[fic] I've Been Running
Title: I've Been Running
Character/Pairing: Eleven/Rose, hints of TenII/Rose and Amy/Rory.
Rating: G.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not my playground, but it is a wonderful sandbox to play in.
Summary: She was a story ended, a chapter closed. Perhaps her legends continued without him and he feverishly hoped they did, even if he would never hear them.
Author's Notes: Really rough and thrown together in between crazy stressful study sessions (in vain too, because I never seem to grasp the material!) and the great battles against me nemesis, The Analysis Midterm. Also, I remembered a prompt that I think professor_spork posted sometime, somewhere, about a Rose that didn't want to be touched and arhgahhanannhgn, I don't know. This fic was kind of weirddd, so read at your own risk, darlings.
He felt it, you know.
The moment when he passed, when that other side that intimately intertwined with his own, flared through him and faded into the dark. As if a candle, lit on the other side of the room, had finally been whittled down to a shapeless stub of wax and the barest breath had blown it out.
You wouldn't think it, because he had not missed a step, had continued right on skipping and scowling and snatching up fezzes from the bazaar table. He bought a bright pink one with a yellow tassel, and would not let Amy talk him out of it.
He felt it.
But curiously, he felt something welling up where the light had been. That shining beacon of another so like him (of an almost family nearly made), but not. He thought, sometimes, when he was not paying too much attention to the thousands of thoughts that churned in his head, that he saw a flicker of light, a speck of dust floating in the air, set afire for just a second. His afternoon tea was a more pressing issue though, so he let it go, un-pursued and un-chased. Not enough lemon for such a dark brew.
"Doctor!" Amy scrunched her face up in horror, nose crinkling and eyes wide.
"Hm?"
"That's an entire lemon!"
Still too dark.
Rarely did he indulge in sleep. In fact, he could not recall the last time he had slept, not in this body. Did this new vessel even know how?
His bed looked so alien, with its tangled sheets and haphazard pillows (can you remember this, when he had held joy and sorrow and all the human forevers he had dared to ask for, and she, she had laughed and bargained for chips). The colors looked so much duller this time around, the subtle prints suddenly very uncool. With a sweeping arm, he gathered the remnants of the past, stuffed them into a conveniently placed closet, and laid instead upon a stripped mattress, staring at the wall. He closed his eyes to it after a moment. It was too white.
He would not tell you, but he felt it then too.
She was a story ended, a chapter closed. Perhaps her legends continued without him and he feverishly hoped they did, even if he would never hear them.
Have you?
We are all legends, she wrote. We can all live better lives.
Rory returned from one market day with books and he had Scoffed. Amy thought it was silly when the Doctor's library more likely than not had the original manuscripts somewhere on its shelves - she found a wave of affection crest within her for her husband and familiar grin, and pressed a welcoming kiss onto his cheek. The books were left on the floor then and he tripped over the pile of them.
There, on the top of the pile, he read a title that drained the color from his face.
You know that title, don't you? It was hailed as one of the greatest stories of her world and she never wrote another one.
Run.
He fled.
Her words could burn stars.
One day there was a knock on the door. The Ponds glanced at him and he ignored them. He ignored the knock and the door and the knocker knocking on the door. He ignored the shift in the hum beneath his hands, the gentle glow of coral flushing in pleasure and welcome. There was the sound of metal sliding and the inimitable click of a lock. Amy was sure it'd be a head of curly hair and lots of loud of declarations of honey and sweetie.
"Doctor," the strange girl whispered.
Stone, he was. Stone, all the way to his hearts, stone before she touched him and the deaths broke surface again, the lies made new again.
"You know."
Ah gods. The pain in that voice, the quiet panic; a plea that had traveled across the impossible. He had done this to her and he did not believe in gods.
"Yes, I do."
The hands at his side were unnaturally still - stillness was a skill he never seemed to lose. This he held to, clung to, for otherwise those traitorous fingers would have spasmed with longing, his palms eager and empty.
Rose Tyler stood behind him and, in time, he turned to face her and unthinkingly he reached for her because that was what he did, what he had always done. She flinched and drew away. He looked too different from the man she had spent decades loving and his loss was too fresh. The Doctor had never known a Rose who did not want to be touched.
He felt her begin inside of him again, the ghostly touch of old promises being traced.
"I'm sorry, Rose."
"I know. He - you - he said the same thing."
"D-d'ya still want me?"
His hand folded around hers, slowly, selfishly.
