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[fic] Finish Line
[fic] Finish Line
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Fandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: PG
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: Companion to [fic] Last Place Finish The result of watching End of Evangelion sandwiched in between DW episodes. Don’t mix your genres, kiddies. Nothing good can come of it.
AN: In lieu of flames, please direct donations to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Metaphors.
It’s like being on an intergalactic track-and-field team. Only without medals and infinitely more jeopardy-friendly. And no finish line in sight.
Not that Rose considers that last bit to be a bad thing. She has never wanted a finish line. From the moment that the Doctor grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of her dull existence, she has never wanted him to let go. This stubborn, mad, sad, thoroughly infuriating and infuriatingly brilliant alien has changed her in ways too delicious for her human brain to fully comprehend.
She would follow him anywhere.
Even to this rickety old satellite in the middle of nowhere. Her first impression had been that the place was held together with the alien equivalent of duct-tape and chewing gum. The Doctor had been right though; it served a helluva-good basket of chips. If not the best, then pretty high up there on the short-list. At least they had gotten to enjoy some before everything went all to cock.
Because now they are running yet again. Running from the whizzing of bullets and the shouts of the latest homicidal-beastie-of-the-week. She asks breathlessly whether there is a single corner of this universe that doesn’t have it in for the last Time Lord.
She doesn’t hear the Doctor’s answer because she is suddenly distracted by the nova of pain in her side and her chest. She loses his hand and falters. It is the worst feeling in the universe, she decides, to be falling; her breath frozen in her lungs and with no hand there to offer her anchor.
Her body gives a mighty and painful protest as she is hauled none too gently into the lift. There is a falling sensation, but she can’t tell anymore whether the falling is internal or external. The sound of gunshots fade, only to be replaced by the rapid hammering of her own cardiovascular system. She doesn’t have to feel her body to know that she’s bleeding. The Doctor checks for her. With the last of her swimming vision, she sees his hands come back red. She manages a last look at his face before her eyesight fails completely. As it is she can only really discern two thing: His ears (he’s well overdue for another teasing about those), and the hard blue of his eyes.
Those eyes haunt her even as her vision fades to black. It's as if they're burned into the back of her eyelids. She has seen coldness in them before, but not like this. They're like a vacancy advertisement where his soul used to be. It scares her even more than her own faltering human physiology. She tries to say his name, but her tongue feels too thick, and even one word takes more oxygen than she has to spare.
It’s so bloody frustrating. A kind of impotent rage settles itself alongside the searing pain in her torso, nearly overwhelming all other thought. Perhaps it is not completely her rage, the Doctor being a touch-telepath and all. His voice is pounding at her ears, and he sure sounds angry.
No. The anger is probably hers. The white-hot resentment burns in her breast. Or maybe those are just her lungs. It feels like something huge and dreadful is sitting on her chest.
She hears her name repeated over and over, until the syllables lose all meaning. The Doctor’s voice sounds so pained, that she is suddenly horrified by the thought that perhaps they got him as well. She wants to ask, but her voice has failed along with the rest of her body.
She wants to tell him so many things. But apparrently she’s waited too long. She’s let herself be dissuaded by the fear of epithets like 'stupid ape' or tirades against the evils of domesticity. And by the illusion that there would always be enough time.
The pain is receding, but only to be replaced by an immeasurable, soul-sucking exhaustion. Even her hearing begins to desert her The roaring in her ears begins like waves. Indeed, it feels like she is sinking down into some waterless ocean; the pressure is overwhelming. It's crushing her, mocking her faltering will to fight back. The fatigue is like nothing she’s ever felt in her 19 years. Resignation flows over her like a blanket of ice.
She has run so far, so fast.
It was a grand race, to be sure. She would have liked to cross the finish line with him. But perhaps she will go on ahead, and wait for him to follow.
But even as she falls into in a haze of discomfort and exhaustion, Rose feels herself being lifted up and carried forward. She has the dim sensation of time and space parting. Probably in deference to her companion. In deference to this alien whose twin heartbeats mingle with her own erratic rhythm.
The Doctor is carrying her forward, and all her thoughts of bowing out of this race become academic. It does not matter anymore that she cannot run. He will run for her.
At least until she’s able to take up pace beside him again.
Author:
akainagiFandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: PG
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: Companion to [fic] Last Place Finish The result of watching End of Evangelion sandwiched in between DW episodes. Don’t mix your genres, kiddies. Nothing good can come of it.
AN: In lieu of flames, please direct donations to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Metaphors.
It’s like being on an intergalactic track-and-field team. Only without medals and infinitely more jeopardy-friendly. And no finish line in sight.
Not that Rose considers that last bit to be a bad thing. She has never wanted a finish line. From the moment that the Doctor grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of her dull existence, she has never wanted him to let go. This stubborn, mad, sad, thoroughly infuriating and infuriatingly brilliant alien has changed her in ways too delicious for her human brain to fully comprehend.
