Drabble the Nine
Jun. 20th, 2006 12:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowHee - literally.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fourteenlines, who wanted Rose/Ten. Well, she mostly wanted Ten. But I've not seen any of Ten, so instead, Rose/Nine. Sort of. And it's porn free, sadly.
*
"This place is a bit… boring," Rose says, shading her eyes as she looks out into the seascape. "A bit too much sea and carnival. I could do this at home."
She's sitting in a lounger that she dug up in the back of the TARDIS and it's a little ratty, the blue and green stripes faded from exposure to a billion different suns. She wishes she'd brought her bathing kit.
"Wait for it," the doctor says. He's still wearing his leather jacket, but the sun doesn't appear to bother him much. Rose can feel the sweat beading under her arms and on her lip, her cotton shirt clinging to her back as she presses deeper into the lounger, stretches out her legs. She's rolled up her jeans, and her toes look very white in the sunshine.
The doctor doesn't say much else, just sits in the matching lounger, hands tapping against the arm of the chair, a rhythm he knows that seems to make him happy. Rose thinks of Shireen, misses her mate fiercely at that moment, sitting on top of the roof on old towels, trying to catch a few rays of sun since neither of them could afford to go to the sea last summer for a holiday. They'd knicked an old bottle of vodka from Jackie and drank it with lemonade and got just sick enough from the alcohol and the sun and the too sweet drink to be pleasantly sick by tea time.
She'd just started going out with Mickey and the conversation had been oblique hints about just how far she'd let him get into her knickers – not that far, but she and Shireen had giggled and smoked pilfered cigarette's from Shireen's mum's purse and the whole thing had been lovely.
Rose misses Shireen. She misses Mickey, misses her mum. She's not ready to give all this up, but a visit home would be nice.
"Don't you have a girlfriend somewhere?" she asks suddenly.
The doctor laughs, turns, gives her that look that she doesn't know how to take – that "you're all I need, I don't need anything, humans are such funny little creatures" look.
"What, you mean like you and Mickey the idiot?"
"Don't call him that," Rose protests.
"Sorry," the doctor says, but she knows he's not.
"But, don't you get… lonely sometimes?" she pauses, licks her mouth, tastes salt. "What if I wasn't here? You'd be sittin' on this beach all alone."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," the doctor responds. He's honestly puzzled. "This place is still beautiful, whether I'm here by myself or with you or with a hundred pretty girls, or even with Mickey the …" he cuts himself off and smiles for her. Nice this time.
Rose sits up in the chair and hikes her shirt up around her ribs, tying it in a knot under her bra. She glances to the side, and sees the doctor watching her. There's something… else in his gaze.
"What?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "You're a pretty girl," he says. "I forget that you're a pretty girl."
She scrunches her face in puzzlement, sits back against the lounger, the weave of the fabric pressing against her skin.
"If you get… lonely," the doctor starts, and she holds her breath, wonders how she wants him to finish the sentence.
He leans forward, earnest. "I can get you another sonic screwdriver."
"What?" She has no idea what…
"It vibrates," he continues. "Most species like that."
Her blush runs all the way up to her hairline, she puts up her hand to shield her face. "No, that's… no it's fine… I,"
"Okay," he says, cheerful as ever. "But let me know."
They sit in silence as the sun gets higher and higher in the sky. Rose closes her eyes for a few minutes, has hazy sun-drenched dreams of large hands banding her waist, of a warm mouth against hers and when she wakes to the doctor's voice, she doesn't know who it was touching her. For a moment, doesn't much care.
She leans forward, shaking herself from sleep, sees bands of pink on her belly from the sun.
"Rose," the doctor says, and she looks at him, squinting in the glare. "Over there," he points, "time to go. They're coming."
They stand, and he collects the loungers, stowing them in doorway of the TARDIS. She unties her shirt as they move towards the apparitions in the distance.
"I do, sometimes," the doctor says softly, as they get closer and closer to the figures ahead that move like delicate shadows.
"Hmm?" she asks, transfixed by the swaying, darting motions in the horizon.
"Get lonely," he murmurs,"I do, a bit." Then he sprints ahead, waving to the figures. "Oy, Hello!" he yells, and leaves her behind, sun drunk and bleary.
