(no subject)
Awake, TenII/Rose, PG
It is 4:17 a.m., and the Doctor has been standing awkwardly in the center of his bedroom for the past nine minutes. 1,169
By professor_spork and beingfacetious.
It is 4:17 a.m., and the Doctor has been standing awkwardly in the center of his bedroom for the past nine minutes.
He had been working in his study until four or so, tweaking his prototype sonic screwdriver. The wavelength altevector meter was still overly sensitive, but when he’d reached into his pocket to find the microsynchronizer he was sure he’d put there earlier, he’d come up instead with a chocolate éclair-a bit crushed, but really none the worse for wear. He’d stared at it for a moment or two, bewildered, before suddenly remembering the bakery he’d stopped in earlier that day on a break he’d decided to take from work. It had been a delightful bakery-the best cherries, chocolate-covered and regular, he’d ever had-and he’d bought her the pastry to remind himself to tell the story of his brilliant discovery.
Only then he had gotten distracted. There was so much to do at home-kiss Rose, work on his screwdriver, make dinner for Rose, kiss Rose, work on his screwdriver. The éclair had remained in the bottom of his pocket, quite forgotten, until he had found it in the spot he’d expected to find that microsynchronizer he may’ve-just-possibly borrowed from Torchwood.
“Rose?” he’d called, rushing out of the study and down the hall to their bedroom. “Rose, I’ve brought you some-”
And he’d made it to the bedroom and screeched to a halt, sliding in furry socks to the middle of the hardwood floor, hand flying up to cover his mouth.
Well. He hadn’t realized how late it was.
At first he had simply been afraid that he would wake her up, with his sliding and yelling and general enthusiasm. But with his single heart thudding in his chest, he’d looked at her, and realized that she was still sleeping, and then he’d looked at her, his Rose, curled on her side with her hand curled on his pillow, and it stilled him.
He does this too often, he knows. Stays up later than he thinks plotting or tinkering and lets her fall asleep without him, then comes to bed quietly and crawls under the covers without thinking of it. But tonight… tonight he takes her in. Tonight he allows himself to linger on the natural tousle of her hair, the way her lashes brush the apples of her cheeks, the ebb and flow of her shoulder as she breathes. An initial fear of waking her has slowly evolved into a blatant unwillingness to stop looking at her. Which leaves him… rather stuck.
The digital clock on her nightstand changes from 4:19 to 4:20; the sudden shift of the red glow in his peripheral vision rouses him somewhat. Stretching, he breathes in. There’s a lingering bit of warmth in the air, the vaguest of hints that spring is on its way. Underneath the window, his dusty, busted up suitcases lie in a stack. He’d found the set at a consignment shop and had fallen in love immediately, had ignored Rose’s protests and paid far too much for them because they were “vintage.” He recalls with perfect clarity the last time he and Rose went on a trip, just the two of them-long waits and security lines and two tickets to elsewhere in his suit pocket, instead of a dark Torchwood jet on a private tarmac. Her with her sleek, modern luggage, all wheels and expandable zipper compartments; him struggling with too many handles, balancing things on his knees as he tried to maintain his grip on it all. The amused quirk of her eyebrow; the smirk he’d kissed off of her.
A real stop and smell the roses sort of moment, he thinks, before rolling his eyes at himself. He really does need to get more rest.
Pulling the éclair out of his pocket and setting it on the nightstand, he sheds his coat and trousers, still gazing at her. He climbs into bed as sneakily as he can, but she rolls over and looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Mmmm… Doctor?”
“Hello,” he smiles softly, running a hand through her hair. “Go back to sleep.”
She blinks slowly and leans into his touch, and for a moment, he’s half-convinced she’ll listen to him for once. But then she stretches and looks up at him with a bleary smile. “No, m’wake now. Hi.”
“Well, that’s a shame, seeing as I’m going right to sleep.”
The notion seems to amuse her, as she lets out an inelegant sound somewhere between a yawn, a snort, and a breathy giggle.
