Fic - Breathing
Hello :D
Once upon a time, I joined this community and posted a rather silly little story featuring one of my top fave pairings, the irrepressible Five/Turlough ( 'Sexual Frustration'). Then, the rather daft thing that is RL came, invited itself over for tea, stole all the scones and most of the jam, and settled in for the long haul. Luckily, in-between the events of said invasion, I managed to squeeze in time for a few jaunts with the duo, though they mostly remained unfinished. In fact, most of them still are, and are sitting in my head, tapping their respective feet and asking themselves if they will ever see the glorious, finished light of day.
Sorry if you're fed up with the extended metaphors, I'm afraid I'm in one of those moods.
Also sorry if you don't give a damn about any of this - just skip down to the fic. None of this is necessary, but I felt a little explanation was necessary. Well, not necessarily, but appropriate, or something similar.
Anyway, as mentioned, RL took over. and these few things that I had written remained burning a hole in my hard drive and I (to my shame) half forgot about them and the whole business of posting (which can, when the mood takes my internet, be quite an ordeal).
But now I am free! Well, for a few minutes at least. Hopefully in the future I will be able to finish share more of what I have currently in pieces, because I really would value your opinion and damnit, but there should be more Turloughfic out there!
So, my piece is done. Now onto the fic.
Title - Breathing
Author - Flamestone
Summary - Turlough muddles through his thoughts after a slightly nasty adventure.
Pairings - Personally, 5/T, but could be construed as friendship.
Warnings - none really, save for Turlough, slightly slashy overtones, and a tad of blood. Nothing you might not see in the series then :D
Notes - Inspired by the song 'Breathing' by Lifehouse, but only because I heard the song, liked it, and wanted to fit the mood of it with something. Turlough just happened to stroll along at the right moment, resulting in this. Slightly soft for Turlough, but I reckon he's got to be sometime, eh?
Oh, and I'm just wondering if there is any interest in an eventually 5/T fic featuring John Simm's Master? I sort of got carried away with an idea, it's definitely not finished, but I quite like bits of it. Plus the idea of John Simm vs Fivey and Turlough... :D
'Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven's door and listen to you breathing -
Is where I want to be.
Breathing - Lifehouse
***
It takes a lot of skill to train yourself to sleep and wake at regulated times. The mind cannot easily judge time while asleep, making the task even harder, but Turlough had got it down to a fine art with years of practise, first back home where he would force himself to unconsciousness to avoid all the unpleasantness, then later to avoid the boredom. Teaching himself to wake up was not much of a jump from there for him, and he used to use the new-found knack for sleep-control to scare the other boys' shitless at Brendan with late-night pranks, midnight excursions and planned escape strategies, all with perfect timing. He knew roughly how much he could take before exhaustion and when he couldn't, he had gradually found that he could force himself on anyway as long as he promised himself a break later on - school holidays were good for something.
When he boarded the TARDIS, this skill proved very useful in allowing him to avoid dropping any shields around the others, never showing vulnerability for a moment. He was always on his guard, always prepared, and even though it was pulling his reserves of REM low, he was coping. It was just a good thing the Doctor was fond of tea - he'd never have been able to cope without the caffeine.
Somewhere along the line, shortly after Tegan had left for pastures new, he'd found himself sitting on the not-uncomfortable TARDIS corridor floor, tie undone and lying loosely around his neck, collar open, his back against the wall. He was glad for the support - once again his body felt like it was full of lead weights that were holding him to the floor, either that or there was something wrong (again) with the TARDIS' environmental controls and the gravity was too high. It was, however, his body's typical reaction to yet another of the Doctor's hair-raising adventures; this he knew from experience. The series of small, stinging cuts around his thumb that were replicated over the rest of his exposed skin, the shading of a bruise on his jaw and stretching under his eye, the feel of identical bruises hidden underneath his usual, impossibly-battered school uniform.
Talking of the uniform, he wasn't really sure why he'd put it on that morning (was it only that morning?), except in some mix of nostalgia, fear of the wardrobe (irrational but true) and habit. It was looking more than a little frayed at the edges - well, more like torn, ripped and stained, with the stiffness and texture of old bloodstains (something even the TARDIS couldn't cure) and the look of something that had been left outside in the rain all night. In a ditch. On a dead body.
He made a vague mental note to properly throw it away this time when he awoke and to brave the wardrobe properly. After all, the TARDIS had stopped her one-time little pranks that he took to mean where her subtle revenge for his past indiscretions.
He leant back properly, resting his aching head on the wall and closed his eyes, not to sleep but to rest them from the slightly-too-harsh corridor lighting. He could almost feel the bruise swelling under his skin, making itself painful and tender. It was even starting to hurt when he blinked, and he swore silently as he realised he would probably be treasuring another brilliant black eye the next morning.
