when the sun comes looking
when the sun comes looking, eleven/rose (hints of tentoo/rose), pg-16
He says that there are many things he can still do, but he does not often do them (teaching Rose Tyler, small and toothy, how to do long division is a particularly strange, persistent fantasy). No, he clings to his inaction and its potential of unexplored opportunities like a man with cabin fever clinging to a shaft of sunlight sneaking through the crack between a window and its ledge. Somehow that crack is preferable to opening and closing a door, that trickle of perpetual possibility far better and worse for his hearts. It is a dangerous illusion, hope, and he hurtles towards it even as he flees. 982.
A/N: You may, if you wish, read this as part of the same 'verse as you had me at goodbye.
He says that there are many things he can still do, but he does not often do them (teaching Rose Tyler, small and toothy, how to do long division is a particularly strange, persistent fantasy). No, he clings to his inaction and its potential of unexplored opportunities like a man with cabin fever clinging to a shaft of sunlight sneaking through the crack between a window and its ledge. Somehow that crack is preferable to opening and closing a door, that trickle of perpetual possibility far better and worse for his hearts. It is a dangerous illusion, hope, and he hurtles towards it even as he flees.
Never, in all of his day-morning-afternoon-all-the-time dreams, does the sun come looking for him.
It should have, of course, because she has always been this way, recklessly brilliant, incandescent with his curse of love and her gift of loyalty weaving through the nexus of her existence. Unerring, undying, unfettered by time or pain, she kisses him like there are universes there, secrets of a life she had long given up, of wolves raw and grey on a silver beach - of his last chance.
He doesn’t expect her to come when he sends her the letter, not really. Then again, he doesn’t really expect to die either; there are always ways around a permanent ending.
He would like hers to be the last face he sees, just in case.
She isn’t there and he doesn’t think about her, not at all.
(She is there to see him though. She is always there. And she is the last face he sees, when his single heart and single life ends, when he dies with his eyes still open.)
Through those new blue doors she comes and it is like she never left (like she left him forever ago, like he had left her, trapped without the escapism of regeneration, always leaving and arriving, never any further than the distance between his hearts and his mind). He knows well that you have to die in order to live again.
The Doctor invented it.
*
do you have stars
in your mouth?
she asks
and I laugh,
she’s never tasted
winter like I have,
*
He steals flowers that are made of stone and grow in marblebeds from the heart of Barcelona the planet. She wrinkles her nose at fish fingers and custard, but smears dabs of the egg cream on his nose anyways. Everything in all the worlds is right again.
He twirls around her and with her, like a moon orbiting its planet (or the TARDIS orbiting a fixed point), and her smile flashes all tongue in cheek when he pulls a lever and their precious ship fades out of the corner of her eyes. Finally, he thinks, he has been waiting centuries to dance with Rose Tyler amongst the stars. And isn’t it so much better than waltzing over London during the Blitz?
(It is.)
They dance and dance and the music of the spheres ring in their ears until she is dizzy and hot.
Daring and sweet, she burns away the cold of dark matter and scours it from his skin.
*
(she turned to the sunlight
and shook her yellow head,
and whispered to her neighbor:
“winter is dead.”)
*
Winter is dead, he echoes back, and she is texture thick and heavy in the grain of his fingertips, supple and inviting when her back arcs and he drinks in the tiny shakes of her body, the pink of her skin flushed with pleasure and the yellow of her hair twisting in his hands. He chases that shining place with her and sometimes he laughs at how eager she is - sometimes he cries for how imperfectly they belong to one another.
Stop. Talking. Doctor. She growls out in a silent roar and rolls her hips until words become fog and mist, the construction of language ridiculously futile when they could have this. Why talk when he could be using his mouth for so many other things?
Irrevocably, their bodies relearn the magnitude of what it means to be them; she completes him when he was whole without her.
She giggles because even when they are entangled and gasping, the Doctor says unfathomable things. What does he mean, winter is dead? It is, he insists, and that is why the Doctor has his Rose again. Or maybe it is the other way around. Maybe the Doctor has his Rose and that is why Winter has died.
Between the two of them, there will always be death, but there will always be life too.
*
midnights that linger
for days. Yes,
I tell her. Come see.
*
Rose thinks the new TARDIS is gorgeous and the walls pulse with a self congratulatory hum.
What about me, he asks, what does she think about this new face and these wobbling eyes that cannot decide if they are green or blue. The bowtie!
Well, to be fair he is a crinkle of disapproval when she strokes the panels and only, very distractedly says that he had nice eyes this time. For once, the Doctor is overcome with an entirely foreign desire to ask if two of them need a moment alone.
And your hair is kind of nice, Rose comments while admiring the new colors and old hearts that live inside a freshly painted police call box. She had liked his hands and lips and long limbs plenty last night.
He is a grumpy, offended Time Lord who cannot understand why she won’t pay more attention to him so he leaves her inside the TARDIS and goes to paint pictures of a girl who died twice.
The Doctor did always love his mysteries.
