Fic: Rose-Tinted World
Title: How to Cheer a Species Which, By Many, Is Known To Be Non-existent (Or: Why Rose Tyler Is, In Fact, Fantastic) (Rose-Tinted World Remix)
Author: silvia_duchessa
Remixed fic: How to Cheer a Species Which, By Many, Is Known To Be Non-existent (Or: Why Rose Tyler Is, In Fact, Fantastic)
Remixed author: boxed
Characters/Pairings: Doctor, Rose, 9/Rose implied
Rating: All Ages
Summary: When he’s lost to a world filled with nothing but burning guilt, there’s only one silly little ape who can help him.
A/N: Written for the chips_remixed Doctor/Rose fic remix challenge. This was a lovely fic and really very funny and sweet, and I have swept over it with a huge angst-brush, for which I do feel very guilty indeed. However I hope you can still appreciate the beauty of the original idea, and that I haven’t completely destroyed it.
How does she do it? he asks himself. That silly little ape with her under-developed brain who’s spent through him like that, know him so completely and not give up on him, even on the smallest things, when anyone else would dismiss him as a grouchy old man.
Not only does she stick with him, through everything, whether it’s nearly killing themselves to destroy the Slitheen, or his self-destruction catching up with him again; she always knows what to do, how to ease the pain, how to draw him out of his guilt-ridden haze into a rose-tinted world, just by being her. Just by loving him and their life and everything he shows her. He watches her, padding through the TARDIS corridors in a pair of extremely unattractive lime slippers, sprinting across dust-ridden alien planets, exploring extraordinary worlds so beyond anything he’s sure she could imagine that it should make her head spin; her every gesture seems to say, ‘behold’. She loves life, and makes him believe it’s worth loving it too.
This morning it’s something small, the smallest of small things. He’s underneath the console, tinkering with parts that probably don’t need to be tinkered with; but he loves his ship, and it’s a welcome distraction from the latest burst of manic guilt searing through his veins. Then a screwdriver slips, a valve is opened and the rush of gas over his head is in fact whirling wind over the snow capped mountains of Gallifrey, and for a few blissful seconds he is lost, completely, in the incomparable beauty of his home planet, the place that he ran away from, the place that he watched burn and die at his own hand…
He gasps, sitting up as if the force of the pain and anguish and self-hatred has whammed against his chest. The sonic screwdriver has slipped from his hand and he sits, breathless, leaning back against the console as his eyes shine from the physical pain of these memories. His heart burns as his planet did, the memory scorched across his mind, flames still raging in front of his eyes.
He jumps up, desperate to move away from the cause of this torture. He cannot, he knows, as the cause is him; but like the grieving who move houses, change jobs, do anything in an effort to distance themselves from agonising memories of their lost loves, he is running, running away as fast as he can.
He knows where she is, as he always does (although he prays to a God that he doesn’t believe in that she doesn’t know, will never know how her movements and her whereabouts each and everyday are constantly on the edge of his mind, neatly catalogued in case of an emergency where he should need to find her instantly, yes, even if she is having a relaxing bath), the memories of a teaspoon chinking against a mug, the smell of Pears soap and a light, happy voice humming Fix You floating across his mind. She is the only one who can help him now, who can go some way to cooling the burning hearts encased in his chest; even if she can’t make it go away, can’t make him forget, she can make him remember, with a single smile, tinkling laughter.
The shrill whistle of a kettle boiling echoes down the corridor as he marches towards the kitchen, convincing himself that it is, in fact, the loose screws - which most definitely have a useful purpose of some sort - on his console and the resulting gas leak that have annoyed him, possibly even his clumsiness, allowing himself a slight dent to his pride in an effort to cover up how anguished he really is.
He strides in, long legs and leather jacket and frowning mouth, and for a moment he’s so taken aback at the unmistakeable glow of absolute happiness in her eyes - whether it’s at him entering the room or because she is so content in their life together he does not know, does not need to know; the underlying cause is still him - that he forgets his made up excuse for anger, although not quite the real one. The weight in his hearts - their duality so often extremely useful, but in moments like these he would give anything to have only one - pulling him down as he sits heavily at the table, looking anywhere but at her, afraid the look in his eyes might give his game away. He sighs, an attractive alternative to talking.
