FIc [Doctor Who]: A Brief History in Thunderstorms
Title: A Brief History in Thunderstorms
Rating: All ages
Characters/Pairings: Rose, mentions of Nine and Ten/Rose
Challenge: who_contest Drabble Challenge #20, "Water"
Word Count: 467
Summary: Short vignettes in Rose Tyler's life, charted in the spaces where the sky cracks open. No specific spoilers; includes references to "Dalek", "Doomsday", and "Turn Left". Unbeta'd.
She remembers distinctly that first time. It is the earliest memory she knows is true and wholly hers, fading in with half-felt shivers and the sickly sensation of wet hair pasted to her face. It solidifies into one brief moment, between the brightest light in London and the loudest sound in the world, and for that instant, she feels as if she is there, every time. The long-ago little girl’s cry still tears through her chest. Then it is over. The memory drifts away with the vague feeling of her mum’s arms surrounding her, but what Rose always remembers is the wind pouring through her as she howls into the darkest dark.
*
When she first hears the Daleks’ name for him, long after Utah, she absorbs it absently and moves on with the immediate business of saving his life. Late that night, she wakes screaming, still living the last ghostly image of her dream: his hard, empty pale eyes-fierce even in the flat light of the bunker-the impenetrable dark of his jacket, and the immense gun in his arms.
She turns the shower as hot as it will go and stands silent under the scalding water. It does not wash away the memory of the cold, volatile flash on his face, nor does it drive out the wild thing within her that exulted at seeing it.
*
They say it is the worst one ever, brought down by the Devil himself in recompense for an old man’s sins. To these people, evil hides itself in a hiss and a splash and a growl from the sky, masks itself with dark during the day. Rose knows better, knows Satan wears many faces and none at all, and if it cannot sunder her from the Doctor, what can?
Droplets trickle between their joined palms, sealing them together. Surface tension: unlikely-looking and inevitable. Only later will she realize how fragile the meniscus is.
*
The meteorology of the universe in which she finds herself trapped is curious. Rose quickly discovers it is nearly impossible to explain what it is, the splitting of the sky, the empty place that lasts only for a moment, defining both light and dark with its edges. She finds herself craving it, the consummation of nothing, as if it were a bridge rather than a taste of void.
When the stars are blotted out and the distant growl echoes over London for the first time in memory, people are terrified. Doomsday prophets take to the streets. Inside herself, Rose feels something unfurl, bringing with it the taste of the wind and the smell of ozone. The growl echoes, vibrates through her chest.
She shrugs on a jacket and takes up a gun, preparing herself for the flash of light and what comes after.
--
Notes:
The storm Rose and Ten find themselves in during the third vignette is the Great Storm of Widecombe-in-the-Moor in 1638. There is actually a legend about the devil wreaking some havoc during this apparently truly epic event. SOMEONE PLEASE FIC THIS. There's even ball lightning.
This is loosely based on an autobiographical story I'll be posting at miranda_askher. ETA: You can read it here, if you're so inclined.
Rating: All ages
Characters/Pairings: Rose, mentions of Nine and Ten/Rose
Challenge: who_contest Drabble Challenge #20, "Water"
Word Count: 467
Summary: Short vignettes in Rose Tyler's life, charted in the spaces where the sky cracks open. No specific spoilers; includes references to "Dalek", "Doomsday", and "Turn Left". Unbeta'd.
She remembers distinctly that first time. It is the earliest memory she knows is true and wholly hers, fading in with half-felt shivers and the sickly sensation of wet hair pasted to her face. It solidifies into one brief moment, between the brightest light in London and the loudest sound in the world, and for that instant, she feels as if she is there, every time. The long-ago little girl’s cry still tears through her chest. Then it is over. The memory drifts away with the vague feeling of her mum’s arms surrounding her, but what Rose always remembers is the wind pouring through her as she howls into the darkest dark.
*
When she first hears the Daleks’ name for him, long after Utah, she absorbs it absently and moves on with the immediate business of saving his life. Late that night, she wakes screaming, still living the last ghostly image of her dream: his hard, empty pale eyes-fierce even in the flat light of the bunker-the impenetrable dark of his jacket, and the immense gun in his arms.
She turns the shower as hot as it will go and stands silent under the scalding water. It does not wash away the memory of the cold, volatile flash on his face, nor does it drive out the wild thing within her that exulted at seeing it.
*
They say it is the worst one ever, brought down by the Devil himself in recompense for an old man’s sins. To these people, evil hides itself in a hiss and a splash and a growl from the sky, masks itself with dark during the day. Rose knows better, knows Satan wears many faces and none at all, and if it cannot sunder her from the Doctor, what can?
Droplets trickle between their joined palms, sealing them together. Surface tension: unlikely-looking and inevitable. Only later will she realize how fragile the meniscus is.
*
The meteorology of the universe in which she finds herself trapped is curious. Rose quickly discovers it is nearly impossible to explain what it is, the splitting of the sky, the empty place that lasts only for a moment, defining both light and dark with its edges. She finds herself craving it, the consummation of nothing, as if it were a bridge rather than a taste of void.
When the stars are blotted out and the distant growl echoes over London for the first time in memory, people are terrified. Doomsday prophets take to the streets. Inside herself, Rose feels something unfurl, bringing with it the taste of the wind and the smell of ozone. The growl echoes, vibrates through her chest.
She shrugs on a jacket and takes up a gun, preparing herself for the flash of light and what comes after.
--
Notes:
The storm Rose and Ten find themselves in during the third vignette is the Great Storm of Widecombe-in-the-Moor in 1638. There is actually a legend about the devil wreaking some havoc during this apparently truly epic event. SOMEONE PLEASE FIC THIS. There's even ball lightning.
This is loosely based on an autobiographical story I'll be posting at miranda_askher. ETA: You can read it here, if you're so inclined.