Fic: Not Quite Alone
Title: Not Quite Alone
Author: wiccagirl24
Disclaimer: Can you really own an idea as universal as Doctor Who? The BBC would say yes. Sad fact, that.
Rating: Adult. Mature. (read: smut)
Spoilers: Unless you've been living under a rock, the Time War and fact that Eight regenerated into Nine are not spoilers. There's one little spoiler for the ep Rose.
Pairing: Ace/Nine
A/N: I owe many thanks to the twin brilliance of becky_monster and calleigh_j.
Summery: He thought he was the only survivor of a war that destroyed everything. He was wrong.
i.
He barely makes it to the TARDIS in time. Just inside the door he falls to his knees, the adrenaline that kept him going finally depleted. One hand is pressed to his chest, just to the right of his hearts, his fingers slick with blood. His other arm falls uselessly at his side, motionless except for the trembling of overworked muscles. The pain is overwhelming, pulsing through his body with every breath, every heart beat.
If he were human he would be dying. He almost wishes he were. Instead he feels the indistinct tingle of millions of cells changing. He could stop it. With enough focus, enough determination, he could halt the cells' progression and breath his last. He’s too much of a coward. Instead he closes his eyes and sleeps.
ii.
He spends a month drifting in the time vortex. The TARDIS is undamaged. Amazing, all things considered. He wonders if it is fate or irony; the last TARDIS and the last Time Lord, both alive and whole when everything else is destroyed. Relics of a society that no longer exists, universal anomalies. He’s spent his entire life running away, and now he no longer has anyplace to run from.
When he closes his eyes he can see Gallifrey burning. He hasn’t slept since he awoke from his regeneration.
He wanders the halls, miles of white corridors that lead everywhere and nowhere. When he passes doors he sometimes touches them, but never goes inside. Each room contains memories as far away and unreachable as his home planet. The bedroom Nyssa and Tegan once shared. Ace’s workroom, where empty cans are still piled in a corner. The oversized closet Sarah Jane used to hide in when she scribbled away at her stories. The library where Jamie and Victoria used to sit in front of the fire and talk.
Sometimes he passes the wardrobe, full of costumes and pieces of himself. He thinks about going in, knows that he should change. The clothes he is wearing are singed and torn. The trousers don’t fit right anymore, snug at the waist and a little too short at the ankle. Never has he gone so long without picking new clothes for his new self.
These were the shoes that touched Gallifrey soil for the last time. Romana touched the cuff of this shirt when they shook hands for the last time. His waistcoat bears blood stains not his own.
He climbs the stairs that will take him away from the wardrobe.
iii.
He’s sitting on a stone bench, starring at the cloister bell, when he feels the change. The TARDIS is no longer drifting. She has come to rest on some piece of land, in some corner of the universe. Enough, she says, her voice echoing in his mind. It is time.
“Time,” he mutters. A single word with a thousand meaning, and each one defines him. He thinks of Eskimos and their 24 words for snow, and wonders how long an Eskimo would survive in the tropics. But no, Eskimos are human and human beings have an amazing ability to adapt. He’s more like a whale in a desert. He can’t live without time, but he’s been trying to.
Resignedly, he rises from the bench and follows the halls that will lead to the wardrobe. He folds each piece of clothing neatly, locking them away in a trunk. It doesn’t take him long to settle on a new outfit. Nothing outlandish this time, no long scarf or loud jacket that shouts out ‘here I am!’ This time he will blend in, and if he is lucky no one will see him.
At the last minute he grabs a black leather jacket, pulling it on over his black jumper. He doesn’t stop to look in the mirror.
iv.
It’s not Earth, this place he has landed. The air smells just a little different. It’s a colony of some kind, with buildings reminiscent of 23rd century architecture and sentient beings that are at least mostly human. Either by coincidence or planning on the part of the TARDIS, he’s landed in an alley directly across from a pub. He could do with a pint and a bit of pub grub. Maybe he’d be able to find a quiet corner to eat and watch the people. It’d been years since he’d interacted with any humans.
