Fic: Raise The Shade (1/1)
Title: Raise The Shade
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Word Count: 2,141
Summary: Over time, she came to realize things, important things. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey's End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I couldn’t get rid of this idea, so it ended up getting written. Soppy, fluffy, feel-good mess it is, and I know I don’t do that very well most of the time, but it had to be done. I love me some Doctor/Rose, what can I say? And sidenote - ‘David’ was the name I chose because of what it means, which is ‘Beloved,’ not because of the actor association. But really... the Doctor does look like a David ;)
Raise The Shade
The feel of his arms around her waist, his hand resting soft just below her breast, contoured to her ribs, was the small, subtle sort of joy that hadn’t quite yet lost its magic. It was the same sort of tingle, the same glowing spark that shot through her when he was standing, half-naked before the mirror, shaving as she stepped out of the shower in the morning; the same sheer warmth that started in the pit of her stomach and emanated, resonated, outwards to the rest of her when she watched him as he rinsed the dishes or reorganized the cupboards; when he carried her favorite takeout into the kitchen ‘just because,’ or when he nudged the fat tabby cat, appropriately named Donna, affectionately with his socked toe whilst he was cooking. It was the soft, slow sort of fire that engulfed her whenever he watched her with concern bleeding from those deep cinnamon eyes, amber flashing in their depths when she came home feeling under the weather, the way his knuckles brushed away her hair and his lips settled gently onto her brow, the bridge of her nose, his breath tickling before he captured her mouth.
It was strange at first, interacting with him, learning to be with him - there was a time when she’d have said it had been strange learning to love him, but not anymore, not now that she understood. There were days, at the beginning, when she couldn’t even look at him, couldn’t even bear to see him, because all she could think of was a man with his face, a Time Lord with two hearts that had stolen hers without even having to ask, without ever having to say it, to confirm it for her, a hero who was once again alone, who had left her like he always did. But he’d be patient with her, this Doctor who had stayed, unfailingly so, and it wasn’t until she’d seen him one night, illuminated in starlight at the window, still fully dressed, his face turned up to the heavens with a look of longing that she could only imagine appearing on that face, gracing those same features, that she began to wonder if maybe it shouldn’t be strange, if maybe it shouldn’t be difficult.
Over time, she came to realize things, important things. Like that the arms draped across her shoulders in the evening as she lounged on the sofa were the same ones that had embraced her, had saved her, in so many places, on so many planets, in so many times. They were the same hands, the lines and dips and soft spots between the bones in the exact same positions; they held the same tenderness, the same strength. He had the same smile, one that held his whole face ransom and glittered in his eyes - his teeth were spaced the same, his lips bowed just as they’d always been. His ears, she’d noticed one morning when he’d been bent over his toothbrush, were still the perfect half-heart shells they’d always been, leading down to those sideburns that he kept groomed in the very same fashion she’d grown accustomed to, what seemed so long ago.
The very moment she realized it, when her eyes widened and she grasped that everything from the tip of his nose to his fingernails were exactly the same; his voice and his laugh, his compassion and his irritation and his brilliance and his wit, that it was all still there, that it had never gone anywhere at all, really - that instant was etched into her memory like a brand, burned indelibly so she would never forget. Her heart had raced in her chest, galloping like mad and she trembled, standing behind him, just watching, and he’d turned, seeming to sense the shift in her on instinct, on faith. He took a step towards her, and the almost imperceptible rub of the soles of his trainers (still bright red, but worn - they’d seen more things than Rose had at his side, she could tell) echoed like a scream in her ears. Everything slowed and focused, and she knew, she knew. Her heart kept pounding, beating faster even as he came to stand in front of her, barely touching, his chest rising and falling with his breath and brushing against hers with the cadence on every inhale, his lips parted as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. He didn’t have to speak; neither did she. A weight lifted, and they both felt it - he’d been waiting for her, as she had waited for him; searching and she’d once searched, and still had been since his return, and they’d finally found each other again.
