(no subject)
Fight, flight or freeze, TenII/Rose, PG-13
Just now she wants order. And routine. And tea. 1,756 w.
Just post Journey’s End.
A/N: So much for taking it easy this week. No laurels for me!
She wakes at first light. As she leaves their bed she pulls on a comfortable, gigantic, worn heather green sweatshirt and some big fluffy grey socks.
It is a desperate effort to hide.
Exiting the room, Rose glances at the scarlet bra tossed aside on her duvet. Its vivid red colour throbs and burns and accuses her fiercely, even in the pre-dawn light. She shakes her head. Ridiculous, it’s just a silly, stupid old bra! It doesn’t have that much power.
His muffled breathing draws her attention to him. He sleeps peacefully, unaware of her guilty retreat. She marvels at the vulnerability of his bare arm poking out of the bedclothes. Looking at him, she can feel how comfortable he is, how well she fits to him-and she knows that if she were to get back into bed beside him he’d be warm, so warm-and he’d open his arms to her and pull her up to nestle beside him…
But she can’t allow that just now.
Instead: Breakfast. Yes. There will be beans on toast and ITV, she thinks, taking flight to the kitchen and busying herself before the silver fingers of dawn transform into the rosy sunlight of happy, happy. For the thoughts taking root in her head cannot grow in direct sunlight; it takes grayness and nervous energy to make this garden grow.
She flutters about, getting her ingredients out-filling the kettle, piling bread on a plate, turning on the range, and opening the beans tin.
She pulls the pans out with both extreme haste and a concerted effort not to make too much noise. The last thing she wants to do just now is wake him.
Just now she wants order. And routine. And tea.
She gasps to find him standing there, dopey with sleep, watching her with a funny expression-which takes her a moment to see because she’s too caught up noticing that he’s naked. Her head is assaulted by multiple thoughts. One: Well, why shouldn’t he be? Two: Of course he is and so were you, earlier. Three: Blimey, look at how gorgeous he is…
“Morning,” is his cautious greeting.
“Yeah. Hi. Um… Hungry?” She asks, with a jerk of the head, a big toothy grin and a little too much edge to her faux cheeriness.
He nods, studying her.
The pan sizzling, she grabs a wooden spoon from the big, sterile white crock of assorted gleaming gadgets next to the stove and dumps the beans in. Flecks of runny russet gravy spatter across her hand, the sweatshirt and her sterile stainless stovetop. Without thinking, she licks the sticky gravy freckles off her hand before she gives up with a sigh and wipes the others off the range with her sleeve, and then rubs the ones on her sweatshirt further into the fibers.
She stuffs the bread into the toaster and plunges them down.
He contemplates her manic, diffuse energy.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks from the table behind her; the (formerly) pinstriped tiger, pacing just outside the high turrets of her towering stone fortress, waiting for her to lower her defenses.
“Nope,” she lies, scratching at the muddy blotch she’s made on her sweatshirt, “I just thought food would be a super good idea seeing as how it’s been several hours since we ate last…” Her head floods with images from the many hours before-dinner out, back to the flat, a hasty disrobing and then a whirled kaleidoscope of colours, textures, hushed whispers, body parts, emotions and cozy, cocooned cuddling. It was a heady night of firsts and seconds, and nearly thirds…
Running a hand through his hair, he gives a husky chuckle, “Yeah, what time is it? What day is it?”
“No idea,” she replies. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a dirty weekend, but she knows-with a flip of her stomach-that she’s never ever felt like this: Completely accepted, completely enveloped, completely free, completely loved…
Complete.
It scares her to death.
Something finally shatters her already frayed nerves. It is either the shrill scream of steam escaping the kettle or the eyes she feels at the back of her head.
But it could also be the pounding of her own heart.
“Look.” She spins to confront him but does not look at him. “Just hear me out-and don’t interrupt. I don’t think I could get this out if you started talking.”
He tries to hide the fear in his eyes at her sudden need for difficult declarations, but it doesn’t matter, she’s not looking at him anyway as she turns off the kettle.
“It’s just… you’re here and you’re… mine… and we’re together-just as I dreamed-and it’s real and… well… It’s all freaking me out a bit, Doctor.”
Before he can make a sound she holds up her hand to him, “No, now just shut up! I know I’m being ridiculous, but just bear with me. Because I know this is my thing… Blimey, I thought you had intimacy issues… But you’ll soon see you’ve got nothin’ on me!”
