Doctor Who :: And Those Who Died
Title: And Those Who Died
Rating: PG-13. Assuming said 13 year old is comfortable with S/M.
Summary: For Nine, self-love is a special kind of hate, made up of more affection than anything.
Pairing: Ninth Doctor/Tenth Doctor
Notes: For shadowesque13. Yes, again. Clearly she owns a part of my brain ~.^ Anyway, this entire thing was inspired by Confrontation, from the Jekyll and Hyde musical soundtrack. There's more subtext than real text, sorry ._.
Warnings are for: sadomasochism; lack of beta; extremely abrupt ending; and my own very limited knowledge of canon.
And Those Who Died
There weren't even any pictures left, except those trapped in his mind. When he had first visited Rose's home he'd spent a few quiet minutes surveying the photographs, all of them set on the walls behind glass smeared with fingerprints. Years ago, the idea of keeping photographs of people who had since died had seemed morbid and disrespectful somehow, but as time went on he learned to enjoy the quaint sentiment behind it. She'd later seen him smiling at a poorly lit but well-framed image of her very first dog, Kate, and asked him if he'd ever had a pet.
A heavy, wet-sounding cough from his future incarnation jerks his full attention back to what he's doing, and he finishes rinsing off his hands. It hadn't been entirely necessary to wash up, but the blood had begun to make his hands feel dry and tight, and it had been just a bit distracting.
When he enters the other room again, he's not surprised to see that his other self is sitting up again; the man can't seem to stay still for long.
"You'll tear that open if you're not careful," he says. He indicates the long knife wound set amid a dozen purple-gold bruises across his other self's ribs, but his tone is matter-of-fact and not the least bit chiding.
"I'll be fine. Not the first time I've been hurt, you know."
He makes a sound that is very nearly a snicker, and then crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His bare-chested counterpart continues pacing between the wall and a desk in the corner, examining things as he goes. A drawer manages to snag his attention for a while, which the Ninth Doctor finds rather peculiar because he's certain that drawer is empty.
"How badly did you get those thugs?" The man he will eventually become asks this without taking his gaze or his hands from poking around the not-so-mysterious desk.
"...Badly enough." Thick, dark blood against the bricks, ashen face and glazed eyes "How did they get you is what I'd like to know."
"That? Oh, well." He steps away from the desk and rocks back on his heels. He winces and cuts that out quickly when it tugs at the wound. "Well, I think it was that a certain someone insisted on tying my leg up the night before, disregarding the fact that my leg is not in fact made of stretchy putty. Not all that screaming was because I was trying to tell you you're some sort of god, you know. Although that would be a fairly interesting hymn, don't you think? Rather like the tribesmen of Lufelator after the harvest, though of course we aren't out to summon demons for sacrifice."
The other Doctor gives him a look that insists he wrap up his digression, but he knows by now not to expect looks or hints to do much. Better to just interject. "If it hurt you that much, you should have untied yourself." His gray-blue eyes lighten with teasing. "Or do you mean to say you lost all your common sense in the regeneration? Yet another thing to look forward to, eh?"
He just purses his lips and sagely ignores the barb. "What, and send you into a gloomy spiral of guilt and shame? I'd never get you to have any fun ever again if I did that."
"'Gloomy spiral'--who are you, Oscar Wilde?"
"Oh? Oh! Have I hit a sore subject, there?" He grins, mischievous and clever grin, too enticing for his own good.
The Ninth Doctor folds his arms and takes his turn to ignore the other. He holds up a roll of pressure wrap and gestures at the space on the quilt beside him. "Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come sit down?"
"Mm, now, that depends." He tilts his head a little as he speaks and slowly meanders his way back across the room. "Are you going to insist on bandaging me up like a mother hen, or are you going to admit I've got two hands and as much capability as you do?"
"Two hands, and a wound you can't reach with one of them." But he hands over the supplies as soon as his other self is on the bed. It was probably the 'mother hen' remark that got him.