"Of course, Rose Tyler. Always."
Character/Pairing: Eleven/Rose, hints of TenII/Rose and Amy/Rory.
Rating: G.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is not my playground, but it is a wonderful sandbox to play in.
Summary: She was a story ended, a chapter closed. Perhaps her legends continued without him and he feverishly hoped they did, even if he would never hear them.
Author's Notes: Really rough and thrown together in between crazy stressful study sessions (in vain too, because I never seem to grasp the material!) and the great battles against me nemesis, The Analysis Midterm. Also, I remembered a prompt that I think professor_spork posted sometime, somewhere, about a Rose that didn't want to be touched and arhgahhanannhgn, I don't know. This fic was kind of weirddd, so read at your own risk, darlings.
He felt it, you know.
The moment when he passed, when that other side that intimately intertwined with his own, flared through him and faded into the dark. As if a candle, lit on the other side of the room, had finally been whittled down to a shapeless stub of wax and the barest breath had blown it out.
You wouldn't think it, because he had not missed a step, had continued right on skipping and scowling and snatching up fezzes from the bazaar table. He bought a bright pink one with a yellow tassel, and would not let Amy talk him out of it.
He felt it.
But curiously, he felt something welling up where the light had been. That shining beacon of another so like him (of an almost family nearly made), but not. He thought, sometimes, when he was not paying too much attention to the thousands of thoughts that churned in his head, that he saw a flicker of light, a speck of dust floating in the air, set afire for just a second. His afternoon tea was a more pressing issue though, so he let it go, un-pursued and un-chased. Not enough lemon for such a dark brew.
"Doctor!" Amy scrunched her face up in horror, nose crinkling and eyes wide.
"Hm?"
"That's an entire lemon!"
Still too dark.
Rarely did he indulge in sleep. In fact, he could not recall the last time he had slept, not in this body. Did this new vessel even know how?
His bed looked so alien, with its tangled sheets and haphazard pillows (can you remember this, when he had held joy and sorrow and all the human forevers he had dared to ask for, and she, she had laughed and bargained for chips). The colors looked so much duller this time around, the subtle prints suddenly very uncool. With a sweeping arm, he gathered the remnants of the past, stuffed them into a conveniently placed closet, and laid instead upon a stripped mattress, staring at the wall. He closed his eyes to it after a moment. It was too white.
He would not tell you, but he felt it then too.
She was a story ended, a chapter closed. Perhaps her legends continued without him and he feverishly hoped they did, even if he would never hear them.
Have you?
We are all legends, she wrote. We can all live better lives.
Rory returned from one market day with books and he had Scoffed. Amy thought it was silly when the Doctor's library more likely than not had the original manuscripts somewhere on its shelves - she found a wave of affection crest within her for her husband and familiar grin, and pressed a welcoming kiss onto his cheek. The books were left on the floor then and he tripped over the pile of them.
There, on the top of the pile, he read a title that drained the color from his face.
You know that title, don't you? It was hailed as one of the greatest stories of her world and she never wrote another one.
Run.
He fled.
Her words could burn stars.
One day there was a knock on the door. The Ponds glanced at him and he ignored them. He ignored the knock and the door and the knocker knocking on the door. He ignored the shift in the hum beneath his hands, the gentle glow of coral flushing in pleasure and welcome. There was the sound of metal sliding and the inimitable click of a lock. Amy was sure it'd be a head of curly hair and lots of loud of declarations of honey and sweetie.
"Doctor," the strange girl whispered.
Stone, he was. Stone, all the way to his hearts, stone before she touched him and the deaths broke surface again, the lies made new again.
"You know."
Ah gods. The pain in that voice, the quiet panic; a plea that had traveled across the impossible. He had done this to her and he did not believe in gods.
"Yes, I do."
The hands at his side were unnaturally still - stillness was a skill he never seemed to lose. This he held to, clung to, for otherwise those traitorous fingers would have spasmed with longing, his palms eager and empty.
Rose Tyler stood behind him and, in time, he turned to face her and unthinkingly he reached for her because that was what he did, what he had always done. She flinched and drew away. He looked too different from the man she had spent decades loving and his loss was too fresh. The Doctor had never known a Rose who did not want to be touched.
He felt her begin inside of him again, the ghostly touch of old promises being traced.
"I'm sorry, Rose."
"I know. He - you - he said the same thing."
"D-d'ya still want me?"
His hand folded around hers, slowly, selfishly.
"Of course, Rose Tyler. Always."