The Domestic Approach (Ten/Rose)
Title: The Domestic Approach
Author: rebelsaint
Rating: PG-13 for boobies and mentions of sex - nothing explicit
Fandom: Doctor Who, Ten/Rose
Spoilers: AU ending for Doomsday
Summary: The Doctor has a newfound obsession with drawing.
Disclaimer: As always, the cool stuff is British, not American, and therefore cannot be mine.
Notes: For the T&C October Pic Prompts. I think I fit 18, 19, and 27 in there. Let that serve as your warning for babyfic.
It started the moment he found out, this newfound need to chronicle everything. He wonders if he's gone a bit overboard, if he's driven her up the wall yet, but decides that if he pushes too much, she'll be sure to let him know. She is a Tyler, after all.
He stops now, in the middle of his task, to remember the moment he'd realized. He'd been trying to recuperate after a session of particularly enthusiastic lovemaking, resting his head on her stomach, when he'd realized Time was wrong. Well, not wrong so much as... sped up. As if it were passing by leisurely everywhere except in Rose's body, where it was a whirlwind.
He'd pulled his head away and frowned at her stomach, gazing intently at it as though it would suddenly speak to him. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he'd leaned down and licked a long trail across her hipbone, tasting the hormones and pheromones in her sweat. She'd swiped at his head half-heartedly, making a protest about being too tired to go again, but he ignored her, concentrating on what his senses were telling him.
Scrambling from the bed, trying not to alarm her in the process, he'd grabbed an empty journal and an old-fashioned fountain pen, and started sketching. She lay naked on the bed, the sheets twisted artfully around her sweat-damp body, exposing a breast here, the curve of a hip there, and endless stretches of the legs he never stopped admiring. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen, and she looked thoroughly ravished. She watched him silently as he worked, trying to capture the grace and radiance she exuded even as still and tired as she was. One hand cradled her head, the other rested lightly on her flat belly, and he smiled to himself, knowing that she was unaware of what was happening right now. Oh, he'd tell her soon enough. But first, he had to record this moment. The moment everything changed.
Since that first sketch, there have been fifty-seven others, including a few photographs, and two paintings. He would catch her at random moments, tell her to stop whatever she was doing, and draw her right then and there. Page after page of the diary filled as the months went on, cataloguing the changes in her body as she filled out and grew more rounded. His personal favorite is the picture he'd taken of Rose seven months along, completely nude, one arm covering her breasts, the other one cradling her belly. Her favorite is the snapshot of the Doctor on his knees, hands lovingly caressing her stomach as he placed a kiss right above her navel.
He looks back down at the page he's working on, feeling one of his hearts skip a beat. His darling, wonderful, delightful, oh so human Rose is beautiful in sleep, cradling their three-hour-old daughter against her chest. He rubs his thumb across the page, blurring the fine lines into the soft fuzz of baby hair before setting the book aside.
They haven't decided on a name yet, but that's fine by him. It's not the given name that matters, he knows; it's the one you make for yourself that counts. He stands and crosses the small space, lifting the tiny bundle from her mother's arms. She blinks sleepily at him before closing her eyes again, and he settles down at Rose's side. Rose curls instinctively into his chest, and he wraps his free arm around her, holding the two most precious women in his life.
Their family may be incomplete, and he's still sorry that Jackie and yes, even Mickey and Pete, can't be here to share the joy this new tiny person brings. But all things considered, he's so glad he got a chance at this life. There's something to be said for the domestic approach.
Author: rebelsaint
Rating: PG-13 for boobies and mentions of sex - nothing explicit
Fandom: Doctor Who, Ten/Rose
Spoilers: AU ending for Doomsday
Summary: The Doctor has a newfound obsession with drawing.
Disclaimer: As always, the cool stuff is British, not American, and therefore cannot be mine.
Notes: For the T&C October Pic Prompts. I think I fit 18, 19, and 27 in there. Let that serve as your warning for babyfic.
It started the moment he found out, this newfound need to chronicle everything. He wonders if he's gone a bit overboard, if he's driven her up the wall yet, but decides that if he pushes too much, she'll be sure to let him know. She is a Tyler, after all.
He stops now, in the middle of his task, to remember the moment he'd realized. He'd been trying to recuperate after a session of particularly enthusiastic lovemaking, resting his head on her stomach, when he'd realized Time was wrong. Well, not wrong so much as... sped up. As if it were passing by leisurely everywhere except in Rose's body, where it was a whirlwind.
He'd pulled his head away and frowned at her stomach, gazing intently at it as though it would suddenly speak to him. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, he'd leaned down and licked a long trail across her hipbone, tasting the hormones and pheromones in her sweat. She'd swiped at his head half-heartedly, making a protest about being too tired to go again, but he ignored her, concentrating on what his senses were telling him.
Scrambling from the bed, trying not to alarm her in the process, he'd grabbed an empty journal and an old-fashioned fountain pen, and started sketching. She lay naked on the bed, the sheets twisted artfully around her sweat-damp body, exposing a breast here, the curve of a hip there, and endless stretches of the legs he never stopped admiring. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen, and she looked thoroughly ravished. She watched him silently as he worked, trying to capture the grace and radiance she exuded even as still and tired as she was. One hand cradled her head, the other rested lightly on her flat belly, and he smiled to himself, knowing that she was unaware of what was happening right now. Oh, he'd tell her soon enough. But first, he had to record this moment. The moment everything changed.
Since that first sketch, there have been fifty-seven others, including a few photographs, and two paintings. He would catch her at random moments, tell her to stop whatever she was doing, and draw her right then and there. Page after page of the diary filled as the months went on, cataloguing the changes in her body as she filled out and grew more rounded. His personal favorite is the picture he'd taken of Rose seven months along, completely nude, one arm covering her breasts, the other one cradling her belly. Her favorite is the snapshot of the Doctor on his knees, hands lovingly caressing her stomach as he placed a kiss right above her navel.
He looks back down at the page he's working on, feeling one of his hearts skip a beat. His darling, wonderful, delightful, oh so human Rose is beautiful in sleep, cradling their three-hour-old daughter against her chest. He rubs his thumb across the page, blurring the fine lines into the soft fuzz of baby hair before setting the book aside.
They haven't decided on a name yet, but that's fine by him. It's not the given name that matters, he knows; it's the one you make for yourself that counts. He stands and crosses the small space, lifting the tiny bundle from her mother's arms. She blinks sleepily at him before closing her eyes again, and he settles down at Rose's side. Rose curls instinctively into his chest, and he wraps his free arm around her, holding the two most precious women in his life.
Their family may be incomplete, and he's still sorry that Jackie and yes, even Mickey and Pete, can't be here to share the joy this new tiny person brings. But all things considered, he's so glad he got a chance at this life. There's something to be said for the domestic approach.