fic: tenth hour, before dawn (ten.5/rose)
Title: Tenth Hour, Before Dawn
Paring: Rose/Ten.5
Summary: “Take after your mum, you do,” the Doctor muttered, pacing around the sofa and stubbing his toe on an end table. 850 words.
Author's Notes: Clichéd fluffy babyfic courtesy of krazykat_neko, so blame her and smoke 'em if you've got 'em.
“Hullo, buckaroo.”
The Doctor smiled at the squinched-up face inches in front of his own, said buckaroo opening and closing his mouth insistently. The Doctor sighed apologetically. “Well, we can’t get you that, Mummy’s a bit comatose.”
The wrinkled little lump of person blinked at the Doctor somewhat accusingly, striking for someone only ten hours old. “Now, slugger, it’s not my fault, if we’re blaming anyone it should obviously be you. You were a bit reluctant to let her get any sleep last night, now, weren’t you? Eh? Sorry I called you slugger.”
Oliver, which was the child’s name (probably, he’d have to check with Rose on the finality of that one, it was also possible that his name might be Trevor), let out a small show of displeasure with this person who was not a walking food supply, and the Doctor gave him a pained look.
“No, none of that! Tiger, we can’t wake her up, come on,” he mumbled, hauling himself and the baby out of bed reluctantly. “That also really doesn't work.” He wouldn’t have minded a lie-in either, but he figured getting Rose to take the baby so he could sleep would be considered somewhat inconsiderate at this juncture.
“Come on, Captain, let’s find something to do,” the Doctor whispered, eyeing the bundle of blankets that concealed his girlfriend-wife-fiancée-Rose-thing. They hadn’t been too clear on the vernacular. Time for that later. The blankets didn’t so much as wrinkle, Rose was well and truly dead to the world, and he smirked a bit, until his son reminded him that his attention was needed elsewhere. “Definitely not Captain, then.”
He quieted down once they started moving in earnest, constant motion seemed to suit him enough. “Take after your mum, you do,” the Doctor muttered, pacing around the sofa and stubbing his toe on an end table. “Guess we can’t expect much out of someone born in a bathtub.” The baby let out a squawk. “You’re just lucky it wasn’t the toilet, that was not out of the realm of possibility.”
The Doctor trailed off, keeping up his pacing so as to quiet his son. This had been an exceptionally long day, full of an amazing number of heretofore unknown bodily fluids and functions. There’s no good way he can think of to explain to Rose exactly how terrified he’d felt (certainly not the manly way he’d prefer), not when she’d looked at him the way she had, absolute terror and pain and nothing else written in every line of her face. Apparently, quarter-Gallifreyan infants are a bit more streamlined, and a bit less… contained. Honestly, the whole affair is a bit of a blur of shouting and disgusting things.
But now here he was.
Here they were. Three.
Rose had looked more exhausted than he’d ever seen her look before, her face devoid of any color, but she seemed perfectly content after he’d moved her to the bed, and settled the baby in her arms, standing around awkwardly thinking he should be doing something more, but unable to think of what that might be.
“Look at ‘im,” she whispered, and the Doctor had, and the concern melted from his face like butter on a pan. Beautiful, beautiful. Completely worth it.
And now he was stubbing his toe yet again, cursing a curse word he may or may not have made up, he can’t remember. But here was the baby, Oliver (Trevor?), and he is looking up at the Doctor with extremely solemn eyes, trying to gauge him, trying to know him.
Or perhaps wondering if he can feed him. Unfortunately, he cannot.
“You wear very tiny clothes,” the Doctor said, because it was all he could think of at the moment. “Not that they aren’t nice,” he added hastily. “I like blue. Rubbish on me, so I’m told, but you carry it off well. Not much hair you’ve got,” he said, observing the baby closely. “Nor much in the way of height. But pretty good, all ‘round. As far as babies go. Satisfactory. I don’t know.”
The baby yawned, and burbled something onto the Doctor’s pyjamas. “You’re quite talented.”
It was another hour or so of blearily pacing round the flat before he couldn’t take it anymore. “I think my legs aren’t ever going to bend the right way again,” he informed the baby, making one last lap around the terrible end table. “So we’ll just slip back in with Rose, yeah? And then you can eat. She won’t even know we were gone. In fact, I will bet you a space hopper that she’s in the exact same pose.”
He stage-whispered, “Not much variety in her sleeping positions, your mother, not unless you count ‘Everywhere, Always’ as a position, in which case she has countless riffs on that one, but- ”
“Whazzamazza?” comes a throaty mumble from beneath several quilts. Rose’s head popped out, her face obscured by a frizzy tangle of blondish hair. “Whereza baby?” she grunted, groping one arm about fruitlessly. “Doctor?”
