruel. Memories are even worse. She remembers the bottle of rum from Mickey’s birthday. Remembers-
“I’m not going to go away. You figure a guy would get a bit more appreciation for traveling troubles and so on. We could get into the so on, of course. But that would be a long and rather boring tale. Of course, you were the one who told me that I could never be the boring sort-”
She breathes. Or tries. “Oh, shut up.”
There’s a chuckle or at least, she thinks there’s a chuckle. It could be the fact that her bum starting to get wet from the rock she’s sitting on. She thinks she hears a step forward. And, oh god, she thinks there’s a hand on her shoulder.
And there can’t be. There can’t be. It’s impossible. But she should be used to this. In and out. Appear. Disappear. Her fingers itch to touch him.
“You should turn around, you know,” comes a murmur, “or I could walk around to see you. But I’m not a fan of hysterical women. Don’t need a handprint on my cheek. But I’d really like to see you, Rose Tyler.”
Her lips tremble. And her eyes close and she can’t, she can’t break apart. She’s spent weeks telling herself that he couldn’t come back. Couldn’t.
She licks her lips. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
She shakes her head. The tears start to burn and she tries to breathe. One. Two. Three. “Can’t.”
There’s a chuckle again. “I believe you can.”
And it’s as if the universe seemed to write it’s own ending because if there’s one thing she could never do, it’s refuse him. Anything really. In fact, she’s quite certain that he could tell her to do anything. Attempt to hop on one foot while trying to touch her nose with her tongue. Or something stupid and silly like that.
She turns. And there are tears. His hand is still tight on her shoulder and she’s looking right at him. He’s touching her. He still looks like- well, hers. She can’t think about semantics and adjectives (she was always terribly bored in her classes) because he’s hers. And he’s-
“You’re here.”
He nods, kneeling in front of her. “I am. Took a bottle of some nasty scotch I found under my bed. And several late nights- a year really. And then POOF!”
“Poof?”
And then there’s that big, wide grin that makes her shift and give a little laugh. She feels her lips curling. Smiling. She’s smiling again.
He brushes his fingers against her cheek. The line of her jaw. “Poof,” he murmurs. “There was a cloud of smoke and I’m quite sure there was a bit of glitter. You would’ve liked the glitter, Rose.”
She sniffs. “I bought tinsel.”
His eyes light up. “You did, did you? Tinsel’s fantastic for the holiday. It makes Christmas much shinier.”
“I don’t like tinsel.”
“Rose, Rose, Rose. We’ve been over this. There can’t be Christmas without tinsel. I suppose I’m going to have to go and inspect it. You still can’t be trusted with the tinsel-purchasing.”
She starts to laugh. And wonders if there’s a bit of hysteria laced in the sound. She still thinks that she’s going a bit insane, but that’s okay because she can reach for him and there’s a sense of tangibility when she touches him. Her lips press against his forehead. If this is insanity, she can deal.
“We have a bit of unfinished business though, Doctor.”
His voice is soft. And there’s a nod. “Oh, yes. About that.”
She’d be lying if she didn’t say she was waiting and he seems to understand because his hands cup her face. He looks at her and she looks back at him, her lips curl into a soft smile. She’s tired and it’s understandable, but her smile is his nonetheless. He’s here, she keeps repeating to herself.
“I love you.”
The wait for those words will never compare to actually hearing them. They’re soft and certain, curling around her like a lifetime. She breathes. She counts and makes herself dizzy with numbers. I love you. And then she laughs.
She’s okay.
Smiling, she brushes her lips against his. Tentative because of exhaustion (and because a part of her is still used to the idea that she can touch him). But she stands and pulls him to his feet.
“Come on then,” she murmurs. “So you can mock my tinsel purchasing and I can give you a proper snog.”
One thing’s for certain, the doctor has never failed to give her a proper Christmas.
end.