(no subject)
travel agents for hire, rose/ten (rose/nine), g
She doesn’t quite have it in her to tell him that they’ve been here before, her and the old Doctor, her doctor too. It shouldn’t matter but it does to her. She feels guilty, and doesn’t want to admit it.Still she has let him talk, or chat and talk, wax poetic about how all the history books are wrong and gods are not entirely gods. He enjoys it, and she is getting used to that as well. 1,000 words.
-
Her boots feel heavy.
Stepping over the rocks, Rose looks around her. There is nothing but columns and age, broken stairs and rocks as she stares somewhat awed by the sight in front of her. This is Greece, she thinks, Athens and the Parthenon. At night, no less, and cold, as time strikes somewhere into the new year.
She slides her hands into her gloves, pulling them to tuck under her chin as she bites her lip. She has been here before, and now again, as the Doctor suggested some grand tour of all the ancient cities alike. She doesn’t quite have it in her to tell him that they’ve been here before, her and the old Doctor, her doctor too. It shouldn’t matter but it does to her. She feels guilty, and doesn’t want to admit it.
Still she has let him talk, or chat and talk, wax poetic about how all the history books are wrong and gods are not entirely gods. He enjoys it, and she is getting used to that as well.
“C’mon then,” she mutters.
The Doctor is already in front of her, muttering and shaking his head. He’s followed the long slop of an entrance, or exit, and joins her in staring into the night. She is trying not to watch him, although she is not entirely sure as to why. They’ve passed this, she reminds herself. There is no leather jacket, and incomprehensible smile, and she is okay with that. She’s promised herself to be okay with that.
It’s just the holiday, she thinks, and all things new. It is about learning impulsvies again. And she reckons she should be thrilled, further away from things that are too ominous. She likes them like this, she decides.
“This - this is not right,” he sighs loudly. He kicks a bit of rubble to the side, shoving his hands into his pockets. There is a sour expression on his face, and he rolls backwards on the balls of his feet. His coat swings behind his legs.
“S’alright,” she says gently. “Still the Parthenon,” she adds.
Ruins, she doesn’t tell him, are a matter of semantics. She is busy getting used to the idea of him and not him, as this is all supposed to make some sort of sense soon. Rose is tired and shy, not exactly wary of him since the Christmas holiday but forced to confront the odds and ends of some lingering feelings.
But tonight they’ve agreed to some sort of moment. Or she has, she thinks. She studies him, her mouth turning to amusement as he rants.
“ - which is not the slightest bit reassuring, you know. I reckon s’alright for you to go and say that it’s the Parthenon, doctor because I had a plan - I was the man with the plan.”
She steps around him, shaking her head. She moves to one of the steps, and peers down into more rubble and rocks. Their color is pale, almost eerie without the light. She tries not to think about it, and instead looks up to the city in the distance. The lights are faint now, waving as they blur.
“We should sit,” she announces. She calls over her shoulder.
She doesn’t wait for him either. She shifts and tucks herself into one of the corners, still by the stairs. Her legs swinging lazily in the air and she giggles a little. Behind her, she hears him move around the rubble.
“Sit?” he asks.
He peers into the city. Then he humors her, taking the space next to her. She nods, and her mouth curls a little as she studies him. She pokes his shoulder with one of her hands. The glove scrapes over his coat, but he grins. She shakes her head, and then he laughs finally.
“Still the Parthenon, yeah?” she says again. Her hair is loose and wild, and as the wind picks up, it begins to frame blow into her face.
He is back to a frown. His eyes flash, and the Doctor is flushing again.
“Right, well. I want to be the man with the plan, and this, as it was supposed to go splendidly -” he turns, yelling back at the TARDIS, “but you made the decision to bring us to the bloody ruins!”
Rose laughs. The sound drops away from her shyness, and lights the space between the two of them. He returns to grinning, the sharpness of his change almost catching her off-guard. She should be used to that at least, she thinks. Still though, she is reminded of Christmas and the snow, the stars over their heads and the way he finally looked at her, really looked at her. She was okay. She is okay. It will make sense again.
Over their heads then, fireworks start to explode.
“Look!”
It’s him, or her that exclaims, and really, it doesn’t seem to matter. She looks up and grins. There is the sudden sense of euphoria, incomplete but ready, as it grows and turns inside of her. It pulls at the old knots in her stomach and she watches as the colors spin into different shapes of lights.
He meets her gaze, when his hand reaching over to take hers. Her glove presses over his open palm. She almost wishes she wasn’t wearing them. The thought both odd and silly, almost charging her with a blush. Their fingers lace together and their hands drop to settle into her lap. She thinks things like weight and new and old. These are things that matter and then don’t, that have changed all the same.
“See, s’not so bad,” she tells him.
It feels impulsive too. It feels good to have it. New and old again, as her head starts to spin with ideas and ideas of ideas, the forwards and backwards motions that she already has learned to enjoy. There are just things, then, she’ll learn to let go again.
