(no subject)
First fic in SO long. I'm terrified. lol.
Sleeping to Dream, Rose/Eleven, pg-13
I'm dreaming of sleeping next to you and feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town
I'm counting my sheep and each one that passes is another dream to ashes
And they all fall down.
And as I lay me down tonight
I close my eyes
What, what a beautiful sight
Sleeping to dream about you
And I'm so tired
Of having to live without you
But I don't mind
Sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired
-Jason Mraz
He opens his eyes to her and for a moment before the doubt and his better judgment sets in, he really believes she's there.
"Rose?" he asks, his voice breaking under the weight of the lie his eyes insist on telling him. She can't be here. "It's impossible." Not to mention the end of the universe as he knows it.
"Doctor. Doctor! This is you, right?" She hasn't seen this new face; he can tell it's going to take a second to grow on her. She reaches out with the small pink fingers of her left hand and grazes his bowtie, smiling with the upturned corner of her mouth. He can't tell if she finds the bowtie amusing or endearing, because at the moment he is trapped somewhere between her fingers and the curve of her smile. It's a dangerous place to be, he knows that. He sets his sights instead on the space behind her, surveying what he can see of the TARDIS over her shoulder. Everything looks perfectly normal, and yet...
"A bowtie, eh?" she says, and pauses a bit to let the silent really? set in.
"I like bowties," he says, monotone. Zombie Time Lord. "They're cool." He takes a breath, opens his mouth to speak, swallows, and opens his mouth again. This is going to be a tricky one.
"Aren't you going to ask how I got here?”
She's only a few inches away from him and her hand seems to be loitering around the area where his shoulder meets his neck. Her eyes are bright, familiar. She even smells the same: oddly, like cherries. It's not that he minds. He doesn't. He loves cherries. It's just unexpected, as is the familiar punch to the stomach when her fingers accidently brush his bare neck.
"How did you get here?"
"I don't know!" she says, and beams like it's the funniest damn thing she's ever heard. For a moment it is funny, so funny that when he leans his head down to laugh his arms come up around her like it's the most natural thing in the universe. She grasps back at him, a laugh settling into a sigh when his palm reaches up to caress her neck. He doesn't mean anything by it, is still trying to process what he's seeing and feeling when she suddenly shifts against him. He steadies her with his left hand, her stomach brushing against his open palm and suddenly he realizes: she's pregnant.
He jumps back as if she's burnt him, nurses his hand close to him and ogles her belly. She sighs and starts to stand, steadying herself against the TARDIS console. The machine hums back and he wonders for a wild moment if it's in response to her or the child inside of her, the Bad Wolf or the almost Time Lord. She turns and the light from the console seems to frame her head, outlining the length of her body with a golden curve. Her hair has grown out and it's a bit darker than he's used to, but she's never looked lovelier to him than in that moment when he knows she is lost to him forever. He swallows again and his mouth is as dry as his tongue is heavy.
"It must be some sort of teleporting device," she says, and he's pretty sure she's talking just because she doesn't know what else to do and really, that's his thing and there's no way this is real, no way that she's here. "I was lying in bed and when I woke up I was here, in my bedroom. I walked out and found you passed out in the floor. Someone must have teleported me here only they can't do that on the TARDIS, can they? So maybe a transmat beam, like that one time? Doctor?"
He's staring at her, slack jawed, from the floor.
"You're..." he trails off.
"Pregnant," Rose says.
"...Huge," the Doctor finishes.
She narrows her eyes at him and for a moment she is all Jackie Tyler, tight mouth and dangerous glare. Hope strikes in his heart at the look, hope that maybe she is here and it's not a trick, and for a moment he has to fight the urge to clamor up and wrap his arms around her again. She must not understand his star struck look because her face is clearly hurt when she steps back.
"Try not to look so disappointed, then," she says, and now he does stand, stumbling closer to her.
"Is it...?"
"Yours," she answers. "Well, his. Ours." Her cheeks are pink from the explanation and she is holding the soft swell of her belly as if trying to protect it. He reaches out, instinctively, before pulling back. Even if she is really here, he can't forget that he left her on that beach with nothing more than a promise and a person that looks, talks, and acts just like him. The idea was for her to move on, and she has.
"Rose I..." he pauses with the words in his mouth but can't go any further. He wants to jump up, investigate the TARDIS, search until he finds out if this is really her, but he can't move. He is rooted to the ground, speechless. She's not as big as he's said, her belly is pronounced but she's nowhere near ready to give birth. Maybe just four or five months. (He could lick her and tell exactly for sure, but he thinks that may earn him a slap.) Instead he sinks back into his heels, stands slowly, takes a step forward while running his eyes over her every line. She takes in a breath when he moves in closer, not like she's afraid but more like she doesn't know what to expect.
"Are you really here?" he asks and there is something in his voice that is very small and very young. Her eyes widen and she reaches out to him, fingers once again brush against his bowtie as if she is trying to see the old doctor underneath the new one. She smiles at him, and he can't help but return it, her eyes catching his.