As he walks through the pub door a chair comes through the air, smashing against the wall inches from his head. Someone slams into him, but his cry of protest isn’t loud enough to be heard about the crowd. Overturned tables and shards of glass litter the floor. Last time he saw a fight like this was either 19th century America or medieval France.
“Oi, what’s going on?” No one answers him, but suddenly the crowd stills and the volume lowers. People move to the exits or the bar, and money changes hand while people speak of bets won or lost. The losers must have placed their money on the man on his hands and knees, puking in the corner. He moves to go help the man, a habit so ingrained it feels natural even after all that time. The woman’s voice stops him.
“Unless you want a second lesson, mate, the next time I tell you to leave me alone you’d better do just that.” She sounds more irritated than angry when she speaks, and a little proud.
She’s turned away from him. Her hair is dark and barely grazes her shoulder. She’s wearing a dress that flows from the waist to the middle of her calves. It’s irrational to think that he knows her, but he does.
“Ace?” he whispers to himself. Then louder, for the first time hearing happiness in his new voice. “Ace!”
The happiness fades when she turns, her eyes cold and flat. A scar runs down one cheek from just under her eye to her jaw. The man he was a month ago might have pondered the symbolism of it, calling it a permanent trail of tears.
“Sorry, you have the wrong person. I don’t know anyone named Ace.” She doesn’t even blink at the lie, and walks past him without pause. He follows her into the street and tries again.
“You can change your names as many times as you want, but you’re still Ace to me.” There’s a flicker in her eyes this time, but he can’t read her. He used to be able to, but that was a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes, actually.
“Look, toerag, I don’t know who you’ve been listening to, but...”
“They’re all dead, Ace. They’re dead and I thought you were too, and I just need to know...” Normally the punch to the solar plexus wouldn’t have been enough to make him stagger, but it was so unexpected. It didn’t hurt, though. Not like the pain he could see in her eyes.
“I don’t know who you are, but you can go to Skaro.” She runs, and she’s almost out of sight before he can make his legs move. He can’t let her get away. Fortunately he’s had plenty of practice running and his legs are long. He eats up the distance between them, catching up to her just before she enters a stone building.
This time when her hand knots into a fist he is ready, and catches it in his hand. She fights him, trying in equal measures to strike him and free herself. He narrowly avoids a knee to the groin, but can’t avoid the fingernails that scratch the top of his hand. When she shakes her head her hair tickles his chin, and for the first time he realizes how little she is. They used to be much of a size, but now it feels as if he towers over her. He risks letting go of her hand in order to move his fingers to her chin and raise her face to see her better.
“Look at me Ace,” he orders softly. The sound she makes at the back of her throat is almost a growl.
“Ace is dead.” With both hands flat against his chest she pushes, but he doesn’t budge. Not thinking, only acting, he lowers his head and presses his lips against hers. It surprises him, how soft she is, how easily she opens her mouth to his questing tongue. She smells like the moors after a summer storm and tastes of strawberries and hyper-vodka. He takes what she gives, his tongue dueling with hers, exploring her mouth. His hand trail down her sides skimming her ribs, her hips, the small of her back, her bottom. He pulls her tighter against him, wanting to touch as much of her as he can. He’s having trouble breathing when he pulls back.
“I’m sorry, Ace. This wasn’t what I...”
“No talking,” she snarls, yanking on the back of his neck until his mouth is once again touching hers. She nips at his lower lip, invading his mouth in a conquest he readily concedes. There will be time later for talking. He does try to protest when her hands move to his waist, undoing buckles, buttons and zippers with ruthless efficiency. She only pushes his hands away and silences his words with a deep kiss.
He reaches behind him, groping for the door’s handle. He’s not sure Ace remembers that they are still outside, but he does. This moment isn’t one he wants to share with anyone else. He finds the knob, turns it. Only then does he realize that they’ve been leaning against the door. His trousers are tangled around his ankles, but even if they weren’t he wouldn’t have been able to catch himself. All he can do is twist as he falls, landing on his back and making sure that Ace is on top of him.
“What a proper gentleman,” she says acerbically. She looks over her shoulder at the door that is still open, the street plainly visible. “Well almost.”
