(no subject)
I Saw Lightning. Ten/Rose (G) post-Doomsday.
Her nightdress is thin and made more for show than comfort, but she wanted to impress the empty bed, and pretend for a little while that she wasn’t alone, and that he wasn’t stuck on the wrong side of a great divide. She leans against the wall and lets her mind wander. 1, 074 words.
Rose wakes up crying. She can barely remember the nightmare, but the grief and loss hit her so very hard that she’s desperately clutching at the wall of her new bedroom, breaking her nails and chipping the paint as she weeps.
It’s slow at first, the hitch in her throat, the wetness on her cheeks, but then she’s overwhelmed and she can’t make sense of it, and she certainly can’t make herself stop. She can barely keep breathing as she shakes in this sudden misery that only her subconscious can explain.
Every fibre of her being longs to hear his voice again. Every single atom, buzzing to be near him. To listen to the silence and in the midsts of it hear the whooshing of a time machine landing in her back garden.
She never does hear it.
This isn’t me. She thinks, trembling in the morning cold, hugging her arms around her chest and waiting for light to stream in through her curtains. She’s strong, she’s capable, and this is silly.
But, it’s not. It’s not silly, and it’s not weak. It’s painful, and her heart beats harder nowadays, so she’s all the more aware that it’s breaking. Yesterday she closed her eyes and let her fingers trail along the edges of the ties in the department store she was in. Running along the seams, she pretends for a second that he’s sneaking up on her as she shops, and that soon his arms will wrap around her waist and she’ll giggle and he’ll say her name as if for the first time.
Sometimes she imagines him with flowers, but most of the time he’s more than enough on his own.
She shivers and tries once more to remember the nightmare. She frantically wipes at the tears on her cheeks and thinks he might have died, in the dream that is. She remembers lightning, but by the looks of the raindrops on the windowsill, that might not have been a dream.
If she focuses she can see him reaching to her, calling her name. If she concentrates she can just about-
She shivers again. Her nightdress is thin and made more for show than comfort, but she wanted to impress the empty bed, and pretend for a little while that she wasn’t alone, and that he wasn’t stuck on the wrong side of a great divide.
She leans against the wall and lets her mind wander.
Good morning, he might say as he crawls back into bed. Or hello. Or just, morning. Mumbled low. His voice sleepy and slow. (She likes to imagine what he’d be like if he slept more, and if he felt the same kind of lethargy as humans do.)
Maybe he’s not crawling back into bed. Maybe he’s crawling out of bed and off to the kitchen to make her breakfast. Or off to put the kettle on. Or off to go to the loo.
(Maybe he’s still sleeping, and she’s just sitting there watching him snore. Trying not to laugh at the way his hair sticks up at odd angles, or the way his face is kinda squashed against the assortment of pillows on his side of the bed. Maybe his skin will have the same crinkled lines as the sheets. Maybe she’ll just stare at his bare back for hours until he wakes himself up with a snort and she’ll finally let loose that snigger.)
When he returns (if he has indeed left) he’ll run his fingers along her skin. He’ll start with her legs, because right now they’re freezing and she knows that one touch from him and they’d be instantly warm. Past her knees, he’d play with the lace of her dress, telling her some fantastical story about a place or a planet or a bustling city or a race of people. Or a fact. Or a conversation he’d overheard that made him laugh. Or made him think. Or made him stop.
He’d share it, she’s sure. She imagines herself sighing as he leans in close, his warm breath dancing along her collarbone. She’d bite her lip, as he’d lean in to kiss her on the cheek, softly.
No, that’s not right. She would turn, and meet him halfway. And that innocent peck on the cheek would turn into a full-scale snog in seconds. She thinks she might blush, and that his eyes might widen.
No, they’d close, and when she’d pull away they’d still be closed, and his lips would still be puckered, but really he won’t be surprised. This, after all, will not be a rare occurrence.
Morning, she would say to him, smiling, and his grin might widen, as it normally would. He’d suggest an adventure, while seeing how her hand would fit into his, and she’d agree to his suggestion, following him to the ends of the earth. She might try and smooth his crazy hair down. Or she’d laugh. Or by laughing, she would make him pout, and then she’d reach out and carefully fix the mess to the best of her abilities.
Outside the wind whistles through the wet trees. It’s nothing like what July’s weather should be, but then when is it ever in Blighty. She thinks that in this fantasy it won’t be raining, and she won’t be cold, and she certainly won’t be alone.
And then she has a flash of watching a lightning storm on the beach, his coat on her shoulders as they huddle together on the sand, and she thinks it might be interesting, and certainly worth a look one day. Worth the dream.
Let’s be in love. She thinks, like she’s constructing characters in a play.
They’ll be back in time for tea, he’d promise, insisting the day would be problem free (when really they both know it’s a promise he can’t keep). No matter where they end up later on, right now they’ll just lie in bed until the alarm kicks in with morning radio. And even then they’ll stay snuggled under the covers as the disk jockeys play music they don’t recognise, until they fall asleep again, or the doctor finally drags her out of bed.
Yes, that does sound nice, Rose thinks, and rather than wake up and greet her family with the morning light, she decides to crawl back under the covers, to sleep in, and wait and maybe dream a little longer.
