(no subject)
still got it, Ten/Rose, PG
This time is different. , 393 words
Her lips are warm against his and her fingers are lost in his new-new hair and it’s different, so different from that last time, that first time not too long ago, when she was quiet and omnipotent and glowing gold, burning with the power of the universe, and she’d tasted different, too - like time and eternity and space and travel and Gallifrey and everything, her lips effervescent with the song of the TARDIS and the heart of the Vortex, the big Bad Wolf. She’d tasted like a goddess.
This time is different.
This time she tastes like - like chips and Christmas and the toast Jackie made them that morning and milk and just a hint of apple grass and take-away and television and adventure and humanity, that one tiny adjective he’ll never be able to define, not properly, because now if he tries all he can think of is Rose Tyler, and he thinks Eve must have been an imposter because Rose is the first and last and everything in between, the entire summation of hunting and gathering and innovation and creation and invention and adaptation and determination and survival, the one-person summary of everything that makes the Great and Bountiful Human Empire great and bountiful, all bound and gift-wrapped in the twenty-year-old girl pressing her lips to his.
And it’s not her, he knows - they’ve done something, somehow, because even if she tastes right, or how he imagines right, she sounds wrong and she moves wrong and he knows that, unquestionably. He knows Rose Tyler and whatever they’ve done to her in this hospital of impossible cures, he’ll fix it - he’s the Doctor, after all, note the definitive article, and if these cat-nun-nurses think they can rearrange Rose Tyler’s mind like a dollhouse without repercussions, well, they’re sorely mistaken.
The mystery will have to wait just a minute, though, because he can hardly do anything with Rose/not-Rose latched onto him like this and it’s selfish, maybe, and foolish and stupid, but he’s going to let this not-Rose kiss him, just this once, just in case it’s the closest this body ever gets to kissing Rose Tyler.
Years and companions and averted Apocalypses later, standing on a bitter beach and swallowing the words he longs to say, the Doctor is thankful for that long-lost moment of self indulgence.
This time is different. , 393 words
Her lips are warm against his and her fingers are lost in his new-new hair and it’s different, so different from that last time, that first time not too long ago, when she was quiet and omnipotent and glowing gold, burning with the power of the universe, and she’d tasted different, too - like time and eternity and space and travel and Gallifrey and everything, her lips effervescent with the song of the TARDIS and the heart of the Vortex, the big Bad Wolf. She’d tasted like a goddess.
This time is different.
This time she tastes like - like chips and Christmas and the toast Jackie made them that morning and milk and just a hint of apple grass and take-away and television and adventure and humanity, that one tiny adjective he’ll never be able to define, not properly, because now if he tries all he can think of is Rose Tyler, and he thinks Eve must have been an imposter because Rose is the first and last and everything in between, the entire summation of hunting and gathering and innovation and creation and invention and adaptation and determination and survival, the one-person summary of everything that makes the Great and Bountiful Human Empire great and bountiful, all bound and gift-wrapped in the twenty-year-old girl pressing her lips to his.
And it’s not her, he knows - they’ve done something, somehow, because even if she tastes right, or how he imagines right, she sounds wrong and she moves wrong and he knows that, unquestionably. He knows Rose Tyler and whatever they’ve done to her in this hospital of impossible cures, he’ll fix it - he’s the Doctor, after all, note the definitive article, and if these cat-nun-nurses think they can rearrange Rose Tyler’s mind like a dollhouse without repercussions, well, they’re sorely mistaken.
The mystery will have to wait just a minute, though, because he can hardly do anything with Rose/not-Rose latched onto him like this and it’s selfish, maybe, and foolish and stupid, but he’s going to let this not-Rose kiss him, just this once, just in case it’s the closest this body ever gets to kissing Rose Tyler.
Years and companions and averted Apocalypses later, standing on a bitter beach and swallowing the words he longs to say, the Doctor is thankful for that long-lost moment of self indulgence.