(no subject)
Whispered Scent, Eleven/Rose, pg
Rose was like Persephone, bringing spring where she went., 1601
It was the smell of green and flowers that had brought him here. He’d been ambling along the TARDIS corridor, ready to ignore the fact that it was Christmas, somewhere, some time, and continue along his merry (not so very) way, when a delicate hint of jasmine had invaded his senses. His synapses had crackled in a pleasant manner and he’d abandoned his ultimate goal for a cuppa, deciding that the conservatory might be just the place for him.
Except it wasn’t the indoor garden his nose led him to. It was Rose’s room.
He caught himself just in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob, staring at the mess that was Rose. That sneaky old girl. The last time he’d been in here was his last regeneration and he’d been too busy to (chosen not to) visit or somehow get this room cleaned up (deleted of painful reminders).
Everything was just as she’d left it. He remembered (never really forgot) the heavy weight of loss and grief that had swamped him as he’d stood in this same spot and closed the door on the girl who had awakened his soul. That same weight pressed down on him now, but somehow he felt more compelled to enter her domain, see what she left behind.
Tentatively he took a step forward in to the bright and airy room. The ship had always doted upon her, giving her the best. There were all shades of pink covering the walls, the bed and even edging the doorways to the bathroom and closet. The smell of jasmine was faint and he could almost hit himself for not realizing why that scent had sparked his senses.
She laughs as she breaks away from his gentle grasp.
“No way are you gettin’ this from me!” In her hands is the last chocolate biscuit of the last tin before they have to make another stop. She tries to run around her bed, still unmade from this morning, but trips on an errant boot that wasn’t put away. She falls with a curse on her bed.
The Doctor, who is following close after, is caught off guard by her fall and goes down with her. She squeals as he lands half on top of her, still making a grab for that last sweet. It’s his favorite biscuit, at least this time around.
A sudden thought occurs to him, a brilliant thought, actually, and he uses the hand not grasping for the biscuit to tickle her exposed stomach. She laughs, her hand loosening on the treat and he nabs it with triumph, smiling down at her.
Her blonde hair fans out around her and her warm eyes are sparkling with mirth, her perfume coiling around his head, and he’s struck with how much affection he has for her, this close to her. She must have seen something in his own face as the laughter fades between them and there is just words between them that can’t be spoken, that won’t be spoken because of his fears and her insecurities.
But he can feel the closely kept secrets knocking at the walls he’s erected. Everything would change if they escaped, if she knew, so he shifts away, taking a bite out of the biscuit, grinning maniacally at her. He ignores the way he eyebrows come together in slight confusion, the disappointment in her eyes. It’s better for her that she not know than to take her down with him.
He ignored the beating of his hearts as he moved further into the room, tired of the sadness that clung to him, that prevented him from being able to celebrate what he had had with Rose. Because there had been so many good times, so many fun times.
He paused at the edge of her bathroom. The smell of jasmine was more prominent here, with an underlying sent of her lining the walls and drifting in the air. He could almost see the spirals of perfume wafting around.
His eyes caught his own in the mirror above the sink. Such a different face from his last one (the one he’d made for her).
“Why’re you starin’ at me?” She doesn’t turn around to face him, continuing to apply mascara, her face an inch or two away from her bathroom mirror.
He thought he’d been sneaky in coming into her room, quiet as a Yarni mouse, he’d thought. Apparently not though. He doesn’t reply, just waits for her to finish what she’s doing.
He finds it interesting, this ritual covering of one’s face. Sometimes, she spends a good forty-five minutes putting on cosmetics, curling her hair, doing whatever it is she does that she thinks would make her look better. He laughs about this to himself: she’s already beautiful. But he doesn’t say the words, that thin line drawn between them would get smudged and then erased and he wouldn’t know what to do about her, him, them, after that.
She finishes and turns to him, one eyebrow raised. He meant to tell her that they’d landed on the only fully ocean planet known to exist or some other inane and safe thing, but what comes out is:
“Rose, you’re beautiful even without the make-up.”
He turned away from his reflection. Maybe it was still too soon to touch that gaping part of his hearts. The feelings threatened to overwhelm him, the sadness, the despair, the love that he felt for this girl. Blindly, he moved out of the doorway, suddenly feeling suffocated by her scent, the reminders, the memory.
He tripped over something peeking out from under the bed. Catching himself with one hand, he took advantage of his bent position and grabbed at the offending item. It was a shoe box with a large paper sign that read “DON’T LOOK”.
Despite the choking sorrow, he smiled. He felt certain that this box was meant for him. One thing (out of many) he loved about her was her playfulness. And she knew that wherever there was something telling him to “keep out”, he’d go right on in. Like he was doing now.
Tugging the top of the shoe box off, he found another smaller box with a note on it that said, “That means you, Doctor.” That made him laugh out loud. Oh, she knew him (too well).
