Fic: Signal this strong (Ten/Rose, PG, Season 3)
Title: Signal this strong.
Author: orange_crushed
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose, Jack, Donna
Rating: PG for swears
Summary: It's not about living. It's about dying. And shoelaces. And frostbite. He just doesn't know it yet.
Disclaimer: Unless Ten refers to my toaster and Jack to some applesauce I bought, none of this is mine.
Author's Notes:Spoilers for Season Three's The Runaway Bride.
"I've seen you," she says, from behind him, and he nearly falls off the swingset.
She lives.
"Thank you," he says, to the emptiness. "Thank you, thank you." He kneads his fingers into the flurry of stars and knows her eyes blink. He drops his hands to the river of the milky way, and knows her blood runs. He pulses her heart around a star; counting the sensations as solar flares, spreading and battling the dark in brief ferocity. He knows her variations, her intake, the dusty cloud of a trailing comet- he knows she breathes.
She lives. "I didn't want anything else," he says. It's a lie, but often repeated and more often unchallenged. He can be logical, too. "Nothing more than that. Nothing else was possible." He doesn't think, like a child, I wanted forever.
He only thinks, she lives.
Her past is a trap; one that he's weak enough to fall into from time to time. He sits on the wall outside the estate, and watches Jack Harkness walk across the ball field, hands in his pockets.
"Hello," he says; Jack's face doesn't register surprise, but sadness, even doubt. He fishes in his pocket, comes up with a bag of popcorn.
"Been here long ?" They pass the bag back and forth, munching, not speaking. Rose walks by in the distance, hand-in-hand with a degenerate in a leather coat. They watch her pass; not her, really, but the footstep of a footstep- it's only important that she keeps walking, that she keeps laughing, that she keeps breathing; that the fantasy remains carefully in place.
In another instant, she's gone. They sit for a moment longer, the sun on their backs. "Want to see a birthday ?" Jack asks. The Doctor thinks about it, crumples up the bag, stands and smiles.
"Yeah."
It's a Sunday and he's lost himself somewhere, lost the date and the time for once, such a relief; maybe he's waiting for Jack to come back with those ham sandwiches; or maybe he's just sitting here, waiting for the end of the world and the crash that comes afterwards, the start of everything.
"I've seen you," she says, from behind him, and he nearly falls off the swingset. He turns around, knotting the chains together, staring at her in sudden fear. She's real and solid and human this time, reflecting light from the stray hairs tucked behind her ears; warm breath spiraling around her mouth like comet trails. "You live here ?"
"No."
"Family ?" She smiles at him, unafraid and lovely, jacket zipped up to her chin. Maybe she's already had her heart broken, but he guesses not. "Let me guess- your gran. You with that suit, you look like the gran-visiting type."
"Yes." He swallows, thickly, knowing he's got to get away. Before he says something, does something-
"Shit, late again." She gets up, shading her eyes. In the distance, a car horn honks three times, irritably. Her breath huffs out in funny little blasts. "Jimmy's a real patient guy," she says, and grins at him, tongue between her teeth. She skips off into the light of the afternoon, scarf flying; bare hands open, with all the hope and joy she's always had, so effortlessly, as if the universe handed those things out to just anybody.
That went well.
"Oh, fuck me," he says, kicking a rock. He looks around for Jack, and doesn't see him- well, who cares. Jack's a big lad now, he's got his own coat and everything. Sunday will become Monday will become Tuesday, like always; and whatever happens beyond that's a mystery.
Still living. Still alive.
She's there when he wakes, at the foot of his bed; depthless as a projection on a screen. She wavers at the edges of the mirror while he brushes his teeth, makes his tea, sets out two cups and stares at them, stares for a full minute before shutting one away. It's not a hallucination, it's a hole- a skip in the tape of his life, a false start. Digital. Analog. A ghost in the machine.
He dreams of her; not the kind he's supposed to have, technicolor hand-holding and ice-cream butterflies on the moons of Thraxis Five; dark dreams, the color of molasses, changing and depthless as oil slicks. He dreams of starting her heart under his hands. He dreams her death.
"You lived," he says, into the pillow, into the hand he holds over his eyes. "You lived, youlivedyoulived."
Dreams lie.