“Something on your mind?” she asks, and his made-up excuse flitters across his lips, but he swallows it down, unable to cover up the well of emotion rotting his insides with such a meaningless pretext for him being here.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” is all he can say, in what he hopes is a dismissive, sulky, slightly arrogant tone, closely stored at the front of his mind for it’s frequent usage in discussions involving: her shower, her mysteriously dyed clothing, a broken circuit connected to the lighting, and a lonely fire extinguisher. She won’t accept that as an answer, he knows she won’t and sure enough she asks a heartbeat later:
“You sure?”
He can tell she’s keen to know the answer, to help, to maybe find a solution; he hopes she does and doesn’t know how deep down in the pit of his soul this problem goes. But if he’s to keep up some sort of pretence it must be done properly; and hopefully she’ll see through it, as she always does, and wrap her soft hand around his and he won’t have to say a thing.
He glares. Not a furious, raging glared saved for particularly inhumane aliens or handsome “captains” trying to steal her from him, but with enough careless arrogance to show he is quite clearly not in a good mood. He’s almost angry at her; could she hurry up and make the pain go away now please? Does he have to ask?
“Take that as a no, then,” she says in a low voice, although the glint in her eye tells him she sees right through his act as she gets up to make tea. A moment later a steaming mug of tea is plonked down in front of him, and there’s silence whilst they both drink. Not for long, though.
“So, where’re we off to next, then?” she chirps, adding some comment about some really rather uninteresting planet several thousand light years away, mixing up the name with another planet notorious for intergalactic gangsters. He snaps at her, his self-hatred and anger barely rising to the surface; but she sees the look in his eyes. She knows that look. He almost laughs in relief. She’ll know what to do now.
“S’not like I actually enjoy exploring new times, different places, learning a bit about the universe from your amazing ship,” she says, and he feels a burst of pride as a look of utter contentment brushes across her features once more. “I’ll just, you know. Read, or something.” He doesn’t want her to go, but there’s nothing he can do now; she’s getting up, placing her dishes on the shelf of his beloved ship, almost caressing it with her hands before she shuffles towards the door… Then whatever inside of him is holding him back snaps, and he jumps up, his face alight with excitement and energy as he’s filled with determination to show her just how wonderful the universe really is.
It’s not until they’re jogging out of the doors that he, with his mighty, superior Time Lord brain realises this was really her plan all along.
How does she do it?
Author: silvia_duchessa
Remixed fic: How to Cheer a Species Which, By Many, Is Known To Be Non-existent (Or: Why Rose Tyler Is, In Fact, Fantastic)
Remixed author: boxed
Characters/Pairings: Doctor, Rose, 9/Rose implied
Rating: All Ages
Summary: When he’s lost to a world filled with nothing but burning guilt, there’s only one silly little ape who can help him.
A/N: Written for the chips_remixed Doctor/Rose fic remix challenge. This was a lovely fic and really very funny and sweet, and I have swept over it with a huge angst-brush, for which I do feel very guilty indeed. However I hope you can still appreciate the beauty of the original idea, and that I haven’t completely destroyed it.
How does she do it? he asks himself. That silly little ape with her under-developed brain who’s spent through him like that, know him so completely and not give up on him, even on the smallest things, when anyone else would dismiss him as a grouchy old man.
Not only does she stick with him, through everything, whether it’s nearly killing themselves to destroy the Slitheen, or his self-destruction catching up with him again; she always knows what to do, how to ease the pain, how to draw him out of his guilt-ridden haze into a rose-tinted world, just by being her. Just by loving him and their life and everything he shows her. He watches her, padding through the TARDIS corridors in a pair of extremely unattractive lime slippers, sprinting across dust-ridden alien planets, exploring extraordinary worlds so beyond anything he’s sure she could imagine that it should make her head spin; her every gesture seems to say, ‘behold’. She loves life, and makes him believe it’s worth loving it too.
This morning it’s something small, the smallest of small things. He’s underneath the console, tinkering with parts that probably don’t need to be tinkered with; but he loves his ship, and it’s a welcome distraction from the latest burst of manic guilt searing through his veins. Then a screwdriver slips, a valve is opened and the rush of gas over his head is in fact whirling wind over the snow capped mountains of Gallifrey, and for a few blissful seconds he is lost, completely, in the incomparable beauty of his home planet, the place that he ran away from, the place that he watched burn and die at his own hand…
He gasps, sitting up as if the force of the pain and anguish and self-hatred has whammed against his chest. The sonic screwdriver has slipped from his hand and he sits, breathless, leaning back against the console as his eyes shine from the physical pain of these memories. His heart burns as his planet did, the memory scorched across his mind, flames still raging in front of his eyes.