Sometimes, he thinks he loves her most when she’s like this-when her normally chewed-on consonants are swallowed entirely in a sleepy slur, and everything about her softens. Her few walls come down.
She curls into his side, and he marvels again at the miracle of her: all drowsy warmth and soft curves, molding into his every angle. Looking up at him, she walks her fingers up his chest. “You have thinky face. Wassrong?”
“Nothing.”
She hums. “What’re you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Really.” She shifts next to him, taking one of his hands and slowly guiding it to rest against her hip, and further still. “Less thinking?”
“Less thinking,” he agrees. She closes her eyes and tilts her chin up, lips pushing together in a gentle request. Unseeing, he sits up suddenly, propelled by a sudden recollection. “I really should tell you, though, just quickly, before I forget, you’ll never guess what I found today! I was on my break from work-well, one of them-er, not that I take multiple breaks, pleasedon’ttellyourdad-anyway, I found the most marvelous bakery! You can’t even imagine, Rose, it was…it was heaven. Heaven on Carnaby Street. They had these cherries, regular ones and chocolate covered ones, and you know how I feel about chocolate covered cherries, and Dawn-that’s the bakery owner, Dawn, lovely woman-kept giving them to me, cheaper and cheaper, I expect she thought I’d buy them all if she kept on. And I may have done, in fact. Ooh, and the smell.” He tilts his head back and inhales deeply, sure he can still smell the éclairs, fresh out of the oven. Oh-the éclair! He whips his head sideways, grabs for the pastry, and twists in the bed to present it to-
Rose. Now sound asleep, again.
He blinks. “Oh.” He frowns, prods her with two fingers, holds the éclair under her nose. “Roooose. I thought you were awake now. Didn’t you want to-?”
Her soft breathing is the only reply he gets.
“Well.” He turns slowly to redeposit the éclair on the bedside table, sure he’ll remember it in the morning. Then he turns back towards her, scoots in as close as he can, and drapes himself around her-leg over legs, arm over hips. He brushes his lips across her forehead before tucking her head underneath his chin and closing his eyes with a deep exhale. “Good night, then.”
It is 4:17 a.m., and the Doctor has been standing awkwardly in the center of his bedroom for the past nine minutes. 1,169
By professor_spork and beingfacetious.
It is 4:17 a.m., and the Doctor has been standing awkwardly in the center of his bedroom for the past nine minutes.
He had been working in his study until four or so, tweaking his prototype sonic screwdriver. The wavelength altevector meter was still overly sensitive, but when he’d reached into his pocket to find the microsynchronizer he was sure he’d put there earlier, he’d come up instead with a chocolate éclair-a bit crushed, but really none the worse for wear. He’d stared at it for a moment or two, bewildered, before suddenly remembering the bakery he’d stopped in earlier that day on a break he’d decided to take from work. It had been a delightful bakery-the best cherries, chocolate-covered and regular, he’d ever had-and he’d bought her the pastry to remind himself to tell the story of his brilliant discovery.
Only then he had gotten distracted. There was so much to do at home-kiss Rose, work on his screwdriver, make dinner for Rose, kiss Rose, work on his screwdriver. The éclair had remained in the bottom of his pocket, quite forgotten, until he had found it in the spot he’d expected to find that microsynchronizer he may’ve-just-possibly borrowed from Torchwood.
“Rose?” he’d called, rushing out of the study and down the hall to their bedroom. “Rose, I’ve brought you some-”
And he’d made it to the bedroom and screeched to a halt, sliding in furry socks to the middle of the hardwood floor, hand flying up to cover his mouth.
Well. He hadn’t realized how late it was.
At first he had simply been afraid that he would wake her up, with his sliding and yelling and general enthusiasm. But with his single heart thudding in his chest, he’d looked at her, and realized that she was still sleeping, and then he’d looked at her, his Rose, curled on her side with her hand curled on his pillow, and it stilled him.
