Fic: The Underpinnings of Skin
Title: The Underpinnings of Skin
Author: rallalon
Beta: vyctori
Inadvertently prompted and intentionally named by: mylittlepwny
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: In which the Doctor lives up to his name and tries very hard not to be clingy.
Somehow, it’s difficult to not be holding her.
Which is really surprising when he thinks about it, considering that he’s weighted down with a ladder and forty-eight and a half odds and ends, the missing half having fallen off but now conveniently sticking to his left shoe. It’s certainly difficult to be holding everything else (well, he says difficult, he means challenging for someone not him), but he thinks the difficulty is mostly due to the way he simply wants to drop it all and throw his arms around her. Gently, of course.
He’s looking, or trying to look, and it really is difficult (the looking, not the not holding) with all of these things piled up in front of his face. He can sort of see her out of his right eye because of the way the cannibalized panel is surprisingly reflective from this angle, showing him what’s behind him.
What’s behind him is a lovely little blond (did he just think little? really?) who happens to be carrying nothing at all and looking at him like he’s gone crazy (never out of the question). It’s a good thing he’s making his way by scent and not by sight, or they’d be in trouble. Oh, and that was a rock. Ow. But he’s still good, still carrying it all, except, oh, oops.
He sees her bend down to get it and immediately protests. “No, it’s all right, I’ve got it! Just, um.” He tries to feel around for some way for him to bend down and retrieve what she’s already straightened up with, holding it in her good hand. He turns around, properly facing her but now unable to see her. “Put it back on the pile?”
“Doctor,” she says, testy, and he winces inside.
“Right, right, no, you carry that. That’s just, right, yes.”
“Doctor,” she says again and he winces so much more.
“Yes, Rose?”
“I’m not made of glass, y’know.”
“Yes, I do know. You’re made of crunchy, crunchy bones that go snap.”
(Actually, it wasn’t a snap, it was a crack, a crunch, a break in the universe and a bruising of time, something never ever meant to happen and he saw it happen, he watched it happen from three-point-oh-eight seconds of sprinting away, he watched it and he saw her curse and cradle her arm and hand and it was as if his hand had been broken in the guard’s grip and the instinctual response to cradle the injury, to wrap around the hurt, that instinct had sounded and would never, ever go away because Rose Tyler belongs wrapped up in his arms, healthy and whole and unsnapped/uncrunched/unbroken, but Rose Tyler is out of his arms and a bit damaged around her lovely edges.)
She sighs.
He holds firm on his point: “Well, you are.”
“How comes I can watch you get your hand cut off - which we accept and just live with - but you can’t-”
“Because I can’t!” he shouts, breaking to mirror her bones. He shouts through the piles of odds and ends and mostly the ladder (and he is very, very glad she can’t see his face).
There’s a pause and then the crunching of gravel as she moves around him, ducks under the ladder and, gets into a blind spot the reflecting panel isn’t much helping with. And then she sort of… nestles. Against his back. Gently where her arm rests between his back and her front, its sling holding it very, very steady. More firmly where it’s her shoulder against his shoulder blade. Her face presses against his shoulder.
“C’mon,” she murmurs against his collar. “Let’s get me patched up.”
He does, of course, leading her out to the spot by smell and then setting up the ladder and the tarp to drape around the ladder just so and the tub as the collecting basin and all of his over here to filter and heat and concentrate like that. He explains as he works, taking fast and not looking at her and she hums along, sitting on the ground on a less gravely patch.
“That should do it,” he says, beckoning her closer. He’s just in time, for once. They stand behind the tarp but, just for good measure, he shucks his overcoat and holds it over the both of them, around the both of them (their upper halves, at least, and him still not meeting her eyes) so that the pollen storm doesn’t suffocate them.
It’s as if the entire world sneezed, or as if the landscape is one great white dandelion head, puffed out into the world by a giant making a wish. Brilliant reds and golds and oranges fill the peach sky, oddly metallic against that soft shade and only faintly glimpsed from beneath their covering. His hand is on her shoulder (of her good arm, the arm not damaged defending him from his own stupidity) and he feels it when she shakes.
“Rose?”
She’s laughing.
