(no subject)
Dappled, and Drowsy, and Ready for Sleep, Nine/Rose, Teen
Prompts: Sight, Sound, Taste, Touch
Bring a bag of bread and cheese and find a shady spot beneath the trees.
Catch abreath of country air and run your pretty fingers thro' my hair.
Tomorrow, when we both abandon sorrow.
Oh, baby, don't you let me down tomorrow,
Thro' the week we beg and steal and borrow.
Oh, for a chance to get away tomorrow.
- Paul McCartney and Wings
“SoomerVacca.” Supine, he says it to the sky.
Rose twists fingers-full of grass. Mangles the word in her mouth.
“It’s not ‘summer vacay’ Rose.” The Doctor corrects her pronunciation without even looking at her.
“Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me…” she flops onto her back.
“Not makin’ fun, Rose.” He sighs, “Your accent is charming.”
Rose snorts - his tone is the aural equivalent of an eye-roll. “Anymore lies like that, your nose’ll grow…an’ I think we both know you can’t afford that.”
He’s silent. She’s smug. Side by side. Minutes pass in cloud-increments overhead. They listen for the turn of the planet beneath their bodies, and his offended pride does its part to mend hers.
“Sue-mare Vaw-caw?” An olive branch; she takes more care with the word this time.
“Very good.” She can hear the Doctor’s smile.
He turns onto his side, “Now, if you really want to sound like a native, try making the “V” in Vacca sound more like a “B” - bit like the Spanish do…”
**
It’s been a week since the Doctor landed them here. A week since he told her to pack a bag - she’d panicked till she saw he had one too. A week since he locked the TARDIS doors and walked the two of them into this quaint seaside town.
(Barely more than a week since she screwed up, again…and can you blame her for wondering - just for a second - if the Doctor was chucking her out?)
Rose doesn’t quite know why they’re here. The Doctor, when asked, had said something (predictably) enigmatic about stocking up, but she’s yet to see him go for supplies. At first, she was afraid something was wrong with the TARDIS and he wasn’t telling her…but he hasn’t acted worried.
No, he’s rented them rooms and played travel guide - it’s what she imagines a proper holiday would be like. She’s not sure what it actually is. It’s not exactly domestic…but it’s definitely something out of the ordinary for them.
**
“How come SoomerVacca looks so much like Earth?” She asks as they unpack the picnic hamper.
“What?” He gives her an appraising eye, “You were expecting plum-colored sand and lime green skies?”
She grins a bit sheepishly, “Maybe?”
“You’d be surprised,” he nods toward the sea, “just how many planets there are with Earth’s atmosphere, once you get outside your own solar system.”
They settle down to local fare that the Doctor has promised she will find digestible. Rose makes silly toasts with the hand-pressed grape juice they drink from canning jars. Watches sunlight stream through, turning them amethyst.
Days like these, he thinks…a picnic on a beach, Rose in a linen dress, the cool grit of sand between toes…he can pretend, and another nine-hundred years doesn’t seem like such a burden.
“Ever wish you had a camera?”
Rose just looks at him. Shrugs after a moment.
“I’ve never really been one to try an’ record everything.” She traces absent-minded hearts in the sand. “Used to bug Shareen, no end…we’d be at a concert, and she’d want me to take pictures the whole time…couldn’t just enjoy the moment. Never understood it.”
She pauses to link two of the sand-hearts.
“Dunno…there’s some things worth saving.” He manages to keep his voice light. When she looks up, his eyes are fixed at some distant point in the water, and not on her.
“I like this kind of traveling.” She says and pulls her dress down over her head, tugs her sopping swimsuit off and out from underneath.
The Doctor raises an eyebrow at Rose’s statement. Finds himself distracted where her dress sticks to still wet skin.
She drops down next to him, squeezing salt water from her hair, rummaging through the picnic hamper.
“I like the other kind we do too, world-saving an’ all… S’just,” she takes a deep, slurping bite of a peach, “can’t remember ever seeing you look so relaxed.”
She sucks peach juice from one finger. Reaches to trace the lines at the corner of his eyes. “Barely even see your wrinkles today…”
Her voice trails off as their eyes lock.
“Water’s warm,” she says, removing her finger. “You should go in.”
He’d be lying if he said the thought hasn’t occurred to him.
**
He dreams of her, standing in the ocean - of the transparency of linen made wet, of salt on skin, of blonde silk knotting itself in the breeze.
He half-wakes, and one arm snakes out across white sheeting to ask a question.
No.
Alone, then.
