(no subject)
she fell, ten/rose, r
He loves Rose's hair, but he has never combed or brushed it. 1835 words, picture #30
To say he is baffled when the nurse presses the wooden comb into his hand is an understatement. The comb is solid, warm, wide-toothed, perfect for working out knots and tangles without hurting her.
He loves Rose's hair, but he has never combed or brushed it.
Washed it, yes.
To get rid of the dirt and grime, the slime or mud that coated her hair, clung to it during their wilder adventures. He loves washing her hair, the feel of her heavy, wet tresses around his fingers, on his skin, is just too good to give up when they are in the tub together, or in the shower. They usually make love afterwards, and he loves it when she brushes more of his skin with her damp curls. It is so beautiful when it fans out around her on the pillow in her sleep, or when she tosses it in wild abandon when she makes love to him. He loves the scent of it, the feel of it when she lies with her head on his chest; its warmth.
Cut it, unfortunately.
The dragonflies of Ibb had nested in her locks while she'd been asleep. They had woven her hair into elaborate nests, beautiful to look at but impossible to remove with a comb. Rose had given up her hair for them, and it had taken a long time to grow her hair back to the length he loved. He had been heartbroken to cut the nests out of her hair, leaving her with a ragged fringe that her Mum had then turned into something nice.
Plaited it, often.
In bed, when he couldn't stand the ends tickling him, not when he was intent on finding release in her mouth. Or when they had kissed on New Earth, and the wind had blown her hair into his mouth. Or before he had pushed into her against the side of the TARDIS, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, where the wind had been fierce and cold. But the way the wind had raked through the brownish grass had reminded him what it was like to make love to her, and he'd had to have her.
But he has never combed it.
Watched her do it.
But he has never run the teeth through her tresses himself.
-:-
“I can't,” he blurts. Holds out the comb for the nurse to take it back.
She looks at him hard. “She'll enjoy it.”
“She's an empty shell!” he cries, his frustration, pent up for too long, breaks forth now from the tight space between his hearts, where it had clotted for weeks, making it hard to breathe.
“How do you know that?” the nurse asks calmly. She gestures at Rose, where she is sitting in the wicker chair on the terrace, right by the balustrade, overlooking the lake. She's staring, unseeing, into the distance at the bluish haze and the range of mountains. “Just give it a try, Doctor.”
“I...” he begins. He cannot bear the thought of Rose reduced to this, much less touch her or comb her hair. It is dull now, hangs listlessly about her shoulders. It is clean, they make sure of that, but it has lost its lustre and life.
The nurse nods towards Rose, then turns to leave.
Rose sits there, like she has every day since the doctors released her from hospital. She goes to the same chair every morning and sits down, very straight, and waits. Waits for the nurses to take her to physio or lunch or for a walk in the gardens. She does everything they ask of her. She reacts but doesn't act.
She breaks the Doctor's hearts every day.
There is nothing that can rouse her, that can bring her back from the place she has retreated to. Not even he, and the thought that for once he can do nothing leaves him furious and helpless. He should leave. But for some reason he can't.
His outburst felt good.
It reminded him that he wants Rose back.
“Hello, Rose Tyler,” he says as he steps towards her chair. She doesn't look at him as he crouches before her, cups her cheek. “Hello, my love.”
The emptiness in her light brown eyes terrifies him, and his hearts sink. He's unsure if he can do this, how much longer he'll be able to stay with her.
He straightens and steps behind her. He takes a handful of her hair. It's heavy and thick, she has so much hair. But it feels dry and the sun doesn't catch highlights in it any more. Squaring his jaw, he begins to run the comb carefully through it. He doesn't want to hurt her, and when he meets with resistance, he takes hold of her hair just above the knot and works it out without tugging at her scalp.
Oddly enough, combing her hair is soothing in its repetitiveness. He listens to the swishing as he runs the comb through her hair, and he lets the strands glide through his fingers as well. That is what he was wont to do, after they made love.
But he cannot think of her like that now.
When he is done, he sits in the chair beside her, to be with her for a while before he leaves. He feels ashamed of himself for wanting to give up. How he could have forgotten that he believes in her is beyond him.