“I’m far from a gentleman.” If he was a gentleman they’d be sitting at a table drinking tea or walking down shadowy streets talking of days gone by . At they very least he’d get up and close the bloody door. He doesn’t move. Ace’s hands are on him. She’s not holding his hand or tapping his nose playfully or brushing dirt off his clothes. One hand is massaging the inside of his thigh while her other hand is wrapped firmly around his cock. Up and down she moves, pausing to run her finger along the weeping tip.
The phrase 'agony and ecstasy' swims through his mind. He could lie here forever, feeling that sensual touch, watching those hands he thought he knew so well but completely underestimated. At the same time he wants to scream for more, beg for her to move faster. Ace favors the second option. She pulls roughly at the fabric of her dress, freeing it from where it’s caught between her legs. She’s not wearing any underwear. He catches a glimpse, enough to know that her old hair color was more natural than what she has now. In the next moment she lowers herself onto him and all rational thought flees.
She’s so tight around him. Tight and hot and wet. When she starts to move he covers her hips with his hands. It’s not an effort to control her rhythm, but a desire to experience the ebb and flow of her body against his in yet another way. He couldn’t slow her down even if he wanted to. She moves even faster, her muscles clenching and releasing, her hands against his chest for balance. Her eyes are open and she watches him the entire time. Watches as he looses all control, moaning as he comes in her. Only when her own movements become frantic does she close her eyes, the lids flickering as a climax overtakes her. She collapses onto his chest and all he can do is wrap his arms around her.
v.
Wood floor in drafty entryways are not meant for sleeping, and he rouses himself after a few minutes. At first he thinks Ace is sleeping too, but he can feel the tensing of her muscles when he moves.
“Bedroom’s at the end of the hall, if you can make it that far,” she says as she pushes off him. The dress falls to the floor she rises. The zipper must have come undone. She walks to the front door, not seeming to notice or care that she’s naked and anyone could walk by and see her. In the light from the street he can see the skin that the dress covered earlier. The scar on her cheek’s not the only one she bears.
“We need to talk,” he says as she closes the door. “I need to tell you who I am.”
“I know who you are. Do you really think I shag any old bloke who chases me from the pub, Professor?” He’s still trying to pick his jaw up off the floor when she disappears through a door at the end of the hall.
“If you knew who I was, why’d you run?” He leans against the bedroom door frame and watches her unmake a double bed. The room is spartan, the only accessories functional. He hates it.
“I didn’t know then, not until I got a good look at your eyes. Figured you were just someone who knew me from before.” She shrugs and falls unceremoniously onto the bed. “No one’s called me Ace since the first days of the war. Ace was a kid, and too damn innocent. It’s Dorothee now.”
“Oh Ace,” he can't help saying. It sounds strange without the Scottish overtones.
“Yeah, well, that’s the past and this is the present.” She pats the bed next to her in invitation. “And just right now the present looks pretty good.”
“That it does, Dorothee McShane.” He slips into the bed, his hand moving to press against the skin that covers her single heart. He leans forward and kisses the scar on her cheek gently, trailing his lips along her cheek and down the line of her jaw. They might have, as she put it, shagged in the hallway. This time he would show her what it was like to make love with a Time Lord. He could at least give her that much, after she had lost so much.
vi.
The sun’s creeping through the window when he wakes up. “Ace,” he whispers. “Dorothee?”
When there is no answer he opens his eyes. He is alone in the room. Alone in the whole house, he soon discovers. There’s not so much as a sign that Ace was ever here. He would think it was a dream, but no dream had ever been that real. Ace was alive and he had spent the night with her. For reasons of her own she's gone now, though. He walks back to the TARDIS alone.
There’s a note taped to the console’s rotor. Nestene Consciousness. London, March 2005. The work’s not over yet, Professor. The letter D is crossed out and it is signed Ace.
“Let’s go see what kind of trouble those stupid apes have gotten themselves into now,” he says with a grin as he programs the coordinates. The note he folds in half and puts in his jacket pocket. He may be the last of his people, but he’s not quite as alone as he thought.
crossposted to dooooooom and ace_fans
Author: wiccagirl24
Disclaimer: Can you really own an idea as universal as Doctor Who? The BBC would say yes. Sad fact, that.