In retrospect, she’s not sure how she would have managed. She’s not sure what made her so hesitant, but she’s not sure she’s a strong enough person to have endured the struggle, the delay; to have had him so close, when he was so much a part of her, and still watch him be as distant as she had been. She would never be able to thank him enough for that, for enduring where she faltered, would never be able to forgive herself for the sadness she’d caused in him during those first long and difficult months of doubt, of fear, of such overwhelming confusion that it had threatened to destroy her, threatened to destroy them both. Watching him, feeling him, being with him now, she hopes that she’s doing enough to make up for it all.
Things, she muses, are approaching relative normalcy as time passes. He’s working as a consultant of sorts for Torchwood, and UNIT, keeping people safe just as he always had, being the protector she’d always known. He doesn’t have the degree for it, officially speaking, but he still goes by the title of Doctor; only now, he’s got other things attached afterwards, and the fake documents to prove it - they’d come to the mutual conclusion that the pseudonym ‘John Smith’ had seen it’s day in the sun long ago, and it was time for something new. He’d told her then, what his name as a boy had been, and she’d pondered on it, and so many other less significant details, little tidbits, for days upon days before she approached him with a name she felt suited him, blood rushing fast and hard behind her eardrums as she contemplated what this meant, what this attested to - wondering if it was written in the stars, this moment, when she gives him a name that means so much of what he is.
He smiles softly when she calls him David, and she doesn't have to tell him why, because he already knows - he knows everything, after all. Her chest clenches when she sees the brightness in him as he nods, the shine in his eyes. Her mouth is dry and her throat is tight when he asks her to pick his surname, too; there’s a gravity in the request that holds so much hope, so much possibility that she’s almost lost to it before she tilts her head and grins, telling him that it doesn’t matter, that the name doesn’t matter - she can tell by the light that captures his complexion that this was exactly what he needed her to say. After all, it couldn’t be so important what came after Rose, but instead what came before it; and that would always be ‘his.’ She knew that now, she’d always known.
It was when she suddenly felt light, like air, so happy that she wanted to laugh forever, to leap and shout and sing from just looking at him in that moment, that she felt it; she knew in her heart of hearts, in her very soul, that this was him, her Doctor, the man she loved, the man it seemed she’d always loved.
His hand shifts, twitches, bringing her back to the here and now, lifting her bust line so that the dip of her cleavage tilts oddly beneath her oversized sleep shirt, and she can feel his heartbeat, the lone rhythm against her ear picking up suddenly as he stirs awake, his fingers dancing along her side, a soft, incoherent murmur hot against her neck.
She rolls over to face him, his eyes bleary with sleep - it’s something new for her, with him, and she loves it. “It is you,” she whispers, more to herself, her hands reaching to cup his face, the prickle of his stubble rough and reassuring against her palm as his gaze focuses on her, sharp and sure as he cocks an eyebrow in silent question.
“What’s me?”
“This,” she lets her index finger trail across his lips, down to trace his collarbone, and back up to curl around the nape of his neck. “Here. You.” She leans in and presses her mouth to his for the longest single moment she’s ever known to be so sweet, drinking in the flavor of him, one she’s come to savor and adore more than any other. “It’s you, an’ it was always you.” She feels regret and shame start to well behind her eyes, and she closes them hard to halt the torrent, leaning forward and burying her face into his shoulder, clutching him close until she can’t tell who the heat between them belongs to more, who’s fueling their fire. “How’d I not see that?”
She feels the air in her lungs dissipate in a sigh as he brings deft hands to stroke her hair, dips his chin to kiss her head, and she thanks every power in the entirety of creation for this - this man who is her everything. “Does it really matter anymore?” he breathes, letting the whispering stream of air rustle her blonde locks before kissing her temple and nuzzling at her hair line affectionately.
“I love you.” The words are more felt than heard, spoken soft against the Doctor’s skin, almost a sob wrenched from her throat as the emotions of months, years came down upon her; the snaking of familiar arms around her back, crushing her against the chest she so associated with home, they steadied her, grounded her, the sound of his blood rushing distant from the right side of his chest soothing her, and he is silent, holding fast to her, until she’s calm again.