He hesitated for a second, but mentally shrugged. She wasn’t here now (keep breathing) and wouldn’t know if he looked. He took out the smaller box and opened it, only to find a thick envelope, the size of one of this greeting cards, the kind that he’d always been fascinated with, mainly because he’d never received one. Turning it over, he saw that she’d written on the flap of the envelope: “I mean it, Doctor. I don’t want you to spoil your Christmas present!!!!!”
The memory of that first Christmas without her slammed into him and he shut his eyes in remembered pain. The envelope crinkled under his clenching fingers. The sound brought him back to the present. Carefully loosening his grip on the envelope, he smoothed it out on the bed.
He slid a finger under the flap and opened it, pulling out the card within. There was a piece of paper wrapped around it. “OK, fine. If you’re going to look at it, then fine! But it’s not done yet so don’t laugh or anything.”
Under the paper was a homemade card. A photo of their first Christmas together, when he’d just regenerated and had spent dinner with Rose and her family was pasted onto a TARDIS-blue card. He’d never seen this photo but he remembered the moment. The Doctor in the photo had his arm around Rose, holding her tight against him as they gave ear-splitting grins at the camera, wearing their ridiculous paper crowns. Her smile hit him with a punch in the gut. He traced her face with his finger.
A glitter below the photo caught his eye. His hearts stopped. Rose had started to glue glitter over words that she had traced below the photo. As he read her careful penciling he felt overwhelmed, by memories, by emotions. It had been so long…
What Rose had left incomplete was the inscription below the photo. The swirling forms and the dramatic flourishes of the language of his people, a dead language, was one that he never thought to see written by another living hand. Where had she learned it?
He felt the presence of the TARDIS in his mind, her own sadness a small echo of his.
She sits cross-legged on the unmade bed, pillows fallen to the floor to make room for her project. Her pencil is poised over the TARDIS-blue card. “Tell me that ag’n?” she says without looking up. There is a pause and he can feel the TARDIS reaching out to the yellow-haired girl. She nods and looks up at the ceiling with her gorgeous smile. “Thanks!”
He’s surprised that his ship had done that, something that almost felt like it shouldn’t have happened but at the same time, also felt right. The TARDIS filled his mind with the unforgettable image of the glowing Bad Wolf along with a feeling of connection that mirrored his own with the ship. Another tie that bound him to Rose.
He traced the words she’d so carefully etched out, mouthing the words. Rose had probably not even been aware of what the TARDIS had actually had her write. A soundless agreement tinged with sorrowful mischief came from the old girl.
“The Doctor and his Rose.”
Rose was like Persephone, bringing spring where she went., 1601
It was the smell of green and flowers that had brought him here. He’d been ambling along the TARDIS corridor, ready to ignore the fact that it was Christmas, somewhere, some time, and continue along his merry (not so very) way, when a delicate hint of jasmine had invaded his senses. His synapses had crackled in a pleasant manner and he’d abandoned his ultimate goal for a cuppa, deciding that the conservatory might be just the place for him.
Except it wasn’t the indoor garden his nose led him to. It was Rose’s room.
He caught himself just in the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob, staring at the mess that was Rose. That sneaky old girl. The last time he’d been in here was his last regeneration and he’d been too busy to (chosen not to) visit or somehow get this room cleaned up (deleted of painful reminders).
Everything was just as she’d left it. He remembered (never really forgot) the heavy weight of loss and grief that had swamped him as he’d stood in this same spot and closed the door on the girl who had awakened his soul. That same weight pressed down on him now, but somehow he felt more compelled to enter her domain, see what she left behind.
Tentatively he took a step forward in to the bright and airy room. The ship had always doted upon her, giving her the best. There were all shades of pink covering the walls, the bed and even edging the doorways to the bathroom and closet. The smell of jasmine was faint and he could almost hit himself for not realizing why that scent had sparked his senses.
She laughs as she breaks away from his gentle grasp.
“No way are you gettin’ this from me!” In her hands is the last chocolate biscuit of the last tin before they have to make another stop. She tries to run around her bed, still unmade from this morning, but trips on an errant boot that wasn’t put away. She falls with a curse on her bed.
The Doctor, who is following close after, is caught off guard by her fall and goes down with her. She squeals as he lands half on top of her, still making a grab for that last sweet. It’s his favorite biscuit, at least this time around.
A sudden thought occurs to him, a brilliant thought, actually, and he uses the hand not grasping for the biscuit to tickle her exposed stomach. She laughs, her hand loosening on the treat and he nabs it with triumph, smiling down at her.
Her blonde hair fans out around her and her warm eyes are sparkling with mirth, her perfume coiling around his head, and he’s struck with how much affection he has for her, this close to her. She must have seen something in his own face as the laughter fades between them and there is just words between them that can’t be spoken, that won’t be spoken because of his fears and her insecurities.