Rating: Adult. Mature. (read: smut)
Spoilers: Unless you've been living under a rock, the Time War and fact that Eight regenerated into Nine are not spoilers. There's one little spoiler for the ep Rose.
Pairing: Ace/Nine
A/N: I owe many thanks to the twin brilliance of becky_monster and calleigh_j.
Summery: He thought he was the only survivor of a war that destroyed everything. He was wrong.
i.
He barely makes it to the TARDIS in time. Just inside the door he falls to his knees, the adrenaline that kept him going finally depleted. One hand is pressed to his chest, just to the right of his hearts, his fingers slick with blood. His other arm falls uselessly at his side, motionless except for the trembling of overworked muscles. The pain is overwhelming, pulsing through his body with every breath, every heart beat.
If he were human he would be dying. He almost wishes he were. Instead he feels the indistinct tingle of millions of cells changing. He could stop it. With enough focus, enough determination, he could halt the cells' progression and breath his last. He’s too much of a coward. Instead he closes his eyes and sleeps.
ii.
He spends a month drifting in the time vortex. The TARDIS is undamaged. Amazing, all things considered. He wonders if it is fate or irony; the last TARDIS and the last Time Lord, both alive and whole when everything else is destroyed. Relics of a society that no longer exists, universal anomalies. He’s spent his entire life running away, and now he no longer has anyplace to run from.
When he closes his eyes he can see Gallifrey burning. He hasn’t slept since he awoke from his regeneration.
He wanders the halls, miles of white corridors that lead everywhere and nowhere. When he passes doors he sometimes touches them, but never goes inside. Each room contains memories as far away and unreachable as his home planet. The bedroom Nyssa and Tegan once shared. Ace’s workroom, where empty cans are still piled in a corner. The oversized closet Sarah Jane used to hide in when she scribbled away at her stories. The library where Jamie and Victoria used to sit in front of the fire and talk.
Sometimes he passes the wardrobe, full of costumes and pieces of himself. He thinks about going in, knows that he should change. The clothes he is wearing are singed and torn. The trousers don’t fit right anymore, snug at the waist and a little too short at the ankle. Never has he gone so long without picking new clothes for his new self.
These were the shoes that touched Gallifrey soil for the last time. Romana touched the cuff of this shirt when they shook hands for the last time. His waistcoat bears blood stains not his own.
He climbs the stairs that will take him away from the wardrobe.
iii.
He’s sitting on a stone bench, starring at the cloister bell, when he feels the change. The TARDIS is no longer drifting. She has come to rest on some piece of land, in some corner of the universe. Enough, she says, her voice echoing in his mind. It is time.
“Time,” he mutters. A single word with a thousand meaning, and each one defines him. He thinks of Eskimos and their 24 words for snow, and wonders how long an Eskimo would survive in the tropics. But no, Eskimos are human and human beings have an amazing ability to adapt. He’s more like a whale in a desert. He can’t live without time, but he’s been trying to.
Resignedly, he rises from the bench and follows the halls that will lead to the wardrobe. He folds each piece of clothing neatly, locking them away in a trunk. It doesn’t take him long to settle on a new outfit. Nothing outlandish this time, no long scarf or loud jacket that shouts out ‘here I am!’ This time he will blend in, and if he is lucky no one will see him.
At the last minute he grabs a black leather jacket, pulling it on over his black jumper. He doesn’t stop to look in the mirror.
iv.
It’s not Earth, this place he has landed. The air smells just a little different. It’s a colony of some kind, with buildings reminiscent of 23rd century architecture and sentient beings that are at least mostly human. Either by coincidence or planning on the part of the TARDIS, he’s landed in an alley directly across from a pub. He could do with a pint and a bit of pub grub. Maybe he’d be able to find a quiet corner to eat and watch the people. It’d been years since he’d interacted with any humans.
