RPF > Matt/Karen > Life in Technicolour
Rating: PG
Warnings: Schmoop. Parenthetical commentary overload. Present tense abuse.
Word Count: 1785
Summary: Oh love, don't let me go.
Disclaimer: No money, no truth, no problem. Title, summary and cut text all from the Coldplay song of the same name.
Notes: I'm rather NyQuil brainy at the moment (ohaithar, barking seal bronchitis and raging sinus infection) so if this is terrible, just pat me on my head and send me on my way.
Dedication: To the lovely, lovely people at mattkaren , who welcomed me with open arms. Getting to know you was a highlight of '10...here's to more shippy shenanigans in '11! :D ♥♥♥
When they move from friends to something more, they barely miss a beat because they’ve been dancing together longer than they can remember.
Their first kiss tastes of whiskey and intangibility ignored. Discretion is no longer a part of valour; fate no longer inexcusable in its insistent interference. There is somehow calm in the calamity of the supernova that is of their own making when they finally fall into the black hole they’ve so studiously ignored and avoided. Starbursts do not threaten to blind them but instead light the path they are destined to walk together.
****
The crew finds out not by confession (which it can only be, he thinks, given the devilishly divine things she does to him) but instead by his own incontrollable impulse.
The unspoken rule that their private lives (life, he corrects himself, the singular noun drawing the corner of his mouth into a smile he knows only she sees) remain that way isn't because they’re ashamed or anxious in any way. There is just safety in the silence; ability to breathe when no-one else is around to suffocate them.
But then the rain comes; plump, happy drops that splash off his shoulders in excited announcement. It does not ease into arrival, but instead explodes like fireworks. They are caught in the deluge, shivering as drops caress loose tendrils of hair on a trail down to the smalls of their backs.
The rest of the world is running for cover, but Karen does what only she would do in such an instance.
She tilts her head back and laughs.
Laughs like it’s Christmas morning, laughs like there’s never been anything more joyous in the history of creation, laughs like there’s no tomorrow.
He doesn’t think about how his future is standing in front of him, ginger hair turning lusciously dark in the downpour. All he feels is jealousy that the rain gets to reverently trace the curve of her neck and not his mouth.
Without registering any movement, he fixes the problem, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist and pressing his lips to her pulse point. For the first time, she shivers - and he’s oddly proud that he’s the only thing in the world that can do that to her. Her hand comes around to rest in the centre of his back, and he rocks them back and forth slightly, this time dancing to the rhythm the thunder has set.
****
Her hair is a shock of intensity against his pillow, so bright it's visible in the dark. It doesn’t surprise him though; she’s brought so much colour to his life that anything else would somehow seem disingenuous. The raindrops trail through the eaves above him in wandering patterns much like the way his fingers caressed her alabaster skin mere hours before.
There are words, he knows, to express the way he feels - how the jagged edges of his constantly shifting personality have been rounded first by her friendship and then by what he knows is love - but somehow, they’re just not necessary right now. She knows, with the way he brings her tea (and knows she likes just a drop of milk but three teaspoons of sugar), with the way he ushers her to set with a hand at the small of her back, how he can read her thoughts with a simple glance. With the way his definition of “happiness” has been redefined as lazy Sundays spent in his once too-big bed watching movies he only half pays attention to, his focus more on massaging the stressful week out of her temples.
He knows by the way she’s stolen his favourite football jersey, once out of necessity when (mysteriously, he still maintains) her clothes disappeared from his floor, then out of support for his team, whom she yells at louder than even he. He knows by the way she tried to make him his favourite meal for his birthday but ended up burning it beyond all recognition (and edibility), and instead of giving up, rang his mum for advice - and then invited his parents to come for a visit and dine with them.
He knows by the way his life was good before her, but now he can’t imagine it without her. How she’s made him turn round and run to something rather than from it; made him realize jumping isn’t so scary once you realize you’ve already fallen. That being grounded somewhere - with someone - didn’t require clipped wings in the slightest.
That sometimes you have to play the game - risk it all - to be the victor and enjoy the spoils.
She rolls over, and even in sleep she reaches for him. He completes the connection (gently, for her touch tends to singe him nearly to the point of combustion) and falls asleep with her tangled in both his heart and his hand.
