Itch to Scratch (Fic: Doctor Who/Secret Diary, 10/H, Oneshot, Ficathon)
It’s one of those nights where she lies on her bed, writhing in frustration and loneliness and unable to fulfill her own needs. A sheet is twisted around her ankle and she doesn’t care enough to kick it off, instead leaving it there, snaring her in this life, this apartment, this same old routine.
It’s not that she doesn’t love the job-she does, unashamedly. The sex, the money, the high-end clientele… she doesn’t think she’ll tire of it any time soon. It’s that sometimes it feels as though the only intimacy she gets is the type that people pay her for. The type that satisfies someone else-not her, not always. Sometimes she craves something else.
So she kicks off that sheet from around her ankle, checking the time. Nearly 2 AM. And she gets up, pulling on jeans and a fitted jumper. Not her usual attire, but it’s late at night and she knows what type of attention she’d attract if she went out in a dress or something of that sort. She leaves the apartment with just her keys and her cell phone, ready for anything.
***
It’s one of those nights when he has to wonder at it all-the cruelty of a good-bye with not enough time, the irony of a bride appearing in the TARDIS just as he’d bid farewell to the girl who had once promised him forever, the paralyzing effect of finding a purple shirt slung over the railing as if she’d be back for it any time.
When he thinks about it, really thinks, he knows that this shouldn’t wreck him. He’s had other companions. He’s loved other women. He’s had to leave people behind. But to be sealed off from her forever, to know she loved him and he reciprocated, to know he’d never be able to say it back…
He looks at the shirt one more time before he stalks over to the consoles, setting them to land in London. He hasn’t the faintest what he’ll do there-he’s taken care of the latest alien problem, anyway-but anything will be better than sitting, staring, wanting.
He lands in a dark and deserted alleyway, sometime in the middle of the night, and as he steps onto the sidewalk he sees her, just ahead of him, walking away.
***
At first, it paralyzes him just as that damned shirt had, makes him stop in his tracks and stare after her. Maybe it’s not her, but… the hair, a few shades darker. The figure, just as slim, still a head shorter than him.
And he runs, knowing it’s an absurdly late hour of the night, knowing that if it is her and he’s crossing their timeline that he’s in trouble, but oh, he doesn’t care and he has to know-
He’s running so fast that when he catches up to her, he half-stumbles, and he reaches out to catch her as she pitches forward. The weight of this girl feels the same in his arms as hers did, as he caught her as she collapsed after he’d removed the Time Vortex from her mind, as when Cassandra had exited her body and she’d fallen against him.
The girl is startled, and as she pulls herself out of his arms to face him, he notices that it’s not a girl, it’s a woman, and-oh.
She’ll do.
***
A man knocks into her, throwing her off-balance, but that’s not as surprising as when his arms instantly encircle her, almost pulling her close, before she recovers herself and pulls away, getting a better look at him in the dark.
The hair is what she notices first, a dark color that she can’t distinguish in the night, but nonetheless, it’s all over the place, sticking up in a way that shows that he either doesn’t bother with a comb or does bother with hair gel. He’s wearing a suit-not anything stylish, not anything she’d see a client wear. Simple-brown, white shirt, blue tie. A passing car illuminates him for the briefest second, and she catches a glimpse of dark eyes, sadder than she’s ever seen and gazing at her like she’s some kind of salvation.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, ostensibly for nearly bowling her over, but those eyes still linger on her face. “I thought… thought you were someone I knew.”
She knows she should be going through that mental Rolodex right now-was he once a client? A former boyfriend? A classmate? But even if she knows what she should be thinking, she finds herself thinking of things entirely different-things like the way his touch is electrifying even through the wool of her jumper.
She’s pulled away from him, but one of his hands is still grasping her elbow, his thumb moving in a slow circle along her arm, and she involuntarily shudders.
He’ll do.
***
“I’ve heard that before,” she says smoothly in response to his failed attempt at passing this off as just a random stranger bumping into her, not a desperate grab at the closest thing he can find to her. “More times than you know.”
The accent is more posh than Rose’s, but the face is eerily similar, so much so that he feels his thumb stroking circles on her arm, the way he used to do when they walked together, when he got so used to being near to her that it’s now impossible for him to deal with the empty space all around him. She’s not the same, but she’ll do.