“Oh, well,” he said to his son, “best two out of three, then?”
-
end.
Paring: Rose/Ten.5
Summary: “Take after your mum, you do,” the Doctor muttered, pacing around the sofa and stubbing his toe on an end table. 850 words.
Author's Notes: Clichéd fluffy babyfic courtesy of krazykat_neko, so blame her and smoke 'em if you've got 'em.
“Hullo, buckaroo.”
The Doctor smiled at the squinched-up face inches in front of his own, said buckaroo opening and closing his mouth insistently. The Doctor sighed apologetically. “Well, we can’t get you that, Mummy’s a bit comatose.”
The wrinkled little lump of person blinked at the Doctor somewhat accusingly, striking for someone only ten hours old. “Now, slugger, it’s not my fault, if we’re blaming anyone it should obviously be you. You were a bit reluctant to let her get any sleep last night, now, weren’t you? Eh? Sorry I called you slugger.”
Oliver, which was the child’s name (probably, he’d have to check with Rose on the finality of that one, it was also possible that his name might be Trevor), let out a small show of displeasure with this person who was not a walking food supply, and the Doctor gave him a pained look.
“No, none of that! Tiger, we can’t wake her up, come on,” he mumbled, hauling himself and the baby out of bed reluctantly. “That also really doesn't work.” He wouldn’t have minded a lie-in either, but he figured getting Rose to take the baby so he could sleep would be considered somewhat inconsiderate at this juncture.
“Come on, Captain, let’s find something to do,” the Doctor whispered, eyeing the bundle of blankets that concealed his girlfriend-wife-fiancée-Rose-thing. They hadn’t been too clear on the vernacular. Time for that later. The blankets didn’t so much as wrinkle, Rose was well and truly dead to the world, and he smirked a bit, until his son reminded him that his attention was needed elsewhere. “Definitely not Captain, then.”
He quieted down once they started moving in earnest, constant motion seemed to suit him enough. “Take after your mum, you do,” the Doctor muttered, pacing around the sofa and stubbing his toe on an end table. “Guess we can’t expect much out of someone born in a bathtub.” The baby let out a squawk. “You’re just lucky it wasn’t the toilet, that was not out of the realm of possibility.”
The Doctor trailed off, keeping up his pacing so as to quiet his son. This had been an exceptionally long day, full of an amazing number of heretofore unknown bodily fluids and functions. There’s no good way he can think of to explain to Rose exactly how terrified he’d felt (certainly not the manly way he’d prefer), not when she’d looked at him the way she had, absolute terror and pain and nothing else written in every line of her face. Apparently, quarter-Gallifreyan infants are a bit more streamlined, and a bit less… contained. Honestly, the whole affair is a bit of a blur of shouting and disgusting things.
But now here he was.
Here they were. Three.
Rose had looked more exhausted than he’d ever seen her look before, her face devoid of any color, but she seemed perfectly content after he’d moved her to the bed, and settled the baby in her arms, standing around awkwardly thinking he should be doing something more, but unable to think of what that might be.
“Look at ‘im,” she whispered, and the Doctor had, and the concern melted from his face like butter on a pan. Beautiful, beautiful. Completely worth it.
And now he was stubbing his toe yet again, cursing a curse word he may or may not have made up, he can’t remember. But here was the baby, Oliver (Trevor?), and he is looking up at the Doctor with extremely solemn eyes, trying to gauge him, trying to know him.
Or perhaps wondering if he can feed him. Unfortunately, he cannot.
“You wear very tiny clothes,” the Doctor said, because it was all he could think of at the moment. “Not that they aren’t nice,” he added hastily. “I like blue. Rubbish on me, so I’m told, but you carry it off well. Not much hair you’ve got,” he said, observing the baby closely. “Nor much in the way of height. But pretty good, all ‘round. As far as babies go. Satisfactory. I don’t know.”
The baby yawned, and burbled something onto the Doctor’s pyjamas. “You’re quite talented.”
It was another hour or so of blearily pacing round the flat before he couldn’t take it anymore. “I think my legs aren’t ever going to bend the right way again,” he informed the baby, making one last lap around the terrible end table. “So we’ll just slip back in with Rose, yeah? And then you can eat. She won’t even know we were gone. In fact, I will bet you a space hopper that she’s in the exact same pose.”
He stage-whispered, “Not much variety in her sleeping positions, your mother, not unless you count ‘Everywhere, Always’ as a position, in which case she has countless riffs on that one, but- ”
“Whazzamazza?” comes a throaty mumble from beneath several quilts. Rose’s head popped out, her face obscured by a frizzy tangle of blondish hair. “Whereza baby?” she grunted, groping one arm about fruitlessly. “Doctor?”
“Oh, well,” he said to his son, “best two out of three, then?”
-
end.