****
They try to keep it professional on set (or as professional as they’d managed before, given their penchant to throw things at each other), as they know everyone is bracing for impact - either walking in on them in the TARDIS (which, to be fair, has crossed his mind a thousand times or two)-or for that first explosive row that leads to separately slammed trailer doors and poor Piers and Beth having to play intermediary.
But Matt and Karen are fully aware that others depend on them for their livelihoods; that no-one’s efficiency can be risked on account of this new dimension to their relationship. Bad days must be kept under wraps like their relationship used to be.
Those are the only times the silence strangles him; when instead of serenity found, it’s steam screaming insistently for release. A noose of indecision tightens when she asks what she can do to help; keep pretending (which is getting as tiresome as a marathon through a desert) or employ his former adversary, calling upon truth: tell her he needs space.
He expects a flinch at what other women might perceive as a stinging dismissal, or a thousand questions he worries will only short-circuit what little patience he has left.
But she is not “other women”: she, no matter how nonsensical it may seem, understands him. Understands him. It’s as outlandish as the worlds The Doctor’s seen, and yet just as true. She gives him a gentle smile and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, asking him to ring her later.
As he watches her walk away with Arthur, hair trailing behind her like Haley’s Comet, he’s half-forgotten why he was so wound up in the first place.
****
There are few things that render him utterly helpless.
Karen ill is one of them.
She catches a nasty bronchitis, but can’t be afforded recuperative time when deadlines are looming as heavily as her next coughing fit.
He still brings her tea and still runs his hands through her hair, but there is no relief to be found. He’d feel useless if his mind weren’t running at top speed, desperate to think of something - anything - that’ll make her feel better.
He breaks their self-imposed rule and strokes her back as they reset shots on the TARDIS set, and worries his lip as she grabs hold of the edge of the console when another tsunami of coughs batter her diaphragm.
When she straightens, he runs his palm over the crown of her head, and though she intends it to reassure him, her weak smile makes him want to turn to Adam and beg for an early wrap.
But just as she believes the same of him, he trusts her to tell him the truth, if and when she can’t take it anymore.
Somehow she makes it through, and he offers to drive her to both the chemist and her flat. She doesn’t argue, and after he’s spent an inordinate amount of money on medicine neither of them is convinced will actually help her, he ushers her up the walkway, the weight of the shopping bags her body his perfect counterbalance -- as it is with everything when it comes to them.
She tries to open the door in between coughs, and when she can’t, he eases the keys out of her fingers and catches her grateful (and loving, his mind tells him gently) smile in the waning daylight.
He helps her change out of her clothes, touch tender instead of searing, and she sighs contentedly when she slides onto her welcoming sheets. He presses a kiss to her forehead and switches off the bedside lamp.
In the dark, her hand finds his. He kneels next to her bed and smiles at the adorably sleepy expression on her face. She asks him to stay in a hoarse voice; he can deny her nothing, though he needs to run home and grab a change of clothes - they always seem to stay at his place instead of hers.
He’s not sure if she or the cough medicine acquiesces, but as he partially shuts her bedroom door, she asks him to remind her to get him his own key.
****
They give up all pretence and share a room in Utah.
At her request, he keeps the hat on.
****
It’s on instinct - just like their first kiss, just like “coming out” to the crew, just like exchanging keys and hearts - that he reaches for her hand as they walk the red carpet to promote the series premiere. They’ve taken plenty of lack-of-personal-space pictures before, but there’s something about her linking her fingers with his that sets light bulbs popping frenetically. It surprises her so much that she looks down at her dress, thinking perhaps she was unknowingly having a “wardrobe malfunction.” It also takes him a minute to put two and two together, and he has to laugh when he realized the simple gesture that caused such a cacophony.
But perhaps while it’s become natural and simple for them, he knows without hesitation that there will be something in these pictures not visible in the others. He’d known for some time that his feelings for her were painfully obvious, but she’d always played hers close to the vest, at least in public.
He tugs on her hand and then looks pointedly down. She follows his gaze and her eyes widen. He thinks for a moment she’s going to roll them in disbelief, but instead she tugs back, pulling him closer.
She bends her elbow until their linked hands slide behind her to the small of her back. Their bodies press against each other, and this time, it is she who kisses him. Unlike so much of their relationship, it doesn’t surprise him: it’s as natural a progression of events as any.
Their kiss tastes not of whiskey but of satisfaction.