"Your girlfriend have a name ?" Donna asks casually, on a rooftop. He doesn't bother to correct her. She's in her wedding dress and she looks quite pretty, hair in her eyes; he considers pushing her off the edge and walking away, whistling.
There are a million ways to answer that question; which is not really one question but a hundred questions all wrapped together, one inside the other, like a jar of origami stars. He envies that jar, which has boundaries, which has volume; a jar that can be filled once and never again, only holding this much and no more; while he continues to expand in memory and history and loss, beyond the limits he's longed to reach.
Donna's watching him stare at the cars below, with an odd expression. "Cat got your-"
"Rose," he says, tightly.
"Was she pretty ?" Donna's asking to ask, he can tell; shutting her eyes against the glare of the winter sunlight, everything too sharp and too strange. He forgives her in that minute, but it doesn't change anything.
"She was Rose," he says.
"You can't keep doing this," Jack says. She's been and gone, off to work; and they're still sitting on a park bench, arguing, in scarves and gloves with a thermos of cider. It's both strangely festive and immensely depressing. The Doctor scowls at him over the top of the cup.
"Yes, I can." He takes a sip. "Time machine. I can do this all over again if I like. Who's to say I haven't ? This conversation, in fact-"
"This isn't what she'd want."
"Pot, kettle," he adds, coldly. Jack smiles that goofy half-grin that means he's distracted at the edge of angry, and the Doctor welcomes it. Welcomes an argument, doesn't really know why. He's not feeling terribly generous today. "This is exactly what she'd want. What every silly little human wants. Ritual. Nostalgia. Parades in their honor."
"I-" Jack stops, scratches the back of his neck, under the wool. "I know what you're doing. I just don't know why. Do you hate her ?" The Doctor stares impassively at him, throat twitching.
"You're insane."
"Do you hate her ?" he continues. "For being human ? You hate that she's going to die. You really hate it. I can see that. You're telling yourself it's not going to happen, but it will. You just won't be there to see it."
The Doctor sets the cup down, carefully, and walks away. "Don't come back," Jack calls after him.
He wonders what it's like to die.
Oh, he's died; thanks so much quarries, thanks so much heights. But he rushes through life with a degree of certainty he knows humans can't afford- if he cracks his skull, sure, most times, there's another skull waiting in the wings. It might be attached to unfortunate scalp dryness and a tendency to sunburn easily; but it's a spare skull. He just tries not to die excessively or often.
But death is different. Death is real. Death is the gaping darkness at the back of every ape-mind, pushing them faster into the fall. Death is the end of fragile eyes and tongues and teeth, bitten fingernails, heartbeats; death is broken bones and gasping lungs and nothing- nothing- after death is certain.
He wonders if he'll welcome it, the last great adventure.
He knows she won't.
"I'm here to watch you die," he blurts out, before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry. But it's true."
She's staring at him with that face, head tilted to the side; her hands still in rubber gloves and her lab coat askew and her mouth red from kissing him, just a second ago. They've only had two minutes and thirty-three seconds together so far, and he's already gone and fucked it up.
"I thought you didn't do that sort of thing," she says, but kindly; and it makes so much sense. She understands him, maybe always did. "You said you can't see that happen."
"I did say that." He leans into her and Rose folds neatly into him, still an origami star in her orbit. Her arms around him are tight and secure, though they'll only last so long. "It's a polite fiction. I told myself that if I wasn't there, it didn't happen. I don't think of them as dead," he adds, "the others. I never thought of them that way. I pretended."
"What's different ?" she says, into his shirtfront, bless her silly human heart. Always needing that distinction.
"You," he says. "You'll stay. I'll know. I want to know. Everything. It was rubbish, not knowing."
"You're so cheerful." She giggles, if a little hysterically. When she looks up at him, it's as if he can see her whole life. Cups of tea. Sprained ankles. Grocery lists and headaches. Galaxies. Frostbite. Shopping, pub quizzes, cereal, alien ferns, fingernails. Shoelaces. Television. Running too fast and getting a cramp. Pistachio ice cream. Him. And the end, yes, that comes. It all looks wonderful. "You're wrong, though. You've got a long wait to watch me die."
"I've got nowhere to be," he says, against her forehead.
