[fic] Qualifying Heat (2/3)
Jun. 23rd, 2012 02:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
akainagiTitle: Qualifying Heat (2/3)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
akainagi
Fandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: R for language and pathetic angsty whinging
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.
=-=-=-=
Rose’s incarceration is blessedly short, thanks to superior alien medical technology. She is out of the infirmary the next day, albeit with instructions to return. She would probably ignore the instructions, but the Doctor has made it his personal mission to frog-march her down there on a daily basis. Under the threat of post-hemothoracic empyema, whatever the hell that means.
Despite past protestations that he is “not that kind of Doctor,” he lists the basics of Rose’s injuries in even more pretentious language than usual. She is not fooled. He’s the consummate blag artist, trying to dazzle with brilliance and baffle with bullshit at the same time:
While it may all be true, it’s also absolute rot. Days of the Doctor’s voice being her only sensory input have apparently improved Rose’s bullshit radar where he is concerned. She can hear the wheels of that prodigious mind turning, which in Rose’s experience can result in either blinding genius, or total bollocks. Beyond his super-technical medical dissertation, the Doctor is tight-lipped about the events of the last several days. He fends-off Rose’s questions off with pompous jargon, then with false jocularity.
As ever, the Doctor wears his guilt as plainly as he wears that ubiquitous leather jacket. And when Rose tries to look him in the eye, more often than not his gaze skirts down and off. She knows that somewhere in his dual hearts, her injuries have been catalogued as yet another of his personal failures. Always the over-achiever, the Doctor has elevated self-flagellation to the level of high-art.
Rose wants to smack him just a bit. She’s convalescing for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t he know how much it hurts her to watch him hurt himself?
She spends most of said convalescence abed in her room, the need for rest nearly overwhelming all other desires. Rose uses the time to her best advantage. She thinks more in those few days than she probably did in her whole public school education. Of course the topic now is infinitely more urgent than 9th grade arithmetic; what to do with her newfound near-death-induced clarity?
Rose Loves the Doctor
Not exactly a revelation, and certainly not new. Rather a longstanding fact; like something you can look up in the encyclopedia. It’s probably filed under immutable truths of the universe. Right after death, taxes and gravity. She’d felt the irresistable attraction of the Doctor since that first mad dash through Henrik’s, may it Rest in Peace. Every day that followed only cemented his place of honor in Rose’s affections.
Then there is the even-more-loaded inversion of an already-loaded statement. Rose loves the Doctor and the Doctor loves …
What?
Chips? Long-distance sprinting? Jeopardy?
Despite her primate ancestry, Rose isn’t simple. She’d have to be daft not to notice the way he looks at her. She knows that she has some foothold in at least one of the Doctor’s hearts. It’s the quality of that affection that sometimes leaves her doubting. Some days he gives her a flirt, a wink and an appreciative stare. Other days he practically undresses her with his eyes. On those days Rose thinks that he might actually want her as badly she wants him. And other times he makes her feel like nothing so much as his pet ape.
Up until a few days ago she was content to toe the invisible line between the two extremes. But that line is always changing. Some days it feels as wide as all of time and space. Other days it feels so thin that a single nudge will cause its dissolution. The Doctor uses grand words to scoff at the biological imperatives and base instincts of presumably lesser creatures (of which humans are listed as one). Then he turns Rose’s insides alight with an ease that can only be deliberate. The heat in those eyes and the pitch of that voice do not belong to a creature who professes asexuality. The mixing of signals is enough to make her head spin on a good day.
The Doctor exudes masculinity. So much so that Rose is convinced that his lack of interest in the carnal is another piece of his armor. Worn and discarded to suit his purposes. Bruising intellect coexists with a rampant sensuality; a clear desire to experience the endless myriad of sensations the universe has to offer. The Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, far too sexy to be sexless. The idea that any creature could have a bum like that and be totally off the market ... well it's just bloody criminal. Rose should know. That rear looks particularly scrummy when he’s running. If the peril isn’t too dire, sometimes she purposely hangs back to enjoy the view.
Now, in bed and cocooned under her duvet, the ache in her chest returns for reasons that have nothing at all to do with physical injury. She replays countless memories in her head; a thousand glances, touches and smiles. Rose looks for confirmation that she isn’t about to make the single stupidest mistake of her short life. Just a few days ago she faced her own demise, her greatest regret a crushing weight around her neck. Now she has a second chance to make good. Will she shy away from it like a coward, afraid of the magnitude of what she might lose if she is wrong?
She could keep mum. But an untruth of omission is still a lie, and lies between the Doctor and her seem too much like an obscenity. And if she lies today, then she will have to lie tomorrow. And the day after. And every day that follows. She will have to sit with him, laugh with him, run with him, and pretend that the elephant is still invisible, while it’s actually become a startling Technicolor plaid. As big as the TARDIS is, this particular elephant may just a tad too large for its confines.
She doesn’t know whether she hears him at her bedroom door, or simply feels him. She is slightly more in tune with the TARDIS since her mishap. Possibly a side effect from the ship providing her with agressive respiratory support for days on end; a rather intimate activity. Her improved awareness of the TARDIS apparently translates into an improved awareness of its master. She can feel when the Doctor is near versus far. It’s like a telepathic version of Marco Polo.
She’s warmly ensconced under her bedding and still thoroughly occupied with her own internal dialogue when he makes himself known. Rose sits up in bed, bleary eyed and waits for her eyes to focus. Silhouetted in the light from the corridor, she can see that his leather armor has been momentarily shed. She blushes. Bloody amazing; clothed in wool and denim from the neck down, the Doctor can do more to her insides than any other bloke could in the nuddy.
