Fic: Burn
Title: Burn
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: T
Word Count: 619
Author's Note 1: Written for who_contest's Drabble Challenge #4: Burn. Please excuse the completely uncreative title.
When he wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering and chilled, every muscle aching, he calls for her, the one person that has ever cared for him. His voice is rough and weary as he calls her name, and he wishes he had a glass of water to soothe his dry throat.
After a few moments, she enters his room, blond hair a bit tousled from sleep. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
In his impaired state, the figure before him appears to be swaying. The sight of motion makes him feel sick, and he closes his eyes. “I feel a bit off.” He says.
She reaches out to him, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead in a maternal gesture the Doctor had thought he had forgotten long ago. “Doctor,” she says, “You’re burnin’ up!”
“Mmmm,” he mumbles, trying desperately to think through the hot haze that clouds his brain. “Time Lords don’t get fevers. At least, not like this.”
“Well, you’ve obviously got one.”
“My body temperature is-” he pauses, struggling to organize his thoughts. “My body temperature is nearly 20 degrees lower than a human’s.”
“I know that, and I’m tellin’ you, you’re burnin’ up. I’ll go get a wet rag.” She rises from his bedside, heading in the direction of the TARDIS’s kitchen.
When she returns, he is already asleep.
He dreams that everything is burning.
Everything.
The grand, ancient towers and spires, the golden streets. His home. The people run now, trying to escape the blaze, but it is futile. It’s all futile. The entire planet, its people with it, is going to burn up into nothing.
The death of an ancient race, one so old and proud and full of knowledge that the repercussions of this even will affect the entire universe.
The death of the Time Lords.
They must be sacrificed in order to destroy the most evil of races, one that threatens all of Time and Space.
And the worst part.
The worst part is that this is his fault. The fire, the death, the destruction of his own home: it is all because of him.
The flames crackle furiously, laughing, mocking him with every heated tendril. Killer of his own kind, they hiss. That’s all he is. This is all his fault.
The agony of guilt rises within him, all heat and pain and torture, burning him up inside, until he can’t take it, he can’t stand the fire-
He wakes to the sound of his own scream. Rose is there beside him, holding his hand, and before he can regain control of himself, his panic and anguish is pouring into her. She gasps as she feels the heavy weight of his misery, and he knows that she can see the burning planet, as clear in her mind as it is in his.
By the time the Doctor musters enough strength to pull his hand away from hers, there are solemn tears sliding down her cheeks. He waits silently for her reaction, for her to pull away from him in disgust or fear. But she doesn’t.
No. Instead, she wipes her eyes silently and leans to whisper in his ear. “Doctor,” she says, voice saturated with emotion. “It’s not your fault. They had to burn. You had no other choice. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
She wipes the damp hair from his eyes and presses a light kiss to his cheek before rising from her chair and leaving the room.
Even an hour after she’s gone back to her own bed, he can still feel the imprint of her kiss on his skin, as hot and tangible as a burn.
But this time, it’s a good burn.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: T
Word Count: 619
Author's Note 1: Written for who_contest's Drabble Challenge #4: Burn. Please excuse the completely uncreative title.
When he wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering and chilled, every muscle aching, he calls for her, the one person that has ever cared for him. His voice is rough and weary as he calls her name, and he wishes he had a glass of water to soothe his dry throat.
After a few moments, she enters his room, blond hair a bit tousled from sleep. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
In his impaired state, the figure before him appears to be swaying. The sight of motion makes him feel sick, and he closes his eyes. “I feel a bit off.” He says.
She reaches out to him, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead in a maternal gesture the Doctor had thought he had forgotten long ago. “Doctor,” she says, “You’re burnin’ up!”
“Mmmm,” he mumbles, trying desperately to think through the hot haze that clouds his brain. “Time Lords don’t get fevers. At least, not like this.”
“Well, you’ve obviously got one.”
“My body temperature is-” he pauses, struggling to organize his thoughts. “My body temperature is nearly 20 degrees lower than a human’s.”
“I know that, and I’m tellin’ you, you’re burnin’ up. I’ll go get a wet rag.” She rises from his bedside, heading in the direction of the TARDIS’s kitchen.
When she returns, he is already asleep.
He dreams that everything is burning.
Everything.
The grand, ancient towers and spires, the golden streets. His home. The people run now, trying to escape the blaze, but it is futile. It’s all futile. The entire planet, its people with it, is going to burn up into nothing.
The death of an ancient race, one so old and proud and full of knowledge that the repercussions of this even will affect the entire universe.
The death of the Time Lords.
They must be sacrificed in order to destroy the most evil of races, one that threatens all of Time and Space.
And the worst part.
The worst part is that this is his fault. The fire, the death, the destruction of his own home: it is all because of him.
The flames crackle furiously, laughing, mocking him with every heated tendril. Killer of his own kind, they hiss. That’s all he is. This is all his fault.
The agony of guilt rises within him, all heat and pain and torture, burning him up inside, until he can’t take it, he can’t stand the fire-
He wakes to the sound of his own scream. Rose is there beside him, holding his hand, and before he can regain control of himself, his panic and anguish is pouring into her. She gasps as she feels the heavy weight of his misery, and he knows that she can see the burning planet, as clear in her mind as it is in his.
By the time the Doctor musters enough strength to pull his hand away from hers, there are solemn tears sliding down her cheeks. He waits silently for her reaction, for her to pull away from him in disgust or fear. But she doesn’t.
No. Instead, she wipes her eyes silently and leans to whisper in his ear. “Doctor,” she says, voice saturated with emotion. “It’s not your fault. They had to burn. You had no other choice. You can’t blame yourself for that.”
She wipes the damp hair from his eyes and presses a light kiss to his cheek before rising from her chair and leaving the room.
Even an hour after she’s gone back to her own bed, he can still feel the imprint of her kiss on his skin, as hot and tangible as a burn.
But this time, it’s a good burn.