Of home.
FIN
Warnings: Schmoop. Parenthetical commentary overload. Present tense abuse.
Word Count: 1785
Summary: Oh love, don't let me go.
Disclaimer: No money, no truth, no problem. Title, summary and cut text all from the Coldplay song of the same name.
Notes: I'm rather NyQuil brainy at the moment (ohaithar, barking seal bronchitis and raging sinus infection) so if this is terrible, just pat me on my head and send me on my way.
Dedication: To the lovely, lovely people at mattkaren , who welcomed me with open arms. Getting to know you was a highlight of '10...here's to more shippy shenanigans in '11! :D ♥♥♥
When they move from friends to something more, they barely miss a beat because they’ve been dancing together longer than they can remember.
Their first kiss tastes of whiskey and intangibility ignored. Discretion is no longer a part of valour; fate no longer inexcusable in its insistent interference. There is somehow calm in the calamity of the supernova that is of their own making when they finally fall into the black hole they’ve so studiously ignored and avoided. Starbursts do not threaten to blind them but instead light the path they are destined to walk together.
****
The crew finds out not by confession (which it can only be, he thinks, given the devilishly divine things she does to him) but instead by his own incontrollable impulse.
The unspoken rule that their private lives (life, he corrects himself, the singular noun drawing the corner of his mouth into a smile he knows only she sees) remain that way isn't because they’re ashamed or anxious in any way. There is just safety in the silence; ability to breathe when no-one else is around to suffocate them.
But then the rain comes; plump, happy drops that splash off his shoulders in excited announcement. It does not ease into arrival, but instead explodes like fireworks. They are caught in the deluge, shivering as drops caress loose tendrils of hair on a trail down to the smalls of their backs.
The rest of the world is running for cover, but Karen does what only she would do in such an instance.
She tilts her head back and laughs.
Laughs like it’s Christmas morning, laughs like there’s never been anything more joyous in the history of creation, laughs like there’s no tomorrow.
He doesn’t think about how his future is standing in front of him, ginger hair turning lusciously dark in the downpour. All he feels is jealousy that the rain gets to reverently trace the curve of her neck and not his mouth.
Without registering any movement, he fixes the problem, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist and pressing his lips to her pulse point. For the first time, she shivers - and he’s oddly proud that he’s the only thing in the world that can do that to her. Her hand comes around to rest in the centre of his back, and he rocks them back and forth slightly, this time dancing to the rhythm the thunder has set.
****
Her hair is a shock of intensity against his pillow, so bright it's visible in the dark. It doesn’t surprise him though; she’s brought so much colour to his life that anything else would somehow seem disingenuous. The raindrops trail through the eaves above him in wandering patterns much like the way his fingers caressed her alabaster skin mere hours before.
There are words, he knows, to express the way he feels - how the jagged edges of his constantly shifting personality have been rounded first by her friendship and then by what he knows is love - but somehow, they’re just not necessary right now. She knows, with the way he brings her tea (and knows she likes just a drop of milk but three teaspoons of sugar), with the way he ushers her to set with a hand at the small of her back, how he can read her thoughts with a simple glance. With the way his definition of “happiness” has been redefined as lazy Sundays spent in his once too-big bed watching movies he only half pays attention to, his focus more on massaging the stressful week out of her temples.
He knows by the way she’s stolen his favourite football jersey, once out of necessity when (mysteriously, he still maintains) her clothes disappeared from his floor, then out of support for his team, whom she yells at louder than even he. He knows by the way she tried to make him his favourite meal for his birthday but ended up burning it beyond all recognition (and edibility), and instead of giving up, rang his mum for advice - and then invited his parents to come for a visit and dine with them.
He knows by the way his life was good before her, but now he can’t imagine it without her. How she’s made him turn round and run to something rather than from it; made him realize jumping isn’t so scary once you realize you’ve already fallen. That being grounded somewhere - with someone - didn’t require clipped wings in the slightest.
That sometimes you have to play the game - risk it all - to be the victor and enjoy the spoils.
She rolls over, and even in sleep she reaches for him. He completes the connection (gently, for her touch tends to singe him nearly to the point of combustion) and falls asleep with her tangled in both his heart and his hand.
