(no subject)
Sometime After Midnight Rose/TenII, rating (PG-13)
He tosses her shirt carelessly onto his bed as he continues getting ready, trying hard to ignore the fact that he’s breathing her in. 1,723.
A/N: Sorry, I know this is late, but I was struggling to find the perfect song, and eventually stumbled upon a song-fic-request one of my Tumblr-idols made, and I couldn't resist. The song is Sometime Around Midnight, by Airborne Toxic Event, and the prompt/birthday suggestion idea was from allrightfine: Read her idea here. I made it as a birthday gift to her, but since my story closely follows the song, it still fits perfectly in the MP3 challenge, even though my timing was off, lol.
(Also on Tumblr)
He finds it an hour before midnight; a soft silk shirt kicked and forgotten under their bed, the scent of her still clinging to its threads like a perfumed silent ghost.
Well, no, not their bed, he has to remind himself - a fact that he is completely okay with, really, really he is. He has all the leg room he could ever possibly want, and it’s still comfortable, still warm, even without Rose Tyler stretched across its amazing mattress - the one they picked out together, after lots of laughing, jumping, and “testing”. It had been wonderful of her to let him keep it after the break up. And the toaster. He wasn’t sure he could’ve lived without the toaster.
He tosses her shirt carelessly onto his bed as he continues getting ready, trying hard to ignore the fact that he’s breathing her in.
****
The music is flowing through the room just as freely as the alcohol, and it warms him up just as quickly, his head bobbing in tune with the piano’s melancholy notes, and being human’s not so hard; really it’s not. He fits right in as he laughs at a mate’s joke, loud and earnest, though he’s not quite certain he gets the punch-line. Even so, this is terrific, this is fun - this is living, and adventure, and it’s brilliant. A night out with the guys, just the thing he needs.
Well, no, not needs - wants. A day away from grading papers, and reading essays, and stuck in a small square building where the rooms are not bigger in the inside, not by any stretch of the imagination. But he’s living day by day, just like he always wanted - the life he thought he could never have, if not, exactly, in the way he wanted it. But it’s fine. He’s fine, really he is, and wine’s never tasted this good.
Then… sometime around midnight he spots Rose Tyler.
The sight of her, here, so completely unexpectedly, is jarring for a moment. She looks beautiful under the fractured lights of the bar, and it’s quite unfair, the way she’s wearing his favorite white dress; the one she knows he always went mad over. And it’s maddening, too, the way she’s smiling and laughing with her own group of friends, her tongue slipping between her teeth in that familiar way he knows oh so well.
He tries not to think how long it’s been since he felt such warmth aimed in his direction, or that amazing tongue of hers, tangling with his, as he casually explores her mouth.
Pushing such unpleasantries aside, he takes another swig of Merlot, even as his eyes helplessly drink her in from across the bar, trying in vain to tear his gaze away. Even as a full-fledged Time Lord, with all his Time Lord faculties in place, he’d always found it impossible to ignore Rose Tyler. As half-human, and all male, he’s come to realize it’s fruitless to even try.
In any case, she spots him soon enough, though something in the way she looks at him, makes him suspect she’s known he was there all along. And he thinks, ah, that’s so like her - his brilliant, observant, amazing Rose. Well, not his Rose, not anymore; but anyway, before he has time to plan a suitable defense, to feign disinterest and practice nonchalance, she’s walking towards him, and it’s show time as he tries to calm his erratically racing heart - singular on the heart, but he's okay with that too.
Now, if only the room would stop spinning, that would be wizard.
He grins and feels the fool as he tries to make it feel genuine. “Rose Tyler! Hello.”
“Hello,” she greets with a happy, friendly smile. She’s holding a tonic in her hand, and he tries to ignore the sudden onslaught of memories - of them, together, and the last time they were drinking and how perfectly that had turned out. But Rose, to his immense frustration, appears unruffled - which is not only insulting, but downright rude. All this time he was under the impression that humans were supposed to be susceptible to impromptu meetings of this sort; in fact, he’s almost certain they are, and he’s brilliant, so he should know. But why then, he wonders, is he the only one suffering sweaty palms and frayed nerves?
Thankfully, if Rose notices, she doesn’t let on. She’s too busy being perfectly agreeable as always, spouting pleasantries left and right, like the old friends they are. “How’ve you been?” “How’s teaching going?” “How’s the toaster?”
