Ficlet: "So We (Almost) Meet Again" Ten/Simm!Master, PG (Elements)
Pairing: Ten/Simm!Master
Challenge: 75 Elements
Rating: PG
Warnings: A couple of Second Person POVs.
Spoilers: Quite general spoilers for the last couple of specials, but that's not really spoilerly.
Vaguely inspired by Wu Xing
So We (Almost) Meet Again
Your fingertips follow the grain of the wood, sliding slowly over the familiar blue paint. You are remembering the thousand fires this ancient contraption started, and forgetting a thousand more you always said you’d end. You always vowed to destroy anything that he created. Life was better that way. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. You lean back against the solid form and feel the laughter rise up your chest. Time works both ways: backwards, forwards. It is all a circle. A web. Without meaning. You have conquered it, a thousand times you have conquered it. You press back further against the wood, drumming your fingers against it, hearing the clinking of your ring with each beat. A minute later, four drops of rain hit the pavement in the rhythm that still haunts you. You gaze at the four small dark circles they create on the cement; the storm is getting close. It is closer than you think. It is not long before the rain is pouring down from the sky. It beats against the wood and splatters on your face. You pull up the hood of your sweatshirt and turn away from the wind. You'll wait. As long as it takes, you will wait.
***
The TARDIS always looks bluer after the rain (during the rain, really, but it’s just a phrase. Rain is rain.) She looks brighter. All the dust and dirt washed off of her. All that nice, crisp rain soaked into her. It’s always good after a rain (during it, too.) The rain only serves to make you feel older. It seeps into your bones and you feel like you rust, standing there. Standing in the rain and rusting, that’s you. But you can’t be bothered with an umbrella (you tried one once, and pulled it off nicely, thank you, but this round you’ll do without.) You don’t even bother speeding up to cross the Plass. A slow, leisurely pace is just fine for you. One step, two. Stop to watch some pigeons. One step, two. Digging out your key. The metal is cold, or is it just your hands? You slide it into the lock and the doors part. The warm glow of the interior is no longer welcoming. Hearth is home and home is heart, but are the fires still burning? You wonder, sometimes. If it’s worth it, travelling alone. Travelling at all. But then you’re running for your life again and again and the thought slips away into the recesses of your mind to drag itself out on a rainy day. It’s the fire inside that keeps you going, burns away the stability of calling the TARDIS home. She’s blue and she’s beautiful, but she is temporary. Infinitely so.
You stop, one foot on the ramp, another on the concrete. It feels as though something has just slipped into place. Something old. Something new. And it was not your doing. Your hand slides around the corner, feeling the grain of the wood but searching on. . . there is something . . .
***
You lean against the corner of the blue box, your cheek pressing into the damp, cold wood, your eyes intently fixed on the fluttering fingers searching down her sides. Your hand is beside them before you can form a thought. Should you? Is it time? You’ve waited so long, but then again, what’s a little more time? You spread your fingers just so and his hand misses you entirely. If he would just make the effort . . . If you would just close the gap . . .
You pull back and push off of the rickety old piece of space junk and storm off in the opposite direction from whence he came. You’ll meet again. Of course you will. This universe isn’t big enough for the both of you. And when he does, and when you do, you will tear him apart, piece by piece and limb by limb, and you will relish the moment. You will win again. You will. And he will. You don’t look back. Even as the wind picks up and the machine screeches nosily, you don’t look back. He never gave you that courtesy.
***
The TARDIS is acting strangely. You can't put your finger on what's wrong, but something is. You mean to investigate the problem, you really do, but, one things leads to another and, quicker than you make yourself a cup of tea, you're on Mars and things start happening and, well, you know . . . You never quite get to asking her what was wrong. If it was anything important, she'd tell you.
Challenge: 75 Elements
Rating: PG
Warnings: A couple of Second Person POVs.
Spoilers: Quite general spoilers for the last couple of specials, but that's not really spoilerly.
Vaguely inspired by Wu Xing
So We (Almost) Meet Again
Your fingertips follow the grain of the wood, sliding slowly over the familiar blue paint. You are remembering the thousand fires this ancient contraption started, and forgetting a thousand more you always said you’d end. You always vowed to destroy anything that he created. Life was better that way. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. You lean back against the solid form and feel the laughter rise up your chest. Time works both ways: backwards, forwards. It is all a circle. A web. Without meaning. You have conquered it, a thousand times you have conquered it. You press back further against the wood, drumming your fingers against it, hearing the clinking of your ring with each beat. A minute later, four drops of rain hit the pavement in the rhythm that still haunts you. You gaze at the four small dark circles they create on the cement; the storm is getting close. It is closer than you think. It is not long before the rain is pouring down from the sky. It beats against the wood and splatters on your face. You pull up the hood of your sweatshirt and turn away from the wind. You'll wait. As long as it takes, you will wait.
***
The TARDIS always looks bluer after the rain (during the rain, really, but it’s just a phrase. Rain is rain.) She looks brighter. All the dust and dirt washed off of her. All that nice, crisp rain soaked into her. It’s always good after a rain (during it, too.) The rain only serves to make you feel older. It seeps into your bones and you feel like you rust, standing there. Standing in the rain and rusting, that’s you. But you can’t be bothered with an umbrella (you tried one once, and pulled it off nicely, thank you, but this round you’ll do without.) You don’t even bother speeding up to cross the Plass. A slow, leisurely pace is just fine for you. One step, two. Stop to watch some pigeons. One step, two. Digging out your key. The metal is cold, or is it just your hands? You slide it into the lock and the doors part. The warm glow of the interior is no longer welcoming. Hearth is home and home is heart, but are the fires still burning? You wonder, sometimes. If it’s worth it, travelling alone. Travelling at all. But then you’re running for your life again and again and the thought slips away into the recesses of your mind to drag itself out on a rainy day. It’s the fire inside that keeps you going, burns away the stability of calling the TARDIS home. She’s blue and she’s beautiful, but she is temporary. Infinitely so.
You stop, one foot on the ramp, another on the concrete. It feels as though something has just slipped into place. Something old. Something new. And it was not your doing. Your hand slides around the corner, feeling the grain of the wood but searching on. . . there is something . . .
***
You lean against the corner of the blue box, your cheek pressing into the damp, cold wood, your eyes intently fixed on the fluttering fingers searching down her sides. Your hand is beside them before you can form a thought. Should you? Is it time? You’ve waited so long, but then again, what’s a little more time? You spread your fingers just so and his hand misses you entirely. If he would just make the effort . . . If you would just close the gap . . .
You pull back and push off of the rickety old piece of space junk and storm off in the opposite direction from whence he came. You’ll meet again. Of course you will. This universe isn’t big enough for the both of you. And when he does, and when you do, you will tear him apart, piece by piece and limb by limb, and you will relish the moment. You will win again. You will. And he will. You don’t look back. Even as the wind picks up and the machine screeches nosily, you don’t look back. He never gave you that courtesy.
***
The TARDIS is acting strangely. You can't put your finger on what's wrong, but something is. You mean to investigate the problem, you really do, but, one things leads to another and, quicker than you make yourself a cup of tea, you're on Mars and things start happening and, well, you know . . . You never quite get to asking her what was wrong. If it was anything important, she'd tell you.