-Fin.
Her nightdress is thin and made more for show than comfort, but she wanted to impress the empty bed, and pretend for a little while that she wasn’t alone, and that he wasn’t stuck on the wrong side of a great divide. She leans against the wall and lets her mind wander. 1, 074 words.
Rose wakes up crying. She can barely remember the nightmare, but the grief and loss hit her so very hard that she’s desperately clutching at the wall of her new bedroom, breaking her nails and chipping the paint as she weeps.
It’s slow at first, the hitch in her throat, the wetness on her cheeks, but then she’s overwhelmed and she can’t make sense of it, and she certainly can’t make herself stop. She can barely keep breathing as she shakes in this sudden misery that only her subconscious can explain.
Every fibre of her being longs to hear his voice again. Every single atom, buzzing to be near him. To listen to the silence and in the midsts of it hear the whooshing of a time machine landing in her back garden.
She never does hear it.
This isn’t me. She thinks, trembling in the morning cold, hugging her arms around her chest and waiting for light to stream in through her curtains. She’s strong, she’s capable, and this is silly.
But, it’s not. It’s not silly, and it’s not weak. It’s painful, and her heart beats harder nowadays, so she’s all the more aware that it’s breaking. Yesterday she closed her eyes and let her fingers trail along the edges of the ties in the department store she was in. Running along the seams, she pretends for a second that he’s sneaking up on her as she shops, and that soon his arms will wrap around her waist and she’ll giggle and he’ll say her name as if for the first time.
Sometimes she imagines him with flowers, but most of the time he’s more than enough on his own.
She shivers and tries once more to remember the nightmare. She frantically wipes at the tears on her cheeks and thinks he might have died, in the dream that is. She remembers lightning, but by the looks of the raindrops on the windowsill, that might not have been a dream.
If she focuses she can see him reaching to her, calling her name. If she concentrates she can just about-
She shivers again. Her nightdress is thin and made more for show than comfort, but she wanted to impress the empty bed, and pretend for a little while that she wasn’t alone, and that he wasn’t stuck on the wrong side of a great divide.
She leans against the wall and lets her mind wander.
Good morning, he might say as he crawls back into bed. Or hello. Or just, morning. Mumbled low. His voice sleepy and slow. (She likes to imagine what he’d be like if he slept more, and if he felt the same kind of lethargy as humans do.)
Maybe he’s not crawling back into bed. Maybe he’s crawling out of bed and off to the kitchen to make her breakfast. Or off to put the kettle on. Or off to go to the loo.
(Maybe he’s still sleeping, and she’s just sitting there watching him snore. Trying not to laugh at the way his hair sticks up at odd angles, or the way his face is kinda squashed against the assortment of pillows on his side of the bed. Maybe his skin will have the same crinkled lines as the sheets. Maybe she’ll just stare at his bare back for hours until he wakes himself up with a snort and she’ll finally let loose that snigger.)
When he returns (if he has indeed left) he’ll run his fingers along her skin. He’ll start with her legs, because right now they’re freezing and she knows that one touch from him and they’d be instantly warm. Past her knees, he’d play with the lace of her dress, telling her some fantastical story about a place or a planet or a bustling city or a race of people. Or a fact. Or a conversation he’d overheard that made him laugh. Or made him think. Or made him stop.
He’d share it, she’s sure. She imagines herself sighing as he leans in close, his warm breath dancing along her collarbone. She’d bite her lip, as he’d lean in to kiss her on the cheek, softly.
No, that’s not right. She would turn, and meet him halfway. And that innocent peck on the cheek would turn into a full-scale snog in seconds. She thinks she might blush, and that his eyes might widen.
No, they’d close, and when she’d pull away they’d still be closed, and his lips would still be puckered, but really he won’t be surprised. This, after all, will not be a rare occurrence.
Morning, she would say to him, smiling, and his grin might widen, as it normally would. He’d suggest an adventure, while seeing how her hand would fit into his, and she’d agree to his suggestion, following him to the ends of the earth. She might try and smooth his crazy hair down. Or she’d laugh. Or by laughing, she would make him pout, and then she’d reach out and carefully fix the mess to the best of her abilities.
Outside the wind whistles through the wet trees. It’s nothing like what July’s weather should be, but then when is it ever in Blighty. She thinks that in this fantasy it won’t be raining, and she won’t be cold, and she certainly won’t be alone.
And then she has a flash of watching a lightning storm on the beach, his coat on her shoulders as they huddle together on the sand, and she thinks it might be interesting, and certainly worth a look one day. Worth the dream.
Let’s be in love. She thinks, like she’s constructing characters in a play.
They’ll be back in time for tea, he’d promise, insisting the day would be problem free (when really they both know it’s a promise he can’t keep). No matter where they end up later on, right now they’ll just lie in bed until the alarm kicks in with morning radio. And even then they’ll stay snuggled under the covers as the disk jockeys play music they don’t recognise, until they fall asleep again, or the doctor finally drags her out of bed.
Yes, that does sound nice, Rose thinks, and rather than wake up and greet her family with the morning light, she decides to crawl back under the covers, to sleep in, and wait and maybe dream a little longer.
-Fin.