Fic: Shake the Stars Down (2/many)
Title: Shake the Stars Down (Part 2)
Author: nocookiesjustbooks 2nd2ndalto
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG this section
Disclaimer: BBC owns everything, obviously.
Summary: There must be something he can do to ease the ache a bit. Something safer and wiser than what he wants most.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to iluvmusicals for the beta.
(Part 1)
His feet are heavy as they carry him back up the meandering mountain path, back to his ship. Fresh from another adventure. This one in particular was anything but.
The afternoon is bright and serene, the sunlight a gentle warmth on his shoulders, the breeze a soft rustle of leaves overhead. It’s a scene at complete odds with the bloodshed he’s just left behind.
Everybody lives.
Not today they didn’t, and somehow it feels even crueler and colder than usual. The highs aren’t so much high as hopeful, these days, and the lows are crushing. Paralysing. There must be something he can do to ease the ache a bit. Something safer and wiser than what he wants most.
Find someone.
Donna’s words drift back to him, as they do sometimes. More often lately. He shakes his head sharply. “I can’t,” he argues aloud, bites it out, startling a bird on a nearby branch. “Someone always gets hurt,” he says more quietly.
Just a bit higher, just around this next bend… oh, there she is. Parked carefully in a cleft in the rock, his old ship. The familiar sight of her coaxes a smile out of him, so that’s something. “Hello, old girl,” he murmurs, giving her an affectionate pat as he digs for his keys.
The door creaks open and he steps inside, lets it fall shut behind him, contemplating age and decay and too-short lifespans. And too-long ones. He should be creaking, too, after nine hundred years. Now he’s just getting maudlin, though. The door wouldn’t creak like that if he’d get around to oiling it once in a while, and it’s all irrelevant anyway, because he likes the creak. It’s a welcoming sound, lets him know he’s home again.
He gazes up at the pulsating glow of the TARDIS' central column, his eyes unfocussed. It’s really been a hell of a day. The people he’d set out to save were largely decimated, along with their attackers. And he’d tried so hard. Just needed this one to have a happy ending, wanted this day to be the impetus that moved him on to the next, and then the next after that. But despite his best efforts, despite giving second chances that were barely deserved… it all fell to pieces, crumbled like clay in his hands.
He runs his fingers absentmindedly over the console, stroking his ship like a favourite pet. He needs something. Probably sleep his mind points out, but he’s certainly not in the mood for that again. He just needs a little recharge. A little pick-me-up. Just enough to keep him going a little longer, until he can find a more permanent solution to these blues, or maybe just until enough time has passed.
He can’t think of another alternative, at least not one so appealing, and it feels like failing. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself one of these visits. But it’s necessary. His fingers are slow and reluctant as he chooses the coordinates, but he can already feel the weight in his chest lifting.
South London, May 1995. He throws a switch, tilts a lever, and the TARDIS begins her tumble through the vortex. The ship whines as if in protest as they near their destination, but he ignores it. Because for once, today, he feels… happy. Almost giddy with relief. He’s going to see her again.
He parks his ship carefully, at the back of an abandoned warehouse. Jackie nearly caught sight of him last trip, and he needs to be exceedingly careful now. He’d studied the timelines feverishly after that reckless visit, finally satisfied there hadn’t been any damage done. Still, that had been enough to snap him back to his senses for a time.
The door creaks open and he steps out, scrutinising his surroundings. It’s as safe as it can be. Skirting dusty, disused equipment and battered furniture, he makes his way out of the building, towards daylight. Once on the street, he only glances around enough to get his bearings and then turns himself in the right direction, walking quickly, head down. Trying to be unnoticeable. None of his usual swagger, none of this walking in like he owns the place. Not now.
He finds her easily. It’s four o’clock, and although most of the schoolchildren have dispersed, Rose and a few other little girls have lingered behind, playing Double-Dutch on the asphalt behind the school. He can’t help the fond, proud smile that spreads over his face as he lays eyes on her again, all elbows and knees at eight years old.
The schoolyard is well-treed (which he’s quite aware of by this point, he grudgingly admits), and he settles himself in shadow, the ideal place to see and not be seen. As he sinks to the ground, the peace that washes over him is overwhelming, jarring. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel this kind of calm. It’s like coming home, in a different way than his ship will ever be.
