Fic: The Candle (Doctor Who, Ten/Rose, PG)
The Candle. It's Doctor Who fic, Ten/Rose, set someplace between The Satan Pit and Army of Ghosts, spoilers for season 2. Short. Fluffy. Not so much with plot.
They stare at each other in the dark for a moment, while he struggles with her sleepy eyes, her pajamas, the lines on her face from the blanket. Everything that time, that living, will take. "It'll end," he says, more softly than he means to. "It'll end, you and your toenails and everything funny you say. It ends."
She's pretty and he's noticed. Which is maddening.
Other bodies have had their moments, their uses. He doesn't know if it's him, or time or age or madness, that's watching her towel-dry her hair. A monumentally bad idea. A really bad, really indefensible idea. He should never have gotten used to women in the first place. But they're interesting, they learn; they smile and swing their hips and remember snatches of songs that even you've forgotten, and they make it much easier for the native population of Planet Whatever to like you.
They always like her.
It doesn't surprise him; she feels so beautifully, with the intensity of a small star. No wonder they fall into orbit. Her lips part and her eyes go on for miles, and she knows just where to rub, there, above your shoulder, until you're spilling the whole damn story and the details besides. Maybe he ought to take her in for police training.
Which would have nothing to do with the uniform and the baton and the flashy badge and the boots. Oh, Earth Christ and all the intergalactic apostles.
The bad idea is wrapped up in her; in the coral mouth and the flashes of humor and the hair falling into her lashes and most of all, most of all the set of her jaw when she's mad and stroppy and the fact that she doesn't quit. Ever. Sometimes he wants to put her in a jar and study her, bottle and sell that weird fierce spirit to a hundred puny native rebellions; and sometimes he just wants to take her clothes off, enough to make her shut up. He wants to kiss her when she's angry and hold her wrists above her head, against the side of a tree or the TARDIS or the crater of a moon.
"Am I doing this wrong ?" she says suddenly, looking up from under her straggling wet hair, and he takes a slightly hysterical tip to the side. Off the console. Her mouth curves up- it's all apples and pearls. "Eh, genius ? You're looking at me like I've done something terribly human that needs fixing."
"No, carry on." He coughs. A terrible cover. "Wonderful things, towels."
Such an impossibly bad idea.
His body, his new body, is overly affected by gravity. Hers. Well, everyone's. He's had a good educational time exploring the roof of a Frenchwoman's mouth once so far, and though the disappointing episode as a whole put him off the Bad Idea for a bit, it's coming back more wildly than ever.
He wants to dress it up in silliness and games and fun, but it comes back to the point. Always. There's nothing he can do with her, to her, that won't have to end.
"I shot the glass right out of a spaceship today," she murmurs, sitting on the bench. "But I'm not even tired. Just sort of hungry." She drapes the towel thoughtfully over the back and pats the seat beside her. He leaps up to follow the gesture, and quickly thinks better of it. Too defensively. He shoves his hands in his pockets and paces and she stares at him, probably considering his obvious lasting mental damage. "You all right ?"
"As rain."
"You're a bad liar, you are." She's all indulgence, as usual; but with a hint of something more distant. He sighs, and sits. It's all he can give at the moment. "You know, I was thinking- up there, in the ship. About things I haven't done."
"Haven't-"
"Haven't kissed you, for starters," she says, and does it.
It takes a second for his incredible brain to shake off the dust and remember that he's got both arms and free will in the fight against overpowering urges. He pushes her back against the seat, away from him, but he doesn't let go. Her mouth, without any gloss on it, has turned a bright and wet pink. It isn't helping.
"Rose," he says firmly, with nothing to back it up. "Rose. No."
"That's convincing."
"Rose-" there's a hundred reasons he could give, and they've all deserted him. It doesn't mean they don't exist, and he knows that; oh, he knows so well. "Please don't." Her eyes darken, but out of concern- he thinks he must sound tired. "Please don't change us. I didn't think I had to say this, not to you."
"Oh." He could have slapped her, and he's sure it would have hurt less. "I'm sorry."
"Please-" he still can't let go. But she does, she lets go and gets up, leaves the towel and the strands of hair still clinging to it.
"I'm sorry, Doctor." Her composure hasn't reached her eyes, but it will in a moment. "Forget it."
He waits until she's gone, to say: I can't.
Hurting her is not done.
