(no subject)
this our song
Ten II/Rose, PG-13
It's not always a bad thing, Rose thinks in the silence between movements, to have an adventure without killer aliens. 950 words.
Rose reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before she realizes it's been pulled back into a sleek up-do. She tries not to tap her fingers against the glossy paper of the program.
"You know, it's funny," the Doctor (new has almost given way to her) muses, voice soft under the creak of seats and the rustling of fabric, "I've always loved music, any galaxy, any century. But this is the first time I've had a box seat."
"New adventures, Doctor." She leans towards him, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through the tuxedo jacket. "Although, I don't know if this is really... In a half hour the ladies in that box next to us will be snoring." She tilts her head to her right. "And I'll be fighting a death match with my eyelids. Mum makes me go when she wants Dad to take her on a proper night out."
"Rose Tyler, I'm ashamed of you! This is an adventure for sure! do you know they're playing Berlioz? An old friend, Berlioz, although he was rather lovelorn when I met him, which was handy, because --"
He's cut off by a single note from the front, and Rose doesn't really mind it this time, because he rests his hand on top of hers as the rest of the orchestra joins in the tuning.
"The first piece is something else," she whispers. "A violin concerto? I dunno, Mum and I never went to the symphony in the other London." It's getting easier to talk about it.
"Barber." She feels his breath on her cheek. "Amazing melodies. Shame, though, he never smiled. I never quite understood why."
Before she can ask about the piece they're cut off by applause. Rose has never gotten used to all of these traditions, or the way the diamonds on her wrist sparkle as she claps along like she was born for this. Her heel catches against the carpet as she remembers to cross her ankles. In this world, people watch her.
The violinist, slightly potbellied and awkward, walks onstage. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see the Doctor's forehead wrinkle.
"He never made it, in..." His voice is so low that if she didn't know better, it'd be that she couldn't hear the rest. But she knows him (this him, the old him, melding together sometimes) and so she presses her hand over his. It's easy to study the black-clad figures, ready and eager to play. Are they all poised like this, in her old London?
"What about luck?" She can just feel the lines of his ear against her lips. Nobody's looking at them, not just now.
The Doctor turns to her, and for all that Rose crossed universes for him, she can't figure out the expression on his face. But she can't ask him, because of course this is the moment the opening chord fills the hall.
Usually Rose has to brace her neck against nodding, but the last time she was at the symphony she'd been crossing five dimensions a day. Maybe it's the rapt expression on the Doctor's face. She's never noticed the way the music swirls and rises to surround her, almost as though she could reach out and touch it, warm as the Doctor's skin. It's an entirely new thing, the way the sound of the violin rides over the texture of the orchestra, a gold thread running through a sonic fabric.
She leans towards the Doctor and there's a tension in him, as if this really is an adventure. And maybe it is: this piece, the way her heels sink into the carpet, this warm delicious bath of music surrounding them.
It's not always a bad thing, Rose thinks in the silence between movements, to have an adventure without killer aliens.
But as if the orchestra cottoned on to her thinking, the third movement begins and the violin dashes off. She feels herself leaning forward in her seat. Without thinking, she reaches over and rests her hand on the Doctor's shoulder. A heartbeat later and she feels his fingers over hers, tracing the line of her arm to her shoulder blade, exposed by her strapless gown.
And there, against the music surrounding her, are the Doctor's lips on her shoulder. The adventure in the music weaves around them, her arms now wrapped around him, his mouth now on hers. One world or another, she's never snogged him like this, hazy and golden, the music surrounding her like the universe.
(But -- and almost instantly she lets the little niggle in her head disappear.)
The music presses onward and the Doctor's lips slide against hers and Rose almost has to gasp to breathe. It occurs to her to hope that the other box-holders have fallen asleep or something, anything, because... because the Doctor is keeping her from thinking straight and the music is doing the rest and her thoughts are ragged like the notes.
But suddenly there's a note like triumph and then silence and the Doctor smooths his fingers against her cheek. When she catches his eye -- maybe they're supposed to clap now? -- she knows that this was an adventure, aliens or not. The best kind.
In the thunder of the applause, neither of them hears the program fall to the floor, only the whisper of fingers against fabric.
"Do you reckon they'd miss us after intermission?" the Doctor says, fingers splayed against her waist.
"I think Berlioz would've forgiven you," she decides, trying to keep from undoing his bowtie. His smile is achingly gorgeous. "And Mum would love to give us more tickets."
Outside, the night air is crisp and his fingers are warm against her wrist.
Above them, there are a thousand stars. Sometimes, now, it's all right.