“You are my world now, Rose Tyler,” he murmurs next to her, the sound skimming past her cheek. “Nothing in the whole entire universe compares to you.”
She smiles, feeling the flush of her skin as she curves into him playfully, grateful for the excuse to break the tension. “Bollocks,” she shoots at him, spreading her thighs and wrapping them around his, slowly pressing the backs of her ankles behind his kneecaps, drawing him to her.
“S’true,” he replies with a smile of his own, though his is more genuine, curling a strand of her hair around his ring finger with slow, deliberate care. He watches the fire leave her eyes and die down into slow-burning embers, glowing in the darkness as the mood changes in the room.
She feels his fingers interlace with hers, drawing her palm to his bare chest, pressing at the muscle on top of the muscle, the skin above the sheer life thrumming furiously through his body. “You have me, Rose,” he whispers, kissing her knuckles in time with every other heartbeat, staring up at her through his eyelashes with an intensity that lets her see the stars, sketched in moonlight against the backs of her eyelids. “This is me,” his heart sings in tandem with his voice, and she melts into it, into him, surrendering to it all; “And I am yours.”
So long. She’s waited so long and now she’s here, he’s here - they’re together, they’re whole; they’re real and complete and they’re them, really and truly, they’re the Doctor and Rose and they’re in love, and the only thing that’s changed is that now they can say it, now they can live it, and Rose has never felt so alive as she does when his lips move against hers, speaking into her mouth as if somehow the words will reach her soul safely that way:
“And every heart I’ve ever had beats for you alone.”
And somehow, as she moves into him, molding her curves to his, an imperfect triad of tears escaping her eyes as she surrenders to his embrace, and back into the clutches of sleep before the dawn breaks, she swears that even though she can’t feel them, she knows that she hears the gentle echoes of two separate rhythms, drumming slower, steadier, older - less impassioned and impulsive, with less fire behind the beat, somehow - keeping an entirely different time beneath the ribs of the man who holds her, body and soul.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Word Count: 2,141
Summary: Over time, she came to realize things, important things. Spoilers for Doctor Who 4.13 - Journey's End.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I couldn’t get rid of this idea, so it ended up getting written. Soppy, fluffy, feel-good mess it is, and I know I don’t do that very well most of the time, but it had to be done. I love me some Doctor/Rose, what can I say? And sidenote - ‘David’ was the name I chose because of what it means, which is ‘Beloved,’ not because of the actor association. But really... the Doctor does look like a David ;)
Raise The Shade
The feel of his arms around her waist, his hand resting soft just below her breast, contoured to her ribs, was the small, subtle sort of joy that hadn’t quite yet lost its magic. It was the same sort of tingle, the same glowing spark that shot through her when he was standing, half-naked before the mirror, shaving as she stepped out of the shower in the morning; the same sheer warmth that started in the pit of her stomach and emanated, resonated, outwards to the rest of her when she watched him as he rinsed the dishes or reorganized the cupboards; when he carried her favorite takeout into the kitchen ‘just because,’ or when he nudged the fat tabby cat, appropriately named Donna, affectionately with his socked toe whilst he was cooking. It was the soft, slow sort of fire that engulfed her whenever he watched her with concern bleeding from those deep cinnamon eyes, amber flashing in their depths when she came home feeling under the weather, the way his knuckles brushed away her hair and his lips settled gently onto her brow, the bridge of her nose, his breath tickling before he captured her mouth.
It was strange at first, interacting with him, learning to be with him - there was a time when she’d have said it had been strange learning to love him, but not anymore, not now that she understood. There were days, at the beginning, when she couldn’t even look at him, couldn’t even bear to see him, because all she could think of was a man with his face, a Time Lord with two hearts that had stolen hers without even having to ask, without ever having to say it, to confirm it for her, a hero who was once again alone, who had left her like he always did. But he’d be patient with her, this Doctor who had stayed, unfailingly so, and it wasn’t until she’d seen him one night, illuminated in starlight at the window, still fully dressed, his face turned up to the heavens with a look of longing that she could only imagine appearing on that face, gracing those same features, that she began to wonder if maybe it shouldn’t be strange, if maybe it shouldn’t be difficult.