Rating: PG-13. Assuming said 13 year old is comfortable with S/M.
Summary: For Nine, self-love is a special kind of hate, made up of more affection than anything.
Pairing: Ninth Doctor/Tenth Doctor
Notes: For shadowesque13. Yes, again. Clearly she owns a part of my brain ~.^ Anyway, this entire thing was inspired by Confrontation, from the Jekyll and Hyde musical soundtrack. There's more subtext than real text, sorry ._.
Warnings are for: sadomasochism; lack of beta; extremely abrupt ending; and my own very limited knowledge of canon.
And Those Who Died
There weren't even any pictures left, except those trapped in his mind. When he had first visited Rose's home he'd spent a few quiet minutes surveying the photographs, all of them set on the walls behind glass smeared with fingerprints. Years ago, the idea of keeping photographs of people who had since died had seemed morbid and disrespectful somehow, but as time went on he learned to enjoy the quaint sentiment behind it. She'd later seen him smiling at a poorly lit but well-framed image of her very first dog, Kate, and asked him if he'd ever had a pet.
A heavy, wet-sounding cough from his future incarnation jerks his full attention back to what he's doing, and he finishes rinsing off his hands. It hadn't been entirely necessary to wash up, but the blood had begun to make his hands feel dry and tight, and it had been just a bit distracting.
When he enters the other room again, he's not surprised to see that his other self is sitting up again; the man can't seem to stay still for long.
"You'll tear that open if you're not careful," he says. He indicates the long knife wound set amid a dozen purple-gold bruises across his other self's ribs, but his tone is matter-of-fact and not the least bit chiding.
"I'll be fine. Not the first time I've been hurt, you know."
He makes a sound that is very nearly a snicker, and then crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His bare-chested counterpart continues pacing between the wall and a desk in the corner, examining things as he goes. A drawer manages to snag his attention for a while, which the Ninth Doctor finds rather peculiar because he's certain that drawer is empty.
"How badly did you get those thugs?" The man he will eventually become asks this without taking his gaze or his hands from poking around the not-so-mysterious desk.
"...Badly enough." Thick, dark blood against the bricks, ashen face and glazed eyes "How did they get you is what I'd like to know."
"That? Oh, well." He steps away from the desk and rocks back on his heels. He winces and cuts that out quickly when it tugs at the wound. "Well, I think it was that a certain someone insisted on tying my leg up the night before, disregarding the fact that my leg is not in fact made of stretchy putty. Not all that screaming was because I was trying to tell you you're some sort of god, you know. Although that would be a fairly interesting hymn, don't you think? Rather like the tribesmen of Lufelator after the harvest, though of course we aren't out to summon demons for sacrifice."
The other Doctor gives him a look that insists he wrap up his digression, but he knows by now not to expect looks or hints to do much. Better to just interject. "If it hurt you that much, you should have untied yourself." His gray-blue eyes lighten with teasing. "Or do you mean to say you lost all your common sense in the regeneration? Yet another thing to look forward to, eh?"
He just purses his lips and sagely ignores the barb. "What, and send you into a gloomy spiral of guilt and shame? I'd never get you to have any fun ever again if I did that."
"'Gloomy spiral'--who are you, Oscar Wilde?"
"Oh? Oh! Have I hit a sore subject, there?" He grins, mischievous and clever grin, too enticing for his own good.
The Ninth Doctor folds his arms and takes his turn to ignore the other. He holds up a roll of pressure wrap and gestures at the space on the quilt beside him. "Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come sit down?"
"Mm, now, that depends." He tilts his head a little as he speaks and slowly meanders his way back across the room. "Are you going to insist on bandaging me up like a mother hen, or are you going to admit I've got two hands and as much capability as you do?"
"Two hands, and a wound you can't reach with one of them." But he hands over the supplies as soon as his other self is on the bed. It was probably the 'mother hen' remark that got him.