Author: orange_crushed
Character/Pairing: Ten/Rose, Jack, Donna
Rating: PG for swears
Summary: It's not about living. It's about dying. And shoelaces. And frostbite. He just doesn't know it yet.
Disclaimer: Unless Ten refers to my toaster and Jack to some applesauce I bought, none of this is mine.
Author's Notes:Spoilers for Season Three's The Runaway Bride.
"I've seen you," she says, from behind him, and he nearly falls off the swingset.
She lives.
"Thank you," he says, to the emptiness. "Thank you, thank you." He kneads his fingers into the flurry of stars and knows her eyes blink. He drops his hands to the river of the milky way, and knows her blood runs. He pulses her heart around a star; counting the sensations as solar flares, spreading and battling the dark in brief ferocity. He knows her variations, her intake, the dusty cloud of a trailing comet- he knows she breathes.
She lives. "I didn't want anything else," he says. It's a lie, but often repeated and more often unchallenged. He can be logical, too. "Nothing more than that. Nothing else was possible." He doesn't think, like a child, I wanted forever.
He only thinks, she lives.
Her past is a trap; one that he's weak enough to fall into from time to time. He sits on the wall outside the estate, and watches Jack Harkness walk across the ball field, hands in his pockets.
"Hello," he says; Jack's face doesn't register surprise, but sadness, even doubt. He fishes in his pocket, comes up with a bag of popcorn.
"Been here long ?" They pass the bag back and forth, munching, not speaking. Rose walks by in the distance, hand-in-hand with a degenerate in a leather coat. They watch her pass; not her, really, but the footstep of a footstep- it's only important that she keeps walking, that she keeps laughing, that she keeps breathing; that the fantasy remains carefully in place.
In another instant, she's gone. They sit for a moment longer, the sun on their backs. "Want to see a birthday ?" Jack asks. The Doctor thinks about it, crumples up the bag, stands and smiles.
"Yeah."
It's a Sunday and he's lost himself somewhere, lost the date and the time for once, such a relief; maybe he's waiting for Jack to come back with those ham sandwiches; or maybe he's just sitting here, waiting for the end of the world and the crash that comes afterwards, the start of everything.
"I've seen you," she says, from behind him, and he nearly falls off the swingset. He turns around, knotting the chains together, staring at her in sudden fear. She's real and solid and human this time, reflecting light from the stray hairs tucked behind her ears; warm breath spiraling around her mouth like comet trails. "You live here ?"
"No."
"Family ?" She smiles at him, unafraid and lovely, jacket zipped up to her chin. Maybe she's already had her heart broken, but he guesses not. "Let me guess- your gran. You with that suit, you look like the gran-visiting type."
"Yes." He swallows, thickly, knowing he's got to get away. Before he says something, does something-
"Shit, late again." She gets up, shading her eyes. In the distance, a car horn honks three times, irritably. Her breath huffs out in funny little blasts. "Jimmy's a real patient guy," she says, and grins at him, tongue between her teeth. She skips off into the light of the afternoon, scarf flying; bare hands open, with all the hope and joy she's always had, so effortlessly, as if the universe handed those things out to just anybody.
That went well.
"Oh, fuck me," he says, kicking a rock. He looks around for Jack, and doesn't see him- well, who cares. Jack's a big lad now, he's got his own coat and everything. Sunday will become Monday will become Tuesday, like always; and whatever happens beyond that's a mystery.
Still living. Still alive.
She's there when he wakes, at the foot of his bed; depthless as a projection on a screen. She wavers at the edges of the mirror while he brushes his teeth, makes his tea, sets out two cups and stares at them, stares for a full minute before shutting one away. It's not a hallucination, it's a hole- a skip in the tape of his life, a false start. Digital. Analog. A ghost in the machine.
He dreams of her; not the kind he's supposed to have, technicolor hand-holding and ice-cream butterflies on the moons of Thraxis Five; dark dreams, the color of molasses, changing and depthless as oil slicks. He dreams of starting her heart under his hands. He dreams her death.
"You lived," he says, into the pillow, into the hand he holds over his eyes. "You lived, youlivedyoulived."
Dreams lie.
