Fic: Rose
Title: Rose
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: AU, Fluff
Word Count: 1,155
Characters: Rose/Ten
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: She was just a girl in his dream. He never imagined she could be real.
A/N: And another for Challenge 18, "AU", at then_theres_us XD Yes, I know, it's ridiculous that I have anymore ideas for this challenge.
He's got red paint on his nose and blue in his hair and his fingers are working on smudging green all over his left earlobe as he stares pensively at the painting in front of him.
He doesn't like it and he doesn't know why. It doesn't feel right, this empty landscape, the barren look of the whole thing, never mind the lush green of the fields and the bright blue of the sky and the little green bushes with little red flowers. It's empty somehow, cold.
He sighs and moves it off the easel, placing it beside the two others he's completed and decided he doesn't like. He absently wipes his hands on his pants as he moves over to the window to look down at the street below, leaving behind a rainbow of fingerprints.
People stream by on the sidewalk. He likes people, loves watching them, their habits and their mannerisms, the way they interact with other people. But humanity doesn't inspire him today and he frowns, turning away from the window and staring at his easel with his hands on his hips.
He could just do a self-portrait. Everyone's doing self-portraits for their final project, but he doesn't want to be like everyone else. He's never really felt like anybody else, more like an observer of the world. When he was just a boy, his mother told him he was special, as all mothers tend to tell their children, but he believed her with all his might.
He remembers asking her one day why he had such a plain name if he was so special, why he was called John while his classmates went by Summer and Willow and Oscar. He remembers the way she smiled at him, how she kneeled in front of him and said, "Your name doesn't make you special, you have to make your name special. Make people remember you, John."
I'm trying, Mom, he thinks as cleans his brushes, staring all the while at a fresh piece of canvas. His mind can't seem to fill the empty white space and he decides to give it up for the day.
It's later that night that he wakes up from a sound sleep, sitting up in bed and staring around his bedroom, momentarily confused.
There's a sudden flash of clarity and he's up, moving into the living room and flipping on the lights, lifting the blank canvas onto his easel. It's nearly three a.m. but he's wide awake now, grabbing his pencil to start sketching.
A face begins to form, not fully realized yet, but it's in his head and he knows exactly how he'll paint it.
He mixes his paint and begins to work. First the eyes, brown, warm and friendly, framed by long black eyelashes. Then the nose, small and curved slightly upward at the tip. Pink lips, stretched into a coy smile, tongue poking through the teeth and he can almost hear what her laugh sounds like, throaty and gorgeously rich. He finishes with long blonde hair, straight to her shoulders and pushed back behind one ear.
The first light of dawn is creeping into the room when he finally finishes and he steps back to stare at his work. There she is, the girl from his dream, exactly as he imagined her.
He finds his notepad and stands, pen poised over the paper, wondering what to call it. This is surely the one he'll be turning in for his project and it needs to have the right name.
A slow grin spreads across his face as he scrawls four letters onto the slip of paper and pins it to the back of the canvas. He takes the time to clean his brushes and glances once more at the painting before he collapses back into bed. The name flashes through his mind once before he falls asleep and he dreams of her smile and her eyes.
Rose.
He walks happily down the street a few days later, his final project safely handed in. He's quite confident in the grade he'll receive and thinks back to his mother. I'm doing it, Mom!
He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't see the girl until he runs into her, knocking his sketchbook and her purse to the sidewalk. They both kneel down, apologizing profusely and simultaneously as he tries to stuff the contents of her purse back in and she shuffles his drawings together.
They stand and when he looks at her face he suddenly feels as though he's forgotten how to breathe.
Her smile is apologetic and her eyes are worried, but it's her, dear God, it's her.
"I'm so sorry," she says as she hands him his sketchbook and he registers dimly the fact that she's English. He stares at her and wonders if he somehow dreamed her into existence.
She's staring at him uneasily now, her smile fading and he snaps himself back into the world, giving back her purse.
"Not a problem," he says, finally remembering that he has vocal cords and he damn well better know how to use them if he wants to keep her here.
She slips her purse onto her shoulder and nods at his sketchbook.
"They're quite good," she says, "I had a peek while I was picking them up."
He stares at her, confused, and she laughs and it sounds just as he imagined it would.
"Your drawings," she says, pointing at the sketchbook held loosely in his hands.
"Oh! Right, thank you!" he replies and realizes he's grinning at her like an idiot but she's smiling too and so it's all right.
"I'm Rose," she says, extending her hand and all of the air seems to once again leave his lungs.
"I know," he breathes and she stares at him quizzically.
"Sorry?"
"John," he says, shaking her hand. "I'm John."
"Nice to meet you," she says, her grin rapidly becoming rather bemused.
"Do you want to have lunch?" he asks before he can stop himself.
She looks a bit surprised but nods. "Yeah, that'd be nice. I'd love to see some more of your drawings. There's a place a couple blocks over, has the best chips I've been able to find in this city."
"Chips?" he says and she laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It catches the sunlight and glows a brilliant gold.
"Haven't been here long, if you couldn't tell. French fries, yeah?"
He nods, laughing at his own stupidity. "I knew that."
"Ask for chips here, they bring you a packet of crisps. It's all quite confusing at first but I'm learning." She grins once more and there's the tongue, peeking through her teeth. "Chips, then?" she says and takes a few steps back, eyes curious and, unless he's quite mistaken and he really hopes he's not, hopeful.
"Chips would be lovely," he says and hurries to catch up with her.
