Vignette: The sound of drums. (Ten II/Rose, G, post JE)
The sound of drums. This is just a short Ten II/Rose vignette, G for no suggestive or dirty words at all. It's just me trying to spur myself to finish a bigger fic.
She smells like soap and toothpaste and he can hear her breathing through her nose.
He can't hear anything.
He wakes up in a sweat, hands in the sheets, heart beating through the tissue-paper muscles in his chest; the air is soft and tranquil and the birds have moved on and sunlight's streaming through the blinds in gentle silence and he could not be more terrified.
"Rose ?" he says. "Rose ?"
She doesn't answer.
He throws the covers off, sets his feet on the rag rug and listens to the thump of connection; in his mind everything is white, and he can't hear anything- no water running, no breathy singing in the kitchen with the clatter of cups and spoons and where is she ? "Rose !" he calls out. Stands up. Treads to the hall, accompanied only by the rushing sound of skin on hardwood.
"I'm here," she says, muffled by the bathroom door. He puts his ear close to it. "Bad dream ?" she asks. He can hear her wrapping an elastic around her hair, now. It sounds like a harp being tuned. He clears his throat but doesn't answer. Rose sighs. "Canary Wharf again ?"
"The wall," he says. "Yes." There'd been no sound. Nothing, in the absence of her heartbeat and her teeth clicking together and the sound of her cuffs brushing his. No sound at all. "Will you open the door ?"
"No," she says. "Listen."
He leans against the door and is perfectly still while Rose clips her nails. One at a time. She opens the door and her face is flushed, pink from being scrubbed. She smells like soap and toothpaste and he can hear her breathing through her nose. She smiles at him and lets him lean against her like he leaned against the door, and puts her arms around him. "We'll have to figure out," she says very softly, into the flesh over his collarbone, resonating through his lungs, "how to be on opposite sides of something."
"Someday," he says. "Definitely."
"Someday," she agrees.
She smells like soap and toothpaste and he can hear her breathing through her nose.
He can't hear anything.
He wakes up in a sweat, hands in the sheets, heart beating through the tissue-paper muscles in his chest; the air is soft and tranquil and the birds have moved on and sunlight's streaming through the blinds in gentle silence and he could not be more terrified.
"Rose ?" he says. "Rose ?"
She doesn't answer.
He throws the covers off, sets his feet on the rag rug and listens to the thump of connection; in his mind everything is white, and he can't hear anything- no water running, no breathy singing in the kitchen with the clatter of cups and spoons and where is she ? "Rose !" he calls out. Stands up. Treads to the hall, accompanied only by the rushing sound of skin on hardwood.
"I'm here," she says, muffled by the bathroom door. He puts his ear close to it. "Bad dream ?" she asks. He can hear her wrapping an elastic around her hair, now. It sounds like a harp being tuned. He clears his throat but doesn't answer. Rose sighs. "Canary Wharf again ?"
"The wall," he says. "Yes." There'd been no sound. Nothing, in the absence of her heartbeat and her teeth clicking together and the sound of her cuffs brushing his. No sound at all. "Will you open the door ?"
"No," she says. "Listen."
He leans against the door and is perfectly still while Rose clips her nails. One at a time. She opens the door and her face is flushed, pink from being scrubbed. She smells like soap and toothpaste and he can hear her breathing through her nose. She smiles at him and lets him lean against her like he leaned against the door, and puts her arms around him. "We'll have to figure out," she says very softly, into the flesh over his collarbone, resonating through his lungs, "how to be on opposite sides of something."
"Someday," he says. "Definitely."
"Someday," she agrees.