Doctor Who Fic: handbooks of miscellaneous translations
notes: from the alphabet meme - for mylittlepwny and her prompt, doctor/rose and hips. because she’s awesome.
handbooks of miscellaneous translations
she never expected to come back. he doesn't need to know that. she promised, he'll promise, and some things will not change. today, there are no mirrors to wake up with. doctor who. rose/ten v.ii. general spoilers, journey’s end. 1,560 words, pg.
-
In the morning, the room warms with the strangest of angles; the light rises and falls, peeks into corners and over the bed, into the sheets to spread against his back.
For now, she stands at the frame of the door. The tips of her fingers smell a little like tea, a new and early habit. She’s in his shirt, a shirt, and it's new too. The collar is hard, open, and running into the column of her throat, if only to trace lines into her skin. The sleeves are too big and swallow her wrists, poking over her fingers as she brings her arms up to fold into her chest. It’s still him, she keeps telling herself. It’s him and this isn't even years later, just months and a couple of days, a lot of hours if only then.
Rose does watch him though. Her mouth curls, brushing amusement. She feels coy. She isn't. Everything comes as a little shy. It’s just that her fingers can still feel every line, her skin flushing over his. He’s smaller, she feels smaller, and yet they're the same, inevitably, as they fit together. It should make her happy. She feels like she's falling harder again. It’s difficult to explain. The days aren't ready for her to understand.
What she does know is that this is the second time, and almost third, where snogging isn't just snogging and they're sort of awkwardly trying to find their footing together. She never expected to come back. He doesn't need to know that. She promised, he'll promise, and some things will not change.
" - 'top staring, Rose," he cuts in, voice muffled. Her smile widens, only slightly, as his head rises and his hair folds out in an array of odd angles, over his forehead as he drops back into the pillow. Her spot is next to him, still warm she imagines, and she pushes herself away from the door.
The shirt picks at her thighs as she walks, teasing into her knees as she climbs into the bed and sits. She reaches for him, her fingers brushing against his back. They find the spot of skin that dips between his shoulders, slowly tracing circles against his spine. He makes a soft noise in the pillow. She wants to laugh, but she's used to be shy. Some habits are going to take more than a little while.
She keeps grinning though, feigning indignation. "Lazy."
He makes that noise again, but turns and rolls away from her hands to stare up at her. He’s sleepy, his mouth turning into that odd grin of his, a reflection of her most of the time. Two peas in a pod, Jackie usually rolls her eyes. Familiarity is a fickle, funny thing. She’s learning to appreciate it. It’s about advance levels now; he likes to say this now too.
The Doctor reaches for her hand though and it's funny, she thinks, that it's still just Doctor and not Jack or Jim or Mick or Keith; they had an argument, days ago, about names and naming and decided for him to remain as is. He wanted to be a Rolling Stone. She didn't think he was funny. There are things that she's not ready to tell him, as he is him but not him and this continues to stand as something to get used to. But she's better about being all right with it, as if she were giving herself a choice anyway. Change is also a very frighteningly fickle thing.
"Suppose," he yawns, his mouth stretching widely, "I - well, 'suppose we see ourselves off today. Somewhere different. Although, I reckon this bed is trying to keep me here."
She scoffs.
He half-ignores her, chuckling. "Against my will, you see."
Their fingers are tangled and he gives her a tug, and then another one, pulling her over him. She straddles his hips, half-annoyed and half-amused, never far from being in between. She dips forward and her hair slips, sliding over her jaw and her shoulders. It blankets over her eyes and he reaches up, his fingers brushing a few strands away. He tucks them behind her ear. He likes it longer, he told her once. She can't remember if she blushed.
“It s’bit odd. I - this, you know? Us here, like everything’s standing completely still.”
She’s rambling a little and she can taste it, the way the words slur and stand, skipping into half-circles as if they were dizzy. Her mouth tugs at another smile, shy again and almost out of place. The whole thing is more than a little odd to her, as if the world around her was meant to settle like this and wait for her, if only to catch up.
Shrugging though, he studies her. She thinks about mirrors again, about reflections and doppelgangers, the things that she used to wish for and the things that she couldn't have anymore. There was resignation and lack of resignation, the way she sort of drifted between wanting and giving up is the only way she's lived on for these past couple years - days and hours, minutes. Her concept of time was over the moment she met him. She’s Rose Tyler though. She’s okay with that. She’s always learned fast.
“Well, a trip then?” he says it finally, as if he were picking the words too carefully, drawing his tongue over go and somewhere. She watches it as it slides over his lip, then back against his teeth. And well, honestly, Rose would rather have this conversation than think about where that might lead her to. Like last night, or the night before, and before that two nights again. The break in between was a matter of him blowing up Pete's new project, of course.
But she focuses on the words, on the idea of the two of them traveling again. It’s not that they haven't, because it's been little places here and there, as if they were struggling to find some sort of method. Training wheels, she told her mum. She thinks that they, still, sort of agree on some sort of unintentional resentment for the other Doctor, her other Doctor. She doesn't mean to, but she's left with definite pieces.