"Hello," she whispers, and pulls him in by his bowtie.
When he kisses her, it is like making love to a memory. She is exactly the same in every way: her taste, her touch, the not so tentative swipe of tongue and the oh so familiar grip of her hands in his hair. Still, as he runs his hands over her he can't help but feel that he's not really touching her. There seems to be something between them, a layer of hurt as thin as a sheet of paper coating his fingertips.
He just can't seem to believe it.
"I'm real," she whispers, and she's unbuttoning his shirt with shaking hands. He can't look away from her eyes, the way they shine in the light of the console. "I'm real, Doctor. It's me. It's not a trick. I'm here and I'm real."
She touches his chest, right above one of his hearts, and he can remember the soft friction of her hand as it slid into his for the first time. She kisses his neck, and he can remember what it was like to run with her across the stars. She touches his lips, and he can suddenly remember what it was like to be able to look the devil himself in the eye and say that if he believes in anything, even one thing, he believes in her. Hope swells up like an ocean tide, smothers his doubt and drowns it.
She kisses his lips again and he wraps both arms around her and pulls her down into the floor, but when she struggles he starts. He doesn't know how, but somehow he has forgotten she is pregnant. He wonders in what world this situation would even be slightly morally ok.
But then she crouches next to him, leaning in again for a chaste kiss.
"I've dreamed of this," she says, her voice quiet, far away. He closes his eyes, realizing. Connecting.
Considers.
Surrenders.
"Me too," he says, instead of giving it away, and wraps his arms around her. Her eyes are burning likes stars and her mouth is so, so hot. He could forget himself there. He does.
He wakes up alone in the TARDIS, and finds the psychic pollen exactly like he expected to. His heart is oddly light as he blows it outside the open door and into the unsuspecting universe once more. It may be time, he thinks, to finally find another companion. It may be time to move on.
She opens her eyes to the early morning sun filtering in through the orange curtains and rolls over to see her husband lying next to her, his mouth curled slightly open. Real Time Lords rarely sleep, but her husband Is no Time Lord, not really, and he not only sleeps like the dead but snores loud enough to wake them. She reaches her hand out, touching his palm, considering him over the swell of belly between them. He huffs in his sleep, rolls over and pulls her in close. She falls asleep for the second time against the steady rhythm of one heart beat and by the time she wakes up again the dream is gone, only a pleasant feeling she carries with her throughout the remains of her day.
Sleeping to Dream, Rose/Eleven, pg-13
I'm dreaming of sleeping next to you and feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town
I'm counting my sheep and each one that passes is another dream to ashes
And they all fall down.
And as I lay me down tonight
I close my eyes
What, what a beautiful sight
Sleeping to dream about you
And I'm so tired
Of having to live without you
But I don't mind
Sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired
-Jason Mraz
He opens his eyes to her and for a moment before the doubt and his better judgment sets in, he really believes she's there.
"Rose?" he asks, his voice breaking under the weight of the lie his eyes insist on telling him. She can't be here. "It's impossible." Not to mention the end of the universe as he knows it.
"Doctor. Doctor! This is you, right?" She hasn't seen this new face; he can tell it's going to take a second to grow on her. She reaches out with the small pink fingers of her left hand and grazes his bowtie, smiling with the upturned corner of her mouth. He can't tell if she finds the bowtie amusing or endearing, because at the moment he is trapped somewhere between her fingers and the curve of her smile. It's a dangerous place to be, he knows that. He sets his sights instead on the space behind her, surveying what he can see of the TARDIS over her shoulder. Everything looks perfectly normal, and yet...
"A bowtie, eh?" she says, and pauses a bit to let the silent really? set in.
"I like bowties," he says, monotone. Zombie Time Lord. "They're cool." He takes a breath, opens his mouth to speak, swallows, and opens his mouth again. This is going to be a tricky one.
"Aren't you going to ask how I got here?”
She's only a few inches away from him and her hand seems to be loitering around the area where his shoulder meets his neck. Her eyes are bright, familiar. She even smells the same: oddly, like cherries. It's not that he minds. He doesn't. He loves cherries. It's just unexpected, as is the familiar punch to the stomach when her fingers accidently brush his bare neck.
"How did you get here?"
"I don't know!" she says, and beams like it's the funniest damn thing she's ever heard. For a moment it is funny, so funny that when he leans his head down to laugh his arms come up around her like it's the most natural thing in the universe. She grasps back at him, a laugh settling into a sigh when his palm reaches up to caress her neck. He doesn't mean anything by it, is still trying to process what he's seeing and feeling when she suddenly shifts against him. He steadies her with his left hand, her stomach brushing against his open palm and suddenly he realizes: she's pregnant.