The next day, the nurse presses the comb into his hand again.
And the day after.
He keeps the comb so as not to bother the nurse.
-:-
He lives from day to day now, on the slow path with her, because he's afraid of what he'll see when he jumps ahead. It's his life too, it's the rule that you don't interfere with that. He doesn't listen to the song of the universe because he doesn't even want to have that sense of foreboding. He’s afraid of losing her if he does. He’s afraid, too, of losing her, and of what will become of him. He's terrified of himself, doesn't trust himself.
Then one day, he does not get to see Rose. He's running his fingertips along the teeth of the comb in his pocket when the nurse stops him on his way to her.
“Not today,” she says, blocking his way.
His eyes go wide as his heart quickens. “Is something wrong?”
“No. But she must come back to you. She has seemed more relaxed in the past couple of days. So don't go to her. Let's see what happens,” the nurse explains.
He nods, albeit reluctantly, his fingers dancing over the comb in his pocket. Then he turns around and leaves, not knowing what to do with himself.
She turns him away again the next day.
And the day after.
That's when he receives the call from the rehab unit. He's shaking when he accepts it. "You should come, Doctor,” the nurse tells him.
-:-
Rose is sitting in her usual chair in the mellow October sunshine. The light breeze plays in her hair, and his fingers find the comb in his coat pocket. It's more a gesture of reassurance because his hearts are thumping wildly; he notices that only now that he sees Rose again. Not seeing her for three days has made him restless, and the nurse's replies had been brief when he'd called to inquire after Rose. The teeth bite into the soft flesh of his trembling fingers and bring him back to the present.
“Rose?”
For the first time in over two months she turns around when she hears his voice. Her eyes light up when she sees him. Her voice, when she says his name, is very soft. She hasn't spoken in weeks, hasn't used her voice since she stopped screaming in pain.
He lets go of the comb and rushes to her. He drops to his knees to pull her into his arms. His fingers rake through her hair as they hold each other close, and he hears her say his name over and over again. How he has missed her soft whispers, the brush of her warm breath against his ear and neck.
“Rose!”
“Don't leave me,” she whispers.
“I couldn't... they wouldn't... let me come and see you, oh Rose. I'm so, so sorry,” he stammers, his tongue unable to keep up, for once, with his racing thoughts.
He has her back.
-:-
Placing the comb on the bedside table, she asks, “What happened?” Of course she knows of the fall, of the terrifying moments when her fingers were too weak to resist the pull of the Void and she had to let go.
She curls into him in her bed on the TARDIS. They are skin to skin, but they haven't made love yet. It will take Rose a while to come back to herself, to come back to him, but neither of them can bear the idea of sleeping alone. The Doctor has learned how to be still, and he is content to share the bed with her throughout the night, just lying there with her in his arms.
“You fell,” he croaks. He finds it difficult to talk about what's happened, although he's seen it happen in his mind over and over again. Those pictures he had been unable to still, his inability to keep her from falling. His inability to catch her. In the film playing over and over again in his mind she always fell, and sometimes he'd wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she'd fallen through the wall, into the Void. Or if Pete had turned up to catch her as she fell and taken her to the safety of his world.
All that seemed better than her crumpled body on the floor in the white room, in the eerie silence after the torrent of the Void.
“The breach sealed before... The wall... You hit the wall,” the Doctor says, glad that she cannot see his face. Her hair covers his shoulder, it's warm, and he cannot stop running his fingers through it. It's silken and golden. Beneath the sheets her fingers draw idle patterns on his stomach.
“I don't remember,” she says.
She lifts her head, props herself on her elbow, and his shoulder goes cold.
“I don't remember,” she repeats.
“I'm glad,” he croaks. He wishes he didn't, but he can't tell her that. He smiles bravely.
“Yeah.”
She studies him, trails her fingers along the contours of his face. They find more angles than before her fall, and she smiles apologetically. Then she leans down and she kisses him, lightly, tentatively.
His eyes flutter shut, and for the first time, he sees her move above him again, her hair wild, her eyes closed and her lips parted in pleasure.