She titters anxiously and pulls on the edging of her sweatshirt. “Cos the truth is that nobody ever stays. That’s the lesson I’ve learned my whole life! Dad died and left us all alone, none of Mum’s boyfriends were ever any good and all of mine left me in the end...”
He winces at the last bit.
Self-consciously, she twists her hands in her messy, speckled sleeves, “…Even Mickey escaped to this place to get away from me…”
While he knows that is not entirely true, he has enough sense to decide it isn’t worth arguing the specifics with her just now. All he can do is watch his beautiful, gravy smeared girl as she looks away, wrestling with some unnamed fear, gathering the shards of her courage like so much glass in her hands. So he just sits, helplessly wishing he could pick up the shards for her because his hands are so much larger and he feels he probably deserves the pain.
She fists her hands and draws a sharp intake of breath. Perhaps it’s an attempt to reincorporate her broken courage-but its jagged edges cut her; and her next comes out serrated and uneven. She gulps the air, struggling to push past her reluctance.
“And… I’m terrified… that you’re gonna do that too.”
The toast pops up.
He takes a breath. Thankfully, she did not say “again.” He nods solemnly, repenting his past cock-ups for the millionth time.
“God, look at me!” She indicates her clothing, retreating behind her barricade again. “And I knew what I was doing when I pulled this junk on. Why get dressed at all? S’not like we’ve needed clothing for the last fifteen hours or so-so why bother getting dressed? You didn’t,” she wails, pointing out his state of undress, “not like you needed to-but I did. This is my armor, my protection.” She runs a hand through her locks, floppy and frayed from an old hairdo and hours of breathless lovemaking, “Oh, God, Doctor. I’m such a mess!”
He lets loose a soft, rueful chuckle and shakes his head. Biting his lip, he says nothing, but wants to say so much.
“But I am!” she protests the silent entreaty in his eyes. “Y’know this weekend with you has been the epitome of everything I’ve ever wanted, ever? And now here I am, scared to death because I’m actually getting it! How messed up is that!?”
The forgotten beans bubble happily away on the stove, filling the air around them with a fruity sweetness. He lets her run out of steam before he finally speaks. “Can I say something now?”
She shakes her head and his heart breaks to see the fear in her eyes, along with the tears. “Only if you tell me that you don’t mind what a mess I am, and that you’ll be patient with me while I figure my way out of this, because I want to be different. I want to have the life I want with you and not be afraid anymore. I want to get rid of this, but I need your help.”
As her last words ring off her sterile stainless kitchen-so un-Rose-like-he can plainly see the skinny twelve year-old, dirty-blonde haired girl with skinned knees and pigtails that got a red bike for Christmas because he couldn’t stand to see her unhappy.
How can he deny her when he’s needed her for years to make him better?
He holds his hands out to her and gestures for her to come to him. Deliberating, she rubs one socked foot against her bare leg; finally, she walks towards him. She makes it all the way to the side of his knee and allows him to reach for her. Feeling his touch, her initial defenses thaw. Leaning into him, she seeks out his eyes, searching for a reassurance she never needed to ask for.
“Oh, Rose,” he exhales, his voice deep and rumbly. “What am I gonna do with you?”
She giggles incongruously as she wipes away the tears, “I know, right?”
Rubbing her back and hip to soothe her, a flash of skin captures his attention as her sweatshirt rides up. An eyebrow goes up.
Rose flushes. “Yeah, some armor, huh? I did have enough in me to make an effort to do something different. Got nothin’ on under this,” she swipes her hand up the back of her thigh, lifting up her sweatshirt to reveal her knickerless backside. “S’a start, yeah?”
He flicks his gaze from her bum to her gold-flecked hazel eyes with little bits of starlight and a whole lot of temporarily mislaid strength.
He encircles her waist with his hands. “Rose, if you can put up with a little blood, anger and revenge, then I can put up with knickerless sweatshirts and breakfasts of burned beans on toast.”
She laughs, hearing exactly what he doesn’t say-knowing that neither of them fancy themselves the biggest prizes in this parallel world-but maybe after everything, it’s what fits them together so well.
“I don’t want to run anymore,” she says as she allows him to draw her into his warm embrace.
“Good… Cos I don’t either, Rose.”
And he says it in his kiss; in the beating of his heart; in the way he draws her close and holds her after his body repeats it endlessly to her for days and months on end until she can trust it.