His eyes snapped open and he winced at the pain that caused before gently reaching up with one hand - the less damaged one - and wiping away the moisture that was clinging to his eyelashes. Having convinced himself it was the pain making itself known, he let it drop back limply to his lap, feeling the rough Terran material brush his sensitised skin.
Back to something positive. Though, he realised through his tired mind, if he did find something, it would be a near-miracle. His own health had not much going for it - he usually managed to get away from one of the Doctor's 'jaunt's relatively unscathed. The TARDIS was once again hanging on by the.... whatever almost-sentient time-space ships hung on with. And the Doctor...
Turlough sighed, the gesture making his chest and ribs twinge a little. If he was in worse health than usual, the Doctor was positively trounced. He'd seen war veterans look better coming back from their tour of duty, and the ones that had visited his family on the obligatory social events had had at most five full ears and seven eyes between them. One had been missing an arm from the elbow down; another had been in a hoverchair with no legs and only a blanket to create the illusion. There had been four of them, their chests baring the muted insignia of war medals and their faces showing the scars with which they had earned them.
The Doctor, he quickly reassured himself, running memories over in his mind to quickly dispel any imaginations of a mutilated Time Lord. Both ears, both eyes (though one was probably looking even more like a plum than his), all limbs accounted for. The cuts were new and quite nasty, though the man had ignored them as if they weren't even there; the limp was unexpected but understandable. The weariness was the same, the slumped set of the shoulders and the stiffness too. The blood on his shirt - that he hadn't expected.
It would've been easier if the stubborn Time Lord had collapsed - at least then he could've dealt with the injuries methodically with full use of the TARDIS' medbay, his own patchy medical skills and no comments from the benches. As it was, the Doctor's refusal to let him even try to help, the harshness in his tone (probably a result of the pain he told himself again) had made him step back, though he couldn't stop his eyes following the other man in concern.
People thought he was selfish - he thought, suddenly going off at a tangent. All right, so maybe he was, especially when it came to his continued health and happiness. He'd had precious few of both for him to needlessly throw that aside, but as he'd proven before, he wasn't really selfish. In fact, he was often blindly selfless when he thought about it, casting his mind back to the blackness that was Frontios, the bone-jarring fear of fighting the Silurians, that unforgettable battle with the Black Guardian that seemed destined to reign his nightmares for the rest of his life.
Selfless? Turlough? Peoples across the universe would be falling dead in shock.
Where was he? The Doctor - that was it. He roused himself out of his thoughts enough for a moment, holding his breath and listening to the near-silence. After a few seconds, his hearing acclimatised and he registered the gentle sound he had been looking for. A smile twitched his lips and he breathed out, momentarily reassured by the steady breathing of the man behind the door.
It had taken a lot, but surprisingly not too much to finally get him to capitulate, prodding him to get himself patched up, flatly refusing any help the other man tried to offer him, and then to get him to go to bed. All this had been punctuated by the Doctor's scarily-knowing looks, a few not-so-subtle comments and digs, including a weary replica of his usual smile and a soft "I didn't know you cared", to which he, unsure and wrong-footed, had not replied, had just looked at him.
Of course, sending the Doctor to bed (he had been sorely tempted to comment 'Doctor's orders') meant that Turlough was now free and alone on a ship were it was rare for him to be the only one awake. It almost, almost made him want to do something wild, like run up and down the corridors in Tegan's high heels, or to cook something big and messy in the kitchen and then just not bother to eat it, or even to go exploring. All of these options were far too tiring though, and it hadn't taken long for his weary feet to bring him here, his legs to fold under him as he lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and dropping his hands to his lap.
The next morning would be tough - sullen silences and tension, uncomfortable glances and equally bad apologies and thanks. He would make breakfast, as the Doctor's sprained wrist would prevent him from even this, while the Time Lord made tea - a simple task that he could fuss over all he liked. Then, the masks between them proving too loose and jarring, one or other of them would leave to do some muttered task, and then that would be it. They would reconvene later in the console room and forget it had ever happened. He could almost see it if he closed his eyes, taste the disappointment, loneliness, concern and regret on his dry, bitten lips when he licked perfunctorily to moisten them.
He didn't even bother to try to rouse himself or open his eyes. He felt comfortable here, and at this moment, he really couldn't care less that he was sat in a corridor outside the Doctor's bedroom, listening to the steady breathing filter through the walls. Tomorrow he would regret, he would feel pathetic (or persuade himself so at any rate) and sappy, promise himself he would never do it again and build back up his walls.
Tonight, he would just sit and listen to the breathing.