Somehow, impressively, he manages a civil, “Good, fine, functional,” and really, she’s lucky he managed even that much. He’s much more focused on the smell of her perfume, the same scent on the shirt he’d found earlier that night, only now, so close, so familiar, it’s making him dizzy … the white dress clinging so perfectly to her curves, and he remembers Rose, wrapped around him just as beautifully; his name falling from her lips, hands and legs entwined, hearts racing. Together. Forever.
And this is all so very, very wrong.
Before he can tell her so, he hears one of her friends calling for her across the room, and she turns to tell them she’ll be right there. Smiling for him one last time, her hand lightly brushing his arm, she gives him an apologetic, sad smile. “Sorry, gotta run, Doctor. Be seeing ya, yeah?”
At the word “run” his heart drops to the floor, and she might as well have stomped on it right then and there. “Oh, yes, right,” he tells her, though his voice catches on the last. Something in her eyes responds to that, but all the same she’s turning away, and quickly, much too soon, she’s enfolded back into her own separate circle, temporarily hidden from his view.
Suddenly feeling sick, he turns to the bartender. “Bourbon,” he says, his voice hard, and at this moment, he can’t quite drum up the energy to care. Taking a shot, he downs it quickly, glad that his human body is surprisingly tolerant of the stuff, or maybe Donna was always a liberal drinker, and this one’s for her, he thinks, as he downs another. Even surrounded by the band, the drunken murmurs of fools, eventually, the sound of Rose Tyler’s infectious laughter breaks through - of course it does - and against his better judgment, he turns to watch her again, knowing he’ll regret it, but unable to look away all the same.
She’s with a man now, one he doesn’t recognize - some new Torchwood employee, maybe - and then his eyes darken as he watches the stranger help her into her coat, a grin lighting her face as the chap leads her towards the door, her hand wrapped comfortably in the crook of his arm. Still, before she disappears, she glances in his direction, her soft brown eyes locked and loaded with - oh, is that a challenge then? But, before he can delve deeper, she’s pulled along and gone.
All he knows is that his stomach is suddenly in knots, and his insides feel like fire. “What is it? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” one of his mates say, lightly poking his side. The Doctor shakes his head.
“Need air,” he tells him, and before he can talk himself out of what he’s about to do, he’s following after her, not exactly steady on his feet. Suddenly, the bar lights seem much brighter than normal, and when he finally reaches the door, the cool air greeting him feels amazing on his hot skin, like an old friend, and it’s raining, which is perfect. At least she won’t be screwing that pretty boy in an alley somewhere.
His long brown coat flaps behind him as he runs, and there, up ahead, not far at all, he spots her. She’s moved her hand away from the strange bloke’s, and they’re walking together now, but not cozy at all, which is just fine by him, lovely even. Before long, she seems to hear the sound of footsteps fast approaching, of rain splashing against pavement, and glances over her shoulder curiously, her face illuminated by the harsh yellow streetlights - surprised, yet not, to see him moving towards her with purpose.
She whispers something to her companion, and with relief, the Doctor watches the other man go on ahead, alone, as Rose crosses her arms against her chest, completely indifferent to the rain as she waits for him to catch up. When he does, he’s breathing heavily, but not from the brief run.
“So, we need to talk,” he tells her with an air of seriousness that feels alien on his tongue. It’s a tone he hasn’t used since a certain beach in Norway, when he lost not only his TARDIS, but clearly his good sense as well.
“What? Right here?” she asks, looking amused. “In the rain?”
“Well, no, sorry,” he clarifies, “not here. It’s wet and cold, and frankly, my body doesn’t recover quite as quickly as it used to, and honestly, Rose, I have no idea how you humans have survived for as long as you have. Human physiology is rubbish.”
Rose laughs, and the sound is beautiful. It immediately warms his entire body, and if he could make her laugh like this every day, for the rest of her life, he thinks he’d gladly trade in his last remaining heart.
“Fine then, I know a little café nearby, still open. They’ve even got chips,” she tells him with a conspiratorial wink.
“Oh, but I love chips!” he tells her happily, and feeling brave, he takes her hand in his, resisting the urge to point out how perfectly it still fits in his; how it’ll always fit. Time enough for that later, he assures himself - because, sure, he could live without her, of course he could - but it would hardly be a life worth living then, would it? And if he’s learned anything from being human, it’s that sometimes it’s alright to be selfish.
Smiling brilliantly, he looks down at her, his voice filled with so much promise. “But this time, Rose Tyler, chips are on me,” he tells her.
Grinning just as brightly, she nods, “Quite right too.”
Together, hand-in-hand, sometime after midnight, they walk through the streets of this parallel world, and for once, the world spinning beneath their feet doesn’t feel quite so unsteady.