He loves Rose's hair, but he has never combed or brushed it. 1835 words, picture #30
To say he is baffled when the nurse presses the wooden comb into his hand is an understatement. The comb is solid, warm, wide-toothed, perfect for working out knots and tangles without hurting her.
He loves Rose's hair, but he has never combed or brushed it.
Washed it, yes.
To get rid of the dirt and grime, the slime or mud that coated her hair, clung to it during their wilder adventures. He loves washing her hair, the feel of her heavy, wet tresses around his fingers, on his skin, is just too good to give up when they are in the tub together, or in the shower. They usually make love afterwards, and he loves it when she brushes more of his skin with her damp curls. It is so beautiful when it fans out around her on the pillow in her sleep, or when she tosses it in wild abandon when she makes love to him. He loves the scent of it, the feel of it when she lies with her head on his chest; its warmth.
Cut it, unfortunately.
The dragonflies of Ibb had nested in her locks while she'd been asleep. They had woven her hair into elaborate nests, beautiful to look at but impossible to remove with a comb. Rose had given up her hair for them, and it had taken a long time to grow her hair back to the length he loved. He had been heartbroken to cut the nests out of her hair, leaving her with a ragged fringe that her Mum had then turned into something nice.
Plaited it, often.
In bed, when he couldn't stand the ends tickling him, not when he was intent on finding release in her mouth. Or when they had kissed on New Earth, and the wind had blown her hair into his mouth. Or before he had pushed into her against the side of the TARDIS, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, where the wind had been fierce and cold. But the way the wind had raked through the brownish grass had reminded him what it was like to make love to her, and he'd had to have her.
But he has never combed it.
Watched her do it.
But he has never run the teeth through her tresses himself.
-:-
“I can't,” he blurts. Holds out the comb for the nurse to take it back.
She looks at him hard. “She'll enjoy it.”
“She's an empty shell!” he cries, his frustration, pent up for too long, breaks forth now from the tight space between his hearts, where it had clotted for weeks, making it hard to breathe.
“How do you know that?” the nurse asks calmly. She gestures at Rose, where she is sitting in the wicker chair on the terrace, right by the balustrade, overlooking the lake. She's staring, unseeing, into the distance at the bluish haze and the range of mountains. “Just give it a try, Doctor.”
“I...” he begins. He cannot bear the thought of Rose reduced to this, much less touch her or comb her hair. It is dull now, hangs listlessly about her shoulders. It is clean, they make sure of that, but it has lost its lustre and life.
The nurse nods towards Rose, then turns to leave.
Rose sits there, like she has every day since the doctors released her from hospital. She goes to the same chair every morning and sits down, very straight, and waits. Waits for the nurses to take her to physio or lunch or for a walk in the gardens. She does everything they ask of her. She reacts but doesn't act.
She breaks the Doctor's hearts every day.
There is nothing that can rouse her, that can bring her back from the place she has retreated to. Not even he, and the thought that for once he can do nothing leaves him furious and helpless. He should leave. But for some reason he can't.
His outburst felt good.
It reminded him that he wants Rose back.
“Hello, Rose Tyler,” he says as he steps towards her chair. She doesn't look at him as he crouches before her, cups her cheek. “Hello, my love.”
The emptiness in her light brown eyes terrifies him, and his hearts sink. He's unsure if he can do this, how much longer he'll be able to stay with her.
He straightens and steps behind her. He takes a handful of her hair. It's heavy and thick, she has so much hair. But it feels dry and the sun doesn't catch highlights in it any more. Squaring his jaw, he begins to run the comb carefully through it. He doesn't want to hurt her, and when he meets with resistance, he takes hold of her hair just above the knot and works it out without tugging at her scalp.
Oddly enough, combing her hair is soothing in its repetitiveness. He listens to the swishing as he runs the comb through her hair, and he lets the strands glide through his fingers as well. That is what he was wont to do, after they made love.
But he cannot think of her like that now.
When he is done, he sits in the chair beside her, to be with her for a while before he leaves. He feels ashamed of himself for wanting to give up. How he could have forgotten that he believes in her is beyond him.
