things we lost in the fire; a ten/rose fic.
things we lost in the fire, ten/rose, pg
The Doctor has a hard time dealing with loss.
She didn't know how to make things right. She knew he was taking this latest blow straight to his hearts. Knew he was blaming himself, determined to perform some sort of penance for arriving just a moment too late, 758 words.
He had been standing there for minutes that feel more like hours. The rain had found its way down his collar, soaking his suit clean through. His face had become cold and implacable, a marble façade staring out at the fire-tinged horizon.
She didn't know how to make things right. She knew he was taking this latest blow straight to his hearts. Knew he was blaming himself, determined to perform some sort of penance for arriving just a moment too late.
It was the girl. The twelve-year-old girl named Elizabeth, the girl who had been in the building when the fire took root, who makes this failure eat at him so. Rose still doesn't know everything about his past (how can she, when there's 900 years of a life before her) but she suspects some things. She knows there were others like her, other companions. That there were once other Time Lords in the universe, before the War.
And the way he had screamed when the volunteer firefighter had pulled him back from the flames, the way his eyes had gone cold, the emptiness in his face when he knew Wendy had not gotten out with her brother; Rose then knew in her bones that the Doctor was remembering the loss of another young girl very dear to him.
"Doctor," she said, brushing wet hair from her eyes, slipping her slick, chilled hand into his. "Please, Doctor, we should get back to the TARDIS."
He said nothing, made no acknowledgement of her presence. And that frightened her more than his hard expression;never had the Doctor ignored her concern.
"Doctor!" She stepped in front of him, took the lapels of his suit in her hands as the clouds thundered above them. "Look at me!"
He finally did, tearing his eyes away from the burnt umber skyline, where the buildings of the town still smoldered. The rain was helping, but it would still be hours before the last embers were extinguished.
"You did everything you could. It's not your fault. If you have to blame someone, blame that asshole of a drunkard for mucking with that shape-shifter's machine. Or Sam Pepys for not telling us the whole truth before it was too late."
His eyes barely flickered, and Rose tightened her grip on his suit. "Doctor, please. Don't shut down on me like this. Talk to me. It'll help if you talk about it; that's what Mum always told me. I'm here for you, not just for the adventures and celebrities. I'm here because you needed me just as badly as I needed you, and I want to help you. Please, talk to me."
Slowly, slowly, the tension drained from his face and shoulder. He began to breathe again, ran one hand through his wet hair, and took one of hers in his other.
Looking into her brown eyes, he didn't know how he could possibly tell her everything running through his head. About how much Elizabeth reminded him of Susan; how looking at that fearless twelve-year-old girl with the English accent and blonde hair made him wonder if Rose's daughter would raise her eyebrow like that; how leaving that human girl in that burning house felt like failing his granddaughter again and killing a child that didn't even exist.
"Let's go home," he said instead, squeezing her hand gently, turning his back on old London and making his way back to the TARDIS. "The storm's getting worse."
They walked back hand-in-hand, heedless of the fat raindrops splashing against their faces. Somehow he pushed everything away, compartmentalized it, and by the time they had reached the TARDIS he was asking her what she wanted for tea. Soon he was hanging up his coat to dry, turning on the heater in her bedroom, programming new coordinates to whisk them away, starting up a kettle on the stove.
But as she watched him go through the routine motions and play at being domestic, she wanted to scream at him. Because he wasn't better. Some part of him was still thinking about what had happened, still screamed in sadness and anger beneath his slapped on grin, still relived the moment of failure like a masochistic movie. He would keep it all bottled up inside, suffering the way a noble Time Lord was expected to.
How she wished he'd open up more. That he would share his thoughts and emotions with her. And how she wished she could tell him about the feeling that had fluttered to life in her heart when she saw him playing with Elizabeth.
The Doctor has a hard time dealing with loss.
She didn't know how to make things right. She knew he was taking this latest blow straight to his hearts. Knew he was blaming himself, determined to perform some sort of penance for arriving just a moment too late, 758 words.
He had been standing there for minutes that feel more like hours. The rain had found its way down his collar, soaking his suit clean through. His face had become cold and implacable, a marble façade staring out at the fire-tinged horizon.
She didn't know how to make things right. She knew he was taking this latest blow straight to his hearts. Knew he was blaming himself, determined to perform some sort of penance for arriving just a moment too late.
It was the girl. The twelve-year-old girl named Elizabeth, the girl who had been in the building when the fire took root, who makes this failure eat at him so. Rose still doesn't know everything about his past (how can she, when there's 900 years of a life before her) but she suspects some things. She knows there were others like her, other companions. That there were once other Time Lords in the universe, before the War.
And the way he had screamed when the volunteer firefighter had pulled him back from the flames, the way his eyes had gone cold, the emptiness in his face when he knew Wendy had not gotten out with her brother; Rose then knew in her bones that the Doctor was remembering the loss of another young girl very dear to him.
"Doctor," she said, brushing wet hair from her eyes, slipping her slick, chilled hand into his. "Please, Doctor, we should get back to the TARDIS."
He said nothing, made no acknowledgement of her presence. And that frightened her more than his hard expression;never had the Doctor ignored her concern.
"Doctor!" She stepped in front of him, took the lapels of his suit in her hands as the clouds thundered above them. "Look at me!"
He finally did, tearing his eyes away from the burnt umber skyline, where the buildings of the town still smoldered. The rain was helping, but it would still be hours before the last embers were extinguished.
"You did everything you could. It's not your fault. If you have to blame someone, blame that asshole of a drunkard for mucking with that shape-shifter's machine. Or Sam Pepys for not telling us the whole truth before it was too late."
His eyes barely flickered, and Rose tightened her grip on his suit. "Doctor, please. Don't shut down on me like this. Talk to me. It'll help if you talk about it; that's what Mum always told me. I'm here for you, not just for the adventures and celebrities. I'm here because you needed me just as badly as I needed you, and I want to help you. Please, talk to me."
Slowly, slowly, the tension drained from his face and shoulder. He began to breathe again, ran one hand through his wet hair, and took one of hers in his other.
Looking into her brown eyes, he didn't know how he could possibly tell her everything running through his head. About how much Elizabeth reminded him of Susan; how looking at that fearless twelve-year-old girl with the English accent and blonde hair made him wonder if Rose's daughter would raise her eyebrow like that; how leaving that human girl in that burning house felt like failing his granddaughter again and killing a child that didn't even exist.
"Let's go home," he said instead, squeezing her hand gently, turning his back on old London and making his way back to the TARDIS. "The storm's getting worse."
They walked back hand-in-hand, heedless of the fat raindrops splashing against their faces. Somehow he pushed everything away, compartmentalized it, and by the time they had reached the TARDIS he was asking her what she wanted for tea. Soon he was hanging up his coat to dry, turning on the heater in her bedroom, programming new coordinates to whisk them away, starting up a kettle on the stove.
But as she watched him go through the routine motions and play at being domestic, she wanted to scream at him. Because he wasn't better. Some part of him was still thinking about what had happened, still screamed in sadness and anger beneath his slapped on grin, still relived the moment of failure like a masochistic movie. He would keep it all bottled up inside, suffering the way a noble Time Lord was expected to.
How she wished he'd open up more. That he would share his thoughts and emotions with her. And how she wished she could tell him about the feeling that had fluttered to life in her heart when she saw him playing with Elizabeth.