For the TTU Ficathon:
He hears a familiar cacophony of sound--whirring growling aching sobbing crackling--and almost smiles. It seems that his (or rather, another his) golden girl has tugged on the shimmering string of a timeline and reeled herself a Doctor.
She's wearing the leather jacket (she always wears the leather jacket) and his hearts deflate an iota. In her twisting, stretching timeline, it's still Before. Before the running in a street and the glowing and the sand beneath sagging feet. Before the coward says nothing and turns away.
He supposes she'll keep appearing until the day he dies, each time more hopeful than the last (because she too keeps finding him in the wrong order, and sometimes he wishes she'd just hurry up and reach the him with the pinstripes and really great hair already).
"You said I'd find the right you soon." Her voice cracks a bit, and she's running to him and he's too desperately in love not to wrap an arm around her waist when she presses her lips against his. "It's always the right you, though."
"Just not the right right me." He smiles and weaves his other hand through her cornflower hair. "But with every jump, my dear, you get closer and closer still."
Rose wrinkles her nose. "What's with the Captain Jack coat?" she asks, fingering his lapel. He forgets that he's not the only one she finds on her jumps through the Void.
"It does not resemble, in any manner, a coat that the Captain may or may not wear in a future at which you should not be peeking, Miss Tyler."
She grins that grin, the one with the tongue in the teeth and the flush of delight and thoughts he absolutely mustn't under any circumstances be thinking definitely not, and oh, but he's missed her.
He's supposed to be searching for the baby Pond. But one trip can't hurt.
She's earned it, after all.
"How long does that cannon thing need to recharge?" he asks, knowing the answer but not particularly caring.
Rose slips her hand in his. "About five-and-a-half hours, give or take five hours."
"Now. Places to go, people to buy things from... and maybe even a chippie or two," he whispers conspiratorially. "So come along, Rose Tyler, and maybe I'll even have you home in time for supper."
Of course, in a time machine, suppertime is exquisitely relative.
She's wearing the leather jacket (she always wears the leather jacket) and his hearts deflate an iota. In her twisting, stretching timeline, it's still Before. Before the running in a street and the glowing and the sand beneath sagging feet. Before the coward says nothing and turns away.
He supposes she'll keep appearing until the day he dies, each time more hopeful than the last (because she too keeps finding him in the wrong order, and sometimes he wishes she'd just hurry up and reach the him with the pinstripes and really great hair already).
"You said I'd find the right you soon." Her voice cracks a bit, and she's running to him and he's too desperately in love not to wrap an arm around her waist when she presses her lips against his. "It's always the right you, though."
"Just not the right right me." He smiles and weaves his other hand through her cornflower hair. "But with every jump, my dear, you get closer and closer still."
Rose wrinkles her nose. "What's with the Captain Jack coat?" she asks, fingering his lapel. He forgets that he's not the only one she finds on her jumps through the Void.
"It does not resemble, in any manner, a coat that the Captain may or may not wear in a future at which you should not be peeking, Miss Tyler."
She grins that grin, the one with the tongue in the teeth and the flush of delight and thoughts he absolutely mustn't under any circumstances be thinking definitely not, and oh, but he's missed her.
He's supposed to be searching for the baby Pond. But one trip can't hurt.
She's earned it, after all.
"How long does that cannon thing need to recharge?" he asks, knowing the answer but not particularly caring.
Rose slips her hand in his. "About five-and-a-half hours, give or take five hours."
"Now. Places to go, people to buy things from... and maybe even a chippie or two," he whispers conspiratorially. "So come along, Rose Tyler, and maybe I'll even have you home in time for supper."
Of course, in a time machine, suppertime is exquisitely relative.