He jumps back as if she's burnt him, nurses his hand close to him and ogles her belly. She sighs and starts to stand, steadying herself against the TARDIS console. The machine hums back and he wonders for a wild moment if it's in response to her or the child inside of her, the Bad Wolf or the almost Time Lord. She turns and the light from the console seems to frame her head, outlining the length of her body with a golden curve. Her hair has grown out and it's a bit darker than he's used to, but she's never looked lovelier to him than in that moment when he knows she is lost to him forever. He swallows again and his mouth is as dry as his tongue is heavy.
"It must be some sort of teleporting device," she says, and he's pretty sure she's talking just because she doesn't know what else to do and really, that's his thing and there's no way this is real, no way that she's here. "I was lying in bed and when I woke up I was here, in my bedroom. I walked out and found you passed out in the floor. Someone must have teleported me here only they can't do that on the TARDIS, can they? So maybe a transmat beam, like that one time? Doctor?"
He's staring at her, slack jawed, from the floor.
"You're..." he trails off.
"Pregnant," Rose says.
"...Huge," the Doctor finishes.
She narrows her eyes at him and for a moment she is all Jackie Tyler, tight mouth and dangerous glare. Hope strikes in his heart at the look, hope that maybe she is here and it's not a trick, and for a moment he has to fight the urge to clamor up and wrap his arms around her again. She must not understand his star struck look because her face is clearly hurt when she steps back.
"Try not to look so disappointed, then," she says, and now he does stand, stumbling closer to her.
"Is it...?"
"Yours," she answers. "Well, his. Ours." Her cheeks are pink from the explanation and she is holding the soft swell of her belly as if trying to protect it. He reaches out, instinctively, before pulling back. Even if she is really here, he can't forget that he left her on that beach with nothing more than a promise and a person that looks, talks, and acts just like him. The idea was for her to move on, and she has.
"Rose I..." he pauses with the words in his mouth but can't go any further. He wants to jump up, investigate the TARDIS, search until he finds out if this is really her, but he can't move. He is rooted to the ground, speechless. She's not as big as he's said, her belly is pronounced but she's nowhere near ready to give birth. Maybe just four or five months. (He could lick her and tell exactly for sure, but he thinks that may earn him a slap.) Instead he sinks back into his heels, stands slowly, takes a step forward while running his eyes over her every line. She takes in a breath when he moves in closer, not like she's afraid but more like she doesn't know what to expect.
"Are you really here?" he asks and there is something in his voice that is very small and very young. Her eyes widen and she reaches out to him, fingers once again brush against his bowtie as if she is trying to see the old doctor underneath the new one. She smiles at him, and he can't help but return it, her eyes catching his.
"Hello," she whispers, and pulls him in by his bowtie.
When he kisses her, it is like making love to a memory. She is exactly the same in every way: her taste, her touch, the not so tentative swipe of tongue and the oh so familiar grip of her hands in his hair. Still, as he runs his hands over her he can't help but feel that he's not really touching her. There seems to be something between them, a layer of hurt as thin as a sheet of paper coating his fingertips.
He just can't seem to believe it.
"I'm real," she whispers, and she's unbuttoning his shirt with shaking hands. He can't look away from her eyes, the way they shine in the light of the console. "I'm real, Doctor. It's me. It's not a trick. I'm here and I'm real."
She touches his chest, right above one of his hearts, and he can remember the soft friction of her hand as it slid into his for the first time. She kisses his neck, and he can remember what it was like to run with her across the stars. She touches his lips, and he can suddenly remember what it was like to be able to look the devil himself in the eye and say that if he believes in anything, even one thing, he believes in her. Hope swells up like an ocean tide, smothers his doubt and drowns it.
She kisses his lips again and he wraps both arms around her and pulls her down into the floor, but when she struggles he starts. He doesn't know how, but somehow he has forgotten she is pregnant. He wonders in what world this situation would even be slightly morally ok.
But then she crouches next to him, leaning in again for a chaste kiss.
"I've dreamed of this," she says, her voice quiet, far away. He closes his eyes, realizing. Connecting.
Considers.
Surrenders.
"Me too," he says, instead of giving it away, and wraps his arms around her. Her eyes are burning likes stars and her mouth is so, so hot. He could forget himself there. He does.
He wakes up alone in the TARDIS, and finds the psychic pollen exactly like he expected to. His heart is oddly light as he blows it outside the open door and into the unsuspecting universe once more. It may be time, he thinks, to finally find another companion. It may be time to move on.
She opens her eyes to the early morning sun filtering in through the orange curtains and rolls over to see her husband lying next to her, his mouth curled slightly open. Real Time Lords rarely sleep, but her husband Is no Time Lord, not really, and he not only sleeps like the dead but snores loud enough to wake them. She reaches her hand out, touching his palm, considering him over the swell of belly between them. He huffs in his sleep, rolls over and pulls her in close. She falls asleep for the second time against the steady rhythm of one heart beat and by the time she wakes up again the dream is gone, only a pleasant feeling she carries with her throughout the remains of her day.