Fic: Fragile (1/1, TenII/Rose, PG)
Title: Fragile
Characters/Pairings: TenII/Rose
Rating: PG
Betababe: kilodalton - The Girl With the Golden Scissors!
Word Count: 1,200 w.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for then_theres_us Challenge 82's Ficathon, using a beautiful prompt by the_idiotgirl.
Excerpt:
Just as suddenly as Rose’s eyes blink open, the Doctor pulls the white hotel sheet up over their heads, enveloping them in a gauzy, protective shell of bed linen. Pinholes of light seep through the fabric in the places made threadbare from the skid of previous lovers’ knees and too much industrial soap.
Stiff from exhaustion and from having slept fully clothed, wool and leather shift awkwardly to face into the center of the bed - the first bed they’ve shared in years.
Fragile
Ten II/Rose, post Journey’s End
The sun has risen on a new day in Norway, wiping its slate-colored sky clean of the new-new stars blinking, once more, in this universe’s heavens.
Just as suddenly as Rose’s eyes blink open, the Doctor pulls the white hotel sheet up over their heads, enveloping them in a gauzy, protective shell of bed linen. Pinholes of light seep through the fabric in the places made threadbare from the skid of previous lovers’ knees and too much industrial soap.
Stiff from exhaustion and from having slept fully clothed, wool and leather shift awkwardly to face into the center of the bed - the first bed they’ve shared in years.
“Hello,” he says, almost shyly. His long, delicate fingers lightly grip the hem, sealing the two of them away from the room and the rest of the world.
“Hello,” she whispers back, the heels of her palms tucked under her chin and mouth hidden behind her knuckles.
They lie on their sides, bodies curled in toward one another, not touching. Only the golden tendrils of Rose’s hair trail across the dividing line of their pillows, like roots reaching for water. For oxygen.
He slowly turns his cheek into the pillow, brushing his lips tentatively across the tips of her hair. The tang of metal and ash still clings to her, but beneath that - breathing deeper still - he recognizes salt and clementine: Rose. It makes his blood sing in a way he’d never thought possible, again. Never say never-ever.
Her mouth is dry as cotton as she drinks in his face, realising it’s the first time she has properly looked at him since -
Although she’s thought of this face a million times over, she had forgotten its exact pattern of freckles until this very moment - a constellation sprayed against the pale backdrop of his nose and cheeks. The pang of familiarity makes her ache, but she doesn’t look away.
She notices that the lines around his eyes and mouth are deeper than they once were. He looks so serious, staring back at her with such intense empathy that it makes her want to simultaneously hug and slap him. I might do both yet, she thinks with a snort.
“What?”
She shakes her head, evading his question. Clamps the back of her hand against her mouth to stop the sound threatening to rise, like a bubble, from her throat. When he quirks his eyebrow at her, in the way only he can, the bubble bursts.
The absurdity of it - of that eyebrow in this universe - sends her into a fit of giggles. She thinks she hasn’t “giggled” in years.
It opens a floodgate within her: the more she tries to reign herself in, the less she is able to stop. Knees drawn up to her chest now and tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, she teeters precariously on the edge between hysterical laughter and sobbing.
He wears a wry, patient smile as he reaches to encircle her wrist with his thumb and index finger. When the pad of his thumb finds and gently strokes her pulse, she stills. She sucks in an audibly shaky breath and bites down on her chapped bottom lip to mask the quiver lurking there.
“You’re gone.” Not a question.
Letting go of her wrist, he nods solemnly. “I am.”
Under cool cotton, he can feel the heat rising off her body. For the first time, so can she, from his; it makes her want to lean into him. She’s been chilled to the bone for years.
“But you’re here.”
“I am.” He reaches across the void to take her hand; she lets him. It is warm and solid and their fingers slide home, fitting as ever. She doesn’t have to look down to know that her knuckles are white against his pink skin.
“I feel so, so -” she is at a loss for words, speaking more to herself than to him as she scoots closer to rest her head on his shoulder. As he rolls to his back to let her in, she wishes he could pass some of his newness to her through osmosis, or something. She feels so much older than her 24 years - so old and so completely wrung out.
“Angry?” He knows she’d be justified.
“Empty.” Ah.
“Yeah,” he says into her hairline, resting his lips against the widow’s peak he knows she likes to pretend she doesn’t have.