He tosses her shirt carelessly onto his bed as he continues getting ready, trying hard to ignore the fact that he’s breathing her in. 1,723.
A/N: Sorry, I know this is late, but I was struggling to find the perfect song, and eventually stumbled upon a song-fic-request one of my Tumblr-idols made, and I couldn't resist. The song is Sometime Around Midnight, by Airborne Toxic Event, and the prompt/birthday suggestion idea was from allrightfine: Read her idea here. I made it as a birthday gift to her, but since my story closely follows the song, it still fits perfectly in the MP3 challenge, even though my timing was off, lol.
(Also on Tumblr)
He finds it an hour before midnight; a soft silk shirt kicked and forgotten under their bed, the scent of her still clinging to its threads like a perfumed silent ghost.
Well, no, not their bed, he has to remind himself - a fact that he is completely okay with, really, really he is. He has all the leg room he could ever possibly want, and it’s still comfortable, still warm, even without Rose Tyler stretched across its amazing mattress - the one they picked out together, after lots of laughing, jumping, and “testing”. It had been wonderful of her to let him keep it after the break up. And the toaster. He wasn’t sure he could’ve lived without the toaster.
He tosses her shirt carelessly onto his bed as he continues getting ready, trying hard to ignore the fact that he’s breathing her in.
****
The music is flowing through the room just as freely as the alcohol, and it warms him up just as quickly, his head bobbing in tune with the piano’s melancholy notes, and being human’s not so hard; really it’s not. He fits right in as he laughs at a mate’s joke, loud and earnest, though he’s not quite certain he gets the punch-line. Even so, this is terrific, this is fun - this is living, and adventure, and it’s brilliant. A night out with the guys, just the thing he needs.
Well, no, not needs - wants. A day away from grading papers, and reading essays, and stuck in a small square building where the rooms are not bigger in the inside, not by any stretch of the imagination. But he’s living day by day, just like he always wanted - the life he thought he could never have, if not, exactly, in the way he wanted it. But it’s fine. He’s fine, really he is, and wine’s never tasted this good.
Then… sometime around midnight he spots Rose Tyler.
The sight of her, here, so completely unexpectedly, is jarring for a moment. She looks beautiful under the fractured lights of the bar, and it’s quite unfair, the way she’s wearing his favorite white dress; the one she knows he always went mad over. And it’s maddening, too, the way she’s smiling and laughing with her own group of friends, her tongue slipping between her teeth in that familiar way he knows oh so well.
He tries not to think how long it’s been since he felt such warmth aimed in his direction, or that amazing tongue of hers, tangling with his, as he casually explores her mouth.
Pushing such unpleasantries aside, he takes another swig of Merlot, even as his eyes helplessly drink her in from across the bar, trying in vain to tear his gaze away. Even as a full-fledged Time Lord, with all his Time Lord faculties in place, he’d always found it impossible to ignore Rose Tyler. As half-human, and all male, he’s come to realize it’s fruitless to even try.
In any case, she spots him soon enough, though something in the way she looks at him, makes him suspect she’s known he was there all along. And he thinks, ah, that’s so like her - his brilliant, observant, amazing Rose. Well, not his Rose, not anymore; but anyway, before he has time to plan a suitable defense, to feign disinterest and practice nonchalance, she’s walking towards him, and it’s show time as he tries to calm his erratically racing heart - singular on the heart, but he's okay with that too.
Now, if only the room would stop spinning, that would be wizard.
He grins and feels the fool as he tries to make it feel genuine. “Rose Tyler! Hello.”
“Hello,” she greets with a happy, friendly smile. She’s holding a tonic in her hand, and he tries to ignore the sudden onslaught of memories - of them, together, and the last time they were drinking and how perfectly that had turned out. But Rose, to his immense frustration, appears unruffled - which is not only insulting, but downright rude. All this time he was under the impression that humans were supposed to be susceptible to impromptu meetings of this sort; in fact, he’s almost certain they are, and he’s brilliant, so he should know. But why then, he wonders, is he the only one suffering sweaty palms and frayed nerves?
Thankfully, if Rose notices, she doesn’t let on. She’s too busy being perfectly agreeable as always, spouting pleasantries left and right, like the old friends they are. “How’ve you been?” “How’s teaching going?” “How’s the toaster?”