It's one of his recent rules, recent here having the meaning of nearly two years; which is like the flicker of a firefly's arse when he thinks about it. It seems longer. But hurting her, scaring her, sucking her into a television set- he's erased alien life for less. Literally. It's written in ink on the backs of his eyelids, whoever you are, thou shalt not hurt Rose. She's too good to be eaten by bats or gnawed to death in the Scottish highlands.
The rule is his; he's still working out exactly how he can remain exempt from obeying it. Because he's done a shitty job thus far.
"Rose," he says, into the girly pink darkness of her room, the one the TARDIS seemed to choose and outfit for her. Complicit in everything, the ship hums around him, obviously enjoying his destruction. "You asleep ?"
"Yes," she mumbles, miserably.
"Good, then this is a dream." He sits beside her and she rolls over cooperatively enough, being careful not to touch him. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you, earlier. I should explain."
"I think I've got it." Her face is set down directly into the pillow, but he understands the muffled sounds. "Fully got it, yeah ? Can I sleep now ?"
"You said you were asleep."
"You are the stupidest man I've ever known," she says, lifting her head. "And the cleverest. How can you possibly make that work ?"
"Special genes."
"Right."
"Rose, I don't-" he's got to stop, for the lump in his throat. Her hair's like little webs in the darkness, plastered to her face; barely illuminated, she's real and living as a delicate spider beside him. And only barely longer-lived. "I just don't," he whispers. "Can't, might be a better word."
She rolls into a kneeling position and bundles the cover to the foot of the bed, facing him. They stare at each other in the dark for a moment, while he struggles with her sleepy eyes, her pajamas, the lines on her face from the blanket. Everything that time, that living, will take. "It'll end," he says, more softly than he means to. "It'll end, you and your toenails and everything funny you say. It ends."
"Okay," she says, which surprises him. Maybe he was expecting a protestation of eternity.
"Rose-"
"Yeah, I'm going to die." She pushes her hair behind her ears and doesn't flinch from his gaze. As usual. "I'm going to die, and really, to you, it's not even going to take very long. About as long as a bug."
"Yes," he says.
"Ah."
"So."
"I'm not dead yet," she says, and leans into him; and it's not that he smells her, or that he touches her, but she goes into him like an arrow, and he's transfixed. "I'm not dead yet, I'm here, and I want to live more than anything. Really live. I'm including you in that."
"I know."
"Do you ?" she asks. Her breath is warm against his ear. He could forget everything right now, inside of this minute, if he tried hard enough. Everything about her is warm, warm instead of hot, instead of cold. She's the absolute middle of the universe; human and cruel but kinder than anything, so desperately young, and still willing to stay. He lets his arms go around her, rests his hands against a heart and a lung respectively. She has less than him inside of her, and maybe that's why she has more room to rattle him around in there, give a shit about him. Room for that orbiting star. "Do you really ?"
"I do."
"Good," she says, and kisses him. It's everything it's supposed to be: it's good and it's right, and it ends too soon. "I'd rather be a bug to you than nothing at all." He laughs and runs his fingers along her arm like a centipede to tease her, and she pretends to swat him, and they lie on their backs looking up at the ceiling talking about exoskeletons until she falls asleep.
But he can't forget.
The ghosts are loose in the city; like him, they've got nowhere in particular to be. They amble down walkways and stand in place for hours, and it's easy to take readings off of them, if not pleasant.
He's staring at one, that might have been- might be- a girl. When he looks at Rose, she's staring, too.
"You're right," she says, looking away. "It is horrible." He couldn't agree more. "You were right about the other thing, too. I won't push it. And I want you to know that I'm sorry." He smiles, not happily, to hear his words in her mouth again.
"I lied to you," he says, with the very real understanding that he might get slapped for any, or all of this. Her eyes narrow.
"You what ?"
"I lied." He stands before her, runs his hands along her arms apologetically. "It's not the- it's not the blink. It's not that you're a, uh-" he tucks her hair behind her ears, again, and she's smiling, ever so slightly, "-a bug. It's not a short time. It's forever. I don't forget, and I don't forget forever, and I actually have a fairly good grasp on how very long a time that is."
"So you're saying," there's mischief in her eyes, and he likes it, too much to interrupt, "that you're always going to remember me, yeah ?"
Silly girl. He could tell her, but he won't, that he's selfish; that he's the only one who'll remember her that long, and so he might be the only one she deserves. She's already burning in him like a shivering flame, warm against the darkness; unsteady and lovely and giving. It's more than he's ready to say.
