Ficlet: Rally. (Ten/Rose, PGish)
Rally. Ten/Rose, PG-ish, teeny short yet rambling. Sometime before Fear Her. I'm trying to come home.
"Tokyo?" he murmurs, into her ear. "Persia, Paris, Halcyon Five? Kers. Or even better, Kers Bal-Hoon. Louisiana, maybe. We could catch them purchasing."
There is coronation punch, orange juice and lemonade with soda water, and lights strung over the street. Long live the Queen, et cetera, et cetera. He does like the flags. Rose dances first with the neighbor's boy and then with him, when he can't watch her twirling from the sidelines any longer. He slips his hands up underneath her jacket, catching his fingers on the sequins and feeling warmth rising through her dress. He holds her closer than he ought. So close he forgets his worries for a second, a long second- because time is long, full of little eternities, immeasurable in meaning and only clicks on the clock, he knows. It's dangerous, forgetting things for her. It is like rolling dice and jumping off a cliff at the same time. In the grand metaphorical scheme. She laughs and throws her head back.
He has an idea.
"Tokyo?" he murmurs, into her ear. "Persia, Paris, Halcyon Five? Kers. Or even better, Kers Bal-Hoon. Louisiana, maybe. We could catch them purchasing."
"That was terrible."
"Awful," he grins. "More punch? No?" He dips her slightly. She comes back up, all pink satin and petticoat. "Did I ever tell you that Seward's Folly was originally a cocktail? From Raxis Prime. Lovely place. Cranberry juice and spirits from their moon colony. And gin. A lot of gin."
"On the rocks, naturally," says Rose. "Could we go somewhere- quiet?"
"Alaska's quiet," he says, thoughtfully. "Soaring natural beauty, plenty of wildlife, and ice. Good silent ice, keeping itself to itself." He holds her hand as she turns under his arm, draws her back again. Her hair's coming out of the band. Things unravel. "We could see the glaciers. The northern lights. A moose migration. Or," he continues, glancing down at her widening smile, "just a cabin with a view and a strong fire. And blankets. Lots of blankets. And, well."
"Mm," says Rose.
They spend the next night in eighteen ninety-eight, hiding down an abandoned mineshaft on the outskirts of Nome, under attack by mutant mind-controlled polar bears. Rose is fetching in fur-trimmed boots as she clubs the remote-activated detonator out of a miner's hand. She is probably angry. Her cheeks are incredibly pink.
"Better luck next time," he promises.
He plans to make it up to her. He really does. He spends an afternoon casually describing- at every opportunity- a resort on the edge of the Bird's Eye Nebula, where miniature stars roll up on the beach every now and again, where the lightest breeze turns the movement of palm trees into a gentle song. Rose takes the hint and changes into a bikini, he spins the dials, and they open the doors behind the barricades of the revolt on Terra Gorona. The daiquiris are slightly postponed. "Look at it this way," he tells her. "Your swimwear's going on the flag of the Republic. How many people can say that?"
"Is it just me," asks Rose, "or has your steering become even more creative?"
"Er," says the Doctor.
They're sitting in the study with their feet propped up, watching old footage of New New New New New Woodstock. He sidesteps the question by claiming to have stolen the footstool from Cosimo de' Medici. He offers to prove it. "Won't take a minute," he says, starting to get up from the sofa. "I have a standing invitation." Rose pulls him back down and they stare eye-to-eye for a beat. "It appears I also have a seated one." She frowns. He takes a deep breath. "Well, if you're not up for the Medici- fairly intense, that lot, don't blame you a bit- we could just go to Iceland. Greenland? We could visit a hermit. Epicurean tourism? Remember the commercial: have more fun on Morax?" She shakes her head. "Closer to home, then. Glasgow. South Africa. Appalachia? Maybe the moon. A moon? Io. You'll love Io. They'll love you."
"Park it," she says.
"I'm already-"
"The ship." She gives him a searching look. "Is something wrong?"
"No," he says.
"But really."
"Not wrong," he says, evasively. "Just not- right."
"Are you running away from something?" Rose asks. "Because we know how well that usually goes." He draws himself up to his full height, still seated, and allows himself to bubble over with mild indignation. It feels sort of nice.
