[fic] Qualifying Heat (1/3)
Jun. 20th, 2012 10:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
akainagiTitle: Qualifying Heat (1/3)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Fandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: G
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: Sequel to [fic] Last Place Finish and [fic] Finish Line . Newton said that a body persists in moving uniformly forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by force impressed. The Doctor is always moving forward, but Rose is an impressive force.
=-=
Qualifying Heat: (Noun) a preliminary contest (as in a race or tournament) the winner of which may enter the final contest.
=-=
She’s not sure how long she waits, for there is nothing by which to mark the time.
Perhaps this is some kind of twisted purgatory. Or Hell. To her dismay, Rose finds that her own traitorous body will not heed her commands in the slightest. Her eyes remain stubbornly closed despite her best efforts. She cannot feel her limbs. Certainly cannot speak. She only dimly registers the rise and fall of her own chest. The urge to succumb to panic and hyperventilate is strong. But it appears that even that small bit of autonomy will be denied; her breath ebbs and flows with agonizing uniformity.
Sound is the only thing that penetrates her isolation. It’s a relief, because without something to anchor her, she would have gone barmy after just the first few hours. She listens to the hum of the TARDIS. Normal ship’s noise seems loud in the absence of other input; a constant low-volume thrum. Comforting, really.
Rose listens attentively as she floats through the great void of relative sensory deprivation. A well-loved baritone rises and falls alongside the deeper bass of the TARDIS. She would smile if she could move her face. She doesn’t recognize much of what he says; words like traumatic hemothorax, third-level analgesic sedation and stupid ape.
Okay, that last one she recognizes.
He prattles on constantly during this fragmented bedside vigil. The Doctor takes bold liberty with her ears. He really must think her insensate; his usual armor of forced cheer and sarcasm is so loosened. He describes far-flung corners of the galaxy and rural British countryside with equally undisguised wonder; the fantastic superimposed on the mundane. Rose hears descriptions of places she’s never seen; a world with skies of burnt-orange, fields of red grass as far as the eye can see, and nights aglow with the light from warm, copper-colored moons. The familiar voice becomes wistful, and then pained.
And then talk abruptly turns to history lessons, tall tales and hollow boasting. Not to mention the Doctor’s own encyclopedic collection of drinking songs from across the galaxy. He might be the Oncoming Storm, and nigh-on to a God, but he’s also thoroughly tone-deaf.
Rose’s world is micro-focused on sound. The Doctor’s voice, she discovers, is much like his hands. Alien, but by now familiar. Cool and angled, with prominent Northern tones. His voice is hypnotic; capable of grabbing the innermost parts of her and refusing to let go.
If the Doctor can hear the sound of worlds turning, then Rose’s world revolves around the sound of him.
He leaves frequently, to her dismay. But Rose understands that the Doctor isn’t one to keep still. Nor play nursemaid. He’s probably gleefully taking a sonic screwdriver to the inner workings of the TARDIS; communing with the other woman in his life. But he always comes back, armed with more nonsense and thinly disguised melancholia. Rose listens attentively, all while cataloging her slowly returning senses, and replenishing her strength.
He is regaling her with tales of long ago exploits in feudal Japan when she nearly startles him out of a regeneration. He’s reaching the part where the samurai wanders into a tea house and Rose can’t help but groan inwardly. Nine hundred years of life and the Doctor resorts to the old ‘bloke walks into a pub’ standby.
Apparently her groan wasn’t so inward, because suddenly there he is. She can feel his large hand cover hers, even if her own hand still feels a couple kilometers away. And she hears him. Rose hears her own name burst from The Doctor’s lips, and the naked joy in his voice hits her like a punch to the sternum. When her tears begin to flow, he mistakes it for a reaction to the infirmary lighting, and she doesn’t correct him. He curses in some alien language, his tone laden with self-recrimination, and quickly dims the lights.
Unknown to the Doctor, she has listened to him prattle on for days. She has listened not just to what he reveals with words, but also all that he tries to hide with them. And, in the end, all it takes is one word in the right tone of voice, and she might as well be back in that freight elevator, bleeding and dying. And lamenting (possibly even more than her own death) her own failure to tell this brilliant creature how much he was loved.
Full series [HERE]
Author:
akainagiFandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: G
Series: Hell Bent for Leather
Summary: Sequel to [fic] Last Place Finish and [fic] Finish Line . Newton said that a body persists in moving uniformly forward, except insofar as it is compelled to change its state by force impressed. The Doctor is always moving forward, but Rose is an impressive force.
=-=
Qualifying Heat: (Noun) a preliminary contest (as in a race or tournament) the winner of which may enter the final contest.
=-=
She’s not sure how long she waits, for there is nothing by which to mark the time.