Over time, she came to realize things, important things. Like that the arms draped across her shoulders in the evening as she lounged on the sofa were the same ones that had embraced her, had saved her, in so many places, on so many planets, in so many times. They were the same hands, the lines and dips and soft spots between the bones in the exact same positions; they held the same tenderness, the same strength. He had the same smile, one that held his whole face ransom and glittered in his eyes - his teeth were spaced the same, his lips bowed just as they’d always been. His ears, she’d noticed one morning when he’d been bent over his toothbrush, were still the perfect half-heart shells they’d always been, leading down to those sideburns that he kept groomed in the very same fashion she’d grown accustomed to, what seemed so long ago.
The very moment she realized it, when her eyes widened and she grasped that everything from the tip of his nose to his fingernails were exactly the same; his voice and his laugh, his compassion and his irritation and his brilliance and his wit, that it was all still there, that it had never gone anywhere at all, really - that instant was etched into her memory like a brand, burned indelibly so she would never forget. Her heart had raced in her chest, galloping like mad and she trembled, standing behind him, just watching, and he’d turned, seeming to sense the shift in her on instinct, on faith. He took a step towards her, and the almost imperceptible rub of the soles of his trainers (still bright red, but worn - they’d seen more things than Rose had at his side, she could tell) echoed like a scream in her ears. Everything slowed and focused, and she knew, she knew. Her heart kept pounding, beating faster even as he came to stand in front of her, barely touching, his chest rising and falling with his breath and brushing against hers with the cadence on every inhale, his lips parted as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. He didn’t have to speak; neither did she. A weight lifted, and they both felt it - he’d been waiting for her, as she had waited for him; searching and she’d once searched, and still had been since his return, and they’d finally found each other again.
In retrospect, she’s not sure how she would have managed. She’s not sure what made her so hesitant, but she’s not sure she’s a strong enough person to have endured the struggle, the delay; to have had him so close, when he was so much a part of her, and still watch him be as distant as she had been. She would never be able to thank him enough for that, for enduring where she faltered, would never be able to forgive herself for the sadness she’d caused in him during those first long and difficult months of doubt, of fear, of such overwhelming confusion that it had threatened to destroy her, threatened to destroy them both. Watching him, feeling him, being with him now, she hopes that she’s doing enough to make up for it all.
Things, she muses, are approaching relative normalcy as time passes. He’s working as a consultant of sorts for Torchwood, and UNIT, keeping people safe just as he always had, being the protector she’d always known. He doesn’t have the degree for it, officially speaking, but he still goes by the title of Doctor; only now, he’s got other things attached afterwards, and the fake documents to prove it - they’d come to the mutual conclusion that the pseudonym ‘John Smith’ had seen it’s day in the sun long ago, and it was time for something new. He’d told her then, what his name as a boy had been, and she’d pondered on it, and so many other less significant details, little tidbits, for days upon days before she approached him with a name she felt suited him, blood rushing fast and hard behind her eardrums as she contemplated what this meant, what this attested to - wondering if it was written in the stars, this moment, when she gives him a name that means so much of what he is.
He smiles softly when she calls him David, and she doesn't have to tell him why, because he already knows - he knows everything, after all. Her chest clenches when she sees the brightness in him as he nods, the shine in his eyes. Her mouth is dry and her throat is tight when he asks her to pick his surname, too; there’s a gravity in the request that holds so much hope, so much possibility that she’s almost lost to it before she tilts her head and grins, telling him that it doesn’t matter, that the name doesn’t matter - she can tell by the light that captures his complexion that this was exactly what he needed her to say. After all, it couldn’t be so important what came after Rose, but instead what came before it; and that would always be ‘his.’ She knew that now, she’d always known.