"You of all people should know I'm an excellent runner. Swift, agile- pantherlike," he demonstrates, wriggling slightly. He is gratified when her eyes slide up, and down, and up again. "I'd be happy to prove it to you again on the foot courses of Tebbu. Where I am already recognized as a one-hundred-yard champion. Forty different terrains, uphill, downhill, in driving sleet or boiling sun-"
"Oh God," she says. "You are."
"A champion?" he prods, hopelessly.
"Running," says Rose. "You can't keep these things to yourself. Is it really so awful, whatever's behind us?"
For a long minute he can't even look at her.
"It's not behind us," he says, eventually.
"Oh."
"I think, if we keep moving," he starts, and trails off. There is no end to that sentence. Rose squeezes his hand and they just sit for a while, listening to New New New New New Country Joe and the Ectotherms sing about space oppression. Rose turns the volume up a little. He knows that is a human trick, a thing people do- regular people- to tune out the sounds of their own thoughts. He appreciates the effort. He appreciates it even more when she falls asleep against him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder and breathing softly through her perfect mouth.
He tries- and fails- not to think about time.
In the morning- relatively speaking, from the inside of a dusty nebula- he finds Rose sitting on the jump seat, lacing her trainers. She's in a track suit with her hair tied back. His heart slips briefly down to his knees, and then settles in his throat. She smiles at him like she can see it happening.
"Fancy a run?" she asks. She poses like the Heisman Trophy and he laughs out loud. And bounces on the balls of his feet. Stretches his hamstrings a little. Grins. Nothing like an invigorating jog in the opposite direction as destiny. There were so many reasons to pick her; he opens a new one every minute, like a bottomless bag of fortune cookies. Not quite bottomless. No, this is not a thing he's thinking about, not today.
"Why not make it interesting?" he says. "You, me, and a dozen aggressive Athenian sprinters." There's a beat. "I am of course talking about the Olympics."
"Eureka," she says. "And good thing for the translation circuits, because I've just used up my Greek."
"To hóverkráft mu íne gemáto hélia."
"What's that, when it's at home?"
"Better not," he says. He pumps the lever, changes the coordinates, pulls a handbrake or two out of alignment. "You want the authentic thing- we could go first original, second original, somewhere in the revivals- or the modern adaptation, with clothing and souvenir stands? I guess I'm asking, roasted goat in a firepit or popcorn and hot dogs."
"Surprise me," she says.
He'll try.
"Tokyo?" he murmurs, into her ear. "Persia, Paris, Halcyon Five? Kers. Or even better, Kers Bal-Hoon. Louisiana, maybe. We could catch them purchasing."
There is coronation punch, orange juice and lemonade with soda water, and lights strung over the street. Long live the Queen, et cetera, et cetera. He does like the flags. Rose dances first with the neighbor's boy and then with him, when he can't watch her twirling from the sidelines any longer. He slips his hands up underneath her jacket, catching his fingers on the sequins and feeling warmth rising through her dress. He holds her closer than he ought. So close he forgets his worries for a second, a long second- because time is long, full of little eternities, immeasurable in meaning and only clicks on the clock, he knows. It's dangerous, forgetting things for her. It is like rolling dice and jumping off a cliff at the same time. In the grand metaphorical scheme. She laughs and throws her head back.
He has an idea.
"Tokyo?" he murmurs, into her ear. "Persia, Paris, Halcyon Five? Kers. Or even better, Kers Bal-Hoon. Louisiana, maybe. We could catch them purchasing."
"That was terrible."
"Awful," he grins. "More punch? No?" He dips her slightly. She comes back up, all pink satin and petticoat. "Did I ever tell you that Seward's Folly was originally a cocktail? From Raxis Prime. Lovely place. Cranberry juice and spirits from their moon colony. And gin. A lot of gin."
"On the rocks, naturally," says Rose. "Could we go somewhere- quiet?"
"Alaska's quiet," he says, thoughtfully. "Soaring natural beauty, plenty of wildlife, and ice. Good silent ice, keeping itself to itself." He holds her hand as she turns under his arm, draws her back again. Her hair's coming out of the band. Things unravel. "We could see the glaciers. The northern lights. A moose migration. Or," he continues, glancing down at her widening smile, "just a cabin with a view and a strong fire. And blankets. Lots of blankets. And, well."
"Mm," says Rose.
They spend the next night in eighteen ninety-eight, hiding down an abandoned mineshaft on the outskirts of Nome, under attack by mutant mind-controlled polar bears. Rose is fetching in fur-trimmed boots as she clubs the remote-activated detonator out of a miner's hand. She is probably angry. Her cheeks are incredibly pink.