As he walks through the pub door a chair comes through the air, smashing against the wall inches from his head. Someone slams into him, but his cry of protest isn’t loud enough to be heard about the crowd. Overturned tables and shards of glass litter the floor. Last time he saw a fight like this was either 19th century America or medieval France.
“Oi, what’s going on?” No one answers him, but suddenly the crowd stills and the volume lowers. People move to the exits or the bar, and money changes hand while people speak of bets won or lost. The losers must have placed their money on the man on his hands and knees, puking in the corner. He moves to go help the man, a habit so ingrained it feels natural even after all that time. The woman’s voice stops him.
“Unless you want a second lesson, mate, the next time I tell you to leave me alone you’d better do just that.” She sounds more irritated than angry when she speaks, and a little proud.
She’s turned away from him. Her hair is dark and barely grazes her shoulder. She’s wearing a dress that flows from the waist to the middle of her calves. It’s irrational to think that he knows her, but he does.
“Ace?” he whispers to himself. Then louder, for the first time hearing happiness in his new voice. “Ace!”
The happiness fades when she turns, her eyes cold and flat. A scar runs down one cheek from just under her eye to her jaw. The man he was a month ago might have pondered the symbolism of it, calling it a permanent trail of tears.
“Sorry, you have the wrong person. I don’t know anyone named Ace.” She doesn’t even blink at the lie, and walks past him without pause. He follows her into the street and tries again.
“You can change your names as many times as you want, but you’re still Ace to me.” There’s a flicker in her eyes this time, but he can’t read her. He used to be able to, but that was a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes, actually.
“Look, toerag, I don’t know who you’ve been listening to, but...”
“They’re all dead, Ace. They’re dead and I thought you were too, and I just need to know...” Normally the punch to the solar plexus wouldn’t have been enough to make him stagger, but it was so unexpected. It didn’t hurt, though. Not like the pain he could see in her eyes.
“I don’t know who you are, but you can go to Skaro.” She runs, and she’s almost out of sight before he can make his legs move. He can’t let her get away. Fortunately he’s had plenty of practice running and his legs are long. He eats up the distance between them, catching up to her just before she enters a stone building.
This time when her hand knots into a fist he is ready, and catches it in his hand. She fights him, trying in equal measures to strike him and free herself. He narrowly avoids a knee to the groin, but can’t avoid the fingernails that scratch the top of his hand. When she shakes her head her hair tickles his chin, and for the first time he realizes how little she is. They used to be much of a size, but now it feels as if he towers over her. He risks letting go of her hand in order to move his fingers to her chin and raise her face to see her better.
“Look at me Ace,” he orders softly. The sound she makes at the back of her throat is almost a growl.
“Ace is dead.” With both hands flat against his chest she pushes, but he doesn’t budge. Not thinking, only acting, he lowers his head and presses his lips against hers. It surprises him, how soft she is, how easily she opens her mouth to his questing tongue. She smells like the moors after a summer storm and tastes of strawberries and hyper-vodka. He takes what she gives, his tongue dueling with hers, exploring her mouth. His hand trail down her sides skimming her ribs, her hips, the small of her back, her bottom. He pulls her tighter against him, wanting to touch as much of her as he can. He’s having trouble breathing when he pulls back.
“I’m sorry, Ace. This wasn’t what I...”
“No talking,” she snarls, yanking on the back of his neck until his mouth is once again touching hers. She nips at his lower lip, invading his mouth in a conquest he readily concedes. There will be time later for talking. He does try to protest when her hands move to his waist, undoing buckles, buttons and zippers with ruthless efficiency. She only pushes his hands away and silences his words with a deep kiss.
He reaches behind him, groping for the door’s handle. He’s not sure Ace remembers that they are still outside, but he does. This moment isn’t one he wants to share with anyone else. He finds the knob, turns it. Only then does he realize that they’ve been leaning against the door. His trousers are tangled around his ankles, but even if they weren’t he wouldn’t have been able to catch himself. All he can do is twist as he falls, landing on his back and making sure that Ace is on top of him.
“What a proper gentleman,” she says acerbically. She looks over her shoulder at the door that is still open, the street plainly visible. “Well almost.”
