lullabies of the manic (Eleven/Rose, PG)
Pairing: Eleven/Rose
Rating: PG
Length: 690 words
Disclaimer: Not mine. Alas.
Prompt:
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."
-Emily Dickinson
Originally prompted for the Doctor/Rose fixathon.
Oh it never stopped. That voice. That inkling. That song in the back of his mind, in the depths of his soul, in the nooks and crannies of his heart. (You could still have her).
When he was calm. When he was sitting in the TARDIS. When Amy was in the pool, sitting alone in quiet contemplation. And later, when Amy and Rory had gone to bed, gone to kiss each other until they fell asleep, whisper promises into each others ears as soothing lullabies. It was at its loudest then. (You could still have her. You could still have her. You could still have her).
It was quieter when he ran. When he was manic. Which was most of the time. When he twirled and shouted and saved people and loved everybody. It was quieter, but it was still there. (You could still have her. She'd know what to do. You could.) And he thought it sounded menacing. At first, the tune frightened him. So he sang different songs to himself, and wore the loudest loudest bowties, and recited the names of the stars over and over again, and memorised Amy's face, each freckle and wrinkle and insecurity. All in a vain attempt to drown it out. With hope came an inappropriate sense of one's own power, right? (Go. Have her. You could. Time Lord Victorious. You could.)
The hope never went away. The possibility. (Oh. One turn. One press. One push. One button to her. Maybe two.) And sometimes it scared him. Reminded him of those days after she left. Stinging eyes and old clothes and daydreaming reunions. The old remnants of apprehensive excitement. The old illusions. That he could press a button. And there she'd be. And she'd fix his bow tie. And he'd kiss her. And he still didn't quite know what to do with this body of his, but he knew that their fingers would fit together. And he'd slide his hands, far too big, far too...handy, down the curve of her waist. And she'd play with his hair and tell him it was far too floppy. (You could. You could still have her.)
Oh. That was just one possibility. He'd still lie awake some nights. And dream of a thousand different meetings. How he'd lay her down. Or he wouldn't. How he'd tell her. Or she already knew. What she'd say about the bow tie and the floppy hair and River and Amy and Rory and the new TARDIS. ("Oh. But the coral..."). If she'd still know where his sentences were leading, coz they never really led anywhere these days. If she'd be okay that he wasn't tall, with pinstriped suits and converse or leather jackets and big ears. (Of course she'd be okay.) If she'd cry. Or smile. Or slap him. Or run away. Or not recognise him. Or cling to the Other him, and tell him she wasn't going anywhere.
Don't get him wrong. He loved Amy. He loved Rory. He loved River. He loved this new self of his. And all the adventures. And the bow tie. And the tweed. And really. He wasn't about to risk the universe to see her as she was, at this moment ("The whole thing would fracture. Two universes would collapse.") It was his responsibility not to.
("So?")
But there it sat. That little creature of hope. Singing. Humming to him as he went about, saving the world. A tiny nightingale, chirping to him every so often, from the depths of his soul and the nooks and crannies of his heart. Sometimes taunting. (You could have her. You could have her). Sometimes pitying. (Why did you let her go? You could still have her. If you wanted). Sometimes tempting. (Just one press. One button. Maybe two). But now, more and more often, it was comforting. It was a reminder. A soft, gentle song, reminding him that he still loves her. (That's good. He doesn't want to stop loving her). That he still remembers every inch of her. (That's good. He doesn't want to forget her). That he's got an imagination. That he's the same man.