(no subject)
Title: Five Times Rose Never Kissed the Doctor
Characters: Rose, Nine, Ten. Mentions of Jack, Mickey and Sarah Jane.
Rating: G
Summary: It's all in the title.
Spoilers: Through Doomsday.
There was wanting, she reflected, and then there was wanting. The two things were not the same, and as the Doctor spun then around the console with Jack’s grin in the corner of her eye, she realised that. There was wanting for curiosity. For lust and habit and selfishness. That’s what she’d been doing in the hospital, without meaning to. He’d known it, but he’d wanted with her anyway, she thought.
And then there was wanting for love. For happiness and laughter and that light look in his eyes that banished the sadness for a while. Yes. This was what she wanted, and it had nothing to do with what his lips might taste like.
**
She wished later she’d taken a little bit of that selfishness she’d decided she didn’t need to want. Just enough to say goodbye. To not regret. Months of travelling she’d thought wouldn’t ever stop, and in the end she didn’t even get to hold his hand. She’d never find out what he tasted like now.
He took her hand now, but it was wrong. He talked to her in that softer accent, and when he said “Run” it took a moment to realise it was the same word. New body, new mouth, new accent. She wondered madly, if she kissed him now would he still have the lingering taste of the one she’d never had?
**
She’d thought, maybe, that wanting wasn’t so selfish anymore. That maybe if he wanted her too, then it was all right. But. The way he was looking at her now.
“Imagine that happening to someone you-”
So it was selfish. More than she’d thought to realise. She looked at him and saw him looking back at her. There was that sadness in his eyes again, the light and laughter fading behind expectation.
Back in the TARDIS again, and she tried holding her hand out. In the end she got Mickey instead of Sarah Jane, and she realised what it felt like when you knew what someone else wanted and it wasn’t to see you laugh.
**
Legends. They were, she supposed, looking up at him with a satisfied smile. They faced other legends and came out winning. Sometimes the losses were heavy, but that was a part of legends too. And they had almost lost.
Hearing his voice over the speaker had made her want to wrap around him and hold on forever. Which was exactly what she’d done, for a while at least. And it was so much more satisfying than the relatively small, gentle touches a kiss could give. A kiss could hold a lot, but the absolute and desperate relief of laughing and clinging to each other was lost that way. You couldn’t really laugh, for one thing.
**
She looked up at his image on the beach.
No touch. No last hug. She couldn’t even hold his hand. Strange that this is when it would finally occur to her that she still wanted to kiss him. She never had found out what he tasted like, or how his lips felt against hers. Not that it particularly mattered, not now. Not ever, really. Would it have mattered if she had though? Would it have chased that light from his eyes that looked so dim again now, or would it have made him burn brighter? A kiss is just a kiss, and sometimes it’s about wanting, but sometimes it can be about the other kind of wanting too. So many regrets, and no time to set them right.
She couldn’t even hold his hand. That hurt the most. No, kissing with mouths and lips and tongue didn’t matter, not a bit. She needed his hand in hers, their fingers tangled together. Their own, special kind of kiss.
She knew he knew, but she said the words anyway. As useless as a kiss, really, but at least it was one regret she didn’t have. He started to speak, and she wanted to hear it, but when he faded away the stab of regret was only brief. She might have regretted it more if he had said it. She already knew, they always did.
It was their own special kind of life.
Characters: Rose, Nine, Ten. Mentions of Jack, Mickey and Sarah Jane.
Rating: G
Summary: It's all in the title.
Spoilers: Through Doomsday.
There was wanting, she reflected, and then there was wanting. The two things were not the same, and as the Doctor spun then around the console with Jack’s grin in the corner of her eye, she realised that. There was wanting for curiosity. For lust and habit and selfishness. That’s what she’d been doing in the hospital, without meaning to. He’d known it, but he’d wanted with her anyway, she thought.
And then there was wanting for love. For happiness and laughter and that light look in his eyes that banished the sadness for a while. Yes. This was what she wanted, and it had nothing to do with what his lips might taste like.
**
She wished later she’d taken a little bit of that selfishness she’d decided she didn’t need to want. Just enough to say goodbye. To not regret. Months of travelling she’d thought wouldn’t ever stop, and in the end she didn’t even get to hold his hand. She’d never find out what he tasted like now.
He took her hand now, but it was wrong. He talked to her in that softer accent, and when he said “Run” it took a moment to realise it was the same word. New body, new mouth, new accent. She wondered madly, if she kissed him now would he still have the lingering taste of the one she’d never had?
**
She’d thought, maybe, that wanting wasn’t so selfish anymore. That maybe if he wanted her too, then it was all right. But. The way he was looking at her now.
“Imagine that happening to someone you-”
So it was selfish. More than she’d thought to realise. She looked at him and saw him looking back at her. There was that sadness in his eyes again, the light and laughter fading behind expectation.
Back in the TARDIS again, and she tried holding her hand out. In the end she got Mickey instead of Sarah Jane, and she realised what it felt like when you knew what someone else wanted and it wasn’t to see you laugh.
**
Legends. They were, she supposed, looking up at him with a satisfied smile. They faced other legends and came out winning. Sometimes the losses were heavy, but that was a part of legends too. And they had almost lost.
Hearing his voice over the speaker had made her want to wrap around him and hold on forever. Which was exactly what she’d done, for a while at least. And it was so much more satisfying than the relatively small, gentle touches a kiss could give. A kiss could hold a lot, but the absolute and desperate relief of laughing and clinging to each other was lost that way. You couldn’t really laugh, for one thing.
**
She looked up at his image on the beach.
No touch. No last hug. She couldn’t even hold his hand. Strange that this is when it would finally occur to her that she still wanted to kiss him. She never had found out what he tasted like, or how his lips felt against hers. Not that it particularly mattered, not now. Not ever, really. Would it have mattered if she had though? Would it have chased that light from his eyes that looked so dim again now, or would it have made him burn brighter? A kiss is just a kiss, and sometimes it’s about wanting, but sometimes it can be about the other kind of wanting too. So many regrets, and no time to set them right.
She couldn’t even hold his hand. That hurt the most. No, kissing with mouths and lips and tongue didn’t matter, not a bit. She needed his hand in hers, their fingers tangled together. Their own, special kind of kiss.
She knew he knew, but she said the words anyway. As useless as a kiss, really, but at least it was one regret she didn’t have. He started to speak, and she wanted to hear it, but when he faded away the stab of regret was only brief. She might have regretted it more if he had said it. She already knew, they always did.
It was their own special kind of life.