She looks down almost pointedly at his hand on her arm, and he jerks it away, knowing that he shouldn’t be acting like some foolish teenager. He’s nine hundred years old; flirting is nothing new to him. But he finds himself itching to know what it would feel like to have this woman, this alluring, maddeningly similar woman, on his arm, against his body, kissing him like she had those times but of her own volition, because it kills him when he thinks that she might not even remember that they did, twice…
And he realizes that he’s still thinking of this woman as Rose, when she’s not, but isn’t it better to pretend?
***
The expression still hasn’t changed. The desperation in his eyes, even if she can’t see them in the dark, is still there in his every mannerism, in the way he’d pulled his hand away so suddenly, in the way his eyes search her face as though he’ll see a glimpse there of that girl he knew. She decides to play with this. After all, she went out looking for something.
“’M Hannah,” she says, coyly, looking him up and down and knowing that he notices from the way he swallows, his fingers flexing at his side. “You?”
“John,” he says, and she steps closer, playing with his tie.
“How about…” she murmurs into his ear, “… you take me somewhere, John?”
***
Her breath at his ear, closer than he can ever remember Rose being, almost pleadingly asking him to take her somewhere. And if there can no longer be any semblance of a somewhere with Rose, he’ll take what he can get-and apparently, he can get this woman, this Hannah.
For one night, he can forget that Rose is gone, can be with this woman and forget that purple blouse, forget the mementos of hers still sitting in the room she’d taken on the TARDIS, forget the words he’d wanted to say.
“Where?” he asks, and he’s surprised by the lust in his tone, the hunger, the wanting.
That hand still playing with his tie moves, fiddling with a button near his throat and undoing it just a bit. “Your place?” she purrs, and he finds that he has to chuckle as he takes one step backwards, then another, letting her follow him.
“I can guarantee you,” he murmurs as her lips find his mouth, as her tongue traces his lips, “you’ll have never seen anything like it.”
“Try me,” she says huskily.
“It’s bigger on the inside.”
A laugh as her free hand trails down to the waistband of his trousers, slipping under. “Maybe it’s not the only thing.”
And as her fingers brush his skin, trailing along his stomach and lower, he thinks again of her, and tries to let this fill the void.
It’s not that she doesn’t love the job-she does, unashamedly. The sex, the money, the high-end clientele… she doesn’t think she’ll tire of it any time soon. It’s that sometimes it feels as though the only intimacy she gets is the type that people pay her for. The type that satisfies someone else-not her, not always. Sometimes she craves something else.
So she kicks off that sheet from around her ankle, checking the time. Nearly 2 AM. And she gets up, pulling on jeans and a fitted jumper. Not her usual attire, but it’s late at night and she knows what type of attention she’d attract if she went out in a dress or something of that sort. She leaves the apartment with just her keys and her cell phone, ready for anything.
***
It’s one of those nights when he has to wonder at it all-the cruelty of a good-bye with not enough time, the irony of a bride appearing in the TARDIS just as he’d bid farewell to the girl who had once promised him forever, the paralyzing effect of finding a purple shirt slung over the railing as if she’d be back for it any time.
When he thinks about it, really thinks, he knows that this shouldn’t wreck him. He’s had other companions. He’s loved other women. He’s had to leave people behind. But to be sealed off from her forever, to know she loved him and he reciprocated, to know he’d never be able to say it back…
He looks at the shirt one more time before he stalks over to the consoles, setting them to land in London. He hasn’t the faintest what he’ll do there-he’s taken care of the latest alien problem, anyway-but anything will be better than sitting, staring, wanting.
He lands in a dark and deserted alleyway, sometime in the middle of the night, and as he steps onto the sidewalk he sees her, just ahead of him, walking away.
***
At first, it paralyzes him just as that damned shirt had, makes him stop in his tracks and stare after her. Maybe it’s not her, but… the hair, a few shades darker. The figure, just as slim, still a head shorter than him.