*
you were summer recklessness
but you always had these
two rules : stay with me
and don’t become a ghost
again.
He says that there are many things he can still do, but he does not often do them (teaching Rose Tyler, small and toothy, how to do long division is a particularly strange, persistent fantasy). No, he clings to his inaction and its potential of unexplored opportunities like a man with cabin fever clinging to a shaft of sunlight sneaking through the crack between a window and its ledge. Somehow that crack is preferable to opening and closing a door, that trickle of perpetual possibility far better and worse for his hearts. It is a dangerous illusion, hope, and he hurtles towards it even as he flees. 982.
A/N: You may, if you wish, read this as part of the same 'verse as you had me at goodbye.
He says that there are many things he can still do, but he does not often do them (teaching Rose Tyler, small and toothy, how to do long division is a particularly strange, persistent fantasy). No, he clings to his inaction and its potential of unexplored opportunities like a man with cabin fever clinging to a shaft of sunlight sneaking through the crack between a window and its ledge. Somehow that crack is preferable to opening and closing a door, that trickle of perpetual possibility far better and worse for his hearts. It is a dangerous illusion, hope, and he hurtles towards it even as he flees.
Never, in all of his day-morning-afternoon-all-the-time dreams, does the sun come looking for him.
It should have, of course, because she has always been this way, recklessly brilliant, incandescent with his curse of love and her gift of loyalty weaving through the nexus of her existence. Unerring, undying, unfettered by time or pain, she kisses him like there are universes there, secrets of a life she had long given up, of wolves raw and grey on a silver beach - of his last chance.
He doesn’t expect her to come when he sends her the letter, not really. Then again, he doesn’t really expect to die either; there are always ways around a permanent ending.
He would like hers to be the last face he sees, just in case.
She isn’t there and he doesn’t think about her, not at all.
(She is there to see him though. She is always there. And she is the last face he sees, when his single heart and single life ends, when he dies with his eyes still open.)
Through those new blue doors she comes and it is like she never left (like she left him forever ago, like he had left her, trapped without the escapism of regeneration, always leaving and arriving, never any further than the distance between his hearts and his mind). He knows well that you have to die in order to live again.
The Doctor invented it.
*
do you have stars
in your mouth?
she asks
and I laugh,
she’s never tasted
winter like I have,
*
He steals flowers that are made of stone and grow in marblebeds from the heart of Barcelona the planet. She wrinkles her nose at fish fingers and custard, but smears dabs of the egg cream on his nose anyways. Everything in all the worlds is right again.
He twirls around her and with her, like a moon orbiting its planet (or the TARDIS orbiting a fixed point), and her smile flashes all tongue in cheek when he pulls a lever and their precious ship fades out of the corner of her eyes. Finally, he thinks, he has been waiting centuries to dance with Rose Tyler amongst the stars. And isn’t it so much better than waltzing over London during the Blitz?
(It is.)
They dance and dance and the music of the spheres ring in their ears until she is dizzy and hot.
Daring and sweet, she burns away the cold of dark matter and scours it from his skin.
*
(she turned to the sunlight
and shook her yellow head,
and whispered to her neighbor:
“winter is dead.”)
*
Winter is dead, he echoes back, and she is texture thick and heavy in the grain of his fingertips, supple and inviting when her back arcs and he drinks in the tiny shakes of her body, the pink of her skin flushed with pleasure and the yellow of her hair twisting in his hands. He chases that shining place with her and sometimes he laughs at how eager she is - sometimes he cries for how imperfectly they belong to one another.
Stop. Talking. Doctor. She growls out in a silent roar and rolls her hips until words become fog and mist, the construction of language ridiculously futile when they could have this. Why talk when he could be using his mouth for so many other things?
Irrevocably, their bodies relearn the magnitude of what it means to be them; she completes him when he was whole without her.
She giggles because even when they are entangled and gasping, the Doctor says unfathomable things. What does he mean, winter is dead? It is, he insists, and that is why the Doctor has his Rose again. Or maybe it is the other way around. Maybe the Doctor has his Rose and that is why Winter has died.
Between the two of them, there will always be death, but there will always be life too.
*
midnights that linger
for days. Yes,
I tell her. Come see.
*
Rose thinks the new TARDIS is gorgeous and the walls pulse with a self congratulatory hum.
What about me, he asks, what does she think about this new face and these wobbling eyes that cannot decide if they are green or blue. The bowtie!
Well, to be fair he is a crinkle of disapproval when she strokes the panels and only, very distractedly says that he had nice eyes this time. For once, the Doctor is overcome with an entirely foreign desire to ask if two of them need a moment alone.
And your hair is kind of nice, Rose comments while admiring the new colors and old hearts that live inside a freshly painted police call box. She had liked his hands and lips and long limbs plenty last night.
He is a grumpy, offended Time Lord who cannot understand why she won’t pay more attention to him so he leaves her inside the TARDIS and goes to paint pictures of a girl who died twice.
The Doctor did always love his mysteries.
*
you were summer recklessness
but you always had these
two rules : stay with me
and don’t become a ghost
again.