"You're a quick learner," he says, into her mouth.
And he doesn't forget.
They stare at each other in the dark for a moment, while he struggles with her sleepy eyes, her pajamas, the lines on her face from the blanket. Everything that time, that living, will take. "It'll end," he says, more softly than he means to. "It'll end, you and your toenails and everything funny you say. It ends."
She's pretty and he's noticed. Which is maddening.
Other bodies have had their moments, their uses. He doesn't know if it's him, or time or age or madness, that's watching her towel-dry her hair. A monumentally bad idea. A really bad, really indefensible idea. He should never have gotten used to women in the first place. But they're interesting, they learn; they smile and swing their hips and remember snatches of songs that even you've forgotten, and they make it much easier for the native population of Planet Whatever to like you.
They always like her.
It doesn't surprise him; she feels so beautifully, with the intensity of a small star. No wonder they fall into orbit. Her lips part and her eyes go on for miles, and she knows just where to rub, there, above your shoulder, until you're spilling the whole damn story and the details besides. Maybe he ought to take her in for police training.
Which would have nothing to do with the uniform and the baton and the flashy badge and the boots. Oh, Earth Christ and all the intergalactic apostles.
The bad idea is wrapped up in her; in the coral mouth and the flashes of humor and the hair falling into her lashes and most of all, most of all the set of her jaw when she's mad and stroppy and the fact that she doesn't quit. Ever. Sometimes he wants to put her in a jar and study her, bottle and sell that weird fierce spirit to a hundred puny native rebellions; and sometimes he just wants to take her clothes off, enough to make her shut up. He wants to kiss her when she's angry and hold her wrists above her head, against the side of a tree or the TARDIS or the crater of a moon.
"Am I doing this wrong ?" she says suddenly, looking up from under her straggling wet hair, and he takes a slightly hysterical tip to the side. Off the console. Her mouth curves up- it's all apples and pearls. "Eh, genius ? You're looking at me like I've done something terribly human that needs fixing."
"No, carry on." He coughs. A terrible cover. "Wonderful things, towels."
Such an impossibly bad idea.
His body, his new body, is overly affected by gravity. Hers. Well, everyone's. He's had a good educational time exploring the roof of a Frenchwoman's mouth once so far, and though the disappointing episode as a whole put him off the Bad Idea for a bit, it's coming back more wildly than ever.
He wants to dress it up in silliness and games and fun, but it comes back to the point. Always. There's nothing he can do with her, to her, that won't have to end.
"I shot the glass right out of a spaceship today," she murmurs, sitting on the bench. "But I'm not even tired. Just sort of hungry." She drapes the towel thoughtfully over the back and pats the seat beside her. He leaps up to follow the gesture, and quickly thinks better of it. Too defensively. He shoves his hands in his pockets and paces and she stares at him, probably considering his obvious lasting mental damage. "You all right ?"
"As rain."
"You're a bad liar, you are." She's all indulgence, as usual; but with a hint of something more distant. He sighs, and sits. It's all he can give at the moment. "You know, I was thinking- up there, in the ship. About things I haven't done."
"Haven't-"
"Haven't kissed you, for starters," she says, and does it.
It takes a second for his incredible brain to shake off the dust and remember that he's got both arms and free will in the fight against overpowering urges. He pushes her back against the seat, away from him, but he doesn't let go. Her mouth, without any gloss on it, has turned a bright and wet pink. It isn't helping.
"Rose," he says firmly, with nothing to back it up. "Rose. No."
"That's convincing."
"Rose-" there's a hundred reasons he could give, and they've all deserted him. It doesn't mean they don't exist, and he knows that; oh, he knows so well. "Please don't." Her eyes darken, but out of concern- he thinks he must sound tired. "Please don't change us. I didn't think I had to say this, not to you."
"Oh." He could have slapped her, and he's sure it would have hurt less. "I'm sorry."
"Please-" he still can't let go. But she does, she lets go and gets up, leaves the towel and the strands of hair still clinging to it.
"I'm sorry, Doctor." Her composure hasn't reached her eyes, but it will in a moment. "Forget it."
He waits until she's gone, to say: I can't.
Hurting her is not done.
