In Medias Res.
In Medias Res., TenToo/Rose, adult.
Most of all, though, she needs him beside her, and he never leaves., 802 words.
He sets up their fortune the first week.
Not a pound of Pete's money, just the bi-weekly pay Rose had socked away, never enough time to spend it all, not with days eaten up at her job, and nights flat on her back in the grass at the Tyler mansion, nights spent looking at the stars.
(Chips don't cost much, after all, and there wasn't enough money in the world to buy back the person she wanted to split them with.
No, in the end, she had paid for him in foolish hope and a bucket of affection without a bottom.)
On her sofa, he'd stared at the bank website for a long time, the sum total of her life savings displayed in little numerals across the screen.
A few clicks of the mouse and he'd set her laptop aside.
Friday, he told her, by Friday we'll be rich.
The market had held, trends and patterns, facts and figures, and a mountain of money, extracted neatly from men in suits far different than his.
It's a chafing sort of freedom, all this money. She sees it in her mum, the charity work and the shopping trips, things meant to fill up a day, and Rose goes back to work a month after they buy their own house.
He understands, of course he does, wanderlust slipping through his veins, alongside blood and those alluring human hormones. A boundless energy he walks off on the carpets, door to door, curtains open, curtains shut.
"I'll be fine here," he says. "I'll find something to do. You call if you need me."
And she does need him -- she has him -- but not at Torchwood.
She needs him in her bed, above her, and under her.
She needs him at the kitchen table, banana in hand and a box of cereal in his lap, little marshmallows plucked into waiting fingertips.
She needs him at her mum's house, playing dinosaurs with Tony and charming the staff.
Most of all, though, she needs him beside her, and he never leaves.
Every morning he's himself, and every morning he's someone else. A chef, a poet, a cop, and a writer, a movie montage of occupations, each new hat tried on like Halloween eve.
One morning, when she leaves him in the kitchen, teacups in his hand, she makes a guess.
A barista, she thinks. Or maybe the Queen.
It's art, he grins when she gets home. I'm an artist.
All of her china, all of her cups, chipped and old, expensive and new, all of them hung from the ceiling above their bed.
"Metaphors," he says with a wink. "It's a metaphor for our love. We'll never go thirsty. Or we've spilled it all and made a mess."
It's a little bit of both, neither of them say.
"What do you think, Rose Tyler? Want to fuck in a museum?"
She does, and she has, weeks ago, a family restroom, her legs around his hips, and ambient music he used to set a rhythm.
But she's up for it again, the mattress as a gallery, their bodies as a masterpiece.
Clothes come off like the strokes of a brush, puddles of color collecting on the floor, there is blue, there is pink, there is skin and flesh and curves.
His hands sculpt the warm mass of her body, grinning as they both remember he's done this before.
The rounds of her breasts are perfect, he tells her, and he lingers, drawing the nipples into tight peaks with his fingers, smoothing the edges with his tongue.
The sharp ridges of his hipbones, marred by teeth and nails she never lets get too long, signing her work with a purpling bruise as her canvas squirms beneath her.
His cock as marble, granite, stone, a medium she only wants to use with him, unyielding as he enters her, a set of works best viewed together.
The modern art of their gasps and moans, filthy words and dadaist sentiments, a surrealist movement as her hips rise to meet him.
Narration like a museum guide, he'll make her come, she'll scream his name, faster, harder, tight, and wet, and fuck and fuck and fuck and yes, a Pollock release on the flat of her stomach.
They collapse together, sweaty limbs and awkward angles, the artists as a pair, mannerist breathing, expansive and exaggerated, as the moonlight fills the room.
The reviews are always terrific, heaps of praise and a demand for more, a room filled with beauty that will never be complete.
For they're a triptych, she knows, the third panel hung in an exhibit a universe away, a bleached patch of wall they can never paint over.
(The next day he's a fireman, and they burn, and they burn, and they burn.)
Most of all, though, she needs him beside her, and he never leaves., 802 words.
He sets up their fortune the first week.
Not a pound of Pete's money, just the bi-weekly pay Rose had socked away, never enough time to spend it all, not with days eaten up at her job, and nights flat on her back in the grass at the Tyler mansion, nights spent looking at the stars.
(Chips don't cost much, after all, and there wasn't enough money in the world to buy back the person she wanted to split them with.
No, in the end, she had paid for him in foolish hope and a bucket of affection without a bottom.)
On her sofa, he'd stared at the bank website for a long time, the sum total of her life savings displayed in little numerals across the screen.
A few clicks of the mouse and he'd set her laptop aside.
Friday, he told her, by Friday we'll be rich.
The market had held, trends and patterns, facts and figures, and a mountain of money, extracted neatly from men in suits far different than his.
It's a chafing sort of freedom, all this money. She sees it in her mum, the charity work and the shopping trips, things meant to fill up a day, and Rose goes back to work a month after they buy their own house.
He understands, of course he does, wanderlust slipping through his veins, alongside blood and those alluring human hormones. A boundless energy he walks off on the carpets, door to door, curtains open, curtains shut.
"I'll be fine here," he says. "I'll find something to do. You call if you need me."
And she does need him -- she has him -- but not at Torchwood.
She needs him in her bed, above her, and under her.
She needs him at the kitchen table, banana in hand and a box of cereal in his lap, little marshmallows plucked into waiting fingertips.
She needs him at her mum's house, playing dinosaurs with Tony and charming the staff.
Most of all, though, she needs him beside her, and he never leaves.
Every morning he's himself, and every morning he's someone else. A chef, a poet, a cop, and a writer, a movie montage of occupations, each new hat tried on like Halloween eve.
One morning, when she leaves him in the kitchen, teacups in his hand, she makes a guess.
A barista, she thinks. Or maybe the Queen.
It's art, he grins when she gets home. I'm an artist.
All of her china, all of her cups, chipped and old, expensive and new, all of them hung from the ceiling above their bed.
"Metaphors," he says with a wink. "It's a metaphor for our love. We'll never go thirsty. Or we've spilled it all and made a mess."
It's a little bit of both, neither of them say.
"What do you think, Rose Tyler? Want to fuck in a museum?"
She does, and she has, weeks ago, a family restroom, her legs around his hips, and ambient music he used to set a rhythm.
But she's up for it again, the mattress as a gallery, their bodies as a masterpiece.
Clothes come off like the strokes of a brush, puddles of color collecting on the floor, there is blue, there is pink, there is skin and flesh and curves.
His hands sculpt the warm mass of her body, grinning as they both remember he's done this before.
The rounds of her breasts are perfect, he tells her, and he lingers, drawing the nipples into tight peaks with his fingers, smoothing the edges with his tongue.
The sharp ridges of his hipbones, marred by teeth and nails she never lets get too long, signing her work with a purpling bruise as her canvas squirms beneath her.
His cock as marble, granite, stone, a medium she only wants to use with him, unyielding as he enters her, a set of works best viewed together.
The modern art of their gasps and moans, filthy words and dadaist sentiments, a surrealist movement as her hips rise to meet him.
Narration like a museum guide, he'll make her come, she'll scream his name, faster, harder, tight, and wet, and fuck and fuck and fuck and yes, a Pollock release on the flat of her stomach.
They collapse together, sweaty limbs and awkward angles, the artists as a pair, mannerist breathing, expansive and exaggerated, as the moonlight fills the room.
The reviews are always terrific, heaps of praise and a demand for more, a room filled with beauty that will never be complete.
For they're a triptych, she knows, the third panel hung in an exhibit a universe away, a bleached patch of wall they can never paint over.
(The next day he's a fireman, and they burn, and they burn, and they burn.)