The disappointment that follows is something he aims to ignore. Because he shouldn’t feel her absence where he’s never felt her presence. He shouldn’t feel…hollow. No reason for her to be in his bed, he tells himself, not like they’re lovers yet.
“Yet?” the word triple-axels out of him and hits the air on a snort. There’s three letters’ worth of irrational hope.
Ah, well, no chance he’s going back to sleep now. He lets out a sigh. May as well get up.
The bed’s a mite short for his frame and he has to sort of unfold his long legs; it’s like unbending a paperclip. He reaches for jeans, jumper, jacket - his motions a reverse-movie-reel of earlier ones.
It had been awkward, after he’d stripped down to swim, nothing between him and her scrutiny but his boxers.
“You’re so…narrow.” She’d said.
He hadn’t been certain how to take that. Still isn’t. He gives a grunt of disgust. Look at him - nine-hundred years old, standing here worrying what some teenage-girl thinks of the breadth of his shoulders…or other things. A sadder case he’s never seen.
And anyway, he doubts he’d need to be half-naked for her to find him physically lacking.
Not pretty, him.
**
They’ve made the walk to the TARDIS while the day is still cool.
“So. How’s our girl today?” Rose runs a hand down the blue box’s side.
Our. His mouth quirks up at that. “Doin’ alright. The climate seems to agree with her.”
“Not surprised, ’s gorgeous here.” She looks around, “must be strange for her though…staying in one spot so long.”
“Won’t be much longer,” he says, and Rose isn’t sure if his affectionate tone is aimed at her or the TARDIS. “Need anything?” He moves to lock up.
Rose shakes her head. Nothing ‘cept for you to tell me what’s going on with you.
**
They spend that afternoon under a tree with heart-shaped leaves. The Doctor tells her its name and, with a fair bit of concentration, Rose gets it right on her first try.
“So, how much longer?”
The Doctor looks up from the book he’s been reading. His gaze assessing her. “How much longer what?”
“How much longer we staying here…on SoomerVacca?” She adds, in case he’s in one of his obtuse moods.
“Three more days or so. Thought I’d make it a full two-weeks.”
Rose opens and closes her mouth a fair half-dozen times.
He rolls his eyes, “Out with it.”
“Nothing, really…only…why exactly are we here?”
“Told you - stocking up.”
“Yeah. But on what? Haven’t seen you toting any shopping bags about.”
“None but yours,” he mutters. “Good thing we won’t be here much longer - I’d be a hunchback.”
“Those were souvenirs! ‘Sides, you offered.”
“So I did.” He can’t squelch his smile, not when she’s risen to his bait so easily.
She swats at him, but her eyes are sparkling and she has a smile of her own. “Seriously, Doctor -“
“Seriously, Rose,” he taps her on the nose with the spine of his book, voice tinted a little wistful-weary, “just enjoy the moment.”
For an hour or so, the only sounds are the crisp turn of a page and the snap of flower stems as Rose plaits daisy chains.
She can feel her daisy-crown slipping with a yawn.
“Tired?”
“I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.” The line from an old 1960s song comes into her head and skips, sing-song-y, out of her mouth. “Maybe a little.” Rose smiles a little self-consciously. Lets out a full laugh. “Must be, if I’m breaking into song…”
He flashes her that particularly wide smile. And then he’s shrugging out of his jacket, spreading it out over the ground beside him, patting his thigh. Rose looks up at him, not sure if she’s interpreting correctly, looks down at his jacket.
“So you don’t ruin your dress.” He tells her, like it should be obvious, when she hesitates. “Well. Come ‘ere.”
She settles herself against him…and yes, this is definitely something out of the ordinary for the two of them.
Moments ago, she’d been ready to drop off, but now… Wakefulness has been thrust upon her by the hyper-awareness that comes from the close proximity of someone you fancy.
She catalogs the muscles under her cheek. He’s got runners' legs, Rose thinks, supposes that it only makes sense. She remembers his body when they went swimming the other day. (Too close to naked, he’d left her tongue-tied.) He’s strong, and it makes it easy to forget how lean he is. Long and lean, and…
“What are you reading?” She hadn’t thought to ask before, asks it now to break the tension. Even if she’s the only one feeling it.
He doesn’t answer, not exactly. She hears the skip of pages and he starts reading out loud.
“Part One: In Paris, in the spring of our times, a young girl was about to throw herself into the Seine.
She was a thin, awkward creature with a wide mouth and short black hair. Her body was all bones and hollows where there should have been curves and flesh. Her face was appealing, but it was now gaunt with hunger and the misery of failure. Her eyes were haunting, large, liquid, dark, and filled with despair.
Her name was Marelle Guizec, but her nickname was Mouche…”
Rose closes her eyes to the sound of his voice. It’s surprisingly warm, she’s always thought - a rather striking contrast to cool blue eyes and the harsh angles of his face.
“…some of the mystery of this mysterious land still clung to her. It manifested itself in the grace with which she walked as though still clad in the swinging peasant skirts, the gravity of her glance, her innocence, and primitive mind in which for all her youth - she was only twenty-two - were dark corners of Celtic brooding…”
She floats to sleep on the warm breeze of his voice.
**
He memorizes it. The sleepy weight of her against him. Daisies tumbled through her sunshine hair. His hand curves to cup her shoulder; bare in her sundress. She shifts into him more, curls unconscious fingers around his thigh. He keeps reading.
“Mouche took it from him, leaned over, and kissed the side of his cheek. ‘Poor, dear, Ali,’ she said. ‘Never you mind. It’s better to be trusting than to have no principles at all like some people around here…’”
He feels a bit like a thief, enjoying having her here when she’s so unaware…so vulnerable. Vulnerable because she trusts him - which amazes him more than just about anything. Like she knows somehow that she’s safe with him, which she is. Like she knows somehow that he lov-
He really should wake her. Can’t be all that comfortable, his narrow frame.
**
“I’m going to miss this.” Their last day and Rose is trying to fit two suitcases’ worth of stuff into one. She’s managed to shoehorn all of her souvenirs in, which has left her no room for her clothes.
“Are you now?” He takes the garments out of her hands, tucks them into his own bag without a word.
“Yeah. Haven’t had to worry about practical footwear for more ‘an a week,” she laughs.
“I was starting to enjoy it myself - your toes look good, painted all pink.” The Doctor only hears his words after they’ve spooled out of his mouth and past his reach. Rose’s gaze is dropped like a hot coal, and he misses the surprised little “o” now shaping her mouth.
**
They spend their last evening on SoomerVacca at an outdoor café. Rose likes it because the tiny lanterns make her think of fireflies. The Doctor notes that one lantern could easily house about a hundred of the tiny insects, but he doesn’t say anything. Just enjoys seeing her enjoy.
It’s late and they’ve each had just enough to drink to lose their self-consciousness without losing their sense. They talk and laugh and only ask questions with answers that don’t matter.
“Seriously now,” he continues, “In a battle of insults, who d’ya think would win? The bitchy trampoline…or your mum?”
Rose laughs, throws a chip at him, “Oh, definitely mum, no contest. Lived with the women for nineteen years…and let me tell you - Cassandra’s got nothin’ on her.”
Long, calloused fingers battle slender, nail-polished ones for the last chips in the basket. He lets her win, laughs when she licks the vinegar and salt from each finger. He thinks she’d lick the wrapper if he weren’t looking.
There’s a pause in the conversation. Music that had faded to background makes itself known again, and Rose shifts, restless in her chair. Finally, she tugs him up to dance, well, tries. He hasn’t had that much to drink.
He takes a long look at her. Golden in her firefly-lantern-light. She stands in that summer dress, lip bitten into a hopeful-uncertain smile that more than reaches her eyes. Improbably, Bob Marley’s Stir It Up, the (far superior, he’ll have you know) Jamaican version, starts playing. The song is sultry - seductive in a lazy kind of way. Rose’s hips unconsciously adjust themselves to the tune - back-and-forth, back-and-forth - the subtle sway amplified by the play of linen around her thighs. It decides him.
The look of surprise on her face when he pulls her to him and swings her into the rhythm of the song is enough to make him glad that he did. She’s in his arms - wants to be there. Impossible, but he’s not going to stop to question it.
For the next three minutes and thirty-nine seconds the Doctor pretends harder than ever. Pretends that this isn’t just the effects of Bob Marley and native beer on a warm night. Pretends that she wants him. Tries to both live in this moment as completely as he can, and save every detail - a memory he can bring out on a less-kind day. He stocks-up.
**
Much later, they walk back to their rooms under the firefly lights. Rose remains loose from their dance, or maybe the beer. The silence is comfortable…companionable…and lasts till they reach her door.
The Doctor is reaching turning the key when her question stops him cold.
“Why did we come here, Doctor?”
“Rose…”
“I’m asking ‘cause I need to know if you’re alright.” She places her hand against his face, like she’s checking his temperature. “And honestly, I’m not sure.”
His smile is a sad, tired little attempt. He reaches for an explanation that will make sense to her.
