Fic: How They Begin (1/1)
Title: How They Begin
Rating: R
Pairing: Eleven/River (background for other potential pairings with various former Companions)
Word Count: 460
Summary: She’d known this would happen; she’d read it ages ago. For tokenblkgirl, who requested “Doctor Who, Eleven/River Song, role play with props” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. Exceedingly Minor Spoilers for 5.04 - The Time of Angels.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Not my usual thing, character-wise, but it demanded to be written, and so I complied.
How They Begin
She’d known this would happen; of course, she’d known. She’d read it ages ago, read it before she really understood it -- played it over and over in her mind when all she’d had to preoccupy her were the four walls of her cell, masochist that she was. It was bound to happen, really -- when love meant two very different things to two very different people, there would always be growing pains, places where they danced and tangled around one another without every really meeting, ever really feeling; oil on water, for an eternity that they had, ironically; that was quickly running out.
He doesn’t ask for it -- would never -- doesn’t comprehend the point, not consciously; but she knows that he has to feel the way she’s been filling the needs he can’t articulate, doesn’t recognize in himself. She knows he feels the gaping holes in him closing, slowing shallowing, and whether he knows it’s her doing, whether he associates the warmth and weight with her, is irrelevant. For now.
So she dons the wigs, the uniforms; that ridiculous red hat. Jumpsuits that glitter, and cling to her hips at unflattering angles. That incomprehensible denim and plaid; necklines so low that her areolas almost spill visible over the hems. She lets him run his fingers through her carrot-colored mane, wide-eyed and a little dazed, a little far away as he fingers the ornaments clamped at her earlobes. She cringes inwardly when she places the butterfly, the script below her shoulder, lets his tongue trace the black as he whispers things that only another woman would know; bites her tongue with regret as he nuzzles at her cleavage, kisses light at the rub of skin on sensitive skin, and tells her she’s brilliant, like it means more than just the word.
When he peaks with a cry -- the name of a flower and not the song of a stream on his lips -- she sobs, lets the panting, the heaving of his lungs drown her demons, too; because it hurts -- hurts more than she’d expected, more than she’s willing to admit -- but she’d known. She’d known; the words, black and white in that twice-damned book. He had to love them, know them, like he’d never given himself the chance to, before he could ever let them go.
This was how they began. How they begin. She’d always known that.
Still, the pain in his eyes -- the overwhelming sadness, so much stronger than the release -- it breaks her hearts.
Rating: R
Pairing: Eleven/River (background for other potential pairings with various former Companions)
Word Count: 460
Summary: She’d known this would happen; she’d read it ages ago. For tokenblkgirl, who requested “Doctor Who, Eleven/River Song, role play with props” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. Exceedingly Minor Spoilers for 5.04 - The Time of Angels.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Not my usual thing, character-wise, but it demanded to be written, and so I complied.
How They Begin
She’d known this would happen; of course, she’d known. She’d read it ages ago, read it before she really understood it -- played it over and over in her mind when all she’d had to preoccupy her were the four walls of her cell, masochist that she was. It was bound to happen, really -- when love meant two very different things to two very different people, there would always be growing pains, places where they danced and tangled around one another without every really meeting, ever really feeling; oil on water, for an eternity that they had, ironically; that was quickly running out.
He doesn’t ask for it -- would never -- doesn’t comprehend the point, not consciously; but she knows that he has to feel the way she’s been filling the needs he can’t articulate, doesn’t recognize in himself. She knows he feels the gaping holes in him closing, slowing shallowing, and whether he knows it’s her doing, whether he associates the warmth and weight with her, is irrelevant. For now.
So she dons the wigs, the uniforms; that ridiculous red hat. Jumpsuits that glitter, and cling to her hips at unflattering angles. That incomprehensible denim and plaid; necklines so low that her areolas almost spill visible over the hems. She lets him run his fingers through her carrot-colored mane, wide-eyed and a little dazed, a little far away as he fingers the ornaments clamped at her earlobes. She cringes inwardly when she places the butterfly, the script below her shoulder, lets his tongue trace the black as he whispers things that only another woman would know; bites her tongue with regret as he nuzzles at her cleavage, kisses light at the rub of skin on sensitive skin, and tells her she’s brilliant, like it means more than just the word.
When he peaks with a cry -- the name of a flower and not the song of a stream on his lips -- she sobs, lets the panting, the heaving of his lungs drown her demons, too; because it hurts -- hurts more than she’d expected, more than she’s willing to admit -- but she’d known. She’d known; the words, black and white in that twice-damned book. He had to love them, know them, like he’d never given himself the chance to, before he could ever let them go.
This was how they began. How they begin. She’d always known that.
Still, the pain in his eyes -- the overwhelming sadness, so much stronger than the release -- it breaks her hearts.