“I see,” he grins. Rose starts to laugh.
She doesn’t quite have it in her to tell him that they’ve been here before, her and the old Doctor, her doctor too. It shouldn’t matter but it does to her. She feels guilty, and doesn’t want to admit it.Still she has let him talk, or chat and talk, wax poetic about how all the history books are wrong and gods are not entirely gods. He enjoys it, and she is getting used to that as well. 1,000 words.
-
Her boots feel heavy.
Stepping over the rocks, Rose looks around her. There is nothing but columns and age, broken stairs and rocks as she stares somewhat awed by the sight in front of her. This is Greece, she thinks, Athens and the Parthenon. At night, no less, and cold, as time strikes somewhere into the new year.
She slides her hands into her gloves, pulling them to tuck under her chin as she bites her lip. She has been here before, and now again, as the Doctor suggested some grand tour of all the ancient cities alike. She doesn’t quite have it in her to tell him that they’ve been here before, her and the old Doctor, her doctor too. It shouldn’t matter but it does to her. She feels guilty, and doesn’t want to admit it.
Still she has let him talk, or chat and talk, wax poetic about how all the history books are wrong and gods are not entirely gods. He enjoys it, and she is getting used to that as well.
“C’mon then,” she mutters.
The Doctor is already in front of her, muttering and shaking his head. He’s followed the long slop of an entrance, or exit, and joins her in staring into the night. She is trying not to watch him, although she is not entirely sure as to why. They’ve passed this, she reminds herself. There is no leather jacket, and incomprehensible smile, and she is okay with that. She’s promised herself to be okay with that.
It’s just the holiday, she thinks, and all things new. It is about learning impulsvies again. And she reckons she should be thrilled, further away from things that are too ominous. She likes them like this, she decides.
“This - this is not right,” he sighs loudly. He kicks a bit of rubble to the side, shoving his hands into his pockets. There is a sour expression on his face, and he rolls backwards on the balls of his feet. His coat swings behind his legs.
“S’alright,” she says gently. “Still the Parthenon,” she adds.
Ruins, she doesn’t tell him, are a matter of semantics. She is busy getting used to the idea of him and not him, as this is all supposed to make some sort of sense soon. Rose is tired and shy, not exactly wary of him since the Christmas holiday but forced to confront the odds and ends of some lingering feelings.
But tonight they’ve agreed to some sort of moment. Or she has, she thinks. She studies him, her mouth turning to amusement as he rants.
“ - which is not the slightest bit reassuring, you know. I reckon s’alright for you to go and say that it’s the Parthenon, doctor because I had a plan - I was the man with the plan.”
She steps around him, shaking her head. She moves to one of the steps, and peers down into more rubble and rocks. Their color is pale, almost eerie without the light. She tries not to think about it, and instead looks up to the city in the distance. The lights are faint now, waving as they blur.
“We should sit,” she announces. She calls over her shoulder.
She doesn’t wait for him either. She shifts and tucks herself into one of the corners, still by the stairs. Her legs swinging lazily in the air and she giggles a little. Behind her, she hears him move around the rubble.
“Sit?” he asks.
He peers into the city. Then he humors her, taking the space next to her. She nods, and her mouth curls a little as she studies him. She pokes his shoulder with one of her hands. The glove scrapes over his coat, but he grins. She shakes her head, and then he laughs finally.
“Still the Parthenon, yeah?” she says again. Her hair is loose and wild, and as the wind picks up, it begins to frame blow into her face.
He is back to a frown. His eyes flash, and the Doctor is flushing again.
“Right, well. I want to be the man with the plan, and this, as it was supposed to go splendidly -” he turns, yelling back at the TARDIS, “but you made the decision to bring us to the bloody ruins!”
Rose laughs. The sound drops away from her shyness, and lights the space between the two of them. He returns to grinning, the sharpness of his change almost catching her off-guard. She should be used to that at least, she thinks. Still though, she is reminded of Christmas and the snow, the stars over their heads and the way he finally looked at her, really looked at her. She was okay. She is okay. It will make sense again.
Over their heads then, fireworks start to explode.
“Look!”
It’s him, or her that exclaims, and really, it doesn’t seem to matter. She looks up and grins. There is the sudden sense of euphoria, incomplete but ready, as it grows and turns inside of her. It pulls at the old knots in her stomach and she watches as the colors spin into different shapes of lights.
He meets her gaze, when his hand reaching over to take hers. Her glove presses over his open palm. She almost wishes she wasn’t wearing them. The thought both odd and silly, almost charging her with a blush. Their fingers lace together and their hands drop to settle into her lap. She thinks things like weight and new and old. These are things that matter and then don’t, that have changed all the same.
“See, s’not so bad,” she tells him.
It feels impulsive too. It feels good to have it. New and old again, as her head starts to spin with ideas and ideas of ideas, the forwards and backwards motions that she already has learned to enjoy. There are just things, then, she’ll learn to let go again.
“I see,” he grins. Rose starts to laugh.