The next day, the nurse presses the comb into his hand again.
And the day after.
He keeps the comb so as not to bother the nurse.
-:-
He lives from day to day now, on the slow path with her, because he's afraid of what he'll see when he jumps ahead. It's his life too, it's the rule that you don't interfere with that. He doesn't listen to the song of the universe because he doesn't even want to have that sense of foreboding. He’s afraid of losing her if he does. He’s afraid, too, of losing her, and of what will become of him. He's terrified of himself, doesn't trust himself.
Then one day, he does not get to see Rose. He's running his fingertips along the teeth of the comb in his pocket when the nurse stops him on his way to her.
“Not today,” she says, blocking his way.
His eyes go wide as his heart quickens. “Is something wrong?”
“No. But she must come back to you. She has seemed more relaxed in the past couple of days. So don't go to her. Let's see what happens,” the nurse explains.
He nods, albeit reluctantly, his fingers dancing over the comb in his pocket. Then he turns around and leaves, not knowing what to do with himself.
She turns him away again the next day.
And the day after.
That's when he receives the call from the rehab unit. He's shaking when he accepts it. "You should come, Doctor,” the nurse tells him.
-:-
Rose is sitting in her usual chair in the mellow October sunshine. The light breeze plays in her hair, and his fingers find the comb in his coat pocket. It's more a gesture of reassurance because his hearts are thumping wildly; he notices that only now that he sees Rose again. Not seeing her for three days has made him restless, and the nurse's replies had been brief when he'd called to inquire after Rose. The teeth bite into the soft flesh of his trembling fingers and bring him back to the present.
“Rose?”
For the first time in over two months she turns around when she hears his voice. Her eyes light up when she sees him. Her voice, when she says his name, is very soft. She hasn't spoken in weeks, hasn't used her voice since she stopped screaming in pain.
He lets go of the comb and rushes to her. He drops to his knees to pull her into his arms. His fingers rake through her hair as they hold each other close, and he hears her say his name over and over again. How he has missed her soft whispers, the brush of her warm breath against his ear and neck.
“Rose!”
“Don't leave me,” she whispers.
“I couldn't... they wouldn't... let me come and see you, oh Rose. I'm so, so sorry,” he stammers, his tongue unable to keep up, for once, with his racing thoughts.
He has her back.
-:-
Placing the comb on the bedside table, she asks, “What happened?” Of course she knows of the fall, of the terrifying moments when her fingers were too weak to resist the pull of the Void and she had to let go.
She curls into him in her bed on the TARDIS. They are skin to skin, but they haven't made love yet. It will take Rose a while to come back to herself, to come back to him, but neither of them can bear the idea of sleeping alone. The Doctor has learned how to be still, and he is content to share the bed with her throughout the night, just lying there with her in his arms.
“You fell,” he croaks. He finds it difficult to talk about what's happened, although he's seen it happen in his mind over and over again. Those pictures he had been unable to still, his inability to keep her from falling. His inability to catch her. In the film playing over and over again in his mind she always fell, and sometimes he'd wondered if it wouldn't have been better if she'd fallen through the wall, into the Void. Or if Pete had turned up to catch her as she fell and taken her to the safety of his world.
All that seemed better than her crumpled body on the floor in the white room, in the eerie silence after the torrent of the Void.
“The breach sealed before... The wall... You hit the wall,” the Doctor says, glad that she cannot see his face. Her hair covers his shoulder, it's warm, and he cannot stop running his fingers through it. It's silken and golden. Beneath the sheets her fingers draw idle patterns on his stomach.
“I don't remember,” she says.
She lifts her head, props herself on her elbow, and his shoulder goes cold.
“I don't remember,” she repeats.
“I'm glad,” he croaks. He wishes he didn't, but he can't tell her that. He smiles bravely.
“Yeah.”
She studies him, trails her fingers along the contours of his face. They find more angles than before her fall, and she smiles apologetically. Then she leans down and she kisses him, lightly, tentatively.
His eyes flutter shut, and for the first time, he sees her move above him again, her hair wild, her eyes closed and her lips parted in pleasure.