Equilibrium (1/1) ~Woo I'm the weiner!~
Title: Equilibrium
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: Teen
Summary: Beautiful endings and new beginnings.
A/N: Written for Round 2.13 of writerinatardis, the prompt for which was "Endings." And speaking of endings, this round of WIAT is now over and I'm the weiner! How about that! I'd like to thank debs7 who runs it, everyone who participated, all the other writers and the folks who voted. I think I learned a lot about writing to deadline (not least of which is that it makes me tear my hair out) and writing within constraints like word-limits and prompts. So, hooray and *phew* man, I am burnt out, I am not even going to lie. It might be some time before I am ready to produce more fic again.
There's something about an end of a world.
Or, more precisely, there's something about stopping the end of a world. The inertia of the averted ending flings the Doctor forward, on the potential energy of a natural force thwarted by sheer force of will.
He feels the need to end something, or be ripped apart himself.
The power of endings cares not one whit about relative magnitudes. An entire planet, or the life of an insect; a universe or a friendship; it's all of a piece. All things are capable of coming to an end, and all things do, eventually. The trick for the Doctor is to find something that needs an ending, is crying out for one.
But until he does, oh, the exhilaration of it. The feeling of the inevitable working through his own hands, it makes him feel boundless, wild, and terrible. The choice of how to apply this power is like the taste of sweet apples in his mouth.
The threads are at their breaking point now, he has ridden the wave for as long as possible and he feels the inevitable pressing around him. Everything starts to look ripe for a beautiful ending.
***
The best Rose has been able to do in the way of sleep is a few minutes of slightly surreal thoughts about the efficacy of Marmite as a shoe polish, followed by the sensation of tumbling down a bottomless hole, putting her right back at her previous state of wakefulness.
She'd never been prone to insomnia in her old life. Quite to the contrary; her mother had often pointed out (with a note of envy) her ability to sleep through anything. She'd always rather effectively dealt with any and all emotional trauma by crawling under her duvet and putting in a solid sixteen hours. The more problems she had, the more her pillow seemed like the best solution.
Not any more, though. Not on the TARDIS. It strikes her as odd that the droning hum, the dim lighting, and the soothing colours of her adopted home all add up to frequent nights spent wide awake. Not every night-she can still sack out with the best of them-but often enough that she's grown to expect regular bouts with insomnia.
In these times, however, she finds herself reluctant to seek the Doctor out, despite all evidence pointing to him being a first-class insomniac himself. She's afraid he might take it as a sign of weakness.
But she doesn't feel weak. Not at all, and that is the problem. She feels a force coursing through her during these long, artificial nights, and she can tell before she even undresses and gets into bed that sleep is going to be elusive.
And so, she waits, in stasis, checking the clock on her mobile, calculating to the minute what an acceptable time for her to rejoin the Doctor would be, like a child on Christmas morning. She has just put her phone back down, the light from the screen casting a bluish glow on the surrounding few feet, when the door to her room unexpectedly opens, and the Doctor strides in, all long legs and arms swinging.
"Right," he says loudly as he approaches, not even stopping to see if she's awake (perhaps he has a way of knowing that she's not-perhaps he's known all along).
"Is something wrong?" she says, propping herself up on an elbow, her voice sounding sleepier than she feels. "Have we landed?"
"Wrong? No, not at all." He stands by her bedside and looms rather disconcertingly. The light from her mobile goes out and all she can see is the outline of him set against the vaulted ceiling.
"So..." she begins, giving him some more time to explain his presence. He does not. "Why are you here?"
"I live here."
She falls back onto her pillow. "I mean, here specifically, in my room."
"Technically, it's my room, you're just borrowing it."
"Whatever."
He cocks his head to one side. "I really have to come out against this vagueness of language. If we aren't precise in our speech... well, I can't tell you how many times the wrong word has gotten me into trouble."
"Doctor," she sighs. "You know what I mean."
He removes his hands from his pockets and unbuttons his suit jacket. "It's time. And I mean the precise correct time-don't doubt me on this-to end this."
Rose feels her heart leap into her throat and lodge itself there. She can't speak, her palms go damp and her mouth goes dry. It's the moment she'd been dreading right from the start, and she tries to convince herself that she'd always known it was inevitable, but that's a lie. She stammers out a few syllables, but none of them make any sense.
"I don't know why I didn't see it before," the Doctor continues, perversely enthusiastic. "Right there staring me in the face, but I'm so thick sometimes. When things want ending, usually I'm right there, first in line, but somehow... I dunno, maybe it's something about you, something unique in all the universe."
He sticks a hand in a pocket and Rose is sure he's going to come out with the sonic screwdriver, to analyse her apparently unusual ability to be... well, dumped. It's insulting, and shaming, and completely infuriating. When he doesn't produce the device, it doesn't matter because Rose has found her voice.
"You," she points an accusing finger, sitting up in bed and wrapping the duvet around her. "You are unbelievable."
He bounces in place and she can see his toothy grin flashing. "I am a bit, aren't I?"