“Life moves so fast, Rose.” His voice breaks on her name. “I try to save up as much of it as I can…in memories - like a camera…but all you can really do is enjoy the moment you’re in…”
He trails off. Rose’s gaze pins him for what feels like an eternity.
“Alright,” she pauses, seems to have considered something. “So…enjoy this one with me.” One fingertip traces the lines at his eyes, drifts down the ditch of his cheek till it lands, insect-light, on his lower lip.
She drops her hand, and the movement pulls him back, anchors him in his body.
And then she stands there. Leaves the decision to him.
His breath hitches, and he is suddenly terrified. Terrified that he’s wrong, and she’s not offering what he thinks she is. Even more terrified that he’s right, and what she’s offering is exactly what he thinks it is.
“We’ve been drinking, Rose…”
“That was hours ago, Doctor. I’m perfectly sober now - I can say ‘SoomerVacca’ right, an’ everything. That proof enough for you? Or you want me to walk a straight line?” She steps over the threshold into her room. Her voice slips a bit with the remains of her boldness, and Rose wonders if maybe she’s gotten this all wrong. “If you don’t want to come in, that’s alright…” She lays a hand on the door.
“It’s not that.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “A moment, Rose? How could a moment ever begin to be enough?”
“You don’t see me puttin’ an expiration date on it, do you?” The question is cheeky, but her tone…so genuine.
Before he realizes it, he’s stepped inside.
**
And now that he’s here…the Doctor’s at a complete loss for what to do. It’s like being given a rare book: he’s afraid to touch her with his bare hands, so he just stands and looks. Whole planets could be born and die in the time he stands there.
Finally, Rose reaches her left hand to take his right. The contact is familiar, safe, reassuring. He looks down at them, thinks how he can’t see the blood on his hands when they hold hers.
It’s like an out of body experience, watching Rose lift his hand and place it over her heart. For a moment he ignores everything else, just focuses on that single, gentle beat and how it grows increasingly rapid under his palm. Another minute and a handful of inches - she’s eased him down and now he’s cupping her breast.
And this is actually happening.
The thought knocks the wind out of him. Literally. He can feel his respiratory bypass system start to kick in before he recovers.
“You’re allowed to touch me, Doctor.” Rose says after a moment, and when he still doesn’t move, adds. “I’d like you to touch me.”
He looks up, sees insecurity flash in her eyes like a neon sign. She doesn’t know, he realizes, just how much he wants this - how much he wants her. His beautiful girl is doubting herself, and he can’t have that. He tips her chin up, holds her gaze a moment. And then her mouth is blanketed by his. He catches a hint of vinegar, an echo of salt, and can’t help but smile. Of course Rose Tyler would taste like chips.
**
After, he strokes sweat-damp hair from her face. Waits for her breathing to settle back into its regular rhythm before he slips off to the bathroom.
The Doctor comes back with a flannel - wet and warm. Settles between her legs, and with gentle, careful strokes he cleans away the evidence of what’s likely to become his favorite memory. He feels it when she stirs, the subtle changes in her body as it moves toward wakefulness. When he looks up again, she’s watching him - sleepily scrutinizing - in a way that reminds him just how naked he is in this moment.
“What?” he gives in.
“You’re so…” The words catch in her throat.
“Narrow?” He supplies.
Rose shakes her head and the word comes spurting out all on its own, “Beautiful.”
He ought to roll his eyes at that, but the way she touches him makes him almost believe it.
**
It’s funny, he thinks as they lie there, that in some ways the idea of sleeping together - actually sleeping - seems almost more intimate than sex. You wouldn’t pick up a stranger in a pub and ask them to just hold you through the night while you dreamed…
**
“You alright?” He asks, voice low, because he can never be sure enough.
“Mmmm, perfect.” She smiles, makes a sound like a sleepy kitten, and tugs his arms firmly around her.
Spooned up behind her, his face half-obscured in the ink of three a.m., he decides to ask a question that’s been burning in his mind almost since they met. “That night, under the London eye, with the living plastic… Why?”
Rose doesn’t ask what he means. She closes her eyes and watches it happen all over again.
Sees the look on the Doctor’s face.
Hears Mickey urging her to “just leave him.”
Feels the rusty chain and then her Tarzan-style-swing.
And the thought of having done anything else just hurts.
Rose turns in his arms till she holds his eyes. So lonely. More than anything, she hurts for him that he has to ask…that he honestly doesn’t know the answer. How is it possible for someone with the whole of time and space at his fingertips, to be so alone in it?
She searches for a way to frame her answer that he’ll understand, and remembers the beach. Rose smiles, traces absent-minded hearts over his actual two, “Dunno Doctor, just…there’s some things worth saving.”