Ten II/Rose, PG-13
It's not always a bad thing, Rose thinks in the silence between movements, to have an adventure without killer aliens. 950 words.
Rose reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before she realizes it's been pulled back into a sleek up-do. She tries not to tap her fingers against the glossy paper of the program.
"You know, it's funny," the Doctor (new has almost given way to her) muses, voice soft under the creak of seats and the rustling of fabric, "I've always loved music, any galaxy, any century. But this is the first time I've had a box seat."
"New adventures, Doctor." She leans towards him, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through the tuxedo jacket. "Although, I don't know if this is really... In a half hour the ladies in that box next to us will be snoring." She tilts her head to her right. "And I'll be fighting a death match with my eyelids. Mum makes me go when she wants Dad to take her on a proper night out."
"Rose Tyler, I'm ashamed of you! This is an adventure for sure! do you know they're playing Berlioz? An old friend, Berlioz, although he was rather lovelorn when I met him, which was handy, because --"
He's cut off by a single note from the front, and Rose doesn't really mind it this time, because he rests his hand on top of hers as the rest of the orchestra joins in the tuning.
"The first piece is something else," she whispers. "A violin concerto? I dunno, Mum and I never went to the symphony in the other London." It's getting easier to talk about it.
"Barber." She feels his breath on her cheek. "Amazing melodies. Shame, though, he never smiled. I never quite understood why."
Before she can ask about the piece they're cut off by applause. Rose has never gotten used to all of these traditions, or the way the diamonds on her wrist sparkle as she claps along like she was born for this. Her heel catches against the carpet as she remembers to cross her ankles. In this world, people watch her.
The violinist, slightly potbellied and awkward, walks onstage. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose can see the Doctor's forehead wrinkle.
"He never made it, in..." His voice is so low that if she didn't know better, it'd be that she couldn't hear the rest. But she knows him (this him, the old him, melding together sometimes) and so she presses her hand over his. It's easy to study the black-clad figures, ready and eager to play. Are they all poised like this, in her old London?
"What about luck?" She can just feel the lines of his ear against her lips. Nobody's looking at them, not just now.
The Doctor turns to her, and for all that Rose crossed universes for him, she can't figure out the expression on his face. But she can't ask him, because of course this is the moment the opening chord fills the hall.
Usually Rose has to brace her neck against nodding, but the last time she was at the symphony she'd been crossing five dimensions a day. Maybe it's the rapt expression on the Doctor's face. She's never noticed the way the music swirls and rises to surround her, almost as though she could reach out and touch it, warm as the Doctor's skin. It's an entirely new thing, the way the sound of the violin rides over the texture of the orchestra, a gold thread running through a sonic fabric.
She leans towards the Doctor and there's a tension in him, as if this really is an adventure. And maybe it is: this piece, the way her heels sink into the carpet, this warm delicious bath of music surrounding them.
It's not always a bad thing, Rose thinks in the silence between movements, to have an adventure without killer aliens.
But as if the orchestra cottoned on to her thinking, the third movement begins and the violin dashes off. She feels herself leaning forward in her seat. Without thinking, she reaches over and rests her hand on the Doctor's shoulder. A heartbeat later and she feels his fingers over hers, tracing the line of her arm to her shoulder blade, exposed by her strapless gown.
And there, against the music surrounding her, are the Doctor's lips on her shoulder. The adventure in the music weaves around them, her arms now wrapped around him, his mouth now on hers. One world or another, she's never snogged him like this, hazy and golden, the music surrounding her like the universe.
(But -- and almost instantly she lets the little niggle in her head disappear.)
The music presses onward and the Doctor's lips slide against hers and Rose almost has to gasp to breathe. It occurs to her to hope that the other box-holders have fallen asleep or something, anything, because... because the Doctor is keeping her from thinking straight and the music is doing the rest and her thoughts are ragged like the notes.
But suddenly there's a note like triumph and then silence and the Doctor smooths his fingers against her cheek. When she catches his eye -- maybe they're supposed to clap now? -- she knows that this was an adventure, aliens or not. The best kind.
In the thunder of the applause, neither of them hears the program fall to the floor, only the whisper of fingers against fabric.
"Do you reckon they'd miss us after intermission?" the Doctor says, fingers splayed against her waist.
"I think Berlioz would've forgiven you," she decides, trying to keep from undoing his bowtie. His smile is achingly gorgeous. "And Mum would love to give us more tickets."
Outside, the night air is crisp and his fingers are warm against her wrist.
Above them, there are a thousand stars. Sometimes, now, it's all right.