Once upon a time, I joined this community and posted a rather silly little story featuring one of my top fave pairings, the irrepressible Five/Turlough ( 'Sexual Frustration'). Then, the rather daft thing that is RL came, invited itself over for tea, stole all the scones and most of the jam, and settled in for the long haul. Luckily, in-between the events of said invasion, I managed to squeeze in time for a few jaunts with the duo, though they mostly remained unfinished. In fact, most of them still are, and are sitting in my head, tapping their respective feet and asking themselves if they will ever see the glorious, finished light of day.
Sorry if you're fed up with the extended metaphors, I'm afraid I'm in one of those moods.
Also sorry if you don't give a damn about any of this - just skip down to the fic. None of this is necessary, but I felt a little explanation was necessary. Well, not necessarily, but appropriate, or something similar.
Anyway, as mentioned, RL took over. and these few things that I had written remained burning a hole in my hard drive and I (to my shame) half forgot about them and the whole business of posting (which can, when the mood takes my internet, be quite an ordeal).
But now I am free! Well, for a few minutes at least. Hopefully in the future I will be able to finish share more of what I have currently in pieces, because I really would value your opinion and damnit, but there should be more Turloughfic out there!
So, my piece is done. Now onto the fic.
Title - Breathing
Author - Flamestone
Summary - Turlough muddles through his thoughts after a slightly nasty adventure.
Pairings - Personally, 5/T, but could be construed as friendship.
Warnings - none really, save for Turlough, slightly slashy overtones, and a tad of blood. Nothing you might not see in the series then :D
Notes - Inspired by the song 'Breathing' by Lifehouse, but only because I heard the song, liked it, and wanted to fit the mood of it with something. Turlough just happened to stroll along at the right moment, resulting in this. Slightly soft for Turlough, but I reckon he's got to be sometime, eh?
Oh, and I'm just wondering if there is any interest in an eventually 5/T fic featuring John Simm's Master? I sort of got carried away with an idea, it's definitely not finished, but I quite like bits of it. Plus the idea of John Simm vs Fivey and Turlough... :D
'Cause I want nothing more than to sit
Outside Heaven's door and listen to you breathing -
Is where I want to be.
Breathing - Lifehouse
***
It takes a lot of skill to train yourself to sleep and wake at regulated times. The mind cannot easily judge time while asleep, making the task even harder, but Turlough had got it down to a fine art with years of practise, first back home where he would force himself to unconsciousness to avoid all the unpleasantness, then later to avoid the boredom. Teaching himself to wake up was not much of a jump from there for him, and he used to use the new-found knack for sleep-control to scare the other boys' shitless at Brendan with late-night pranks, midnight excursions and planned escape strategies, all with perfect timing. He knew roughly how much he could take before exhaustion and when he couldn't, he had gradually found that he could force himself on anyway as long as he promised himself a break later on - school holidays were good for something.
When he boarded the TARDIS, this skill proved very useful in allowing him to avoid dropping any shields around the others, never showing vulnerability for a moment. He was always on his guard, always prepared, and even though it was pulling his reserves of REM low, he was coping. It was just a good thing the Doctor was fond of tea - he'd never have been able to cope without the caffeine.
Somewhere along the line, shortly after Tegan had left for pastures new, he'd found himself sitting on the not-uncomfortable TARDIS corridor floor, tie undone and lying loosely around his neck, collar open, his back against the wall. He was glad for the support - once again his body felt like it was full of lead weights that were holding him to the floor, either that or there was something wrong (again) with the TARDIS' environmental controls and the gravity was too high. It was, however, his body's typical reaction to yet another of the Doctor's hair-raising adventures; this he knew from experience. The series of small, stinging cuts around his thumb that were replicated over the rest of his exposed skin, the shading of a bruise on his jaw and stretching under his eye, the feel of identical bruises hidden underneath his usual, impossibly-battered school uniform.
Talking of the uniform, he wasn't really sure why he'd put it on that morning (was it only that morning?), except in some mix of nostalgia, fear of the wardrobe (irrational but true) and habit. It was looking more than a little frayed at the edges - well, more like torn, ripped and stained, with the stiffness and texture of old bloodstains (something even the TARDIS couldn't cure) and the look of something that had been left outside in the rain all night. In a ditch. On a dead body.
He made a vague mental note to properly throw it away this time when he awoke and to brave the wardrobe properly. After all, the TARDIS had stopped her one-time little pranks that he took to mean where her subtle revenge for his past indiscretions.
He leant back properly, resting his aching head on the wall and closed his eyes, not to sleep but to rest them from the slightly-too-harsh corridor lighting. He could almost feel the bruise swelling under his skin, making itself painful and tender. It was even starting to hurt when he blinked, and he swore silently as he realised he would probably be treasuring another brilliant black eye the next morning.