Author: Mary (stillxmyxheart)
Rating: G
Genre: AU, Fluff
Word Count: 1,155
Characters: Rose/Ten
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize? Ain't mine.
Summary: She was just a girl in his dream. He never imagined she could be real.
A/N: And another for Challenge 18, "AU", at then_theres_us XD Yes, I know, it's ridiculous that I have anymore ideas for this challenge.
He's got red paint on his nose and blue in his hair and his fingers are working on smudging green all over his left earlobe as he stares pensively at the painting in front of him.
He doesn't like it and he doesn't know why. It doesn't feel right, this empty landscape, the barren look of the whole thing, never mind the lush green of the fields and the bright blue of the sky and the little green bushes with little red flowers. It's empty somehow, cold.
He sighs and moves it off the easel, placing it beside the two others he's completed and decided he doesn't like. He absently wipes his hands on his pants as he moves over to the window to look down at the street below, leaving behind a rainbow of fingerprints.
People stream by on the sidewalk. He likes people, loves watching them, their habits and their mannerisms, the way they interact with other people. But humanity doesn't inspire him today and he frowns, turning away from the window and staring at his easel with his hands on his hips.
He could just do a self-portrait. Everyone's doing self-portraits for their final project, but he doesn't want to be like everyone else. He's never really felt like anybody else, more like an observer of the world. When he was just a boy, his mother told him he was special, as all mothers tend to tell their children, but he believed her with all his might.
He remembers asking her one day why he had such a plain name if he was so special, why he was called John while his classmates went by Summer and Willow and Oscar. He remembers the way she smiled at him, how she kneeled in front of him and said, "Your name doesn't make you special, you have to make your name special. Make people remember you, John."
I'm trying, Mom, he thinks as cleans his brushes, staring all the while at a fresh piece of canvas. His mind can't seem to fill the empty white space and he decides to give it up for the day.
It's later that night that he wakes up from a sound sleep, sitting up in bed and staring around his bedroom, momentarily confused.
There's a sudden flash of clarity and he's up, moving into the living room and flipping on the lights, lifting the blank canvas onto his easel. It's nearly three a.m. but he's wide awake now, grabbing his pencil to start sketching.
A face begins to form, not fully realized yet, but it's in his head and he knows exactly how he'll paint it.
He mixes his paint and begins to work. First the eyes, brown, warm and friendly, framed by long black eyelashes. Then the nose, small and curved slightly upward at the tip. Pink lips, stretched into a coy smile, tongue poking through the teeth and he can almost hear what her laugh sounds like, throaty and gorgeously rich. He finishes with long blonde hair, straight to her shoulders and pushed back behind one ear.
The first light of dawn is creeping into the room when he finally finishes and he steps back to stare at his work. There she is, the girl from his dream, exactly as he imagined her.
He finds his notepad and stands, pen poised over the paper, wondering what to call it. This is surely the one he'll be turning in for his project and it needs to have the right name.
A slow grin spreads across his face as he scrawls four letters onto the slip of paper and pins it to the back of the canvas. He takes the time to clean his brushes and glances once more at the painting before he collapses back into bed. The name flashes through his mind once before he falls asleep and he dreams of her smile and her eyes.
Rose.
He walks happily down the street a few days later, his final project safely handed in. He's quite confident in the grade he'll receive and thinks back to his mother. I'm doing it, Mom!
He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't see the girl until he runs into her, knocking his sketchbook and her purse to the sidewalk. They both kneel down, apologizing profusely and simultaneously as he tries to stuff the contents of her purse back in and she shuffles his drawings together.
They stand and when he looks at her face he suddenly feels as though he's forgotten how to breathe.
Her smile is apologetic and her eyes are worried, but it's her, dear God, it's her.
"I'm so sorry," she says as she hands him his sketchbook and he registers dimly the fact that she's English. He stares at her and wonders if he somehow dreamed her into existence.
She's staring at him uneasily now, her smile fading and he snaps himself back into the world, giving back her purse.
"Not a problem," he says, finally remembering that he has vocal cords and he damn well better know how to use them if he wants to keep her here.
She slips her purse onto her shoulder and nods at his sketchbook.
"They're quite good," she says, "I had a peek while I was picking them up."
He stares at her, confused, and she laughs and it sounds just as he imagined it would.
"Your drawings," she says, pointing at the sketchbook held loosely in his hands.
"Oh! Right, thank you!" he replies and realizes he's grinning at her like an idiot but she's smiling too and so it's all right.
"I'm Rose," she says, extending her hand and all of the air seems to once again leave his lungs.
"I know," he breathes and she stares at him quizzically.
"Sorry?"
"John," he says, shaking her hand. "I'm John."
"Nice to meet you," she says, her grin rapidly becoming rather bemused.
"Do you want to have lunch?" he asks before he can stop himself.
She looks a bit surprised but nods. "Yeah, that'd be nice. I'd love to see some more of your drawings. There's a place a couple blocks over, has the best chips I've been able to find in this city."
"Chips?" he says and she laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It catches the sunlight and glows a brilliant gold.
"Haven't been here long, if you couldn't tell. French fries, yeah?"
He nods, laughing at his own stupidity. "I knew that."
"Ask for chips here, they bring you a packet of crisps. It's all quite confusing at first but I'm learning." She grins once more and there's the tongue, peeking through her teeth. "Chips, then?" she says and takes a few steps back, eyes curious and, unless he's quite mistaken and he really hopes he's not, hopeful.
"Chips would be lovely," he says and hurries to catch up with her.