"Better luck next time," he promises.
He plans to make it up to her. He really does. He spends an afternoon casually describing- at every opportunity- a resort on the edge of the Bird's Eye Nebula, where miniature stars roll up on the beach every now and again, where the lightest breeze turns the movement of palm trees into a gentle song. Rose takes the hint and changes into a bikini, he spins the dials, and they open the doors behind the barricades of the revolt on Terra Gorona. The daiquiris are slightly postponed. "Look at it this way," he tells her. "Your swimwear's going on the flag of the Republic. How many people can say that?"
"Is it just me," asks Rose, "or has your steering become even more creative?"
"Er," says the Doctor.
They're sitting in the study with their feet propped up, watching old footage of New New New New New Woodstock. He sidesteps the question by claiming to have stolen the footstool from Cosimo de' Medici. He offers to prove it. "Won't take a minute," he says, starting to get up from the sofa. "I have a standing invitation." Rose pulls him back down and they stare eye-to-eye for a beat. "It appears I also have a seated one." She frowns. He takes a deep breath. "Well, if you're not up for the Medici- fairly intense, that lot, don't blame you a bit- we could just go to Iceland. Greenland? We could visit a hermit. Epicurean tourism? Remember the commercial: have more fun on Morax?" She shakes her head. "Closer to home, then. Glasgow. South Africa. Appalachia? Maybe the moon. A moon? Io. You'll love Io. They'll love you."
"Park it," she says.
"I'm already-"
"The ship." She gives him a searching look. "Is something wrong?"
"No," he says.
"But really."
"Not wrong," he says, evasively. "Just not- right."
"Are you running away from something?" Rose asks. "Because we know how well that usually goes." He draws himself up to his full height, still seated, and allows himself to bubble over with mild indignation. It feels sort of nice.
"You of all people should know I'm an excellent runner. Swift, agile- pantherlike," he demonstrates, wriggling slightly. He is gratified when her eyes slide up, and down, and up again. "I'd be happy to prove it to you again on the foot courses of Tebbu. Where I am already recognized as a one-hundred-yard champion. Forty different terrains, uphill, downhill, in driving sleet or boiling sun-"
"Oh God," she says. "You are."
"A champion?" he prods, hopelessly.
"Running," says Rose. "You can't keep these things to yourself. Is it really so awful, whatever's behind us?"
For a long minute he can't even look at her.
"It's not behind us," he says, eventually.
"Oh."
"I think, if we keep moving," he starts, and trails off. There is no end to that sentence. Rose squeezes his hand and they just sit for a while, listening to New New New New New Country Joe and the Ectotherms sing about space oppression. Rose turns the volume up a little. He knows that is a human trick, a thing people do- regular people- to tune out the sounds of their own thoughts. He appreciates the effort. He appreciates it even more when she falls asleep against him, pressing her cheek into his shoulder and breathing softly through her perfect mouth.
He tries- and fails- not to think about time.
In the morning- relatively speaking, from the inside of a dusty nebula- he finds Rose sitting on the jump seat, lacing her trainers. She's in a track suit with her hair tied back. His heart slips briefly down to his knees, and then settles in his throat. She smiles at him like she can see it happening.
"Fancy a run?" she asks. She poses like the Heisman Trophy and he laughs out loud. And bounces on the balls of his feet. Stretches his hamstrings a little. Grins. Nothing like an invigorating jog in the opposite direction as destiny. There were so many reasons to pick her; he opens a new one every minute, like a bottomless bag of fortune cookies. Not quite bottomless. No, this is not a thing he's thinking about, not today.
"Why not make it interesting?" he says. "You, me, and a dozen aggressive Athenian sprinters." There's a beat. "I am of course talking about the Olympics."
"Eureka," she says. "And good thing for the translation circuits, because I've just used up my Greek."
"To hóverkráft mu íne gemáto hélia."
"What's that, when it's at home?"
"Better not," he says. He pumps the lever, changes the coordinates, pulls a handbrake or two out of alignment. "You want the authentic thing- we could go first original, second original, somewhere in the revivals- or the modern adaptation, with clothing and souvenir stands? I guess I'm asking, roasted goat in a firepit or popcorn and hot dogs."
"Surprise me," she says.
He'll try.