Fic: Closer

[night_n_sky]

Author: night_n_sky
Title: Closer
Beta: willow_10
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: Fluff, romance
Word Count: 1.430
Summary: The Doctor gets closer and closer to telling Rose what he feels for her, but keeps on drawing back. But what if Rose took the first step?
Disclaimer: I don't own the Doctor or Rose or any other Doctor Who character. They're just sitting here in my

Comments

Re: sparkling eyes...

[willow_10]

Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-cuNXsqJZA -> go to the zamzar page, press "url", copy-paste this link, pick "convert to: mp3", fill in your e-mail, click "convert", then "ok" on the pop-up window (agreeing to terms), check your inbox, click the long blue link, in the following pop-up window click the green rectangle, and download happens!

To Be or Not To Be isn't too difficult, I think... I looked up the lyrics on wikipedia, seeing them written down helped me to recognise the words and make some sense of them. It is in "ye olde English" after all.

If I am not mistaken, it goes along the lines of:
To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis/While that it's(?) nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, what do they calm against the sea of troubles and by opposing, end to them? To die. To sleep. No more. And by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural chops that flesh is air to. 'Tis a consommation, devoutly to be wished. To die. To sleep.
...To sleep perchance to dream... Aye, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil and must give us pause? As a respect, that makes calamitive so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, but at the dread of something after death? The undiscovered country from who's born, no traveller returns. Puzzles the will. And makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of. Thus, conscious does make cowards of us all. And thus, the native hue of resolution is thick-laid/sick-laid(?) ore with a pale cast of thought; and enterprises a great pith, and moment. With this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. Soft you now, the fair Ophelia...