Fracture Pt 3
Fic: Fracture Pt 3
Author: RogueGuitar13
Pairing: Rose/10
Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: Doctor Who, Torchwood and all its respective characters, technologies and visual media included therein reference to, belongs to the BBC Wales. This fan fiction is intended for fan appreciation.
Fracture: Control
It seems so easy just to forget, to let herself go. She watches him through hooded eyes as he stares back, knowing that despite the fact he doesn't remember their life... she wants to see him let go. Yet in a way he has let go, let go of everything just to find a way through.
He looks like an innocent child she thinks, but she knows her own thoughts are far from being innocent. She has the urge to step forward, but neither one of them makes a move; it's like a terribly clichéd love story in the cinema. Then out of nowhere, she finds herself laughing. She's laughing so hard, trying to convince herself that everything is alright but she doubles over in tears to the tiled floor.
"Rose..." She hears his voice like a whisper from the vortex.
"Go away... God this isn't real!" She screams it, hearing her voice bounce off the tiles.
"Rose!" She finds herself taken in arms forcefully and shaken back to reality.
"What you think I'm not scared too?"
"You're not supposed to be scared... you're supposed to fix this!"
"Shut up!" He says leaning into Rose's neck.
He can feel her shudder against him, the tears starting to soak into his dishevelled and broken body; the salt of them starting to sting the wounds.
He wants for some odd reason to taste those tears, to taste her pain and so he gives in.
His tongue begins to trace up the side of her neck, tasting her fear, her desire and anger.
It caresses over a rapidly beating pulse, around to her ear and swiftly over her jaw line, coaxing a moan that he feels deep into the pit of his stomach.
"I hate you." He hears as he ghosts over her lips. He can taste the remnants of her early morning tea and a bit of a banana scone. Bananas... "Well among other things, I think I just invented the Banana Daiquiri a few centuries early."
He pushes the shard of strange memory away, filing it into his mind and concentrates on the moment at hand. She pulls at the hospital gown, while at the same time she also pushes him away.
"Why?" He asks as she pulls the damned article off.
She doesn't answer him but rather pulls him up by the wrist and leads him to the shower stall.
He can see that she's struggling not to stare at him and failing miserably.
The water suddenly pours over him, hot... burning hot, yet gloriously wonderful and he feels a bit of tension ebb out of his body.
He feels out of place still, as if she is the only tether holding him here. The man she calls 'The Doctor' now dubbed John Smith doesn't feel like a person yet.
It feels as if both personas are a story, a fantastically impossible story on one side; while John Smith feels like a generic name, picked at random as though out of a hat.
"I'm John Smith, that's all I want to be, John Smith.
With his life... and his job... and his love.
Why can't I be John Smith? Isn't he a good man?
Why can't I stay?
Who am I then? Nothing...? I'm just a story?"
“Where do we go from here?” Rose mutters to herself as she grabs a cloth and the cleanser from the shelf.
She hadn’t cleaned or dressed him since…
It was like he was a totally different person, granted with a body that she happened to know as well as her own but still; would she have liked a practical stranger bathing her?
She looks down at here tasteful flats, now water logged and uncomfortable as she thrusts the cloth and soap out to him.
“Ridiculous, I’m blushing like a five year old, God just please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be!” Rose thought exasperated.
He laughs uneasily and finds himself staring at her chest; the water has soaked through the lab coat she’s wearing and into the blouse underneath. He can see the stark smooth curves of a tan demy brassier and he is ashamed to feel the beginnings of arousal. She is not his wife as she so obviously stated half an hour before. Perhaps she was a one night shag in his past or maybe she was just a recurring fantasy star in his mind. He realises that she is holding the soap and cloth out to him and is doing everything she can not to meet his gaze. Taking the rag out of her hands along with the cleanser, which he notes, smells of Gardenias; he begins the task of cleaning off the grime and blood from who knows when.
“You don’t have to stay Rose.” He says not looking at her as he turns to face the wall.
“I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
“Come on, it’s not like I’m going to do myself in with a bar of cleansing soap and a wash rag!” He states exasperatedly.
“You can either deal with me or I’ll send Ianto in Doctor!”
“Bloody Hell Rose! You always were stubborn; Rassilon knows how I got you out of trouble!” He quips as he reaches a rather long gash on his back.
“Who or what the hell is Rassilon?” He asks himself, and receiving no answer he continues to wash.
“Shit!” He hisses through his teeth as the rag rubs over the wound, the cleanser nearly sending his pain metre off the scale.
He throws the rag to the floor and turns into the spray, not looking at Rose as he clenches his teeth.
This is just perfect, the best fucking day ever to exsist...
P.S: Sorry it's taken me so long to update... erm I had a bit of writer's block and then the flu.