An Unstoppable Force and an Immovable Object
An Unstoppable Force and an Immovable Object, Doctor/Rose, G
two objects, once they collide, are irrevocably connected to each other, and if something happens to one of them, the other will feel it, even if in the slightest of ways
as he lays dying
cushioned beneath the heady sheet of snow
his twin heartbeats slowly fading away
his very big, very fuzzy time lord brain recalls a theory he once read
a long, long time ago
back when gallifrey still stood as an ochre impression upon the
omnipresent void of the sky
stars prickling in the black like salt rocks
about how two objects, once they collide, are irrevocably connected to each other
and if something happens to one of them, the other will feel it, even if in the
slightest of ways
and it makes him wonder if rose feels this right now
if she dreams of a man she does not recognize laying on some distant planet with a name she can't pronounce,
but if she could, it would probably come out sounding a
lot like
melancholia,
he wonders if she feels it as her heart beats in tandem with his duplicate's,
and he remembers the way her own lack of a second heart
helped him carry the heavy weights of his
and now, he thinks,
her heartbeat compensates for the second one his duplicate it missing,
he wonders if she feels phantom fingers slipping from her hands,
while the gravitational pull of the nearby pulsar pulls a mournful croon from the stars,
he wonders if she'll wake up gasping for air
and his duplicate will curl his arms around her
and wonders if they'll know what just happened
he wonders if she'll cry
if he'll cry
he wonders if their daughter will feel it to
and will wail at the top of her tiny lungs
the only thing she can do
when faced with something her infant brain,
so delicate, so nascent,
has yet to understand,
he wonders what it would've been like if he'd had a child with rose
he's never truly held his own child before,
not in the human sense,
never pressed his ear to her swollen womb to hear the pusillanimous beating of a heart,
and in his last moments of consciousness,
as the stars sing him a lullaby,
a swollen, dissonant polyphony,
he wishes he could have
he wishes he could have given her one last kiss,
wishes he could have held her hand one last time,
run his fingers through her hair so yellow it must have been spun from sunlight
and the time vortex itself,
and as his eyes drift closed,
deep in the nebulous pit of his brain,
he hears the word
goodbye
two objects, once they collide, are irrevocably connected to each other, and if something happens to one of them, the other will feel it, even if in the slightest of ways
as he lays dying
cushioned beneath the heady sheet of snow
his twin heartbeats slowly fading away
his very big, very fuzzy time lord brain recalls a theory he once read
a long, long time ago
back when gallifrey still stood as an ochre impression upon the
omnipresent void of the sky
stars prickling in the black like salt rocks
about how two objects, once they collide, are irrevocably connected to each other
and if something happens to one of them, the other will feel it, even if in the
slightest of ways
and it makes him wonder if rose feels this right now
if she dreams of a man she does not recognize laying on some distant planet with a name she can't pronounce,
but if she could, it would probably come out sounding a
lot like
melancholia,
he wonders if she feels it as her heart beats in tandem with his duplicate's,
and he remembers the way her own lack of a second heart
helped him carry the heavy weights of his
and now, he thinks,
her heartbeat compensates for the second one his duplicate it missing,
he wonders if she feels phantom fingers slipping from her hands,
while the gravitational pull of the nearby pulsar pulls a mournful croon from the stars,
he wonders if she'll wake up gasping for air
and his duplicate will curl his arms around her
and wonders if they'll know what just happened
he wonders if she'll cry
if he'll cry
he wonders if their daughter will feel it to
and will wail at the top of her tiny lungs
the only thing she can do
when faced with something her infant brain,
so delicate, so nascent,
has yet to understand,
he wonders what it would've been like if he'd had a child with rose
he's never truly held his own child before,
not in the human sense,
never pressed his ear to her swollen womb to hear the pusillanimous beating of a heart,
and in his last moments of consciousness,
as the stars sing him a lullaby,
a swollen, dissonant polyphony,
he wishes he could have
he wishes he could have given her one last kiss,
wishes he could have held her hand one last time,
run his fingers through her hair so yellow it must have been spun from sunlight
and the time vortex itself,
and as his eyes drift closed,
deep in the nebulous pit of his brain,
he hears the word
goodbye