“God, that’s brilliant,” she says. Leans into him.
It’s so difficult to not be holding her.
(But he can’t risk hurting her.)
Once the storm dies down, the pollen gusts passing after only a few minutes, he goes around to the other side of the hung tarp to see how much they’ve caught. He reaches into the tub, shakes the dry powder around a bit and then melts it down.
“Pretty sure there are easier ways of taking care of a busted up arm, Doctor,” she tells him (again).
“You’ll like this,” he replies (as he always wants to).
Red, gold and orange melt down indigo, appearing faintly purple until thinly spread, as it ought to be, over an offered, injured limb. It’s a very careful application, both of them sitting on the ground and her splint gingerly removed (and him aching with each smothered gasp).
He brushes it on with his fingertips and then she’s gasping in much better tones, in surprise.
Her wide eyes stare into his. “That’s… ‘s nice.”
He tries to smile back. Light, wet, ghosting touches up and down her forearm. He returns his hand to the tub, dipping in and reapplying and she gasps each time the balm soaks through skin and muscle and soothes the bone back into itself.
She shivers under his hands.
“Is that all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, I said,” she answers, voice slow. “It’s nice.”
“You’ll know when I’m done,” he tells her. “Say when to stop.”
She laughs a little, breathy. He assumes it’s the substance on her nerves, on regrowth and fading pain. “Do I have to?” (No.)
“Well, you should.” (Shouldn’t.)
Her arm strengthens to the point where he can run his whole hands across it, sliding fingers and palms over healing skin. Her eyes are closed, her mouth half open, her features filled with the sort of bliss that only the relief of pain can bring.
The balm runs out.
He doesn’t stop.
It’s ten minutes until he realizes.
He releases her eventually (regretfully, ten minutes after the ten minutes) and she seems to come back into herself, surprised to find her arm well and whole. Tentative, she stretches this way and that.
She grins at him, tongue between her teeth. “Guess this means I have to help carry everything back, yeah?”
(It doesn’t, not really, not at all, but he never can stop her from helping him, can he?)
As they trundle back to the TARDIS, grinning over a shared ladder, it’s probably for the best.
Author: rallalon
Beta: vyctori
Inadvertently prompted and intentionally named by: mylittlepwny
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: In which the Doctor lives up to his name and tries very hard not to be clingy.
Somehow, it’s difficult to not be holding her.
Which is really surprising when he thinks about it, considering that he’s weighted down with a ladder and forty-eight and a half odds and ends, the missing half having fallen off but now conveniently sticking to his left shoe. It’s certainly difficult to be holding everything else (well, he says difficult, he means challenging for someone not him), but he thinks the difficulty is mostly due to the way he simply wants to drop it all and throw his arms around her. Gently, of course.
He’s looking, or trying to look, and it really is difficult (the looking, not the not holding) with all of these things piled up in front of his face. He can sort of see her out of his right eye because of the way the cannibalized panel is surprisingly reflective from this angle, showing him what’s behind him.
What’s behind him is a lovely little blond (did he just think little? really?) who happens to be carrying nothing at all and looking at him like he’s gone crazy (never out of the question). It’s a good thing he’s making his way by scent and not by sight, or they’d be in trouble. Oh, and that was a rock. Ow. But he’s still good, still carrying it all, except, oh, oops.
He sees her bend down to get it and immediately protests. “No, it’s all right, I’ve got it! Just, um.” He tries to feel around for some way for him to bend down and retrieve what she’s already straightened up with, holding it in her good hand. He turns around, properly facing her but now unable to see her. “Put it back on the pile?”
“Doctor,” she says, testy, and he winces inside.
“Right, right, no, you carry that. That’s just, right, yes.”
“Doctor,” she says again and he winces so much more.
“Yes, Rose?”
“I’m not made of glass, y’know.”
“Yes, I do know. You’re made of crunchy, crunchy bones that go snap.”
