And Splinter, Ten/Rose, Rated G, Post-Doomsday
Title: And Splinter
Author: christn7
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Spoilers: Post-Doomsday
Author's notes: For wendymr, with thanks. Inspired by #2 of the January Pic prompts.
Summary: He’s not sure how to react as she smiles at him. “Amazing what you can manage with a lot of willpower and some washed-up alien tech, don’t you think?”
--
And Splinter
--
It takes far too long for him to recover, and when he does the best he can manage is something akin to a squeak.
He reaches for her, even as she starts to speak, and his hand goes right through her cheek.
She shakes her head and her lips continue to move silently.
A hologram.
Just a picture - no touch. No sound, even. All the same, he never expected to see her standing in his console room again.
“I can’t hear you, Rose.”
Her lips stop moving and she frowns and he fancies that she can probably hear him.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, and he thinks he can make out a smile, but the image is poor and already fading and he can’t be sure.
--
“Well,” he says, “this is certainly different.”
She laughs and he can hear her - it’s scratchy and it sounds like there’s an echo but she’s standing - flickering - in front of him and he can hear her.
“Are you real?”
He’s not sure how to react as she smiles at him. “Amazing what you can manage with a lot of willpower and some washed-up alien tech, don’t you think?”
“Five impossible things before breakfast, that’s my girl.” Her image flickers again. “How long have you got?”
“Not long,” she admits, frowning at something he can‘t see. “Still trying to work out the kinks.”
“You‘re not going to try and come through.” It’s not a question, though he means it to be.
“Not yet.”
“Rose, you can’t.”
“Impossible things, Doctor. I’ve only done four today.”
He wants to warn her about collapsing universes and undoing the fabric of reality, but she knows, surely. “Be careful,” he says instead, but she’s already gone.
--
“Shit, sorry,” she says. “Can’t really control when this’ll come out for you.”
“Bet you are,” he mumbles, hastily wrapping a towel around his waist.
“Sorry,” she repeats, but she makes no effort to look away.
--
“Just think of it as a long-distance relationship,” she says, flickering in his bedroom doorway.
“Very long distance,” he adds and she grins.
Her visits are starting to last longer. He wants to ask how she’s doing it and if she’s got any closer, but he doesn’t dare. Can’t think of ways to stop her if he doesn’t know.
Still, he’s not at all used to having so little control. Not made for the passenger seat, him. “This is a bit beyond washed-up tech.”
She shrugs. “Not considering where it washed up from.”
“And where was that?”
She doesn’t answer him and, for the first time since her first visit, he finds himself reaching for her. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Time’s up,” she says, avoiding his gaze. Before he can reply she’s gone.
--
“I have a new companion,” he says and her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“You’ll like her, I think.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, though she’s clearly uncomfortable.
“Never stops whinging - get on well with your mother, I think.”
She laughs and a little weight eases off his chest.
“Ginger,” he says, “all her life, and not a clue how lucky she is.”
“Some people don’t know how good they’ve got it, yeah?” Her hand moves to her own hair, but the look on her face makes him think they‘re talking about something entirely different.
--
He fancies he can almost smell her, she’s that clear before him.
There’s a bounce in her step that can’t be good.
--
His eyes widen. “But how?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, and she’s staring at his chin. “Just make sure you’re there.”
“Promise,” he says, and tries not to think of them as his famous last words.
--
The air is crisp and thin against his skin as he steps out of the TARDIS. There’s barely an atmosphere and it’s dark; the planet is empty, but most of them are by now.
He double checks the coordinates she gave him - for the fourth time - and rocks on his heels. He’s too anxious to sit, too nervous to pace, even. He’s about to watch two universes collapse - splinter and shatter and meld into each other - and it’s hard for him to do, but, he reminds himself, it hardly matters at the end.
There's a flash of light in the darkness and it's funny, he thinks, how he keeps finding pieces of himself here.
Author: christn7
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Spoilers: Post-Doomsday
Author's notes: For wendymr, with thanks. Inspired by #2 of the January Pic prompts.
Summary: He’s not sure how to react as she smiles at him. “Amazing what you can manage with a lot of willpower and some washed-up alien tech, don’t you think?”
--
And Splinter
--
It takes far too long for him to recover, and when he does the best he can manage is something akin to a squeak.
He reaches for her, even as she starts to speak, and his hand goes right through her cheek.
She shakes her head and her lips continue to move silently.
A hologram.
Just a picture - no touch. No sound, even. All the same, he never expected to see her standing in his console room again.
“I can’t hear you, Rose.”
Her lips stop moving and she frowns and he fancies that she can probably hear him.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, and he thinks he can make out a smile, but the image is poor and already fading and he can’t be sure.
--
“Well,” he says, “this is certainly different.”
She laughs and he can hear her - it’s scratchy and it sounds like there’s an echo but she’s standing - flickering - in front of him and he can hear her.
“Are you real?”
He’s not sure how to react as she smiles at him. “Amazing what you can manage with a lot of willpower and some washed-up alien tech, don’t you think?”
“Five impossible things before breakfast, that’s my girl.” Her image flickers again. “How long have you got?”
“Not long,” she admits, frowning at something he can‘t see. “Still trying to work out the kinks.”
“You‘re not going to try and come through.” It’s not a question, though he means it to be.
“Not yet.”
“Rose, you can’t.”
“Impossible things, Doctor. I’ve only done four today.”
He wants to warn her about collapsing universes and undoing the fabric of reality, but she knows, surely. “Be careful,” he says instead, but she’s already gone.
--
“Shit, sorry,” she says. “Can’t really control when this’ll come out for you.”
“Bet you are,” he mumbles, hastily wrapping a towel around his waist.
“Sorry,” she repeats, but she makes no effort to look away.
--
“Just think of it as a long-distance relationship,” she says, flickering in his bedroom doorway.
“Very long distance,” he adds and she grins.
Her visits are starting to last longer. He wants to ask how she’s doing it and if she’s got any closer, but he doesn’t dare. Can’t think of ways to stop her if he doesn’t know.
Still, he’s not at all used to having so little control. Not made for the passenger seat, him. “This is a bit beyond washed-up tech.”
She shrugs. “Not considering where it washed up from.”
“And where was that?”
She doesn’t answer him and, for the first time since her first visit, he finds himself reaching for her. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Time’s up,” she says, avoiding his gaze. Before he can reply she’s gone.
--
“I have a new companion,” he says and her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“You’ll like her, I think.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, though she’s clearly uncomfortable.
“Never stops whinging - get on well with your mother, I think.”
She laughs and a little weight eases off his chest.
“Ginger,” he says, “all her life, and not a clue how lucky she is.”
“Some people don’t know how good they’ve got it, yeah?” Her hand moves to her own hair, but the look on her face makes him think they‘re talking about something entirely different.
--
He fancies he can almost smell her, she’s that clear before him.
There’s a bounce in her step that can’t be good.
--
His eyes widen. “But how?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says, and she’s staring at his chin. “Just make sure you’re there.”
“Promise,” he says, and tries not to think of them as his famous last words.
--
The air is crisp and thin against his skin as he steps out of the TARDIS. There’s barely an atmosphere and it’s dark; the planet is empty, but most of them are by now.
He double checks the coordinates she gave him - for the fourth time - and rocks on his heels. He’s too anxious to sit, too nervous to pace, even. He’s about to watch two universes collapse - splinter and shatter and meld into each other - and it’s hard for him to do, but, he reminds himself, it hardly matters at the end.
There's a flash of light in the darkness and it's funny, he thinks, how he keeps finding pieces of himself here.