****
They try to keep it professional on set (or as professional as they’d managed before, given their penchant to throw things at each other), as they know everyone is bracing for impact - either walking in on them in the TARDIS (which, to be fair, has crossed his mind a thousand times or two)-or for that first explosive row that leads to separately slammed trailer doors and poor Piers and Beth having to play intermediary.
But Matt and Karen are fully aware that others depend on them for their livelihoods; that no-one’s efficiency can be risked on account of this new dimension to their relationship. Bad days must be kept under wraps like their relationship used to be.
Those are the only times the silence strangles him; when instead of serenity found, it’s steam screaming insistently for release. A noose of indecision tightens when she asks what she can do to help; keep pretending (which is getting as tiresome as a marathon through a desert) or employ his former adversary, calling upon truth: tell her he needs space.
He expects a flinch at what other women might perceive as a stinging dismissal, or a thousand questions he worries will only short-circuit what little patience he has left.
But she is not “other women”: she, no matter how nonsensical it may seem, understands him. Understands him. It’s as outlandish as the worlds The Doctor’s seen, and yet just as true. She gives him a gentle smile and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, asking him to ring her later.
As he watches her walk away with Arthur, hair trailing behind her like Haley’s Comet, he’s half-forgotten why he was so wound up in the first place.
****
There are few things that render him utterly helpless.
Karen ill is one of them.
She catches a nasty bronchitis, but can’t be afforded recuperative time when deadlines are looming as heavily as her next coughing fit.
He still brings her tea and still runs his hands through her hair, but there is no relief to be found. He’d feel useless if his mind weren’t running at top speed, desperate to think of something - anything - that’ll make her feel better.
He breaks their self-imposed rule and strokes her back as they reset shots on the TARDIS set, and worries his lip as she grabs hold of the edge of the console when another tsunami of coughs batter her diaphragm.
When she straightens, he runs his palm over the crown of her head, and though she intends it to reassure him, her weak smile makes him want to turn to Adam and beg for an early wrap.
But just as she believes the same of him, he trusts her to tell him the truth, if and when she can’t take it anymore.
Somehow she makes it through, and he offers to drive her to both the chemist and her flat. She doesn’t argue, and after he’s spent an inordinate amount of money on medicine neither of them is convinced will actually help her, he ushers her up the walkway, the weight of the shopping bags her body his perfect counterbalance -- as it is with everything when it comes to them.
She tries to open the door in between coughs, and when she can’t, he eases the keys out of her fingers and catches her grateful (and loving, his mind tells him gently) smile in the waning daylight.
He helps her change out of her clothes, touch tender instead of searing, and she sighs contentedly when she slides onto her welcoming sheets. He presses a kiss to her forehead and switches off the bedside lamp.
In the dark, her hand finds his. He kneels next to her bed and smiles at the adorably sleepy expression on her face. She asks him to stay in a hoarse voice; he can deny her nothing, though he needs to run home and grab a change of clothes - they always seem to stay at his place instead of hers.
He’s not sure if she or the cough medicine acquiesces, but as he partially shuts her bedroom door, she asks him to remind her to get him his own key.
****
They give up all pretence and share a room in Utah.
At her request, he keeps the hat on.
****
It’s on instinct - just like their first kiss, just like “coming out” to the crew, just like exchanging keys and hearts - that he reaches for her hand as they walk the red carpet to promote the series premiere. They’ve taken plenty of lack-of-personal-space pictures before, but there’s something about her linking her fingers with his that sets light bulbs popping frenetically. It surprises her so much that she looks down at her dress, thinking perhaps she was unknowingly having a “wardrobe malfunction.” It also takes him a minute to put two and two together, and he has to laugh when he realized the simple gesture that caused such a cacophony.
But perhaps while it’s become natural and simple for them, he knows without hesitation that there will be something in these pictures not visible in the others. He’d known for some time that his feelings for her were painfully obvious, but she’d always played hers close to the vest, at least in public.
He tugs on her hand and then looks pointedly down. She follows his gaze and her eyes widen. He thinks for a moment she’s going to roll them in disbelief, but instead she tugs back, pulling him closer.
She bends her elbow until their linked hands slide behind her to the small of her back. Their bodies press against each other, and this time, it is she who kisses him. Unlike so much of their relationship, it doesn’t surprise him: it’s as natural a progression of events as any.
Their kiss tastes not of whiskey but of satisfaction.
Of home.
FIN