DW -- Ses Yeux
Title: Ses Yeux
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: G
Word Count: 340
Warnings: spoilers for 2.4
Summary: Maybe it's childish. But maybe it's not.
Author's Note: I tried really hard to like "The Girl in the Fireplace," but I couldn't. This is why. XD
SES YEUX
To the distant music of tinkering and mild oaths, Rose trails her fingers along the bindings lined up on the shelf, tilting her head to skim the titles, amused by the thematic non sequiturs that the vague alphabetization leaves in its wake.
Then a title makes her stop, and her insides wilt like a flower in the dark.
She draws the book out, tugging harder than she really needs, and flips through it, hands trembling faintly with a helpless anger born in hurt.
It’s a reproduction of an engraving of a portrait, but the eyes are unmistakable.
Rose wants a good reason to hate them-to hate those eyes, to hate the sculpted white face that they adorn. She wants their smugness to be overbearing, or their presumption to be overwhelming-she wants excuses, good excuses, wants to see the gleam of wit and self-assured intelligence pinpoint the demon.
Reinette just smirks, not quite cruelly enough.
This woman owned him, or she thought she did. She acted like she did. She wanted to.
Rose looks into those eyes and meets them levelly. She thinks of Mickey’s eyes, of Mickey’s drowning horror, as clockwork death crept towards them, clicking close. Reinette doesn’t know that fear. Reinette doesn’t care.
He’s mine, the eyes inform her, in that slow, contented drawl. I reached in and took him, whether he wanted me to know it or not-I found him where he hides, and no matter how long you spend searching, seeking, coaxing, you will never know what I know. I have more right to him than you can ever claim.
Rose sets the book down and pushes on it with both palms flat, opening it wide, and then she takes two fingers to the inside margin and rips out the page titled Madame de Pompadour as meticulously as she can.
She stares into those eyes one last time-into their will to possess the only thing worth living and dying for-and tears the paper to shreds before it tears through her.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Ten/Rose
Rating: G
Word Count: 340
Warnings: spoilers for 2.4
Summary: Maybe it's childish. But maybe it's not.
Author's Note: I tried really hard to like "The Girl in the Fireplace," but I couldn't. This is why. XD
SES YEUX
To the distant music of tinkering and mild oaths, Rose trails her fingers along the bindings lined up on the shelf, tilting her head to skim the titles, amused by the thematic non sequiturs that the vague alphabetization leaves in its wake.
Then a title makes her stop, and her insides wilt like a flower in the dark.
She draws the book out, tugging harder than she really needs, and flips through it, hands trembling faintly with a helpless anger born in hurt.
It’s a reproduction of an engraving of a portrait, but the eyes are unmistakable.
Rose wants a good reason to hate them-to hate those eyes, to hate the sculpted white face that they adorn. She wants their smugness to be overbearing, or their presumption to be overwhelming-she wants excuses, good excuses, wants to see the gleam of wit and self-assured intelligence pinpoint the demon.
Reinette just smirks, not quite cruelly enough.
This woman owned him, or she thought she did. She acted like she did. She wanted to.
Rose looks into those eyes and meets them levelly. She thinks of Mickey’s eyes, of Mickey’s drowning horror, as clockwork death crept towards them, clicking close. Reinette doesn’t know that fear. Reinette doesn’t care.
He’s mine, the eyes inform her, in that slow, contented drawl. I reached in and took him, whether he wanted me to know it or not-I found him where he hides, and no matter how long you spend searching, seeking, coaxing, you will never know what I know. I have more right to him than you can ever claim.
Rose sets the book down and pushes on it with both palms flat, opening it wide, and then she takes two fingers to the inside margin and rips out the page titled Madame de Pompadour as meticulously as she can.
She stares into those eyes one last time-into their will to possess the only thing worth living and dying for-and tears the paper to shreds before it tears through her.