“Really?” so she takes a deep breath and just asks, then again, to make sure. "I'd - I'd like that," she tells him, "S'what I've been meaning to do, I suppose. I reckon I got somewhat distracted."
He shrugs again.
“I wasn’t or I’m not particularly good at this whole standing still business, metaphors and all. Actually, I’m not particularly apt at metaphors either - hopeless.”
There’s a particular way he says hopeless and perhaps, she's only reading too much into it. But she finds herself smiling, just a little, with the corners of her mouth turning. He’s watching her with amusement and the pulls her forward, brushing his mouth against hers. It’s something she's definitely not used to, with the sporadic here and there, always waiting for her.
She does open her mouth over his, her eyes closing as her free hand buries itself into the pillow. One of his hands slips into her hair then, and the other pulls away from her fingers, only to spread over the small of her back. She’s too distracted to focus, her tongue sliding along his lip and tasting the warmth of his mouth. He’s slow, lazy even, and keeps her close.
“You talk an awful lot.”
She teases him, her voice soft and muffled slightly against his mouth. She feels him laugh, the vibration stroking her lips; there's something about tasting it, about having it as her own. She can't put a finger on it and decide, if anything, to call it something. She just knows it's for her. She likes that it's just for her.
They break away and she slides back into the bed, tangling her legs with his. The sheets have somewhat shifted into a mess, but neither of them seems to mind. His hand finds his way to her hip, playing back at the fabric. She smiles softly, but he grows serious and steady, watching her.
“I won’t change.”
He means it, as if he were setting up a declaration. It’s like him, then not him. There are vices and virtues, all dancing around her being a stranger again. They’ve passed points already. But for now, it's almost always about learning differences. She’s sure he knows. She wonders, still, she's okay with him knowing this.
She’s quiet, pulling back from him slightly. Her fingers stretch, sliding over his jaw. The lines are the same, the grooves and the sharpness. It’s always a little odd, a little more than something to get used to as she touches him and remembers. Intimacy was always a quiet thing, but they're giving now, to each other and to what's coming forward. She knows this means change, in its own way. It seems different all the same.
She says it softly then, pressing her lips together. “M’not asking you to.”
He doesn't give her a good. She’s never expected one. She still wants him to know. There’s a smile though, slight as he presses his mouth into her fingers. The gesture is almost shy, but she doesn't have to wonder if he means it. Somehow, here it's enough.
handbooks of miscellaneous translations
she never expected to come back. he doesn't need to know that. she promised, he'll promise, and some things will not change. today, there are no mirrors to wake up with. doctor who. rose/ten v.ii. general spoilers, journey’s end. 1,560 words, pg.
-
In the morning, the room warms with the strangest of angles; the light rises and falls, peeks into corners and over the bed, into the sheets to spread against his back.
For now, she stands at the frame of the door. The tips of her fingers smell a little like tea, a new and early habit. She’s in his shirt, a shirt, and it's new too. The collar is hard, open, and running into the column of her throat, if only to trace lines into her skin. The sleeves are too big and swallow her wrists, poking over her fingers as she brings her arms up to fold into her chest. It’s still him, she keeps telling herself. It’s him and this isn't even years later, just months and a couple of days, a lot of hours if only then.
Rose does watch him though. Her mouth curls, brushing amusement. She feels coy. She isn't. Everything comes as a little shy. It’s just that her fingers can still feel every line, her skin flushing over his. He’s smaller, she feels smaller, and yet they're the same, inevitably, as they fit together. It should make her happy. She feels like she's falling harder again. It’s difficult to explain. The days aren't ready for her to understand.
What she does know is that this is the second time, and almost third, where snogging isn't just snogging and they're sort of awkwardly trying to find their footing together. She never expected to come back. He doesn't need to know that. She promised, he'll promise, and some things will not change.
" - 'top staring, Rose," he cuts in, voice muffled. Her smile widens, only slightly, as his head rises and his hair folds out in an array of odd angles, over his forehead as he drops back into the pillow. Her spot is next to him, still warm she imagines, and she pushes herself away from the door.
The shirt picks at her thighs as she walks, teasing into her knees as she climbs into the bed and sits. She reaches for him, her fingers brushing against his back. They find the spot of skin that dips between his shoulders, slowly tracing circles against his spine. He makes a soft noise in the pillow. She wants to laugh, but she's used to be shy. Some habits are going to take more than a little while.
She keeps grinning though, feigning indignation. "Lazy."
He makes that noise again, but turns and rolls away from her hands to stare up at her. He’s sleepy, his mouth turning into that odd grin of his, a reflection of her most of the time. Two peas in a pod, Jackie usually rolls her eyes. Familiarity is a fickle, funny thing. She’s learning to appreciate it. It’s about advance levels now; he likes to say this now too.