And he runs, knowing it’s an absurdly late hour of the night, knowing that if it is her and he’s crossing their timeline that he’s in trouble, but oh, he doesn’t care and he has to know-
He’s running so fast that when he catches up to her, he half-stumbles, and he reaches out to catch her as she pitches forward. The weight of this girl feels the same in his arms as hers did, as he caught her as she collapsed after he’d removed the Time Vortex from her mind, as when Cassandra had exited her body and she’d fallen against him.
The girl is startled, and as she pulls herself out of his arms to face him, he notices that it’s not a girl, it’s a woman, and-oh.
She’ll do.
***
A man knocks into her, throwing her off-balance, but that’s not as surprising as when his arms instantly encircle her, almost pulling her close, before she recovers herself and pulls away, getting a better look at him in the dark.
The hair is what she notices first, a dark color that she can’t distinguish in the night, but nonetheless, it’s all over the place, sticking up in a way that shows that he either doesn’t bother with a comb or does bother with hair gel. He’s wearing a suit-not anything stylish, not anything she’d see a client wear. Simple-brown, white shirt, blue tie. A passing car illuminates him for the briefest second, and she catches a glimpse of dark eyes, sadder than she’s ever seen and gazing at her like she’s some kind of salvation.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, ostensibly for nearly bowling her over, but those eyes still linger on her face. “I thought… thought you were someone I knew.”
She knows she should be going through that mental Rolodex right now-was he once a client? A former boyfriend? A classmate? But even if she knows what she should be thinking, she finds herself thinking of things entirely different-things like the way his touch is electrifying even through the wool of her jumper.
She’s pulled away from him, but one of his hands is still grasping her elbow, his thumb moving in a slow circle along her arm, and she involuntarily shudders.
He’ll do.
***
“I’ve heard that before,” she says smoothly in response to his failed attempt at passing this off as just a random stranger bumping into her, not a desperate grab at the closest thing he can find to her. “More times than you know.”
The accent is more posh than Rose’s, but the face is eerily similar, so much so that he feels his thumb stroking circles on her arm, the way he used to do when they walked together, when he got so used to being near to her that it’s now impossible for him to deal with the empty space all around him. She’s not the same, but she’ll do.
She looks down almost pointedly at his hand on her arm, and he jerks it away, knowing that he shouldn’t be acting like some foolish teenager. He’s nine hundred years old; flirting is nothing new to him. But he finds himself itching to know what it would feel like to have this woman, this alluring, maddeningly similar woman, on his arm, against his body, kissing him like she had those times but of her own volition, because it kills him when he thinks that she might not even remember that they did, twice…
And he realizes that he’s still thinking of this woman as Rose, when she’s not, but isn’t it better to pretend?
***
The expression still hasn’t changed. The desperation in his eyes, even if she can’t see them in the dark, is still there in his every mannerism, in the way he’d pulled his hand away so suddenly, in the way his eyes search her face as though he’ll see a glimpse there of that girl he knew. She decides to play with this. After all, she went out looking for something.
“’M Hannah,” she says, coyly, looking him up and down and knowing that he notices from the way he swallows, his fingers flexing at his side. “You?”
“John,” he says, and she steps closer, playing with his tie.
“How about…” she murmurs into his ear, “… you take me somewhere, John?”
***
Her breath at his ear, closer than he can ever remember Rose being, almost pleadingly asking him to take her somewhere. And if there can no longer be any semblance of a somewhere with Rose, he’ll take what he can get-and apparently, he can get this woman, this Hannah.
For one night, he can forget that Rose is gone, can be with this woman and forget that purple blouse, forget the mementos of hers still sitting in the room she’d taken on the TARDIS, forget the words he’d wanted to say.
“Where?” he asks, and he’s surprised by the lust in his tone, the hunger, the wanting.
That hand still playing with his tie moves, fiddling with a button near his throat and undoing it just a bit. “Your place?” she purrs, and he finds that he has to chuckle as he takes one step backwards, then another, letting her follow him.
“I can guarantee you,” he murmurs as her lips find his mouth, as her tongue traces his lips, “you’ll have never seen anything like it.”
“Try me,” she says huskily.
“It’s bigger on the inside.”
A laugh as her free hand trails down to the waistband of his trousers, slipping under. “Maybe it’s not the only thing.”
And as her fingers brush his skin, trailing along his stomach and lower, he thinks again of her, and tries to let this fill the void.