It says, forever.
Just now she wants order. And routine. And tea. 1,756 w.
Just post Journey’s End.
A/N: So much for taking it easy this week. No laurels for me!
She wakes at first light. As she leaves their bed she pulls on a comfortable, gigantic, worn heather green sweatshirt and some big fluffy grey socks.
It is a desperate effort to hide.
Exiting the room, Rose glances at the scarlet bra tossed aside on her duvet. Its vivid red colour throbs and burns and accuses her fiercely, even in the pre-dawn light. She shakes her head. Ridiculous, it’s just a silly, stupid old bra! It doesn’t have that much power.
His muffled breathing draws her attention to him. He sleeps peacefully, unaware of her guilty retreat. She marvels at the vulnerability of his bare arm poking out of the bedclothes. Looking at him, she can feel how comfortable he is, how well she fits to him-and she knows that if she were to get back into bed beside him he’d be warm, so warm-and he’d open his arms to her and pull her up to nestle beside him…
But she can’t allow that just now.
Instead: Breakfast. Yes. There will be beans on toast and ITV, she thinks, taking flight to the kitchen and busying herself before the silver fingers of dawn transform into the rosy sunlight of happy, happy. For the thoughts taking root in her head cannot grow in direct sunlight; it takes grayness and nervous energy to make this garden grow.
She flutters about, getting her ingredients out-filling the kettle, piling bread on a plate, turning on the range, and opening the beans tin.
She pulls the pans out with both extreme haste and a concerted effort not to make too much noise. The last thing she wants to do just now is wake him.
Just now she wants order. And routine. And tea.
She gasps to find him standing there, dopey with sleep, watching her with a funny expression-which takes her a moment to see because she’s too caught up noticing that he’s naked. Her head is assaulted by multiple thoughts. One: Well, why shouldn’t he be? Two: Of course he is and so were you, earlier. Three: Blimey, look at how gorgeous he is…
“Morning,” is his cautious greeting.
“Yeah. Hi. Um… Hungry?” She asks, with a jerk of the head, a big toothy grin and a little too much edge to her faux cheeriness.
He nods, studying her.
The pan sizzling, she grabs a wooden spoon from the big, sterile white crock of assorted gleaming gadgets next to the stove and dumps the beans in. Flecks of runny russet gravy spatter across her hand, the sweatshirt and her sterile stainless stovetop. Without thinking, she licks the sticky gravy freckles off her hand before she gives up with a sigh and wipes the others off the range with her sleeve, and then rubs the ones on her sweatshirt further into the fibers.
She stuffs the bread into the toaster and plunges them down.
He contemplates her manic, diffuse energy.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks from the table behind her; the (formerly) pinstriped tiger, pacing just outside the high turrets of her towering stone fortress, waiting for her to lower her defenses.
“Nope,” she lies, scratching at the muddy blotch she’s made on her sweatshirt, “I just thought food would be a super good idea seeing as how it’s been several hours since we ate last…” Her head floods with images from the many hours before-dinner out, back to the flat, a hasty disrobing and then a whirled kaleidoscope of colours, textures, hushed whispers, body parts, emotions and cozy, cocooned cuddling. It was a heady night of firsts and seconds, and nearly thirds…
Running a hand through his hair, he gives a husky chuckle, “Yeah, what time is it? What day is it?”
“No idea,” she replies. She can’t remember the last time she’s had a dirty weekend, but she knows-with a flip of her stomach-that she’s never ever felt like this: Completely accepted, completely enveloped, completely free, completely loved…
Complete.
It scares her to death.
Something finally shatters her already frayed nerves. It is either the shrill scream of steam escaping the kettle or the eyes she feels at the back of her head.
But it could also be the pounding of her own heart.
“Look.” She spins to confront him but does not look at him. “Just hear me out-and don’t interrupt. I don’t think I could get this out if you started talking.”
He tries to hide the fear in his eyes at her sudden need for difficult declarations, but it doesn’t matter, she’s not looking at him anyway as she turns off the kettle.
“It’s just… you’re here and you’re… mine… and we’re together-just as I dreamed-and it’s real and… well… It’s all freaking me out a bit, Doctor.”
Before he can make a sound she holds up her hand to him, “No, now just shut up! I know I’m being ridiculous, but just bear with me. Because I know this is my thing… Blimey, I thought you had intimacy issues… But you’ll soon see you’ve got nothin’ on me!”