It’s Rose’s turn to skip and he watches as she passes off the rope ends and moves forward. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, hesitating, judging the distance as she waits for her opportunity. He holds his breath in sympathetic anticipation, but when she enters the fray it’s with such familiar grace and assurance that it makes his hearts swell. He thinks of the Nestene Consciousness, of werewolves and running and Ten Downing Street and tries, always tries not to think of levers and Torchwood.
She’s beautiful. Determined and focused. Carries herself with a child’s ease she’ll have to find all over again as she grows. His eyes never leave her, savouring every toothy grin, every tilt of her head. All these little Rose-y things he wants to wrap up and pack away in a safe corner of his mind, in between his hearts.
He lingers far too long this time, he knows it, but she does, too, stays until the sun dips low in the sky and her laughter washes towards him with the first chill of the evening.
One last turn in the rope and she slips. Just a turn of her ankle as she lands a little off balance, but then she’s down on the ground, four other little girls surrounding her, and he feels as if he’s been kicked in the stomach. It’s a ridiculous impulse, gone as soon as it registers, but it’s all he can do not to give up his shadowed hiding place, dash over and make sure she’s okay.
She’s fine though, of course she is. She’s Rose. And she waves off the concern of her friends, mops a few stray tears from her cheeks and, ignoring her bloody knee, prepares to take her turn again.
Finally, the streetlights blink into eerie fluorescence, and this appears to be some kind of a signal to the children. The small group bids each other goodbye, Rose and another little girl picking up sweaters and schoolbags and heading back in the direction of the Powell Estate.
It’s past twilight now, and he decides to risk it, to chase that soothing calm that enveloped him the moment he caught sight of her again. He stays put a moment or two, letting her get a head start, and then leaves the cover of the trees, stretching limbs that haven’t moved properly for several hours.
He heaves a sigh as he crosses the asphalt. All of time and space at his disposal and what does he do with it? Hide in bushes and alleyways watching the one he couldn’t hold tight enough. Watching her grow up and become who she was when she was his. It should bother him, but it doesn’t. Not nearly enough.
He doesn’t think she’d mind, for one thing, though she’d be sorry he’s come to this. She’d understand. Might even do the same thing, if she had any opportunity for this ridiculously reckless level of self-indulgence. He’d seen the fire in her when she needed to get to him, and he always nursed a quiet fear that it would burn through her one day. She’s safe from that now.
Stepping onto the pavement, he catches sight of a blonde head about to turn the corner at the stop sign and smiles again, trying to ignore that sensation of sands slipping through an hourglass. The longer this goes on, the more dangerous it gets. Each time, he’s more likely to slip up, run into another version of himself hiding in the shadows. And failing that - even if he’s very careful, and he is - he’s only got nineteen years’ worth of Rose, and that’s all. Eventually, he will quite literally have used her up. Not yet, though.
Two blocks from the Powell Estate, and his step is lighter, his hearts, too. Just for a moment, he lets himself drift, enjoy the peace in his mind, the cool evening air and the sound of Rose’s laughter drifting back to him from up the street. He drifts a bit too long, though, because the next thing he knows, he’s stumbling over a dropped sweater.
Unthinkingly, he bends to pick it up. As he straightens, she’s there, right in front of him, all wide brown eyes and messy blonde ponytail. A chill runs through him as he considers running, but he immediately realizes that would be foolish. Play it cool. If he’s just a random bloke on a random evening, she’s very unlikely to remember him.
“Erm - that’s mine - I dropped it.” Rose points at the sweater clutched in his hand, and he takes in the smudge of dirt across her cheek, the stubby, well-chewed fingernails on her right hand.
“Right, yes, sorry. Here you go.” He hands the sweater back.
She should be scared, or wary at least - a strange man in a long coat on a dark street. Stalking her, although she doesn’t know that. But she looks him straight in the eye and gives him a smile, that smile, wide and warm and genuine, and it warms him to his toes. His answering grin is a forgotten reflex. It nearly brings tears to his eyes.
“Thanks,” she tells him as she turns away. She runs back to her friend, still waiting up the block, but oh, she turns again, gives him another grin and a little wave and yes, now he can do it. Now he can go on for a bit longer.