“Are you?” She asks quietly.
“What, empty?”
“Angry.”
He rolls his eyes upwards, to the ceiling he’s made them.
“Are you worried I’m 'full of blood and revenge?’” His voice is low as he spits the words out, like poison from a wound. Yeah, thanks for that, Mate. A shadow crosses over his features, but only for a second. He releases an exaggerated exhale and, like quicksilver - like always - shifts gears to make light of it, instead. “Well, I think that furnace is only lit every other day …”
She cannot believe he’s quoting Willy Wonka to her right now. “You’re ridiculous,” she tells him, poking his sternum with the tip of her nose, accusingly.
He hums noncommittally as he brings their knotted fingers to rest against his chest. The thump of his single heart, steady and strong against her cheek, emboldens her to continue.
“I wasn’t kidding, though. What I meant was … ”
… the TARDIS, the whole of Time and Space … Freedom, Choice … all of it dangling in the space between them, like ether. Like lead.
“Rose, I know what you meant,” he sighs into her hair. He’s not ready to talk about that - not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, he’s no fool. He looks at her for a long moment, taking in the features of the woman who was once his girl. How different and how very much the same she is. Knows he is the lucky one.
He tips up her chin, drawing her eyes to his, and answers her in a way only she could understand:
“So?”
His voice is the pitch-perfect imitation of hers, from a far worse day at the beach than this one.
He thinks she must remember - that he must be getting it right - because she takes his face in her hands and pulls him to her mouth. She tastes like the sea. She tastes like sunlight.
In spite of her grief and uncertainty … he tastes like home.
A knock at the door breaks them from their reverie and brings the rest of the world rushing back in. Seagulls squawk noisily outside their window as a businessman’s rolling suitcase groans on its journey to Checkout. Jackie shouts through the door that a zeppelin has been booked and a taxi called - So, shift! They smile against each other’s mouths before separating.
The Doctor and Rose peel back the cotton sheet, shedding it like an old skin. Maybe we’ll both get to be new this time, she thinks as she takes his outstretched hand and he hoists her out of bed.
Together, they step out the door into a cold and sunny Norwegian morning, to greet their future.
- - -
Characters/Pairings: TenII/Rose
Rating: PG
Betababe: kilodalton - The Girl With the Golden Scissors!
Word Count: 1,200 w.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for then_theres_us Challenge 82's Ficathon, using a beautiful prompt by the_idiotgirl.
Excerpt:
Just as suddenly as Rose’s eyes blink open, the Doctor pulls the white hotel sheet up over their heads, enveloping them in a gauzy, protective shell of bed linen. Pinholes of light seep through the fabric in the places made threadbare from the skid of previous lovers’ knees and too much industrial soap.
Stiff from exhaustion and from having slept fully clothed, wool and leather shift awkwardly to face into the center of the bed - the first bed they’ve shared in years.
Fragile
Ten II/Rose, post Journey’s End
The sun has risen on a new day in Norway, wiping its slate-colored sky clean of the new-new stars blinking, once more, in this universe’s heavens.
Just as suddenly as Rose’s eyes blink open, the Doctor pulls the white hotel sheet up over their heads, enveloping them in a gauzy, protective shell of bed linen. Pinholes of light seep through the fabric in the places made threadbare from the skid of previous lovers’ knees and too much industrial soap.
Stiff from exhaustion and from having slept fully clothed, wool and leather shift awkwardly to face into the center of the bed - the first bed they’ve shared in years.
“Hello,” he says, almost shyly. His long, delicate fingers lightly grip the hem, sealing the two of them away from the room and the rest of the world.
“Hello,” she whispers back, the heels of her palms tucked under her chin and mouth hidden behind her knuckles.
They lie on their sides, bodies curled in toward one another, not touching. Only the golden tendrils of Rose’s hair trail across the dividing line of their pillows, like roots reaching for water. For oxygen.
He slowly turns his cheek into the pillow, brushing his lips tentatively across the tips of her hair. The tang of metal and ash still clings to her, but beneath that - breathing deeper still - he recognizes salt and clementine: Rose. It makes his blood sing in a way he’d never thought possible, again. Never say never-ever.