She titters anxiously and pulls on the edging of her sweatshirt. “Cos the truth is that nobody ever stays. That’s the lesson I’ve learned my whole life! Dad died and left us all alone, none of Mum’s boyfriends were ever any good and all of mine left me in the end...”
He winces at the last bit.
Self-consciously, she twists her hands in her messy, speckled sleeves, “…Even Mickey escaped to this place to get away from me…”
While he knows that is not entirely true, he has enough sense to decide it isn’t worth arguing the specifics with her just now. All he can do is watch his beautiful, gravy smeared girl as she looks away, wrestling with some unnamed fear, gathering the shards of her courage like so much glass in her hands. So he just sits, helplessly wishing he could pick up the shards for her because his hands are so much larger and he feels he probably deserves the pain.
She fists her hands and draws a sharp intake of breath. Perhaps it’s an attempt to reincorporate her broken courage-but its jagged edges cut her; and her next comes out serrated and uneven. She gulps the air, struggling to push past her reluctance.
“And… I’m terrified… that you’re gonna do that too.”
The toast pops up.
He takes a breath. Thankfully, she did not say “again.” He nods solemnly, repenting his past cock-ups for the millionth time.
“God, look at me!” She indicates her clothing, retreating behind her barricade again. “And I knew what I was doing when I pulled this junk on. Why get dressed at all? S’not like we’ve needed clothing for the last fifteen hours or so-so why bother getting dressed? You didn’t,” she wails, pointing out his state of undress, “not like you needed to-but I did. This is my armor, my protection.” She runs a hand through her locks, floppy and frayed from an old hairdo and hours of breathless lovemaking, “Oh, God, Doctor. I’m such a mess!”
He lets loose a soft, rueful chuckle and shakes his head. Biting his lip, he says nothing, but wants to say so much.
“But I am!” she protests the silent entreaty in his eyes. “Y’know this weekend with you has been the epitome of everything I’ve ever wanted, ever? And now here I am, scared to death because I’m actually getting it! How messed up is that!?”
The forgotten beans bubble happily away on the stove, filling the air around them with a fruity sweetness. He lets her run out of steam before he finally speaks. “Can I say something now?”
She shakes her head and his heart breaks to see the fear in her eyes, along with the tears. “Only if you tell me that you don’t mind what a mess I am, and that you’ll be patient with me while I figure my way out of this, because I want to be different. I want to have the life I want with you and not be afraid anymore. I want to get rid of this, but I need your help.”
As her last words ring off her sterile stainless kitchen-so un-Rose-like-he can plainly see the skinny twelve year-old, dirty-blonde haired girl with skinned knees and pigtails that got a red bike for Christmas because he couldn’t stand to see her unhappy.
How can he deny her when he’s needed her for years to make him better?
He holds his hands out to her and gestures for her to come to him. Deliberating, she rubs one socked foot against her bare leg; finally, she walks towards him. She makes it all the way to the side of his knee and allows him to reach for her. Feeling his touch, her initial defenses thaw. Leaning into him, she seeks out his eyes, searching for a reassurance she never needed to ask for.
“Oh, Rose,” he exhales, his voice deep and rumbly. “What am I gonna do with you?”
She giggles incongruously as she wipes away the tears, “I know, right?”
Rubbing her back and hip to soothe her, a flash of skin captures his attention as her sweatshirt rides up. An eyebrow goes up.
Rose flushes. “Yeah, some armor, huh? I did have enough in me to make an effort to do something different. Got nothin’ on under this,” she swipes her hand up the back of her thigh, lifting up her sweatshirt to reveal her knickerless backside. “S’a start, yeah?”
He flicks his gaze from her bum to her gold-flecked hazel eyes with little bits of starlight and a whole lot of temporarily mislaid strength.
He encircles her waist with his hands. “Rose, if you can put up with a little blood, anger and revenge, then I can put up with knickerless sweatshirts and breakfasts of burned beans on toast.”
She laughs, hearing exactly what he doesn’t say-knowing that neither of them fancy themselves the biggest prizes in this parallel world-but maybe after everything, it’s what fits them together so well.
“I don’t want to run anymore,” she says as she allows him to draw her into his warm embrace.
“Good… Cos I don’t either, Rose.”
And he says it in his kiss; in the beating of his heart; in the way he draws her close and holds her after his body repeats it endlessly to her for days and months on end until she can trust it.
It says, forever.