It's one of his recent rules, recent here having the meaning of nearly two years; which is like the flicker of a firefly's arse when he thinks about it. It seems longer. But hurting her, scaring her, sucking her into a television set- he's erased alien life for less. Literally. It's written in ink on the backs of his eyelids, whoever you are, thou shalt not hurt Rose. She's too good to be eaten by bats or gnawed to death in the Scottish highlands.
The rule is his; he's still working out exactly how he can remain exempt from obeying it. Because he's done a shitty job thus far.
"Rose," he says, into the girly pink darkness of her room, the one the TARDIS seemed to choose and outfit for her. Complicit in everything, the ship hums around him, obviously enjoying his destruction. "You asleep ?"
"Yes," she mumbles, miserably.
"Good, then this is a dream." He sits beside her and she rolls over cooperatively enough, being careful not to touch him. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you, earlier. I should explain."
"I think I've got it." Her face is set down directly into the pillow, but he understands the muffled sounds. "Fully got it, yeah ? Can I sleep now ?"
"You said you were asleep."
"You are the stupidest man I've ever known," she says, lifting her head. "And the cleverest. How can you possibly make that work ?"
"Special genes."
"Right."
"Rose, I don't-" he's got to stop, for the lump in his throat. Her hair's like little webs in the darkness, plastered to her face; barely illuminated, she's real and living as a delicate spider beside him. And only barely longer-lived. "I just don't," he whispers. "Can't, might be a better word."
She rolls into a kneeling position and bundles the cover to the foot of the bed, facing him. They stare at each other in the dark for a moment, while he struggles with her sleepy eyes, her pajamas, the lines on her face from the blanket. Everything that time, that living, will take. "It'll end," he says, more softly than he means to. "It'll end, you and your toenails and everything funny you say. It ends."
"Okay," she says, which surprises him. Maybe he was expecting a protestation of eternity.
"Rose-"
"Yeah, I'm going to die." She pushes her hair behind her ears and doesn't flinch from his gaze. As usual. "I'm going to die, and really, to you, it's not even going to take very long. About as long as a bug."
"Yes," he says.
"Ah."
"So."
"I'm not dead yet," she says, and leans into him; and it's not that he smells her, or that he touches her, but she goes into him like an arrow, and he's transfixed. "I'm not dead yet, I'm here, and I want to live more than anything. Really live. I'm including you in that."
"I know."
"Do you ?" she asks. Her breath is warm against his ear. He could forget everything right now, inside of this minute, if he tried hard enough. Everything about her is warm, warm instead of hot, instead of cold. She's the absolute middle of the universe; human and cruel but kinder than anything, so desperately young, and still willing to stay. He lets his arms go around her, rests his hands against a heart and a lung respectively. She has less than him inside of her, and maybe that's why she has more room to rattle him around in there, give a shit about him. Room for that orbiting star. "Do you really ?"
"I do."
"Good," she says, and kisses him. It's everything it's supposed to be: it's good and it's right, and it ends too soon. "I'd rather be a bug to you than nothing at all." He laughs and runs his fingers along her arm like a centipede to tease her, and she pretends to swat him, and they lie on their backs looking up at the ceiling talking about exoskeletons until she falls asleep.
But he can't forget.
The ghosts are loose in the city; like him, they've got nowhere in particular to be. They amble down walkways and stand in place for hours, and it's easy to take readings off of them, if not pleasant.
He's staring at one, that might have been- might be- a girl. When he looks at Rose, she's staring, too.
"You're right," she says, looking away. "It is horrible." He couldn't agree more. "You were right about the other thing, too. I won't push it. And I want you to know that I'm sorry." He smiles, not happily, to hear his words in her mouth again.
"I lied to you," he says, with the very real understanding that he might get slapped for any, or all of this. Her eyes narrow.
"You what ?"
"I lied." He stands before her, runs his hands along her arms apologetically. "It's not the- it's not the blink. It's not that you're a, uh-" he tucks her hair behind her ears, again, and she's smiling, ever so slightly, "-a bug. It's not a short time. It's forever. I don't forget, and I don't forget forever, and I actually have a fairly good grasp on how very long a time that is."
"So you're saying," there's mischief in her eyes, and he likes it, too much to interrupt, "that you're always going to remember me, yeah ?"
Silly girl. He could tell her, but he won't, that he's selfish; that he's the only one who'll remember her that long, and so he might be the only one she deserves. She's already burning in him like a shivering flame, warm against the darkness; unsteady and lovely and giving. It's more than he's ready to say.
"You're a quick learner," he says, into her mouth.
And he doesn't forget.