The Doctor reaches for her hand though and it's funny, she thinks, that it's still just Doctor and not Jack or Jim or Mick or Keith; they had an argument, days ago, about names and naming and decided for him to remain as is. He wanted to be a Rolling Stone. She didn't think he was funny. There are things that she's not ready to tell him, as he is him but not him and this continues to stand as something to get used to. But she's better about being all right with it, as if she were giving herself a choice anyway. Change is also a very frighteningly fickle thing.
"Suppose," he yawns, his mouth stretching widely, "I - well, 'suppose we see ourselves off today. Somewhere different. Although, I reckon this bed is trying to keep me here."
She scoffs.
He half-ignores her, chuckling. "Against my will, you see."
Their fingers are tangled and he gives her a tug, and then another one, pulling her over him. She straddles his hips, half-annoyed and half-amused, never far from being in between. She dips forward and her hair slips, sliding over her jaw and her shoulders. It blankets over her eyes and he reaches up, his fingers brushing a few strands away. He tucks them behind her ear. He likes it longer, he told her once. She can't remember if she blushed.
“It s’bit odd. I - this, you know? Us here, like everything’s standing completely still.”
She’s rambling a little and she can taste it, the way the words slur and stand, skipping into half-circles as if they were dizzy. Her mouth tugs at another smile, shy again and almost out of place. The whole thing is more than a little odd to her, as if the world around her was meant to settle like this and wait for her, if only to catch up.
Shrugging though, he studies her. She thinks about mirrors again, about reflections and doppelgangers, the things that she used to wish for and the things that she couldn't have anymore. There was resignation and lack of resignation, the way she sort of drifted between wanting and giving up is the only way she's lived on for these past couple years - days and hours, minutes. Her concept of time was over the moment she met him. She’s Rose Tyler though. She’s okay with that. She’s always learned fast.
“Well, a trip then?” he says it finally, as if he were picking the words too carefully, drawing his tongue over go and somewhere. She watches it as it slides over his lip, then back against his teeth. And well, honestly, Rose would rather have this conversation than think about where that might lead her to. Like last night, or the night before, and before that two nights again. The break in between was a matter of him blowing up Pete's new project, of course.
But she focuses on the words, on the idea of the two of them traveling again. It’s not that they haven't, because it's been little places here and there, as if they were struggling to find some sort of method. Training wheels, she told her mum. She thinks that they, still, sort of agree on some sort of unintentional resentment for the other Doctor, her other Doctor. She doesn't mean to, but she's left with definite pieces.
“Really?” so she takes a deep breath and just asks, then again, to make sure. "I'd - I'd like that," she tells him, "S'what I've been meaning to do, I suppose. I reckon I got somewhat distracted."
He shrugs again.
“I wasn’t or I’m not particularly good at this whole standing still business, metaphors and all. Actually, I’m not particularly apt at metaphors either - hopeless.”
There’s a particular way he says hopeless and perhaps, she's only reading too much into it. But she finds herself smiling, just a little, with the corners of her mouth turning. He’s watching her with amusement and the pulls her forward, brushing his mouth against hers. It’s something she's definitely not used to, with the sporadic here and there, always waiting for her.
She does open her mouth over his, her eyes closing as her free hand buries itself into the pillow. One of his hands slips into her hair then, and the other pulls away from her fingers, only to spread over the small of her back. She’s too distracted to focus, her tongue sliding along his lip and tasting the warmth of his mouth. He’s slow, lazy even, and keeps her close.
“You talk an awful lot.”
She teases him, her voice soft and muffled slightly against his mouth. She feels him laugh, the vibration stroking her lips; there's something about tasting it, about having it as her own. She can't put a finger on it and decide, if anything, to call it something. She just knows it's for her. She likes that it's just for her.
They break away and she slides back into the bed, tangling her legs with his. The sheets have somewhat shifted into a mess, but neither of them seems to mind. His hand finds his way to her hip, playing back at the fabric. She smiles softly, but he grows serious and steady, watching her.
“I won’t change.”
He means it, as if he were setting up a declaration. It’s like him, then not him. There are vices and virtues, all dancing around her being a stranger again. They’ve passed points already. But for now, it's almost always about learning differences. She’s sure he knows. She wonders, still, she's okay with him knowing this.
She’s quiet, pulling back from him slightly. Her fingers stretch, sliding over his jaw. The lines are the same, the grooves and the sharpness. It’s always a little odd, a little more than something to get used to as she touches him and remembers. Intimacy was always a quiet thing, but they're giving now, to each other and to what's coming forward. She knows this means change, in its own way. It seems different all the same.
She says it softly then, pressing her lips together. “M’not asking you to.”
He doesn't give her a good. She’s never expected one. She still wants him to know. There’s a smile though, slight as he presses his mouth into her fingers. The gesture is almost shy, but she doesn't have to wonder if he means it. Somehow, here it's enough.