Fic: Silverbells
Safely back at college and already jittery at the prospect of so many projects! My first try at something other than new!Who, so feedback is awesome. (You can find the, uh, drabble fic request post here.)
silverbells. doctor who: four/sarah-jane, pg. dialects, for riot__libertine.
( "She tries not to think about the flowers that weren't ready to unfurl." )
There is a friction between them, an impossible layer which she is not meant to see or hear or touch. There is close, and then there is close, but there is an invisible space which remains smooth and untouched, dusty with time and ache and age. It is there, she knows, for a reason, something that is far older than her, beyond a possible understanding, and something which she has slowly learned to accept as a facet of him; a constant trait that resurfaces now and again, shining in the pale glow of friendship, and its clarity is sometimes frightening.
She tries not to mind.
Sometimes, she imagines that the universe is just a garden, and all the silverbells and cockle shells spring brightly into focus when they land on unfamiliar terrain. She likes to think that these beautiful new worlds unfurl around them, sometimes gently, mostly startlingly, and the stars splayed above them are just specks of pollen rising, rising, rising- caught in the cross-breeze of her heart. (She doesn’t tell him this. She tells him so much already, she feels for him more than herself, and this is something she wants to keep.)
She tries not to think about the flowers that weren’t ready to unfurl.
He insults her species. She mocks his miscalculations. But when they arrive on an asteroid in the H-88 galaxy, the magnetic field manages to interfere with the TARDIS’ language circuit, and she is left staring and staring at the two-mouthed residents, waiting for the sounds to make sense. It is harsh and grating, sand against her eardrums, and his replies are just as foreign, but seem more mellow, intrigued, and she just keeps waiting for it to form into something she understands. He catches her staring and looks at her like she is quite stupid, and her chin rises ever so much until they solve the problem, like always. She asks later, and he says something daft and nonsensical about dialects and it is immediately clear. She likes to remember he has that way about him, everything untraditional and untoward, all mocking and rage and cleverness wrapped up in the stripes of his scarf.
She tries not to remember the other bits about him, the ones that make her strangely on edge.
She travels, and then she travels more, and all she sees is the stars he reflects, the prisms he cuts into her irises in golds and browns. He has so many facets, all gleaming in the veiled light of good and bad and wondrous. She likes to believe he’s made up of certain un-words that will revolve around his long, long life, and that’s good, she thinks. That’s beautiful. She hates describing the indescribable because it does take quite a long while, and its just so very tedious.
(She likes that he’s indescribable. Because she is too.)
silverbells. doctor who: four/sarah-jane, pg. dialects, for riot__libertine.
( "She tries not to think about the flowers that weren't ready to unfurl." )
There is a friction between them, an impossible layer which she is not meant to see or hear or touch. There is close, and then there is close, but there is an invisible space which remains smooth and untouched, dusty with time and ache and age. It is there, she knows, for a reason, something that is far older than her, beyond a possible understanding, and something which she has slowly learned to accept as a facet of him; a constant trait that resurfaces now and again, shining in the pale glow of friendship, and its clarity is sometimes frightening.
She tries not to mind.
Sometimes, she imagines that the universe is just a garden, and all the silverbells and cockle shells spring brightly into focus when they land on unfamiliar terrain. She likes to think that these beautiful new worlds unfurl around them, sometimes gently, mostly startlingly, and the stars splayed above them are just specks of pollen rising, rising, rising- caught in the cross-breeze of her heart. (She doesn’t tell him this. She tells him so much already, she feels for him more than herself, and this is something she wants to keep.)
She tries not to think about the flowers that weren’t ready to unfurl.
He insults her species. She mocks his miscalculations. But when they arrive on an asteroid in the H-88 galaxy, the magnetic field manages to interfere with the TARDIS’ language circuit, and she is left staring and staring at the two-mouthed residents, waiting for the sounds to make sense. It is harsh and grating, sand against her eardrums, and his replies are just as foreign, but seem more mellow, intrigued, and she just keeps waiting for it to form into something she understands. He catches her staring and looks at her like she is quite stupid, and her chin rises ever so much until they solve the problem, like always. She asks later, and he says something daft and nonsensical about dialects and it is immediately clear. She likes to remember he has that way about him, everything untraditional and untoward, all mocking and rage and cleverness wrapped up in the stripes of his scarf.
She tries not to remember the other bits about him, the ones that make her strangely on edge.
She travels, and then she travels more, and all she sees is the stars he reflects, the prisms he cuts into her irises in golds and browns. He has so many facets, all gleaming in the veiled light of good and bad and wondrous. She likes to believe he’s made up of certain un-words that will revolve around his long, long life, and that’s good, she thinks. That’s beautiful. She hates describing the indescribable because it does take quite a long while, and its just so very tedious.
(She likes that he’s indescribable. Because she is too.)