"First you warn me off, then you ask me to join you, and it's all come here, now go away, and then you changed and I finally thought I'd got a handle on you-"
"You'll never get a handle on me, Rose Tyler," he says, and he's purring. He's actually purring and leaning down close to her. She can smell the spicy sweetness of whatever he uses on his hair, and his tie flops forward onto the bed. "So what do you say, is it time? And I'm only asking to be polite, because I know that it is."
"Polite?" Rose stammers, and prepares herself to eject him from her room long enough to try to figure out what to do.
Except, something else entirely seems to be happening. He lowers himself onto the bed, next to her. Where a moment ago he'd been brash, forceful, and characteristically self-assured, he's quiet now, and a little tentative.
"Just say yes," he says. His eyes are wide and twinkling, and this honestly does not look like the face of a man about to kick his mate out of their transdimensional flat.
Rose nods, before she can even stop herself. The cold, rational part of her brain curses his powers of persuasion. This is how he gets himself invited to sit by the Queen or help Michaelangelo paint the ceiling, and she has fallen for it.
"Good."
He unlaces his shoes, lets them fall to the floor. Rose feels like some sort of timid forest creature, staying quiet, averting her gaze, not making any sudden movements. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and inclines his head to look into her eyes.
"I'm-" she begins, but then can't think of what she is, in order to finish her thought. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Endings," he says, and he places a hand at the back of her neck. "And beginnings. To begin a new thing, you have to end the old."
He draws her in, with just enough firmness for her to know he means it, and when their lips meet it's like the two of them together are a lightening conductor, calling down immense power and seeing it safely to ground. Electricity moves through her, standing her hairs on end, prickling against her skin, and creating heat between their bodies.
Kneeling together on her bed-though the setting falls away and is meaningless-they are naked before one another and the impulse to touch and never stop touching is as natural and irresistible as gravity. They clasp hands, as they have so many times before, and a circuit is completed. Power flows freely, an ending brought to one way of being, making way for a new world.
***
"It won't be like that again," the Doctor says, breaking the silence.
"Mmm," Rose mumbles sleepily, "I bet you say that to all the ladies."
“But it won’t.”
“It never is. That’s why they call the first time 'the first time' and not 'the every time.'” She rolls over to look at him.
“Rose Tyler, you are wise beyond your years,” he says with a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“And you’re daft beyond yours. Now, I think I’m finally ready for a nice bit of kip. You staying?” She settles into the duvet and fluffs her pillow, but he has neither answered nor just gotten up and left (which she half expects). “Doctor?”
In answer, the Doctor lets out a surprisingly loud snore.
Characters: Ten/Rose
Rating: Teen
Summary: Beautiful endings and new beginnings.
A/N: Written for Round 2.13 of writerinatardis, the prompt for which was "Endings." And speaking of endings, this round of WIAT is now over and I'm the weiner! How about that! I'd like to thank debs7 who runs it, everyone who participated, all the other writers and the folks who voted. I think I learned a lot about writing to deadline (not least of which is that it makes me tear my hair out) and writing within constraints like word-limits and prompts. So, hooray and *phew* man, I am burnt out, I am not even going to lie. It might be some time before I am ready to produce more fic again.
There's something about an end of a world.
Or, more precisely, there's something about stopping the end of a world. The inertia of the averted ending flings the Doctor forward, on the potential energy of a natural force thwarted by sheer force of will.
He feels the need to end something, or be ripped apart himself.
The power of endings cares not one whit about relative magnitudes. An entire planet, or the life of an insect; a universe or a friendship; it's all of a piece. All things are capable of coming to an end, and all things do, eventually. The trick for the Doctor is to find something that needs an ending, is crying out for one.
But until he does, oh, the exhilaration of it. The feeling of the inevitable working through his own hands, it makes him feel boundless, wild, and terrible. The choice of how to apply this power is like the taste of sweet apples in his mouth.
The threads are at their breaking point now, he has ridden the wave for as long as possible and he feels the inevitable pressing around him. Everything starts to look ripe for a beautiful ending.
***
The best Rose has been able to do in the way of sleep is a few minutes of slightly surreal thoughts about the efficacy of Marmite as a shoe polish, followed by the sensation of tumbling down a bottomless hole, putting her right back at her previous state of wakefulness.
She'd never been prone to insomnia in her old life. Quite to the contrary; her mother had often pointed out (with a note of envy) her ability to sleep through anything. She'd always rather effectively dealt with any and all emotional trauma by crawling under her duvet and putting in a solid sixteen hours. The more problems she had, the more her pillow seemed like the best solution.
Not any more, though. Not on the TARDIS. It strikes her as odd that the droning hum, the dim lighting, and the soothing colours of her adopted home all add up to frequent nights spent wide awake. Not every night-she can still sack out with the best of them-but often enough that she's grown to expect regular bouts with insomnia.
In these times, however, she finds herself reluctant to seek the Doctor out, despite all evidence pointing to him being a first-class insomniac himself. She's afraid he might take it as a sign of weakness.