He jumps up, desperate to move away from the cause of this torture. He cannot, he knows, as the cause is him; but like the grieving who move houses, change jobs, do anything in an effort to distance themselves from agonising memories of their lost loves, he is running, running away as fast as he can.
He knows where she is, as he always does (although he prays to a God that he doesn’t believe in that she doesn’t know, will never know how her movements and her whereabouts each and everyday are constantly on the edge of his mind, neatly catalogued in case of an emergency where he should need to find her instantly, yes, even if she is having a relaxing bath), the memories of a teaspoon chinking against a mug, the smell of Pears soap and a light, happy voice humming Fix You floating across his mind. She is the only one who can help him now, who can go some way to cooling the burning hearts encased in his chest; even if she can’t make it go away, can’t make him forget, she can make him remember, with a single smile, tinkling laughter.
The shrill whistle of a kettle boiling echoes down the corridor as he marches towards the kitchen, convincing himself that it is, in fact, the loose screws - which most definitely have a useful purpose of some sort - on his console and the resulting gas leak that have annoyed him, possibly even his clumsiness, allowing himself a slight dent to his pride in an effort to cover up how anguished he really is.
He strides in, long legs and leather jacket and frowning mouth, and for a moment he’s so taken aback at the unmistakeable glow of absolute happiness in her eyes - whether it’s at him entering the room or because she is so content in their life together he does not know, does not need to know; the underlying cause is still him - that he forgets his made up excuse for anger, although not quite the real one. The weight in his hearts - their duality so often extremely useful, but in moments like these he would give anything to have only one - pulling him down as he sits heavily at the table, looking anywhere but at her, afraid the look in his eyes might give his game away. He sighs, an attractive alternative to talking.
“Something on your mind?” she asks, and his made-up excuse flitters across his lips, but he swallows it down, unable to cover up the well of emotion rotting his insides with such a meaningless pretext for him being here.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” is all he can say, in what he hopes is a dismissive, sulky, slightly arrogant tone, closely stored at the front of his mind for it’s frequent usage in discussions involving: her shower, her mysteriously dyed clothing, a broken circuit connected to the lighting, and a lonely fire extinguisher. She won’t accept that as an answer, he knows she won’t and sure enough she asks a heartbeat later:
“You sure?”
He can tell she’s keen to know the answer, to help, to maybe find a solution; he hopes she does and doesn’t know how deep down in the pit of his soul this problem goes. But if he’s to keep up some sort of pretence it must be done properly; and hopefully she’ll see through it, as she always does, and wrap her soft hand around his and he won’t have to say a thing.
He glares. Not a furious, raging glared saved for particularly inhumane aliens or handsome “captains” trying to steal her from him, but with enough careless arrogance to show he is quite clearly not in a good mood. He’s almost angry at her; could she hurry up and make the pain go away now please? Does he have to ask?
“Take that as a no, then,” she says in a low voice, although the glint in her eye tells him she sees right through his act as she gets up to make tea. A moment later a steaming mug of tea is plonked down in front of him, and there’s silence whilst they both drink. Not for long, though.
“So, where’re we off to next, then?” she chirps, adding some comment about some really rather uninteresting planet several thousand light years away, mixing up the name with another planet notorious for intergalactic gangsters. He snaps at her, his self-hatred and anger barely rising to the surface; but she sees the look in his eyes. She knows that look. He almost laughs in relief. She’ll know what to do now.
“S’not like I actually enjoy exploring new times, different places, learning a bit about the universe from your amazing ship,” she says, and he feels a burst of pride as a look of utter contentment brushes across her features once more. “I’ll just, you know. Read, or something.” He doesn’t want her to go, but there’s nothing he can do now; she’s getting up, placing her dishes on the shelf of his beloved ship, almost caressing it with her hands before she shuffles towards the door… Then whatever inside of him is holding him back snaps, and he jumps up, his face alight with excitement and energy as he’s filled with determination to show her just how wonderful the universe really is.
It’s not until they’re jogging out of the doors that he, with his mighty, superior Time Lord brain realises this was really her plan all along.
How does she do it?