“I’m far from a gentleman.” If he was a gentleman they’d be sitting at a table drinking tea or walking down shadowy streets talking of days gone by . At they very least he’d get up and close the bloody door. He doesn’t move. Ace’s hands are on him. She’s not holding his hand or tapping his nose playfully or brushing dirt off his clothes. One hand is massaging the inside of his thigh while her other hand is wrapped firmly around his cock. Up and down she moves, pausing to run her finger along the weeping tip.
The phrase 'agony and ecstasy' swims through his mind. He could lie here forever, feeling that sensual touch, watching those hands he thought he knew so well but completely underestimated. At the same time he wants to scream for more, beg for her to move faster. Ace favors the second option. She pulls roughly at the fabric of her dress, freeing it from where it’s caught between her legs. She’s not wearing any underwear. He catches a glimpse, enough to know that her old hair color was more natural than what she has now. In the next moment she lowers herself onto him and all rational thought flees.
She’s so tight around him. Tight and hot and wet. When she starts to move he covers her hips with his hands. It’s not an effort to control her rhythm, but a desire to experience the ebb and flow of her body against his in yet another way. He couldn’t slow her down even if he wanted to. She moves even faster, her muscles clenching and releasing, her hands against his chest for balance. Her eyes are open and she watches him the entire time. Watches as he looses all control, moaning as he comes in her. Only when her own movements become frantic does she close her eyes, the lids flickering as a climax overtakes her. She collapses onto his chest and all he can do is wrap his arms around her.
v.
Wood floor in drafty entryways are not meant for sleeping, and he rouses himself after a few minutes. At first he thinks Ace is sleeping too, but he can feel the tensing of her muscles when he moves.
“Bedroom’s at the end of the hall, if you can make it that far,” she says as she pushes off him. The dress falls to the floor she rises. The zipper must have come undone. She walks to the front door, not seeming to notice or care that she’s naked and anyone could walk by and see her. In the light from the street he can see the skin that the dress covered earlier. The scar on her cheek’s not the only one she bears.
“We need to talk,” he says as she closes the door. “I need to tell you who I am.”
“I know who you are. Do you really think I shag any old bloke who chases me from the pub, Professor?” He’s still trying to pick his jaw up off the floor when she disappears through a door at the end of the hall.
“If you knew who I was, why’d you run?” He leans against the bedroom door frame and watches her unmake a double bed. The room is spartan, the only accessories functional. He hates it.
“I didn’t know then, not until I got a good look at your eyes. Figured you were just someone who knew me from before.” She shrugs and falls unceremoniously onto the bed. “No one’s called me Ace since the first days of the war. Ace was a kid, and too damn innocent. It’s Dorothee now.”
“Oh Ace,” he can't help saying. It sounds strange without the Scottish overtones.
“Yeah, well, that’s the past and this is the present.” She pats the bed next to her in invitation. “And just right now the present looks pretty good.”
“That it does, Dorothee McShane.” He slips into the bed, his hand moving to press against the skin that covers her single heart. He leans forward and kisses the scar on her cheek gently, trailing his lips along her cheek and down the line of her jaw. They might have, as she put it, shagged in the hallway. This time he would show her what it was like to make love with a Time Lord. He could at least give her that much, after she had lost so much.
vi.
The sun’s creeping through the window when he wakes up. “Ace,” he whispers. “Dorothee?”
When there is no answer he opens his eyes. He is alone in the room. Alone in the whole house, he soon discovers. There’s not so much as a sign that Ace was ever here. He would think it was a dream, but no dream had ever been that real. Ace was alive and he had spent the night with her. For reasons of her own she's gone now, though. He walks back to the TARDIS alone.
There’s a note taped to the console’s rotor. Nestene Consciousness. London, March 2005. The work’s not over yet, Professor. The letter D is crossed out and it is signed Ace.
“Let’s go see what kind of trouble those stupid apes have gotten themselves into now,” he says with a grin as he programs the coordinates. The note he folds in half and puts in his jacket pocket. He may be the last of his people, but he’s not quite as alone as he thought.
crossposted to dooooooom and ace_fans