For
fourteenlines, who wanted Rose/Ten. Well, she mostly wanted Ten. But I've not seen any of Ten, so instead, Rose/Nine. Sort of. And it's porn free, sadly.*
"This place is a bit… boring," Rose says, shading her eyes as she looks out into the seascape. "A bit too much sea and carnival. I could do this at home."
She's sitting in a lounger that she dug up in the back of the TARDIS and it's a little ratty, the blue and green stripes faded from exposure to a billion different suns. She wishes she'd brought her bathing kit.
"Wait for it," the doctor says. He's still wearing his leather jacket, but the sun doesn't appear to bother him much. Rose can feel the sweat beading under her arms and on her lip, her cotton shirt clinging to her back as she presses deeper into the lounger, stretches out her legs. She's rolled up her jeans, and her toes look very white in the sunshine.
The doctor doesn't say much else, just sits in the matching lounger, hands tapping against the arm of the chair, a rhythm he knows that seems to make him happy. Rose thinks of Shireen, misses her mate fiercely at that moment, sitting on top of the roof on old towels, trying to catch a few rays of sun since neither of them could afford to go to the sea last summer for a holiday. They'd knicked an old bottle of vodka from Jackie and drank it with lemonade and got just sick enough from the alcohol and the sun and the too sweet drink to be pleasantly sick by tea time.
She'd just started going out with Mickey and the conversation had been oblique hints about just how far she'd let him get into her knickers – not that far, but she and Shireen had giggled and smoked pilfered cigarette's from Shireen's mum's purse and the whole thing had been lovely.
Rose misses Shireen. She misses Mickey, misses her mum. She's not ready to give all this up, but a visit home would be nice.
"Don't you have a girlfriend somewhere?" she asks suddenly.
The doctor laughs, turns, gives her that look that she doesn't know how to take – that "you're all I need, I don't need anything, humans are such funny little creatures" look.
"What, you mean like you and Mickey the idiot?"
"Don't call him that," Rose protests.
"Sorry," the doctor says, but she knows he's not.
"But, don't you get… lonely sometimes?" she pauses, licks her mouth, tastes salt. "What if I wasn't here? You'd be sittin' on this beach all alone."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," the doctor responds. He's honestly puzzled. "This place is still beautiful, whether I'm here by myself or with you or with a hundred pretty girls, or even with Mickey the …" he cuts himself off and smiles for her. Nice this time.
Rose sits up in the chair and hikes her shirt up around her ribs, tying it in a knot under her bra. She glances to the side, and sees the doctor watching her. There's something… else in his gaze.
"What?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "You're a pretty girl," he says. "I forget that you're a pretty girl."
She scrunches her face in puzzlement, sits back against the lounger, the weave of the fabric pressing against her skin.
"If you get… lonely," the doctor starts, and she holds her breath, wonders how she wants him to finish the sentence.
He leans forward, earnest. "I can get you another sonic screwdriver."
"What?" She has no idea what…
"It vibrates," he continues. "Most species like that."
Her blush runs all the way up to her hairline, she puts up her hand to shield her face. "No, that's… no it's fine… I,"
"Okay," he says, cheerful as ever. "But let me know."
They sit in silence as the sun gets higher and higher in the sky. Rose closes her eyes for a few minutes, has hazy sun-drenched dreams of large hands banding her waist, of a warm mouth against hers and when she wakes to the doctor's voice, she doesn't know who it was touching her. For a moment, doesn't much care.
She leans forward, shaking herself from sleep, sees bands of pink on her belly from the sun.
"Rose," the doctor says, and she looks at him, squinting in the glare. "Over there," he points, "time to go. They're coming."
They stand, and he collects the loungers, stowing them in doorway of the TARDIS. She unties her shirt as they move towards the apparitions in the distance.
"I do, sometimes," the doctor says softly, as they get closer and closer to the figures ahead that move like delicate shadows.
"Hmm?" she asks, transfixed by the swaying, darting motions in the horizon.
"Get lonely," he murmurs,"I do, a bit." Then he sprints ahead, waving to the figures. "Oy, Hello!" he yells, and leaves her behind, sun drunk and bleary.