But he can feel the closely kept secrets knocking at the walls he’s erected. Everything would change if they escaped, if she knew, so he shifts away, taking a bite out of the biscuit, grinning maniacally at her. He ignores the way he eyebrows come together in slight confusion, the disappointment in her eyes. It’s better for her that she not know than to take her down with him.
He ignored the beating of his hearts as he moved further into the room, tired of the sadness that clung to him, that prevented him from being able to celebrate what he had had with Rose. Because there had been so many good times, so many fun times.
He paused at the edge of her bathroom. The smell of jasmine was more prominent here, with an underlying sent of her lining the walls and drifting in the air. He could almost see the spirals of perfume wafting around.
His eyes caught his own in the mirror above the sink. Such a different face from his last one (the one he’d made for her).
“Why’re you starin’ at me?” She doesn’t turn around to face him, continuing to apply mascara, her face an inch or two away from her bathroom mirror.
He thought he’d been sneaky in coming into her room, quiet as a Yarni mouse, he’d thought. Apparently not though. He doesn’t reply, just waits for her to finish what she’s doing.
He finds it interesting, this ritual covering of one’s face. Sometimes, she spends a good forty-five minutes putting on cosmetics, curling her hair, doing whatever it is she does that she thinks would make her look better. He laughs about this to himself: she’s already beautiful. But he doesn’t say the words, that thin line drawn between them would get smudged and then erased and he wouldn’t know what to do about her, him, them, after that.
She finishes and turns to him, one eyebrow raised. He meant to tell her that they’d landed on the only fully ocean planet known to exist or some other inane and safe thing, but what comes out is:
“Rose, you’re beautiful even without the make-up.”
He turned away from his reflection. Maybe it was still too soon to touch that gaping part of his hearts. The feelings threatened to overwhelm him, the sadness, the despair, the love that he felt for this girl. Blindly, he moved out of the doorway, suddenly feeling suffocated by her scent, the reminders, the memory.
He tripped over something peeking out from under the bed. Catching himself with one hand, he took advantage of his bent position and grabbed at the offending item. It was a shoe box with a large paper sign that read “DON’T LOOK”.
Despite the choking sorrow, he smiled. He felt certain that this box was meant for him. One thing (out of many) he loved about her was her playfulness. And she knew that wherever there was something telling him to “keep out”, he’d go right on in. Like he was doing now.
Tugging the top of the shoe box off, he found another smaller box with a note on it that said, “That means you, Doctor.” That made him laugh out loud. Oh, she knew him (too well).
He hesitated for a second, but mentally shrugged. She wasn’t here now (keep breathing) and wouldn’t know if he looked. He took out the smaller box and opened it, only to find a thick envelope, the size of one of this greeting cards, the kind that he’d always been fascinated with, mainly because he’d never received one. Turning it over, he saw that she’d written on the flap of the envelope: “I mean it, Doctor. I don’t want you to spoil your Christmas present!!!!!”
The memory of that first Christmas without her slammed into him and he shut his eyes in remembered pain. The envelope crinkled under his clenching fingers. The sound brought him back to the present. Carefully loosening his grip on the envelope, he smoothed it out on the bed.
He slid a finger under the flap and opened it, pulling out the card within. There was a piece of paper wrapped around it. “OK, fine. If you’re going to look at it, then fine! But it’s not done yet so don’t laugh or anything.”
Under the paper was a homemade card. A photo of their first Christmas together, when he’d just regenerated and had spent dinner with Rose and her family was pasted onto a TARDIS-blue card. He’d never seen this photo but he remembered the moment. The Doctor in the photo had his arm around Rose, holding her tight against him as they gave ear-splitting grins at the camera, wearing their ridiculous paper crowns. Her smile hit him with a punch in the gut. He traced her face with his finger.
A glitter below the photo caught his eye. His hearts stopped. Rose had started to glue glitter over words that she had traced below the photo. As he read her careful penciling he felt overwhelmed, by memories, by emotions. It had been so long…
What Rose had left incomplete was the inscription below the photo. The swirling forms and the dramatic flourishes of the language of his people, a dead language, was one that he never thought to see written by another living hand. Where had she learned it?
He felt the presence of the TARDIS in his mind, her own sadness a small echo of his.
She sits cross-legged on the unmade bed, pillows fallen to the floor to make room for her project. Her pencil is poised over the TARDIS-blue card. “Tell me that ag’n?” she says without looking up. There is a pause and he can feel the TARDIS reaching out to the yellow-haired girl. She nods and looks up at the ceiling with her gorgeous smile. “Thanks!”
He’s surprised that his ship had done that, something that almost felt like it shouldn’t have happened but at the same time, also felt right. The TARDIS filled his mind with the unforgettable image of the glowing Bad Wolf along with a feeling of connection that mirrored his own with the ship. Another tie that bound him to Rose.
He traced the words she’d so carefully etched out, mouthing the words. Rose had probably not even been aware of what the TARDIS had actually had her write. A soundless agreement tinged with sorrowful mischief came from the old girl.
“The Doctor and his Rose.”