Prompts: Sight, Sound, Taste, Touch
Bring a bag of bread and cheese and find a shady spot beneath the trees.
Catch abreath of country air and run your pretty fingers thro' my hair.
Tomorrow, when we both abandon sorrow.
Oh, baby, don't you let me down tomorrow,
Thro' the week we beg and steal and borrow.
Oh, for a chance to get away tomorrow.
- Paul McCartney and Wings
“SoomerVacca.” Supine, he says it to the sky.
Rose twists fingers-full of grass. Mangles the word in her mouth.
“It’s not ‘summer vacay’ Rose.” The Doctor corrects her pronunciation without even looking at her.
“Well, if you’re just going to make fun of me…” she flops onto her back.
“Not makin’ fun, Rose.” He sighs, “Your accent is charming.”
Rose snorts - his tone is the aural equivalent of an eye-roll. “Anymore lies like that, your nose’ll grow…an’ I think we both know you can’t afford that.”
He’s silent. She’s smug. Side by side. Minutes pass in cloud-increments overhead. They listen for the turn of the planet beneath their bodies, and his offended pride does its part to mend hers.
“Sue-mare Vaw-caw?” An olive branch; she takes more care with the word this time.
“Very good.” She can hear the Doctor’s smile.
He turns onto his side, “Now, if you really want to sound like a native, try making the “V” in Vacca sound more like a “B” - bit like the Spanish do…”
**
It’s been a week since the Doctor landed them here. A week since he told her to pack a bag - she’d panicked till she saw he had one too. A week since he locked the TARDIS doors and walked the two of them into this quaint seaside town.
(Barely more than a week since she screwed up, again…and can you blame her for wondering - just for a second - if the Doctor was chucking her out?)
Rose doesn’t quite know why they’re here. The Doctor, when asked, had said something (predictably) enigmatic about stocking up, but she’s yet to see him go for supplies. At first, she was afraid something was wrong with the TARDIS and he wasn’t telling her…but he hasn’t acted worried.
No, he’s rented them rooms and played travel guide - it’s what she imagines a proper holiday would be like. She’s not sure what it actually is. It’s not exactly domestic…but it’s definitely something out of the ordinary for them.
**
“How come SoomerVacca looks so much like Earth?” She asks as they unpack the picnic hamper.
“What?” He gives her an appraising eye, “You were expecting plum-colored sand and lime green skies?”
She grins a bit sheepishly, “Maybe?”
“You’d be surprised,” he nods toward the sea, “just how many planets there are with Earth’s atmosphere, once you get outside your own solar system.”
They settle down to local fare that the Doctor has promised she will find digestible. Rose makes silly toasts with the hand-pressed grape juice they drink from canning jars. Watches sunlight stream through, turning them amethyst.
Days like these, he thinks…a picnic on a beach, Rose in a linen dress, the cool grit of sand between toes…he can pretend, and another nine-hundred years doesn’t seem like such a burden.
“Ever wish you had a camera?”
Rose just looks at him. Shrugs after a moment.
“I’ve never really been one to try an’ record everything.” She traces absent-minded hearts in the sand. “Used to bug Shareen, no end…we’d be at a concert, and she’d want me to take pictures the whole time…couldn’t just enjoy the moment. Never understood it.”
She pauses to link two of the sand-hearts.
“Dunno…there’s some things worth saving.” He manages to keep his voice light. When she looks up, his eyes are fixed at some distant point in the water, and not on her.
“I like this kind of traveling.” She says and pulls her dress down over her head, tugs her sopping swimsuit off and out from underneath.
The Doctor raises an eyebrow at Rose’s statement. Finds himself distracted where her dress sticks to still wet skin.
She drops down next to him, squeezing salt water from her hair, rummaging through the picnic hamper.
“I like the other kind we do too, world-saving an’ all… S’just,” she takes a deep, slurping bite of a peach, “can’t remember ever seeing you look so relaxed.”
She sucks peach juice from one finger. Reaches to trace the lines at the corner of his eyes. “Barely even see your wrinkles today…”
Her voice trails off as their eyes lock.
“Water’s warm,” she says, removing her finger. “You should go in.”
He’d be lying if he said the thought hasn’t occurred to him.
**
He dreams of her, standing in the ocean - of the transparency of linen made wet, of salt on skin, of blonde silk knotting itself in the breeze.
He half-wakes, and one arm snakes out across white sheeting to ask a question.
No.
Alone, then.