He does this too often, he knows. Stays up later than he thinks plotting or tinkering and lets her fall asleep without him, then comes to bed quietly and crawls under the covers without thinking of it. But tonight… tonight he takes her in. Tonight he allows himself to linger on the natural tousle of her hair, the way her lashes brush the apples of her cheeks, the ebb and flow of her shoulder as she breathes. An initial fear of waking her has slowly evolved into a blatant unwillingness to stop looking at her. Which leaves him… rather stuck.
The digital clock on her nightstand changes from 4:19 to 4:20; the sudden shift of the red glow in his peripheral vision rouses him somewhat. Stretching, he breathes in. There’s a lingering bit of warmth in the air, the vaguest of hints that spring is on its way. Underneath the window, his dusty, busted up suitcases lie in a stack. He’d found the set at a consignment shop and had fallen in love immediately, had ignored Rose’s protests and paid far too much for them because they were “vintage.” He recalls with perfect clarity the last time he and Rose went on a trip, just the two of them-long waits and security lines and two tickets to elsewhere in his suit pocket, instead of a dark Torchwood jet on a private tarmac. Her with her sleek, modern luggage, all wheels and expandable zipper compartments; him struggling with too many handles, balancing things on his knees as he tried to maintain his grip on it all. The amused quirk of her eyebrow; the smirk he’d kissed off of her.
A real stop and smell the roses sort of moment, he thinks, before rolling his eyes at himself. He really does need to get more rest.
Pulling the éclair out of his pocket and setting it on the nightstand, he sheds his coat and trousers, still gazing at her. He climbs into bed as sneakily as he can, but she rolls over and looks up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Mmmm… Doctor?”
“Hello,” he smiles softly, running a hand through her hair. “Go back to sleep.”
She blinks slowly and leans into his touch, and for a moment, he’s half-convinced she’ll listen to him for once. But then she stretches and looks up at him with a bleary smile. “No, m’wake now. Hi.”
“Well, that’s a shame, seeing as I’m going right to sleep.”
The notion seems to amuse her, as she lets out an inelegant sound somewhere between a yawn, a snort, and a breathy giggle.
Sometimes, he thinks he loves her most when she’s like this-when her normally chewed-on consonants are swallowed entirely in a sleepy slur, and everything about her softens. Her few walls come down.
She curls into his side, and he marvels again at the miracle of her: all drowsy warmth and soft curves, molding into his every angle. Looking up at him, she walks her fingers up his chest. “You have thinky face. Wassrong?”
“Nothing.”
She hums. “What’re you thinking about?”
“You.”
“Really.” She shifts next to him, taking one of his hands and slowly guiding it to rest against her hip, and further still. “Less thinking?”
“Less thinking,” he agrees. She closes her eyes and tilts her chin up, lips pushing together in a gentle request. Unseeing, he sits up suddenly, propelled by a sudden recollection. “I really should tell you, though, just quickly, before I forget, you’ll never guess what I found today! I was on my break from work-well, one of them-er, not that I take multiple breaks, pleasedon’ttellyourdad-anyway, I found the most marvelous bakery! You can’t even imagine, Rose, it was…it was heaven. Heaven on Carnaby Street. They had these cherries, regular ones and chocolate covered ones, and you know how I feel about chocolate covered cherries, and Dawn-that’s the bakery owner, Dawn, lovely woman-kept giving them to me, cheaper and cheaper, I expect she thought I’d buy them all if she kept on. And I may have done, in fact. Ooh, and the smell.” He tilts his head back and inhales deeply, sure he can still smell the éclairs, fresh out of the oven. Oh-the éclair! He whips his head sideways, grabs for the pastry, and twists in the bed to present it to-
Rose. Now sound asleep, again.
He blinks. “Oh.” He frowns, prods her with two fingers, holds the éclair under her nose. “Roooose. I thought you were awake now. Didn’t you want to-?”
Her soft breathing is the only reply he gets.
“Well.” He turns slowly to redeposit the éclair on the bedside table, sure he’ll remember it in the morning. Then he turns back towards her, scoots in as close as he can, and drapes himself around her-leg over legs, arm over hips. He brushes his lips across her forehead before tucking her head underneath his chin and closing his eyes with a deep exhale. “Good night, then.”