Perhaps this is some kind of twisted purgatory. Or Hell. To her dismay, Rose finds that her own traitorous body will not heed her commands in the slightest. Her eyes remain stubbornly closed despite her best efforts. She cannot feel her limbs. Certainly cannot speak. She only dimly registers the rise and fall of her own chest. The urge to succumb to panic and hyperventilate is strong. But it appears that even that small bit of autonomy will be denied; her breath ebbs and flows with agonizing uniformity.
Sound is the only thing that penetrates her isolation. It’s a relief, because without something to anchor her, she would have gone barmy after just the first few hours. She listens to the hum of the TARDIS. Normal ship’s noise seems loud in the absence of other input; a constant low-volume thrum. Comforting, really.
Rose listens attentively as she floats through the great void of relative sensory deprivation. A well-loved baritone rises and falls alongside the deeper bass of the TARDIS. She would smile if she could move her face. She doesn’t recognize much of what he says; words like traumatic hemothorax, third-level analgesic sedation and stupid ape.
Okay, that last one she recognizes.
He prattles on constantly during this fragmented bedside vigil. The Doctor takes bold liberty with her ears. He really must think her insensate; his usual armor of forced cheer and sarcasm is so loosened. He describes far-flung corners of the galaxy and rural British countryside with equally undisguised wonder; the fantastic superimposed on the mundane. Rose hears descriptions of places she’s never seen; a world with skies of burnt-orange, fields of red grass as far as the eye can see, and nights aglow with the light from warm, copper-colored moons. The familiar voice becomes wistful, and then pained.
And then talk abruptly turns to history lessons, tall tales and hollow boasting. Not to mention the Doctor’s own encyclopedic collection of drinking songs from across the galaxy. He might be the Oncoming Storm, and nigh-on to a God, but he’s also thoroughly tone-deaf.
Rose’s world is micro-focused on sound. The Doctor’s voice, she discovers, is much like his hands. Alien, but by now familiar. Cool and angled, with prominent Northern tones. His voice is hypnotic; capable of grabbing the innermost parts of her and refusing to let go.
If the Doctor can hear the sound of worlds turning, then Rose’s world revolves around the sound of him.
He leaves frequently, to her dismay. But Rose understands that the Doctor isn’t one to keep still. Nor play nursemaid. He’s probably gleefully taking a sonic screwdriver to the inner workings of the TARDIS; communing with the other woman in his life. But he always comes back, armed with more nonsense and thinly disguised melancholia. Rose listens attentively, all while cataloging her slowly returning senses, and replenishing her strength.
He is regaling her with tales of long ago exploits in feudal Japan when she nearly startles him out of a regeneration. He’s reaching the part where the samurai wanders into a tea house and Rose can’t help but groan inwardly. Nine hundred years of life and the Doctor resorts to the old ‘bloke walks into a pub’ standby.
Apparently her groan wasn’t so inward, because suddenly there he is. She can feel his large hand cover hers, even if her own hand still feels a couple kilometers away. And she hears him. Rose hears her own name burst from The Doctor’s lips, and the naked joy in his voice hits her like a punch to the sternum. When her tears begin to flow, he mistakes it for a reaction to the infirmary lighting, and she doesn’t correct him. He curses in some alien language, his tone laden with self-recrimination, and quickly dims the lights.
Unknown to the Doctor, she has listened to him prattle on for days. She has listened not just to what he reveals with words, but also all that he tries to hide with them. And, in the end, all it takes is one word in the right tone of voice, and she might as well be back in that freight elevator, bleeding and dying. And lamenting (possibly even more than her own death) her own failure to tell this brilliant creature how much he was loved.
Full series [HERE]
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(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-21 04:24 pm (UTC)This line hit me hard (in a good way):
If the Doctor can hear the sound of worlds turning, then Rose’s world revolves around the sound of him.
I loved the fact that the Doctor gives Rose history lessons, tells her bad jokes, sings to her, relates the wonders of the universe, and tells her about Gallifrey. All the things he would tell her is he was brave enough to do so.
The end was perfection:
She has listened not just to what he reveals with words, but also all that he tries to hide with them. And, in the end, all it takes is one word in the right tone of voice, and she might as well be back in that freight elevator, bleeding and dying. And lamenting (possibly even more than her own death) her own failure to tell this brilliant creature how much he was loved.
The best part is there is more! Thank you for posting.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-23 06:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-21 05:21 am (UTC)Bloose has quite rightly quoted the sublime. I'll choose this:
She would smile if she could move her face. She doesn’t recognize much of what he says; words like traumatic hemothorax, third-level analgesic sedation and stupid ape.
Okay, that last one she recognizes.
It gives us so much knowledge of Rose and the Doctor, and of what he's going through. And you set this knowledge with a gentle, loving humour. Just as you do here: He might be the Oncoming Storm, and nigh-on to a God, but he’s also thoroughly tone-deaf.
It's obviously how much they love each other ( we aren't surprised when he talks of Gallifrey). It is equally obvious how much you love them. And how much you love words.