The disappointment that follows is something he aims to ignore. Because he shouldn’t feel her absence where he’s never felt her presence. He shouldn’t feel…hollow. No reason for her to be in his bed, he tells himself, not like they’re lovers yet.
“Yet?” the word triple-axels out of him and hits the air on a snort. There’s three letters’ worth of irrational hope.
Ah, well, no chance he’s going back to sleep now. He lets out a sigh. May as well get up.
The bed’s a mite short for his frame and he has to sort of unfold his long legs; it’s like unbending a paperclip. He reaches for jeans, jumper, jacket - his motions a reverse-movie-reel of earlier ones.
It had been awkward, after he’d stripped down to swim, nothing between him and her scrutiny but his boxers.
“You’re so…narrow.” She’d said.
He hadn’t been certain how to take that. Still isn’t. He gives a grunt of disgust. Look at him - nine-hundred years old, standing here worrying what some teenage-girl thinks of the breadth of his shoulders…or other things. A sadder case he’s never seen.
And anyway, he doubts he’d need to be half-naked for her to find him physically lacking.
Not pretty, him.
**
They’ve made the walk to the TARDIS while the day is still cool.
“So. How’s our girl today?” Rose runs a hand down the blue box’s side.
Our. His mouth quirks up at that. “Doin’ alright. The climate seems to agree with her.”
“Not surprised, ’s gorgeous here.” She looks around, “must be strange for her though…staying in one spot so long.”
“Won’t be much longer,” he says, and Rose isn’t sure if his affectionate tone is aimed at her or the TARDIS. “Need anything?” He moves to lock up.
Rose shakes her head. Nothing ‘cept for you to tell me what’s going on with you.
**
They spend that afternoon under a tree with heart-shaped leaves. The Doctor tells her its name and, with a fair bit of concentration, Rose gets it right on her first try.
“So, how much longer?”
The Doctor looks up from the book he’s been reading. His gaze assessing her. “How much longer what?”
“How much longer we staying here…on SoomerVacca?” She adds, in case he’s in one of his obtuse moods.
“Three more days or so. Thought I’d make it a full two-weeks.”
Rose opens and closes her mouth a fair half-dozen times.
He rolls his eyes, “Out with it.”
“Nothing, really…only…why exactly are we here?”
“Told you - stocking up.”
“Yeah. But on what? Haven’t seen you toting any shopping bags about.”
“None but yours,” he mutters. “Good thing we won’t be here much longer - I’d be a hunchback.”
“Those were souvenirs! ‘Sides, you offered.”
“So I did.” He can’t squelch his smile, not when she’s risen to his bait so easily.
She swats at him, but her eyes are sparkling and she has a smile of her own. “Seriously, Doctor -“
“Seriously, Rose,” he taps her on the nose with the spine of his book, voice tinted a little wistful-weary, “just enjoy the moment.”
For an hour or so, the only sounds are the crisp turn of a page and the snap of flower stems as Rose plaits daisy chains.
She can feel her daisy-crown slipping with a yawn.
“Tired?”
“I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.” The line from an old 1960s song comes into her head and skips, sing-song-y, out of her mouth. “Maybe a little.” Rose smiles a little self-consciously. Lets out a full laugh. “Must be, if I’m breaking into song…”
He flashes her that particularly wide smile. And then he’s shrugging out of his jacket, spreading it out over the ground beside him, patting his thigh. Rose looks up at him, not sure if she’s interpreting correctly, looks down at his jacket.
“So you don’t ruin your dress.” He tells her, like it should be obvious, when she hesitates. “Well. Come ‘ere.”
She settles herself against him…and yes, this is definitely something out of the ordinary for the two of them.
Moments ago, she’d been ready to drop off, but now… Wakefulness has been thrust upon her by the hyper-awareness that comes from the close proximity of someone you fancy.
She catalogs the muscles under her cheek. He’s got runners' legs, Rose thinks, supposes that it only makes sense. She remembers his body when they went swimming the other day. (Too close to naked, he’d left her tongue-tied.) He’s strong, and it makes it easy to forget how lean he is. Long and lean, and…
“What are you reading?” She hadn’t thought to ask before, asks it now to break the tension. Even if she’s the only one feeling it.
He doesn’t answer, not exactly. She hears the skip of pages and he starts reading out loud.
“Part One: In Paris, in the spring of our times, a young girl was about to throw herself into the Seine.
She was a thin, awkward creature with a wide mouth and short black hair. Her body was all bones and hollows where there should have been curves and flesh. Her face was appealing, but it was now gaunt with hunger and the misery of failure. Her eyes were haunting, large, liquid, dark, and filled with despair.
