[fic] Last Place Finish
Jun. 17th, 2012 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
akainagi[fic] Last Place Finish
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Fandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: PG-13 for language and ouch
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: The result of watching End of Evangelion sandwiched in between DW episodes. Don’t mix your genres, kiddies. Nothing good can come of it. Companion to [fic] Finish Line.
Over his 900-plus years of life, he has become rather adept at running.
Of course, it helps that the Doctor has no shortage of things to run from. Machines, aliens, alien machines, local law enforcement, enemies, friends, the slobbering demons inside his own head. He has made a career out of outrunning them all.
Some days, he rather enjoys it; the running. And it helps, of course, that he is no longer running alone.
So he runs from brain sucking aliens, suns going supernova, Daleks and London Constabulary. He runs from his own thoroughly pernicious, persistent and ever-expanding guilt. He runs from the rage that threatens, sometimes, to swallow him whole.
Perhaps he is becoming sentimental in his old age, but with those ludicrously delicate fingers wrapped in his own coarse palm, he often feels he can outrun anything. He can tell she feels it too; the feeling of sheer invincibility. Doctor + Rose + imminent danger = possibly the most fantastic feeling in the bloody universe to date. And he is approaching a millennium of life, so he has plenty with which to compare.
Oh, yes. She makes him want to run forever.
He has grown so complacent, that when it happens, he almost laughs, even though it is the absolute antithesis of amusing. He doesn’t know what else to do. When he sees her lifeblood staining the rusty metal floor of a freight elevator (on a run-down satellite in the galactic version of East-ArseEnd), he nearly does laugh. All that running, and one bullet from an antiquated projectile weapon has made it all so fucking academic. They are trapped, and Rose is bleeding.
There is too much blood, and not enough time.
The irony is so great, he truly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse. So he does none of the above. Instead he prays. He doesn’t pray to useless, non-existent deities (where the hell have they been for the last 900 years?), but rather to her.
A sound fills him with an impotent rage; his name is the last word on her lips, even as she sinks into oblivion.
He returns the favor a thousand fold. The name Rose becomes a mantra. As if he could stem the flow of blood with a flow of words.
And when the lift finally stops, he has no idea what is waiting on the other side of the doors. He cannot think beyond the rapid, faltering, singular heartbeat of the precious creature beside him. He gathers her up, and pushes forward. He can’t help thinking that perhaps all those years of running were training for this moment.
Author:
akainagiFandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: PG-13 for language and ouch
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: The result of watching End of Evangelion sandwiched in between DW episodes. Don’t mix your genres, kiddies. Nothing good can come of it. Companion to [fic] Finish Line.
Over his 900-plus years of life, he has become rather adept at running.
Of course, it helps that the Doctor has no shortage of things to run from. Machines, aliens, alien machines, local law enforcement, enemies, friends, the slobbering demons inside his own head. He has made a career out of outrunning them all.
Some days, he rather enjoys it; the running. And it helps, of course, that he is no longer running alone.
So he runs from brain sucking aliens, suns going supernova, Daleks and London Constabulary. He runs from his own thoroughly pernicious, persistent and ever-expanding guilt. He runs from the rage that threatens, sometimes, to swallow him whole.
Perhaps he is becoming sentimental in his old age, but with those ludicrously delicate fingers wrapped in his own coarse palm, he often feels he can outrun anything. He can tell she feels it too; the feeling of sheer invincibility. Doctor + Rose + imminent danger = possibly the most fantastic feeling in the bloody universe to date. And he is approaching a millennium of life, so he has plenty with which to compare.
Oh, yes. She makes him want to run forever.
He has grown so complacent, that when it happens, he almost laughs, even though it is the absolute antithesis of amusing. He doesn’t know what else to do. When he sees her lifeblood staining the rusty metal floor of a freight elevator (on a run-down satellite in the galactic version of East-ArseEnd), he nearly does laugh. All that running, and one bullet from an antiquated projectile weapon has made it all so fucking academic. They are trapped, and Rose is bleeding.
There is too much blood, and not enough time.
The irony is so great, he truly doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse. So he does none of the above. Instead he prays. He doesn’t pray to useless, non-existent deities (where the hell have they been for the last 900 years?), but rather to her.
A sound fills him with an impotent rage; his name is the last word on her lips, even as she sinks into oblivion.
He returns the favor a thousand fold. The name Rose becomes a mantra. As if he could stem the flow of blood with a flow of words.
And when the lift finally stops, he has no idea what is waiting on the other side of the doors. He cannot think beyond the rapid, faltering, singular heartbeat of the precious creature beside him. He gathers her up, and pushes forward. He can’t help thinking that perhaps all those years of running were training for this moment.
