Fic: Night-time intermission
Title: Night-time intermission
Author: flowsoffire
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing/characters: Eleventh Doctor, River Song
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Word count: c. 350
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: In the quiet core of night, he talks and she listens.
Author's note: Here is a drabble I wrote for the "Tell" challenge on the community who-contest. Wordcount requirement was 400 words or less, and I went for some OTP goodness ;) Enjoy! Title comes from the song by Charlotte Gainsbourg.
"Tell me," she asks, a soft whisper at the core of night. She does not specify what.
He doesn’t always know what he’s going to say, when he parts his lips in the darkness, spilling out a tiny sigh. His thoughts, but those often prove imprecise-quietly churned feelings, fragments of sensation hovering detached, bare and clean as concepts. Sometimes he still attempts to express them. Sometimes he focuses on things that are clearer and real, that he can hold between his fingers, shape upon his tongue. He tells her of the war, of the latest funny planet he visited; of bowties and hats she’d shoot off and fish fingers and custard, of the fear to be alone and the fear to steal people away. Of the him that was not him; of the dreams; of the shadow.
She may comment, or be quiet, fingers tracing random patterns all over him. At his nonsense she laughs a night-laugh, just a shade lower and huskier than usual. He relaxes against her, if gradually, lets her be a pillow for his dark hours-warmth and softness of skin, scent and taste grown intimately familiar all mixing to soothe or distract, according to the need. His own voice sounds different when muffled against her flesh, a whisper into the night, echoing no further than the cradle of the bed-secrets sealed by the rustle of sheets and skin on skin, held closer to the hearts than a name might ever be.
"Why do I tell you all that?" he asks once or twice, or-okay, every other night until she huffs in fond exasperation. "Why should I need to? I’ve always lived with this."
"Because you can," she suggests, shifting against him. He ponders that, cheek pressed to her stomach. Simple truth-she has enough secrets to hold his, enough memories and blurred, stolen moments and words unspoken, to understand. He sleeps little and thinks somber thoughts in the dark; she clutches her diary with white fingers. He wonders if she writes of those whispers of his, too.
He thinks not. What is of the night remains in the night, dreams and the rest; all too soon they’re off running again.
Next stop-
Author: flowsoffire
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing/characters: Eleventh Doctor, River Song
Genre: Romance/Angst
Rating: T
Word count: c. 350
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: In the quiet core of night, he talks and she listens.
Author's note: Here is a drabble I wrote for the "Tell" challenge on the community who-contest. Wordcount requirement was 400 words or less, and I went for some OTP goodness ;) Enjoy! Title comes from the song by Charlotte Gainsbourg.
"Tell me," she asks, a soft whisper at the core of night. She does not specify what.
He doesn’t always know what he’s going to say, when he parts his lips in the darkness, spilling out a tiny sigh. His thoughts, but those often prove imprecise-quietly churned feelings, fragments of sensation hovering detached, bare and clean as concepts. Sometimes he still attempts to express them. Sometimes he focuses on things that are clearer and real, that he can hold between his fingers, shape upon his tongue. He tells her of the war, of the latest funny planet he visited; of bowties and hats she’d shoot off and fish fingers and custard, of the fear to be alone and the fear to steal people away. Of the him that was not him; of the dreams; of the shadow.
She may comment, or be quiet, fingers tracing random patterns all over him. At his nonsense she laughs a night-laugh, just a shade lower and huskier than usual. He relaxes against her, if gradually, lets her be a pillow for his dark hours-warmth and softness of skin, scent and taste grown intimately familiar all mixing to soothe or distract, according to the need. His own voice sounds different when muffled against her flesh, a whisper into the night, echoing no further than the cradle of the bed-secrets sealed by the rustle of sheets and skin on skin, held closer to the hearts than a name might ever be.
"Why do I tell you all that?" he asks once or twice, or-okay, every other night until she huffs in fond exasperation. "Why should I need to? I’ve always lived with this."
"Because you can," she suggests, shifting against him. He ponders that, cheek pressed to her stomach. Simple truth-she has enough secrets to hold his, enough memories and blurred, stolen moments and words unspoken, to understand. He sleeps little and thinks somber thoughts in the dark; she clutches her diary with white fingers. He wonders if she writes of those whispers of his, too.
He thinks not. What is of the night remains in the night, dreams and the rest; all too soon they’re off running again.
Next stop-