Her name was Marelle Guizec, but her nickname was Mouche…”
Rose closes her eyes to the sound of his voice. It’s surprisingly warm, she’s always thought - a rather striking contrast to cool blue eyes and the harsh angles of his face.
“…some of the mystery of this mysterious land still clung to her. It manifested itself in the grace with which she walked as though still clad in the swinging peasant skirts, the gravity of her glance, her innocence, and primitive mind in which for all her youth - she was only twenty-two - were dark corners of Celtic brooding…”
She floats to sleep on the warm breeze of his voice.
**
He memorizes it. The sleepy weight of her against him. Daisies tumbled through her sunshine hair. His hand curves to cup her shoulder; bare in her sundress. She shifts into him more, curls unconscious fingers around his thigh. He keeps reading.
“Mouche took it from him, leaned over, and kissed the side of his cheek. ‘Poor, dear, Ali,’ she said. ‘Never you mind. It’s better to be trusting than to have no principles at all like some people around here…’”
He feels a bit like a thief, enjoying having her here when she’s so unaware…so vulnerable. Vulnerable because she trusts him - which amazes him more than just about anything. Like she knows somehow that she’s safe with him, which she is. Like she knows somehow that he lov-
He really should wake her. Can’t be all that comfortable, his narrow frame.
**
“I’m going to miss this.” Their last day and Rose is trying to fit two suitcases’ worth of stuff into one. She’s managed to shoehorn all of her souvenirs in, which has left her no room for her clothes.
“Are you now?” He takes the garments out of her hands, tucks them into his own bag without a word.
“Yeah. Haven’t had to worry about practical footwear for more ‘an a week,” she laughs.
“I was starting to enjoy it myself - your toes look good, painted all pink.” The Doctor only hears his words after they’ve spooled out of his mouth and past his reach. Rose’s gaze is dropped like a hot coal, and he misses the surprised little “o” now shaping her mouth.
**
They spend their last evening on SoomerVacca at an outdoor café. Rose likes it because the tiny lanterns make her think of fireflies. The Doctor notes that one lantern could easily house about a hundred of the tiny insects, but he doesn’t say anything. Just enjoys seeing her enjoy.
It’s late and they’ve each had just enough to drink to lose their self-consciousness without losing their sense. They talk and laugh and only ask questions with answers that don’t matter.
“Seriously now,” he continues, “In a battle of insults, who d’ya think would win? The bitchy trampoline…or your mum?”
Rose laughs, throws a chip at him, “Oh, definitely mum, no contest. Lived with the women for nineteen years…and let me tell you - Cassandra’s got nothin’ on her.”
Long, calloused fingers battle slender, nail-polished ones for the last chips in the basket. He lets her win, laughs when she licks the vinegar and salt from each finger. He thinks she’d lick the wrapper if he weren’t looking.
There’s a pause in the conversation. Music that had faded to background makes itself known again, and Rose shifts, restless in her chair. Finally, she tugs him up to dance, well, tries. He hasn’t had that much to drink.
He takes a long look at her. Golden in her firefly-lantern-light. She stands in that summer dress, lip bitten into a hopeful-uncertain smile that more than reaches her eyes. Improbably, Bob Marley’s Stir It Up, the (far superior, he’ll have you know) Jamaican version, starts playing. The song is sultry - seductive in a lazy kind of way. Rose’s hips unconsciously adjust themselves to the tune - back-and-forth, back-and-forth - the subtle sway amplified by the play of linen around her thighs. It decides him.
The look of surprise on her face when he pulls her to him and swings her into the rhythm of the song is enough to make him glad that he did. She’s in his arms - wants to be there. Impossible, but he’s not going to stop to question it.
For the next three minutes and thirty-nine seconds the Doctor pretends harder than ever. Pretends that this isn’t just the effects of Bob Marley and native beer on a warm night. Pretends that she wants him. Tries to both live in this moment as completely as he can, and save every detail - a memory he can bring out on a less-kind day. He stocks-up.
**
Much later, they walk back to their rooms under the firefly lights. Rose remains loose from their dance, or maybe the beer. The silence is comfortable…companionable…and lasts till they reach her door.
The Doctor is reaching turning the key when her question stops him cold.
“Why did we come here, Doctor?”
“Rose…”
“I’m asking ‘cause I need to know if you’re alright.” She places her hand against his face, like she’s checking his temperature. “And honestly, I’m not sure.”
His smile is a sad, tired little attempt. He reaches for an explanation that will make sense to her.
“Life moves so fast, Rose.” His voice breaks on her name. “I try to save up as much of it as I can…in memories - like a camera…but all you can really do is enjoy the moment you’re in…”
He trails off. Rose’s gaze pins him for what feels like an eternity.