Author: nocookiesjustbooks 2nd2ndalto
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: PG this section
Disclaimer: BBC owns everything, obviously.
Summary: There must be something he can do to ease the ache a bit. Something safer and wiser than what he wants most.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to iluvmusicals for the beta.
(Part 1)
His feet are heavy as they carry him back up the meandering mountain path, back to his ship. Fresh from another adventure. This one in particular was anything but.
The afternoon is bright and serene, the sunlight a gentle warmth on his shoulders, the breeze a soft rustle of leaves overhead. It’s a scene at complete odds with the bloodshed he’s just left behind.
Everybody lives.
Not today they didn’t, and somehow it feels even crueler and colder than usual. The highs aren’t so much high as hopeful, these days, and the lows are crushing. Paralysing. There must be something he can do to ease the ache a bit. Something safer and wiser than what he wants most.
Find someone.
Donna’s words drift back to him, as they do sometimes. More often lately. He shakes his head sharply. “I can’t,” he argues aloud, bites it out, startling a bird on a nearby branch. “Someone always gets hurt,” he says more quietly.
Just a bit higher, just around this next bend… oh, there she is. Parked carefully in a cleft in the rock, his old ship. The familiar sight of her coaxes a smile out of him, so that’s something. “Hello, old girl,” he murmurs, giving her an affectionate pat as he digs for his keys.
The door creaks open and he steps inside, lets it fall shut behind him, contemplating age and decay and too-short lifespans. And too-long ones. He should be creaking, too, after nine hundred years. Now he’s just getting maudlin, though. The door wouldn’t creak like that if he’d get around to oiling it once in a while, and it’s all irrelevant anyway, because he likes the creak. It’s a welcoming sound, lets him know he’s home again.
He gazes up at the pulsating glow of the TARDIS' central column, his eyes unfocussed. It’s really been a hell of a day. The people he’d set out to save were largely decimated, along with their attackers. And he’d tried so hard. Just needed this one to have a happy ending, wanted this day to be the impetus that moved him on to the next, and then the next after that. But despite his best efforts, despite giving second chances that were barely deserved… it all fell to pieces, crumbled like clay in his hands.
He runs his fingers absentmindedly over the console, stroking his ship like a favourite pet. He needs something. Probably sleep his mind points out, but he’s certainly not in the mood for that again. He just needs a little recharge. A little pick-me-up. Just enough to keep him going a little longer, until he can find a more permanent solution to these blues, or maybe just until enough time has passed.
He can’t think of another alternative, at least not one so appealing, and it feels like failing. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself one of these visits. But it’s necessary. His fingers are slow and reluctant as he chooses the coordinates, but he can already feel the weight in his chest lifting.
South London, May 1995. He throws a switch, tilts a lever, and the TARDIS begins her tumble through the vortex. The ship whines as if in protest as they near their destination, but he ignores it. Because for once, today, he feels… happy. Almost giddy with relief. He’s going to see her again.
He parks his ship carefully, at the back of an abandoned warehouse. Jackie nearly caught sight of him last trip, and he needs to be exceedingly careful now. He’d studied the timelines feverishly after that reckless visit, finally satisfied there hadn’t been any damage done. Still, that had been enough to snap him back to his senses for a time.
The door creaks open and he steps out, scrutinising his surroundings. It’s as safe as it can be. Skirting dusty, disused equipment and battered furniture, he makes his way out of the building, towards daylight. Once on the street, he only glances around enough to get his bearings and then turns himself in the right direction, walking quickly, head down. Trying to be unnoticeable. None of his usual swagger, none of this walking in like he owns the place. Not now.
He finds her easily. It’s four o’clock, and although most of the schoolchildren have dispersed, Rose and a few other little girls have lingered behind, playing Double-Dutch on the asphalt behind the school. He can’t help the fond, proud smile that spreads over his face as he lays eyes on her again, all elbows and knees at eight years old.
The schoolyard is well-treed (which he’s quite aware of by this point, he grudgingly admits), and he settles himself in shadow, the ideal place to see and not be seen. As he sinks to the ground, the peace that washes over him is overwhelming, jarring. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel this kind of calm. It’s like coming home, in a different way than his ship will ever be.