Her mouth is dry as cotton as she drinks in his face, realising it’s the first time she has properly looked at him since -
Although she’s thought of this face a million times over, she had forgotten its exact pattern of freckles until this very moment - a constellation sprayed against the pale backdrop of his nose and cheeks. The pang of familiarity makes her ache, but she doesn’t look away.
She notices that the lines around his eyes and mouth are deeper than they once were. He looks so serious, staring back at her with such intense empathy that it makes her want to simultaneously hug and slap him. I might do both yet, she thinks with a snort.
“What?”
She shakes her head, evading his question. Clamps the back of her hand against her mouth to stop the sound threatening to rise, like a bubble, from her throat. When he quirks his eyebrow at her, in the way only he can, the bubble bursts.
The absurdity of it - of that eyebrow in this universe - sends her into a fit of giggles. She thinks she hasn’t “giggled” in years.
It opens a floodgate within her: the more she tries to reign herself in, the less she is able to stop. Knees drawn up to her chest now and tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, she teeters precariously on the edge between hysterical laughter and sobbing.
He wears a wry, patient smile as he reaches to encircle her wrist with his thumb and index finger. When the pad of his thumb finds and gently strokes her pulse, she stills. She sucks in an audibly shaky breath and bites down on her chapped bottom lip to mask the quiver lurking there.
“You’re gone.” Not a question.
Letting go of her wrist, he nods solemnly. “I am.”
Under cool cotton, he can feel the heat rising off her body. For the first time, so can she, from his; it makes her want to lean into him. She’s been chilled to the bone for years.
“But you’re here.”
“I am.” He reaches across the void to take her hand; she lets him. It is warm and solid and their fingers slide home, fitting as ever. She doesn’t have to look down to know that her knuckles are white against his pink skin.
“I feel so, so -” she is at a loss for words, speaking more to herself than to him as she scoots closer to rest her head on his shoulder. As he rolls to his back to let her in, she wishes he could pass some of his newness to her through osmosis, or something. She feels so much older than her 24 years - so old and so completely wrung out.
“Angry?” He knows she’d be justified.
“Empty.” Ah.
“Yeah,” he says into her hairline, resting his lips against the widow’s peak he knows she likes to pretend she doesn’t have.
“Are you?” She asks quietly.
“What, empty?”
“Angry.”
He rolls his eyes upwards, to the ceiling he’s made them.
“Are you worried I’m 'full of blood and revenge?’” His voice is low as he spits the words out, like poison from a wound. Yeah, thanks for that, Mate. A shadow crosses over his features, but only for a second. He releases an exaggerated exhale and, like quicksilver - like always - shifts gears to make light of it, instead. “Well, I think that furnace is only lit every other day …”
She cannot believe he’s quoting Willy Wonka to her right now. “You’re ridiculous,” she tells him, poking his sternum with the tip of her nose, accusingly.
He hums noncommittally as he brings their knotted fingers to rest against his chest. The thump of his single heart, steady and strong against her cheek, emboldens her to continue.
“I wasn’t kidding, though. What I meant was … ”
… the TARDIS, the whole of Time and Space … Freedom, Choice … all of it dangling in the space between them, like ether. Like lead.
“Rose, I know what you meant,” he sighs into her hair. He’s not ready to talk about that - not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, he’s no fool. He looks at her for a long moment, taking in the features of the woman who was once his girl. How different and how very much the same she is. Knows he is the lucky one.
He tips up her chin, drawing her eyes to his, and answers her in a way only she could understand:
“So?”
His voice is the pitch-perfect imitation of hers, from a far worse day at the beach than this one.
He thinks she must remember - that he must be getting it right - because she takes his face in her hands and pulls him to her mouth. She tastes like the sea. She tastes like sunlight.
In spite of her grief and uncertainty … he tastes like home.
A knock at the door breaks them from their reverie and brings the rest of the world rushing back in. Seagulls squawk noisily outside their window as a businessman’s rolling suitcase groans on its journey to Checkout. Jackie shouts through the door that a zeppelin has been booked and a taxi called - So, shift! They smile against each other’s mouths before separating.
The Doctor and Rose peel back the cotton sheet, shedding it like an old skin. Maybe we’ll both get to be new this time, she thinks as she takes his outstretched hand and he hoists her out of bed.
Together, they step out the door into a cold and sunny Norwegian morning, to greet their future.
- - -