“Alright,” she pauses, seems to have considered something. “So…enjoy this one with me.” One fingertip traces the lines at his eyes, drifts down the ditch of his cheek till it lands, insect-light, on his lower lip.
She drops her hand, and the movement pulls him back, anchors him in his body.
And then she stands there. Leaves the decision to him.
His breath hitches, and he is suddenly terrified. Terrified that he’s wrong, and she’s not offering what he thinks she is. Even more terrified that he’s right, and what she’s offering is exactly what he thinks it is.
“We’ve been drinking, Rose…”
“That was hours ago, Doctor. I’m perfectly sober now - I can say ‘SoomerVacca’ right, an’ everything. That proof enough for you? Or you want me to walk a straight line?” She steps over the threshold into her room. Her voice slips a bit with the remains of her boldness, and Rose wonders if maybe she’s gotten this all wrong. “If you don’t want to come in, that’s alright…” She lays a hand on the door.
“It’s not that.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “A moment, Rose? How could a moment ever begin to be enough?”
“You don’t see me puttin’ an expiration date on it, do you?” The question is cheeky, but her tone…so genuine.
Before he realizes it, he’s stepped inside.
**
And now that he’s here…the Doctor’s at a complete loss for what to do. It’s like being given a rare book: he’s afraid to touch her with his bare hands, so he just stands and looks. Whole planets could be born and die in the time he stands there.
Finally, Rose reaches her left hand to take his right. The contact is familiar, safe, reassuring. He looks down at them, thinks how he can’t see the blood on his hands when they hold hers.
It’s like an out of body experience, watching Rose lift his hand and place it over her heart. For a moment he ignores everything else, just focuses on that single, gentle beat and how it grows increasingly rapid under his palm. Another minute and a handful of inches - she’s eased him down and now he’s cupping her breast.
And this is actually happening.
The thought knocks the wind out of him. Literally. He can feel his respiratory bypass system start to kick in before he recovers.
“You’re allowed to touch me, Doctor.” Rose says after a moment, and when he still doesn’t move, adds. “I’d like you to touch me.”
He looks up, sees insecurity flash in her eyes like a neon sign. She doesn’t know, he realizes, just how much he wants this - how much he wants her. His beautiful girl is doubting herself, and he can’t have that. He tips her chin up, holds her gaze a moment. And then her mouth is blanketed by his. He catches a hint of vinegar, an echo of salt, and can’t help but smile. Of course Rose Tyler would taste like chips.
**
After, he strokes sweat-damp hair from her face. Waits for her breathing to settle back into its regular rhythm before he slips off to the bathroom.
The Doctor comes back with a flannel - wet and warm. Settles between her legs, and with gentle, careful strokes he cleans away the evidence of what’s likely to become his favorite memory. He feels it when she stirs, the subtle changes in her body as it moves toward wakefulness. When he looks up again, she’s watching him - sleepily scrutinizing - in a way that reminds him just how naked he is in this moment.
“What?” he gives in.
“You’re so…” The words catch in her throat.
“Narrow?” He supplies.
Rose shakes her head and the word comes spurting out all on its own, “Beautiful.”
He ought to roll his eyes at that, but the way she touches him makes him almost believe it.
**
It’s funny, he thinks as they lie there, that in some ways the idea of sleeping together - actually sleeping - seems almost more intimate than sex. You wouldn’t pick up a stranger in a pub and ask them to just hold you through the night while you dreamed…
**
“You alright?” He asks, voice low, because he can never be sure enough.
“Mmmm, perfect.” She smiles, makes a sound like a sleepy kitten, and tugs his arms firmly around her.
Spooned up behind her, his face half-obscured in the ink of three a.m., he decides to ask a question that’s been burning in his mind almost since they met. “That night, under the London eye, with the living plastic… Why?”
Rose doesn’t ask what he means. She closes her eyes and watches it happen all over again.
Sees the look on the Doctor’s face.
Hears Mickey urging her to “just leave him.”
Feels the rusty chain and then her Tarzan-style-swing.
And the thought of having done anything else just hurts.
Rose turns in his arms till she holds his eyes. So lonely. More than anything, she hurts for him that he has to ask…that he honestly doesn’t know the answer. How is it possible for someone with the whole of time and space at his fingertips, to be so alone in it?
She searches for a way to frame her answer that he’ll understand, and remembers the beach. Rose smiles, traces absent-minded hearts over his actual two, “Dunno Doctor, just…there’s some things worth saving.”