It’s Rose’s turn to skip and he watches as she passes off the rope ends and moves forward. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, hesitating, judging the distance as she waits for her opportunity. He holds his breath in sympathetic anticipation, but when she enters the fray it’s with such familiar grace and assurance that it makes his hearts swell. He thinks of the Nestene Consciousness, of werewolves and running and Ten Downing Street and tries, always tries not to think of levers and Torchwood.
She’s beautiful. Determined and focused. Carries herself with a child’s ease she’ll have to find all over again as she grows. His eyes never leave her, savouring every toothy grin, every tilt of her head. All these little Rose-y things he wants to wrap up and pack away in a safe corner of his mind, in between his hearts.
He lingers far too long this time, he knows it, but she does, too, stays until the sun dips low in the sky and her laughter washes towards him with the first chill of the evening.
One last turn in the rope and she slips. Just a turn of her ankle as she lands a little off balance, but then she’s down on the ground, four other little girls surrounding her, and he feels as if he’s been kicked in the stomach. It’s a ridiculous impulse, gone as soon as it registers, but it’s all he can do not to give up his shadowed hiding place, dash over and make sure she’s okay.
She’s fine though, of course she is. She’s Rose. And she waves off the concern of her friends, mops a few stray tears from her cheeks and, ignoring her bloody knee, prepares to take her turn again.
Finally, the streetlights blink into eerie fluorescence, and this appears to be some kind of a signal to the children. The small group bids each other goodbye, Rose and another little girl picking up sweaters and schoolbags and heading back in the direction of the Powell Estate.
It’s past twilight now, and he decides to risk it, to chase that soothing calm that enveloped him the moment he caught sight of her again. He stays put a moment or two, letting her get a head start, and then leaves the cover of the trees, stretching limbs that haven’t moved properly for several hours.
He heaves a sigh as he crosses the asphalt. All of time and space at his disposal and what does he do with it? Hide in bushes and alleyways watching the one he couldn’t hold tight enough. Watching her grow up and become who she was when she was his. It should bother him, but it doesn’t. Not nearly enough.
He doesn’t think she’d mind, for one thing, though she’d be sorry he’s come to this. She’d understand. Might even do the same thing, if she had any opportunity for this ridiculously reckless level of self-indulgence. He’d seen the fire in her when she needed to get to him, and he always nursed a quiet fear that it would burn through her one day. She’s safe from that now.
Stepping onto the pavement, he catches sight of a blonde head about to turn the corner at the stop sign and smiles again, trying to ignore that sensation of sands slipping through an hourglass. The longer this goes on, the more dangerous it gets. Each time, he’s more likely to slip up, run into another version of himself hiding in the shadows. And failing that - even if he’s very careful, and he is - he’s only got nineteen years’ worth of Rose, and that’s all. Eventually, he will quite literally have used her up. Not yet, though.
Two blocks from the Powell Estate, and his step is lighter, his hearts, too. Just for a moment, he lets himself drift, enjoy the peace in his mind, the cool evening air and the sound of Rose’s laughter drifting back to him from up the street. He drifts a bit too long, though, because the next thing he knows, he’s stumbling over a dropped sweater.
Unthinkingly, he bends to pick it up. As he straightens, she’s there, right in front of him, all wide brown eyes and messy blonde ponytail. A chill runs through him as he considers running, but he immediately realizes that would be foolish. Play it cool. If he’s just a random bloke on a random evening, she’s very unlikely to remember him.
“Erm - that’s mine - I dropped it.” Rose points at the sweater clutched in his hand, and he takes in the smudge of dirt across her cheek, the stubby, well-chewed fingernails on her right hand.
“Right, yes, sorry. Here you go.” He hands the sweater back.
She should be scared, or wary at least - a strange man in a long coat on a dark street. Stalking her, although she doesn’t know that. But she looks him straight in the eye and gives him a smile, that smile, wide and warm and genuine, and it warms him to his toes. His answering grin is a forgotten reflex. It nearly brings tears to his eyes.
“Thanks,” she tells him as she turns away. She runs back to her friend, still waiting up the block, but oh, she turns again, gives him another grin and a little wave and yes, now he can do it. Now he can go on for a bit longer.