"Your girlfriend have a name ?" Donna asks casually, on a rooftop. He doesn't bother to correct her. She's in her wedding dress and she looks quite pretty, hair in her eyes; he considers pushing her off the edge and walking away, whistling.
There are a million ways to answer that question; which is not really one question but a hundred questions all wrapped together, one inside the other, like a jar of origami stars. He envies that jar, which has boundaries, which has volume; a jar that can be filled once and never again, only holding this much and no more; while he continues to expand in memory and history and loss, beyond the limits he's longed to reach.
Donna's watching him stare at the cars below, with an odd expression. "Cat got your-"
"Rose," he says, tightly.
"Was she pretty ?" Donna's asking to ask, he can tell; shutting her eyes against the glare of the winter sunlight, everything too sharp and too strange. He forgives her in that minute, but it doesn't change anything.
"She was Rose," he says.
"You can't keep doing this," Jack says. She's been and gone, off to work; and they're still sitting on a park bench, arguing, in scarves and gloves with a thermos of cider. It's both strangely festive and immensely depressing. The Doctor scowls at him over the top of the cup.
"Yes, I can." He takes a sip. "Time machine. I can do this all over again if I like. Who's to say I haven't ? This conversation, in fact-"
"This isn't what she'd want."
"Pot, kettle," he adds, coldly. Jack smiles that goofy half-grin that means he's distracted at the edge of angry, and the Doctor welcomes it. Welcomes an argument, doesn't really know why. He's not feeling terribly generous today. "This is exactly what she'd want. What every silly little human wants. Ritual. Nostalgia. Parades in their honor."
"I-" Jack stops, scratches the back of his neck, under the wool. "I know what you're doing. I just don't know why. Do you hate her ?" The Doctor stares impassively at him, throat twitching.
"You're insane."
"Do you hate her ?" he continues. "For being human ? You hate that she's going to die. You really hate it. I can see that. You're telling yourself it's not going to happen, but it will. You just won't be there to see it."
The Doctor sets the cup down, carefully, and walks away. "Don't come back," Jack calls after him.
He wonders what it's like to die.
Oh, he's died; thanks so much quarries, thanks so much heights. But he rushes through life with a degree of certainty he knows humans can't afford- if he cracks his skull, sure, most times, there's another skull waiting in the wings. It might be attached to unfortunate scalp dryness and a tendency to sunburn easily; but it's a spare skull. He just tries not to die excessively or often.
But death is different. Death is real. Death is the gaping darkness at the back of every ape-mind, pushing them faster into the fall. Death is the end of fragile eyes and tongues and teeth, bitten fingernails, heartbeats; death is broken bones and gasping lungs and nothing- nothing- after death is certain.
He wonders if he'll welcome it, the last great adventure.
He knows she won't.
"I'm here to watch you die," he blurts out, before he can stop himself. "I'm sorry. But it's true."
She's staring at him with that face, head tilted to the side; her hands still in rubber gloves and her lab coat askew and her mouth red from kissing him, just a second ago. They've only had two minutes and thirty-three seconds together so far, and he's already gone and fucked it up.
"I thought you didn't do that sort of thing," she says, but kindly; and it makes so much sense. She understands him, maybe always did. "You said you can't see that happen."
"I did say that." He leans into her and Rose folds neatly into him, still an origami star in her orbit. Her arms around him are tight and secure, though they'll only last so long. "It's a polite fiction. I told myself that if I wasn't there, it didn't happen. I don't think of them as dead," he adds, "the others. I never thought of them that way. I pretended."
"What's different ?" she says, into his shirtfront, bless her silly human heart. Always needing that distinction.
"You," he says. "You'll stay. I'll know. I want to know. Everything. It was rubbish, not knowing."
"You're so cheerful." She giggles, if a little hysterically. When she looks up at him, it's as if he can see her whole life. Cups of tea. Sprained ankles. Grocery lists and headaches. Galaxies. Frostbite. Shopping, pub quizzes, cereal, alien ferns, fingernails. Shoelaces. Television. Running too fast and getting a cramp. Pistachio ice cream. Him. And the end, yes, that comes. It all looks wonderful. "You're wrong, though. You've got a long wait to watch me die."
"I've got nowhere to be," he says, against her forehead.