(Actually, it wasn’t a snap, it was a crack, a crunch, a break in the universe and a bruising of time, something never ever meant to happen and he saw it happen, he watched it happen from three-point-oh-eight seconds of sprinting away, he watched it and he saw her curse and cradle her arm and hand and it was as if his hand had been broken in the guard’s grip and the instinctual response to cradle the injury, to wrap around the hurt, that instinct had sounded and would never, ever go away because Rose Tyler belongs wrapped up in his arms, healthy and whole and unsnapped/uncrunched/unbroken, but Rose Tyler is out of his arms and a bit damaged around her lovely edges.)
She sighs.
He holds firm on his point: “Well, you are.”
“How comes I can watch you get your hand cut off - which we accept and just live with - but you can’t-”
“Because I can’t!” he shouts, breaking to mirror her bones. He shouts through the piles of odds and ends and mostly the ladder (and he is very, very glad she can’t see his face).
There’s a pause and then the crunching of gravel as she moves around him, ducks under the ladder and, gets into a blind spot the reflecting panel isn’t much helping with. And then she sort of… nestles. Against his back. Gently where her arm rests between his back and her front, its sling holding it very, very steady. More firmly where it’s her shoulder against his shoulder blade. Her face presses against his shoulder.
“C’mon,” she murmurs against his collar. “Let’s get me patched up.”
He does, of course, leading her out to the spot by smell and then setting up the ladder and the tarp to drape around the ladder just so and the tub as the collecting basin and all of his over here to filter and heat and concentrate like that. He explains as he works, taking fast and not looking at her and she hums along, sitting on the ground on a less gravely patch.
“That should do it,” he says, beckoning her closer. He’s just in time, for once. They stand behind the tarp but, just for good measure, he shucks his overcoat and holds it over the both of them, around the both of them (their upper halves, at least, and him still not meeting her eyes) so that the pollen storm doesn’t suffocate them.
It’s as if the entire world sneezed, or as if the landscape is one great white dandelion head, puffed out into the world by a giant making a wish. Brilliant reds and golds and oranges fill the peach sky, oddly metallic against that soft shade and only faintly glimpsed from beneath their covering. His hand is on her shoulder (of her good arm, the arm not damaged defending him from his own stupidity) and he feels it when she shakes.
“Rose?”
She’s laughing.
“God, that’s brilliant,” she says. Leans into him.
It’s so difficult to not be holding her.
(But he can’t risk hurting her.)
Once the storm dies down, the pollen gusts passing after only a few minutes, he goes around to the other side of the hung tarp to see how much they’ve caught. He reaches into the tub, shakes the dry powder around a bit and then melts it down.
“Pretty sure there are easier ways of taking care of a busted up arm, Doctor,” she tells him (again).
“You’ll like this,” he replies (as he always wants to).
Red, gold and orange melt down indigo, appearing faintly purple until thinly spread, as it ought to be, over an offered, injured limb. It’s a very careful application, both of them sitting on the ground and her splint gingerly removed (and him aching with each smothered gasp).
He brushes it on with his fingertips and then she’s gasping in much better tones, in surprise.
Her wide eyes stare into his. “That’s… ‘s nice.”
He tries to smile back. Light, wet, ghosting touches up and down her forearm. He returns his hand to the tub, dipping in and reapplying and she gasps each time the balm soaks through skin and muscle and soothes the bone back into itself.
She shivers under his hands.
“Is that all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, I said,” she answers, voice slow. “It’s nice.”
“You’ll know when I’m done,” he tells her. “Say when to stop.”
She laughs a little, breathy. He assumes it’s the substance on her nerves, on regrowth and fading pain. “Do I have to?” (No.)
“Well, you should.” (Shouldn’t.)
Her arm strengthens to the point where he can run his whole hands across it, sliding fingers and palms over healing skin. Her eyes are closed, her mouth half open, her features filled with the sort of bliss that only the relief of pain can bring.
The balm runs out.
He doesn’t stop.
It’s ten minutes until he realizes.
He releases her eventually (regretfully, ten minutes after the ten minutes) and she seems to come back into herself, surprised to find her arm well and whole. Tentative, she stretches this way and that.
She grins at him, tongue between her teeth. “Guess this means I have to help carry everything back, yeah?”
(It doesn’t, not really, not at all, but he never can stop her from helping him, can he?)
As they trundle back to the TARDIS, grinning over a shared ladder, it’s probably for the best.