She would follow him anywhere.
Even to this rickety old satellite in the middle of nowhere. Her first impression had been that the place was held together with the alien equivalent of duct-tape and chewing gum. The Doctor had been right though; it served a helluva-good basket of chips. If not the best, then pretty high up there on the short-list. At least they had gotten to enjoy some before everything went all to cock.
Because now they are running yet again. Running from the whizzing of bullets and the shouts of the latest homicidal-beastie-of-the-week. She asks breathlessly whether there is a single corner of this universe that doesn’t have it in for the last Time Lord.
She doesn’t hear the Doctor’s answer because she is suddenly distracted by the nova of pain in her side and her chest. She loses his hand and falters. It is the worst feeling in the universe, she decides, to be falling; her breath frozen in her lungs and with no hand there to offer her anchor.
Her body gives a mighty and painful protest as she is hauled none too gently into the lift. There is a falling sensation, but she can’t tell anymore whether the falling is internal or external. The sound of gunshots fade, only to be replaced by the rapid hammering of her own cardiovascular system. She doesn’t have to feel her body to know that she’s bleeding. The Doctor checks for her. With the last of her swimming vision, she sees his hands come back red. She manages a last look at his face before her eyesight fails completely. As it is she can only really discern two thing: His ears (he’s well overdue for another teasing about those), and the hard blue of his eyes.
Those eyes haunt her even as her vision fades to black. It's as if they're burned into the back of her eyelids. She has seen coldness in them before, but not like this. They're like a vacancy advertisement where his soul used to be. It scares her even more than her own faltering human physiology. She tries to say his name, but her tongue feels too thick, and even one word takes more oxygen than she has to spare.
It’s so bloody frustrating. A kind of impotent rage settles itself alongside the searing pain in her torso, nearly overwhelming all other thought. Perhaps it is not completely her rage, the Doctor being a touch-telepath and all. His voice is pounding at her ears, and he sure sounds angry.
No. The anger is probably hers. The white-hot resentment burns in her breast. Or maybe those are just her lungs. It feels like something huge and dreadful is sitting on her chest.
She hears her name repeated over and over, until the syllables lose all meaning. The Doctor’s voice sounds so pained, that she is suddenly horrified by the thought that perhaps they got him as well. She wants to ask, but her voice has failed along with the rest of her body.
She wants to tell him so many things. But apparrently she’s waited too long. She’s let herself be dissuaded by the fear of epithets like 'stupid ape' or tirades against the evils of domesticity. And by the illusion that there would always be enough time.
The pain is receding, but only to be replaced by an immeasurable, soul-sucking exhaustion. Even her hearing begins to desert her The roaring in her ears begins like waves. Indeed, it feels like she is sinking down into some waterless ocean; the pressure is overwhelming. It's crushing her, mocking her faltering will to fight back. The fatigue is like nothing she’s ever felt in her 19 years. Resignation flows over her like a blanket of ice.
She has run so far, so fast.
It was a grand race, to be sure. She would have liked to cross the finish line with him. But perhaps she will go on ahead, and wait for him to follow.
But even as she falls into in a haze of discomfort and exhaustion, Rose feels herself being lifted up and carried forward. She has the dim sensation of time and space parting. Probably in deference to her companion. In deference to this alien whose twin heartbeats mingle with her own erratic rhythm.
The Doctor is carrying her forward, and all her thoughts of bowing out of this race become academic. It does not matter anymore that she cannot run. He will run for her.
At least until she’s able to take up pace beside him again.
Monday 18th June
Re: Monday 18th June
no subject
no subject
BTW, icon!love 4 u.
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This gave me chills...
Those eyes haunt her even as her vision fades to black. It's as if they're burned into the back of her eyelids. She has seen coldness in them before, but not like this. They're like a vacancy advertisement where his soul used to be.
... and this gave me hope
The Doctor is carrying her forward, and all her thoughts of bowing out of this race become academic. It does not matter anymore that she cannot run. He will run for her.
At least until she’s able to take up pace beside him again.
Thank you for another thoughtful ficlet.
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no subject
I think your metaphors work beautifully and make their point without being flamboyant. But my favourite is this simile: They're like a vacancy advertisement where his soul used to be. A big knife slicing down, through my chest, sharp and fast, and I had to stop and stare a moment. I could see CE's eyes like that.
no subject
And thanks to the mention of Gutter Metaphors, I don't think I shall be leaving my computer for a week. All your fault. Completely.
From one comrade in
armsmetaphors to another: I found a yummy one. Two words (three if you don't count the hyphen): Anti-Flirt Club (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anti-Flirt_Club). ESPECIALLY rule number 2 ^_^no subject
The rules are hysterical! I don't know if I could pick a favourite... but I love #3 - especially when it comes to our Guttermen
no subject
If there is a better use for my eyes than oogling CE, I'm not sure I want to know what it is. I'm still recovering from the mental image of the Doctor in flipflops ^_^