But she doesn't feel weak. Not at all, and that is the problem. She feels a force coursing through her during these long, artificial nights, and she can tell before she even undresses and gets into bed that sleep is going to be elusive.
And so, she waits, in stasis, checking the clock on her mobile, calculating to the minute what an acceptable time for her to rejoin the Doctor would be, like a child on Christmas morning. She has just put her phone back down, the light from the screen casting a bluish glow on the surrounding few feet, when the door to her room unexpectedly opens, and the Doctor strides in, all long legs and arms swinging.
"Right," he says loudly as he approaches, not even stopping to see if she's awake (perhaps he has a way of knowing that she's not-perhaps he's known all along).
"Is something wrong?" she says, propping herself up on an elbow, her voice sounding sleepier than she feels. "Have we landed?"
"Wrong? No, not at all." He stands by her bedside and looms rather disconcertingly. The light from her mobile goes out and all she can see is the outline of him set against the vaulted ceiling.
"So..." she begins, giving him some more time to explain his presence. He does not. "Why are you here?"
"I live here."
She falls back onto her pillow. "I mean, here specifically, in my room."
"Technically, it's my room, you're just borrowing it."
"Whatever."
He cocks his head to one side. "I really have to come out against this vagueness of language. If we aren't precise in our speech... well, I can't tell you how many times the wrong word has gotten me into trouble."
"Doctor," she sighs. "You know what I mean."
He removes his hands from his pockets and unbuttons his suit jacket. "It's time. And I mean the precise correct time-don't doubt me on this-to end this."
Rose feels her heart leap into her throat and lodge itself there. She can't speak, her palms go damp and her mouth goes dry. It's the moment she'd been dreading right from the start, and she tries to convince herself that she'd always known it was inevitable, but that's a lie. She stammers out a few syllables, but none of them make any sense.
"I don't know why I didn't see it before," the Doctor continues, perversely enthusiastic. "Right there staring me in the face, but I'm so thick sometimes. When things want ending, usually I'm right there, first in line, but somehow... I dunno, maybe it's something about you, something unique in all the universe."
He sticks a hand in a pocket and Rose is sure he's going to come out with the sonic screwdriver, to analyse her apparently unusual ability to be... well, dumped. It's insulting, and shaming, and completely infuriating. When he doesn't produce the device, it doesn't matter because Rose has found her voice.
"You," she points an accusing finger, sitting up in bed and wrapping the duvet around her. "You are unbelievable."
He bounces in place and she can see his toothy grin flashing. "I am a bit, aren't I?"
"First you warn me off, then you ask me to join you, and it's all come here, now go away, and then you changed and I finally thought I'd got a handle on you-"
"You'll never get a handle on me, Rose Tyler," he says, and he's purring. He's actually purring and leaning down close to her. She can smell the spicy sweetness of whatever he uses on his hair, and his tie flops forward onto the bed. "So what do you say, is it time? And I'm only asking to be polite, because I know that it is."
"Polite?" Rose stammers, and prepares herself to eject him from her room long enough to try to figure out what to do.
Except, something else entirely seems to be happening. He lowers himself onto the bed, next to her. Where a moment ago he'd been brash, forceful, and characteristically self-assured, he's quiet now, and a little tentative.
"Just say yes," he says. His eyes are wide and twinkling, and this honestly does not look like the face of a man about to kick his mate out of their transdimensional flat.
Rose nods, before she can even stop herself. The cold, rational part of her brain curses his powers of persuasion. This is how he gets himself invited to sit by the Queen or help Michaelangelo paint the ceiling, and she has fallen for it.
"Good."
He unlaces his shoes, lets them fall to the floor. Rose feels like some sort of timid forest creature, staying quiet, averting her gaze, not making any sudden movements. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and inclines his head to look into her eyes.
"I'm-" she begins, but then can't think of what she is, in order to finish her thought. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Endings," he says, and he places a hand at the back of her neck. "And beginnings. To begin a new thing, you have to end the old."
He draws her in, with just enough firmness for her to know he means it, and when their lips meet it's like the two of them together are a lightening conductor, calling down immense power and seeing it safely to ground. Electricity moves through her, standing her hairs on end, prickling against her skin, and creating heat between their bodies.
Kneeling together on her bed-though the setting falls away and is meaningless-they are naked before one another and the impulse to touch and never stop touching is as natural and irresistible as gravity. They clasp hands, as they have so many times before, and a circuit is completed. Power flows freely, an ending brought to one way of being, making way for a new world.
***
"It won't be like that again," the Doctor says, breaking the silence.
"Mmm," Rose mumbles sleepily, "I bet you say that to all the ladies."
“But it won’t.”
“It never is. That’s why they call the first time 'the first time' and not 'the every time.'” She rolls over to look at him.
“Rose Tyler, you are wise beyond your years,” he says with a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
“And you’re daft beyond yours. Now, I think I’m finally ready for a nice bit of kip. You staying?” She settles into the duvet and fluffs her pillow, but he has neither answered nor just gotten up and left (which she half expects). “Doctor?”
In answer, the Doctor lets out a surprisingly loud snore.