It was when she suddenly felt light, like air, so happy that she wanted to laugh forever, to leap and shout and sing from just looking at him in that moment, that she felt it; she knew in her heart of hearts, in her very soul, that this was him, her Doctor, the man she loved, the man it seemed she’d always loved.
His hand shifts, twitches, bringing her back to the here and now, lifting her bust line so that the dip of her cleavage tilts oddly beneath her oversized sleep shirt, and she can feel his heartbeat, the lone rhythm against her ear picking up suddenly as he stirs awake, his fingers dancing along her side, a soft, incoherent murmur hot against her neck.
She rolls over to face him, his eyes bleary with sleep - it’s something new for her, with him, and she loves it. “It is you,” she whispers, more to herself, her hands reaching to cup his face, the prickle of his stubble rough and reassuring against her palm as his gaze focuses on her, sharp and sure as he cocks an eyebrow in silent question.
“What’s me?”
“This,” she lets her index finger trail across his lips, down to trace his collarbone, and back up to curl around the nape of his neck. “Here. You.” She leans in and presses her mouth to his for the longest single moment she’s ever known to be so sweet, drinking in the flavor of him, one she’s come to savor and adore more than any other. “It’s you, an’ it was always you.” She feels regret and shame start to well behind her eyes, and she closes them hard to halt the torrent, leaning forward and burying her face into his shoulder, clutching him close until she can’t tell who the heat between them belongs to more, who’s fueling their fire. “How’d I not see that?”
She feels the air in her lungs dissipate in a sigh as he brings deft hands to stroke her hair, dips his chin to kiss her head, and she thanks every power in the entirety of creation for this - this man who is her everything. “Does it really matter anymore?” he breathes, letting the whispering stream of air rustle her blonde locks before kissing her temple and nuzzling at her hair line affectionately.
“I love you.” The words are more felt than heard, spoken soft against the Doctor’s skin, almost a sob wrenched from her throat as the emotions of months, years came down upon her; the snaking of familiar arms around her back, crushing her against the chest she so associated with home, they steadied her, grounded her, the sound of his blood rushing distant from the right side of his chest soothing her, and he is silent, holding fast to her, until she’s calm again.
“You are my world now, Rose Tyler,” he murmurs next to her, the sound skimming past her cheek. “Nothing in the whole entire universe compares to you.”
She smiles, feeling the flush of her skin as she curves into him playfully, grateful for the excuse to break the tension. “Bollocks,” she shoots at him, spreading her thighs and wrapping them around his, slowly pressing the backs of her ankles behind his kneecaps, drawing him to her.
“S’true,” he replies with a smile of his own, though his is more genuine, curling a strand of her hair around his ring finger with slow, deliberate care. He watches the fire leave her eyes and die down into slow-burning embers, glowing in the darkness as the mood changes in the room.
She feels his fingers interlace with hers, drawing her palm to his bare chest, pressing at the muscle on top of the muscle, the skin above the sheer life thrumming furiously through his body. “You have me, Rose,” he whispers, kissing her knuckles in time with every other heartbeat, staring up at her through his eyelashes with an intensity that lets her see the stars, sketched in moonlight against the backs of her eyelids. “This is me,” his heart sings in tandem with his voice, and she melts into it, into him, surrendering to it all; “And I am yours.”
So long. She’s waited so long and now she’s here, he’s here - they’re together, they’re whole; they’re real and complete and they’re them, really and truly, they’re the Doctor and Rose and they’re in love, and the only thing that’s changed is that now they can say it, now they can live it, and Rose has never felt so alive as she does when his lips move against hers, speaking into her mouth as if somehow the words will reach her soul safely that way:
“And every heart I’ve ever had beats for you alone.”
And somehow, as she moves into him, molding her curves to his, an imperfect triad of tears escaping her eyes as she surrenders to his embrace, and back into the clutches of sleep before the dawn breaks, she swears that even though she can’t feel them, she knows that she hears the gentle echoes of two separate rhythms, drumming slower, steadier, older - less impassioned and impulsive, with less fire behind the beat, somehow - keeping an entirely different time beneath the ribs of the man who holds her, body and soul.