His eyes snapped open and he winced at the pain that caused before gently reaching up with one hand - the less damaged one - and wiping away the moisture that was clinging to his eyelashes. Having convinced himself it was the pain making itself known, he let it drop back limply to his lap, feeling the rough Terran material brush his sensitised skin.
Back to something positive. Though, he realised through his tired mind, if he did find something, it would be a near-miracle. His own health had not much going for it - he usually managed to get away from one of the Doctor's 'jaunt's relatively unscathed. The TARDIS was once again hanging on by the.... whatever almost-sentient time-space ships hung on with. And the Doctor...
Turlough sighed, the gesture making his chest and ribs twinge a little. If he was in worse health than usual, the Doctor was positively trounced. He'd seen war veterans look better coming back from their tour of duty, and the ones that had visited his family on the obligatory social events had had at most five full ears and seven eyes between them. One had been missing an arm from the elbow down; another had been in a hoverchair with no legs and only a blanket to create the illusion. There had been four of them, their chests baring the muted insignia of war medals and their faces showing the scars with which they had earned them.
The Doctor, he quickly reassured himself, running memories over in his mind to quickly dispel any imaginations of a mutilated Time Lord. Both ears, both eyes (though one was probably looking even more like a plum than his), all limbs accounted for. The cuts were new and quite nasty, though the man had ignored them as if they weren't even there; the limp was unexpected but understandable. The weariness was the same, the slumped set of the shoulders and the stiffness too. The blood on his shirt - that he hadn't expected.
It would've been easier if the stubborn Time Lord had collapsed - at least then he could've dealt with the injuries methodically with full use of the TARDIS' medbay, his own patchy medical skills and no comments from the benches. As it was, the Doctor's refusal to let him even try to help, the harshness in his tone (probably a result of the pain he told himself again) had made him step back, though he couldn't stop his eyes following the other man in concern.
People thought he was selfish - he thought, suddenly going off at a tangent. All right, so maybe he was, especially when it came to his continued health and happiness. He'd had precious few of both for him to needlessly throw that aside, but as he'd proven before, he wasn't really selfish. In fact, he was often blindly selfless when he thought about it, casting his mind back to the blackness that was Frontios, the bone-jarring fear of fighting the Silurians, that unforgettable battle with the Black Guardian that seemed destined to reign his nightmares for the rest of his life.
Selfless? Turlough? Peoples across the universe would be falling dead in shock.
Where was he? The Doctor - that was it. He roused himself out of his thoughts enough for a moment, holding his breath and listening to the near-silence. After a few seconds, his hearing acclimatised and he registered the gentle sound he had been looking for. A smile twitched his lips and he breathed out, momentarily reassured by the steady breathing of the man behind the door.
It had taken a lot, but surprisingly not too much to finally get him to capitulate, prodding him to get himself patched up, flatly refusing any help the other man tried to offer him, and then to get him to go to bed. All this had been punctuated by the Doctor's scarily-knowing looks, a few not-so-subtle comments and digs, including a weary replica of his usual smile and a soft "I didn't know you cared", to which he, unsure and wrong-footed, had not replied, had just looked at him.
Of course, sending the Doctor to bed (he had been sorely tempted to comment 'Doctor's orders') meant that Turlough was now free and alone on a ship were it was rare for him to be the only one awake. It almost, almost made him want to do something wild, like run up and down the corridors in Tegan's high heels, or to cook something big and messy in the kitchen and then just not bother to eat it, or even to go exploring. All of these options were far too tiring though, and it hadn't taken long for his weary feet to bring him here, his legs to fold under him as he lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against the wall and dropping his hands to his lap.
The next morning would be tough - sullen silences and tension, uncomfortable glances and equally bad apologies and thanks. He would make breakfast, as the Doctor's sprained wrist would prevent him from even this, while the Time Lord made tea - a simple task that he could fuss over all he liked. Then, the masks between them proving too loose and jarring, one or other of them would leave to do some muttered task, and then that would be it. They would reconvene later in the console room and forget it had ever happened. He could almost see it if he closed his eyes, taste the disappointment, loneliness, concern and regret on his dry, bitten lips when he licked perfunctorily to moisten them.
He didn't even bother to try to rouse himself or open his eyes. He felt comfortable here, and at this moment, he really couldn't care less that he was sat in a corridor outside the Doctor's bedroom, listening to the steady breathing filter through the walls. Tomorrow he would regret, he would feel pathetic (or persuade himself so at any rate) and sappy, promise himself he would never do it again and build back up his walls.
Tonight, he would just sit and listen to the breathing.