Love Is Not A Victory March
Title: Love Is Not A Victory March
Author: Asimus
Characters: Ten, Rose
Rating: PG-13 (references to sex, but mild)
Notes: Inspired by the song Hallelujah the Jeff Buckley version, though not a songfic.
Love Is Not A Victory March
She finds him one lonely night, tucked away in a darkened room, weeping whilst he believed her sleeping.
“I didn’t know you played guitar.” She says, smiling gently, lessening his ache as he stands there, leather strap slung over his shoulder, metal strings clutched painfully between his fingers.
“It’s not a guitar!” He forces cheer into his voice, it’s not so hard now she’s here, “It’s a ukulele. Don’t you think it’s very me?”
And she laughs at him, and he laughs too. He doesn’t think he has ever known someone mock him like she does, and he’s grateful for it, for her, because she always knows just what he needs.
“Play us a tune then.”
And he does. And she cries. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it was the sweetness of his melody, straight from the skies of Gallifrey. Or maybe it was the pained expression on his face as he recalled his home, burned to ashes. He drops the instrument and holds her regardless of her reasons. She reveals everything to him, every upset in her heart and he thinks that he might just understand.
*
She sits him down in the kitchen; table pushed up to the wall clearing space. In her hands she holds a pair of scissors and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this afraid. He really shouldn’t have mentioned back-combing.
“Do you trust me?” She asks with a sly grin.
He has to say ‘yes,’ it’s the only possible answer, because it’s true and he could never lie to her. He never regrets it.
*
He makes love to her for the first time and he wonders why he never did this before. She is his salvation and redemption, and forgiveness and all those other clichés one would associate with a personal God, or a brand new lover. But really she has always been his lover, he just never realised it.
He holds her, much like he has many nights in the past, only tonight she’s naked, and he’s naked and he has the overwhelming urge to never let go. Though that’s not really new either. This night she clings to him too, because she feels everything he does, he knows, he can feel it in her breath playing across his heated skin. They are a perfect match.
In that moment, that everlasting moment, where she throws back her head in bliss and cries out his name, in that moment, he wishes he was human, he wants it, craves it. He closes his eyes and he can see his whole life stretched out on front of him, like a tapestry. He can see himself growing old with her, lying warm in bed with her, a fire burning warm and bright in the fireplace as she sits in a rocking chair knitting. Children and grandchildren roam the house. Their house, with shag pile carpets and blue doors. He sees his whole life with her. How it could be. How it won’t be.
She snuggles into him and it warms his aching bones, makes him feel a little less old. He swears he’ll find a way to keep her. He means it.
*
They stand together on a cold blustery beach, only they’re not together. They are a universe apart. She’s crying, and all he wants is to reach out and touch her. But he can’t and it breaks him just a little.
He realises that love is cold and bitter. He silently longs for the days before he knew her. Those days he spent alone. Always better off alone. He blinks and she’s gone, and he fears he will never heal from this. The wound will always be open and raw.
The next time he lies down to rest, he cries. He cries and wails like some ethereal creature, minus limbs necessary for survival. His shrieks are inhuman, but then, he has never been human.
*
Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Author: Asimus
Characters: Ten, Rose
Rating: PG-13 (references to sex, but mild)
Notes: Inspired by the song Hallelujah the Jeff Buckley version, though not a songfic.
Love Is Not A Victory March
She finds him one lonely night, tucked away in a darkened room, weeping whilst he believed her sleeping.
“I didn’t know you played guitar.” She says, smiling gently, lessening his ache as he stands there, leather strap slung over his shoulder, metal strings clutched painfully between his fingers.
“It’s not a guitar!” He forces cheer into his voice, it’s not so hard now she’s here, “It’s a ukulele. Don’t you think it’s very me?”
And she laughs at him, and he laughs too. He doesn’t think he has ever known someone mock him like she does, and he’s grateful for it, for her, because she always knows just what he needs.
“Play us a tune then.”
And he does. And she cries. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it was the sweetness of his melody, straight from the skies of Gallifrey. Or maybe it was the pained expression on his face as he recalled his home, burned to ashes. He drops the instrument and holds her regardless of her reasons. She reveals everything to him, every upset in her heart and he thinks that he might just understand.
*
She sits him down in the kitchen; table pushed up to the wall clearing space. In her hands she holds a pair of scissors and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this afraid. He really shouldn’t have mentioned back-combing.
“Do you trust me?” She asks with a sly grin.
He has to say ‘yes,’ it’s the only possible answer, because it’s true and he could never lie to her. He never regrets it.
*
He makes love to her for the first time and he wonders why he never did this before. She is his salvation and redemption, and forgiveness and all those other clichés one would associate with a personal God, or a brand new lover. But really she has always been his lover, he just never realised it.
He holds her, much like he has many nights in the past, only tonight she’s naked, and he’s naked and he has the overwhelming urge to never let go. Though that’s not really new either. This night she clings to him too, because she feels everything he does, he knows, he can feel it in her breath playing across his heated skin. They are a perfect match.
In that moment, that everlasting moment, where she throws back her head in bliss and cries out his name, in that moment, he wishes he was human, he wants it, craves it. He closes his eyes and he can see his whole life stretched out on front of him, like a tapestry. He can see himself growing old with her, lying warm in bed with her, a fire burning warm and bright in the fireplace as she sits in a rocking chair knitting. Children and grandchildren roam the house. Their house, with shag pile carpets and blue doors. He sees his whole life with her. How it could be. How it won’t be.
She snuggles into him and it warms his aching bones, makes him feel a little less old. He swears he’ll find a way to keep her. He means it.
*
They stand together on a cold blustery beach, only they’re not together. They are a universe apart. She’s crying, and all he wants is to reach out and touch her. But he can’t and it breaks him just a little.
He realises that love is cold and bitter. He silently longs for the days before he knew her. Those days he spent alone. Always better off alone. He blinks and she’s gone, and he fears he will never heal from this. The wound will always be open and raw.
The next time he lies down to rest, he cries. He cries and wails like some ethereal creature, minus limbs necessary for survival. His shrieks are inhuman, but then, he has never been human.
*
Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah