ten/reinette ficlet
Title: The Dance of Bad Angels
Author: nostalgia_lj
Pairing: Ten/Reinette
Summary: The Doctor dances.
Notes: Just sort of an experiment to see if I could make this vaguely work. Rating-wise it's (hopefully) a bit reader-dependent.
He tells her that he does not dance, protesting even as she takes his hand and pulls him towards her. He knows the basics - where to put his hands and how to move - but it's been a while now and it's not something he ever really did that often anyway.
She tells him not to fret so, says that they can break with tradition and that she will lead this time.
And so she does, a rustle of fabric accompanying the adjustment of her skirts to accomodate the movement of the dance. A few awkward moments later they are positioned as they should be, correct even if not entirely prim and proper.
They conform to time and tempo, touching only where they have to but somehow connected beyond that. What they are doing is not what it would appear to anyone watching, it is something much more subtle and yet stronger.
She grips him tightly, leading as she promised with verbal encouragements and occasional corrections to his movements. They twist and weave, moving together and apart, finding the rhythm easily enough and subverting it only for clever improvisation.
But she must dance later with another man, and time can only stretch so far. They pick up the pace, moving faster now to an increasing beat, racing to cresendo. In this moment they are perfect.
When the dance stops they are giddy and giggling, alone in a universe full of other people and yet somehow neither one is lonely. The illusion will not last, but for this brief instant it intoxicates.
"I should dance more often," he tells her, breathless.
It is a wonderful lie to believe in.
Author: nostalgia_lj
Pairing: Ten/Reinette
Summary: The Doctor dances.
Notes: Just sort of an experiment to see if I could make this vaguely work. Rating-wise it's (hopefully) a bit reader-dependent.
He tells her that he does not dance, protesting even as she takes his hand and pulls him towards her. He knows the basics - where to put his hands and how to move - but it's been a while now and it's not something he ever really did that often anyway.
She tells him not to fret so, says that they can break with tradition and that she will lead this time.
And so she does, a rustle of fabric accompanying the adjustment of her skirts to accomodate the movement of the dance. A few awkward moments later they are positioned as they should be, correct even if not entirely prim and proper.
They conform to time and tempo, touching only where they have to but somehow connected beyond that. What they are doing is not what it would appear to anyone watching, it is something much more subtle and yet stronger.
She grips him tightly, leading as she promised with verbal encouragements and occasional corrections to his movements. They twist and weave, moving together and apart, finding the rhythm easily enough and subverting it only for clever improvisation.
But she must dance later with another man, and time can only stretch so far. They pick up the pace, moving faster now to an increasing beat, racing to cresendo. In this moment they are perfect.
When the dance stops they are giddy and giggling, alone in a universe full of other people and yet somehow neither one is lonely. The illusion will not last, but for this brief instant it intoxicates.
"I should dance more often," he tells her, breathless.
It is a wonderful lie to believe in.