Somehow, impressively, he manages a civil, “Good, fine, functional,” and really, she’s lucky he managed even that much. He’s much more focused on the smell of her perfume, the same scent on the shirt he’d found earlier that night, only now, so close, so familiar, it’s making him dizzy … the white dress clinging so perfectly to her curves, and he remembers Rose, wrapped around him just as beautifully; his name falling from her lips, hands and legs entwined, hearts racing. Together. Forever.
And this is all so very, very wrong.
Before he can tell her so, he hears one of her friends calling for her across the room, and she turns to tell them she’ll be right there. Smiling for him one last time, her hand lightly brushing his arm, she gives him an apologetic, sad smile. “Sorry, gotta run, Doctor. Be seeing ya, yeah?”
At the word “run” his heart drops to the floor, and she might as well have stomped on it right then and there. “Oh, yes, right,” he tells her, though his voice catches on the last. Something in her eyes responds to that, but all the same she’s turning away, and quickly, much too soon, she’s enfolded back into her own separate circle, temporarily hidden from his view.
Suddenly feeling sick, he turns to the bartender. “Bourbon,” he says, his voice hard, and at this moment, he can’t quite drum up the energy to care. Taking a shot, he downs it quickly, glad that his human body is surprisingly tolerant of the stuff, or maybe Donna was always a liberal drinker, and this one’s for her, he thinks, as he downs another. Even surrounded by the band, the drunken murmurs of fools, eventually, the sound of Rose Tyler’s infectious laughter breaks through - of course it does - and against his better judgment, he turns to watch her again, knowing he’ll regret it, but unable to look away all the same.
She’s with a man now, one he doesn’t recognize - some new Torchwood employee, maybe - and then his eyes darken as he watches the stranger help her into her coat, a grin lighting her face as the chap leads her towards the door, her hand wrapped comfortably in the crook of his arm. Still, before she disappears, she glances in his direction, her soft brown eyes locked and loaded with - oh, is that a challenge then? But, before he can delve deeper, she’s pulled along and gone.
All he knows is that his stomach is suddenly in knots, and his insides feel like fire. “What is it? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” one of his mates say, lightly poking his side. The Doctor shakes his head.
“Need air,” he tells him, and before he can talk himself out of what he’s about to do, he’s following after her, not exactly steady on his feet. Suddenly, the bar lights seem much brighter than normal, and when he finally reaches the door, the cool air greeting him feels amazing on his hot skin, like an old friend, and it’s raining, which is perfect. At least she won’t be screwing that pretty boy in an alley somewhere.
His long brown coat flaps behind him as he runs, and there, up ahead, not far at all, he spots her. She’s moved her hand away from the strange bloke’s, and they’re walking together now, but not cozy at all, which is just fine by him, lovely even. Before long, she seems to hear the sound of footsteps fast approaching, of rain splashing against pavement, and glances over her shoulder curiously, her face illuminated by the harsh yellow streetlights - surprised, yet not, to see him moving towards her with purpose.
She whispers something to her companion, and with relief, the Doctor watches the other man go on ahead, alone, as Rose crosses her arms against her chest, completely indifferent to the rain as she waits for him to catch up. When he does, he’s breathing heavily, but not from the brief run.
“So, we need to talk,” he tells her with an air of seriousness that feels alien on his tongue. It’s a tone he hasn’t used since a certain beach in Norway, when he lost not only his TARDIS, but clearly his good sense as well.
“What? Right here?” she asks, looking amused. “In the rain?”
“Well, no, sorry,” he clarifies, “not here. It’s wet and cold, and frankly, my body doesn’t recover quite as quickly as it used to, and honestly, Rose, I have no idea how you humans have survived for as long as you have. Human physiology is rubbish.”
Rose laughs, and the sound is beautiful. It immediately warms his entire body, and if he could make her laugh like this every day, for the rest of her life, he thinks he’d gladly trade in his last remaining heart.
“Fine then, I know a little café nearby, still open. They’ve even got chips,” she tells him with a conspiratorial wink.
“Oh, but I love chips!” he tells her happily, and feeling brave, he takes her hand in his, resisting the urge to point out how perfectly it still fits in his; how it’ll always fit. Time enough for that later, he assures himself - because, sure, he could live without her, of course he could - but it would hardly be a life worth living then, would it? And if he’s learned anything from being human, it’s that sometimes it’s alright to be selfish.
Smiling brilliantly, he looks down at her, his voice filled with so much promise. “But this time, Rose Tyler, chips are on me,” he tells her.
Grinning just as brightly, she nods, “Quite right too.”
Together, hand-in-hand, sometime after midnight, they walk through the streets of this parallel world, and for once, the world spinning beneath their feet doesn’t feel quite so unsteady.