If there was ever a reason to risk everything, that reason is standing in her doorway. A reason that resembles nothing so much as a centuries-old wounded beast hidden inside the shell of a wide-eyed grinning boy. She hears him say her name, and that well-loved voice makes her lower abdomen clench slightly. The Doctor’s voice can make her name sound like everything from a curse to a benediction. Just days ago he used it as a litany to stave off death, and then he used it to joyously welcome her back to the land of the living. Layers of texture and subtext overlap, weaving a tapestry of meaning, and suddenly her choice doesn’t seem so much like a choice anymore.
Playing coy won’t work with him. Rose can’t sit around and wait for him to act like a normal man. Because he’s neither normal nor a man. He’s a pigheaded egotistical alien bloke, Lord of Time and undisputed King of Mixed Signals. He is the Doctor.
He has already unwittingly won the heart of Rose Tyler. Now she'll merely demand he take possession of his prize.
Rose spares a thought for her greediness, before she says the words that could transform or destroy the single greatest thing in her life to date. The Doctor has given her so much, and like a glutton, she still wants more. She wants more for herself and for him. He lives his life being crushed by forces she can’t begin to understand. She is not so conceited as to think she can erase his burden, but perhaps she can offer him succor when the burden becomes too great.
Rose is a human. She was just a shopgirl from London until the day the Doctor burst into her life and offered her all the things she hadn’t even known she wanted. Things of which she had never even dared to dream. With a contradictory feeling of absolute Zen and unbearable trepidation, she tries to return the favor. She can’t help feeling that what she has to offer pales in comparison.
She smiles. She speaks.
And offers him the only thing she has to give.
=-=-=-=
Her words ring in his ears and in his brain. The Doctor stares in awe and stupefaction.
Gone is Rose’s waxy pale of just a few days ago, her recovery nearly complete. She looks warm and soft; very alive and so very young, nearly lost in the landscape of her own bed. The subtle pink of her skin stands out in relief against the loud fuchsia of her comforter and the garish lime green of her pyjamas; silly flannel things with little blue spaceships all over them. His eidetic memory recalls seeing those spaceships once when she stumbled, bleary eyed, into the kitchen for her morning cuppa. The two of them had exchanged a long conspiratorial laugh at the inside joke.
Blue spaceships or no, he’s not laughing now.
The Doctor’s formidable mind goes to work immediately. Damage control must be enacted. An invisible, yet very real line has been irrevocably crossed. Not just crossed; rather skipped over, stomped on and laughed at for good measure.
What she’s just said to him is so incredibly wrong that it makes his mind light up with a thousand possibilities. Makes his body light up with more than a few as well. The combination of that smile, those words and the intimacy of seeing this rare, vulnerable, tousled side of Rose has a powerful effect.
Any ambiguity in her actual words is erased by the fact that she is broadcasting her emotions so loudly she might as well be using a bullhorn. The Doctor has the TARDIS to thank for that. The old girl apparently became quite attached to Rose during her period of ventilation, and now has no compunction about assisting her human friend in the communication department.
He doesn’t doubt Rose means what she said. He won’t insult her by asking her to repeat it. Even without the assurances from the TARDIS, he’s sure his Rose knows her own mind. And she must know his mind better than he ever suspected. Otherwise how would she know the exact words, the exact voice, and the exact smile to drive him to his metaphorical knees?
On the outside, the Doctor is inscrutable and immoveable; still in the frame of Rose’s doorway, watching her watching him. On the inside, his Time Lord senses unfurl a thousand different possibilities. From each of those thousand possibilities unfurl a thousand more. So much capacity for pain for both of them. Such vulnerability for both. Such capacity for joy. For both.
There’s a reason the Doctor tries to avoid examining the parts of timelines directly involving his own actions. Avoiding such things is a fairly standard practice, not that he's much for blind adherence. Even a Time Lord’s senses can be somewhat befuddled by witnessing infinite variations of oneself making infinite mistakes with infinite consequences for an infinite variety of reasons. He has a newfound respect for this particular policy of restraint. His mind is awash with a myriad of variations on the next ten minutes alone. A few of them are so … inspiring that he is aghast to feel himself stiffening in his trousers.
She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, this silly human child. Doesn’t know the wolf she’s inviting in the door. But he does. He’s seen that wolf loosed. Watched it destroy devour, debase everything in its path.
He so very nearly lost her, this beloved creature. A nebulous anger settles in his gut at the sheer fucking capriciousness of the universe. The universe nearly took Rose Tyler from him. In the space of days she was lost and found, now only to be lost to him again by virtue of her own shortsightedness.
And it is too much. Rose’s eerily serene gaze is rapidly losing its serenity with every moment of silence. The Doctor’s serenity is nonexistent, long destroyed by pain and guilt and fury without end. He does not want to be the one to bring that look of doubt to her eyes, but now it is too late.
Her courageous, loving, cruel words go unacknowledged. He cannot give her what she wants, and he cannot accept what she wants to give. The cost is too high.
The Doctor tonelessly reminds Rose of her infirmary appointment and retreats back into the bowels of the TARDIS. He can feel the ship’s recrimination at his crass behavior, and he welcomes it. He is a prodigy at punishing himself, but as someone recently pointed out, some things are more effective with two.
Then the TARDIS decides to fight dirty, bleeding just a little of Rose into his mind, the breadth of painful emotion is staggering; regret, loss, guilt, anger. All the Doctor’s old friends. He has to put a hand out against the corridor wall to steady himself. He makes it to his rarely-used bedroom and falls into bed, boots and all, deliberately closing his mind to all but the required autonomic functions. Not for the first time he curses his Time Lord perception. For once he wishes for blissful ignorance. He fears the knowledge that, even with thousands of possible futures, that there may not be a single one where all this ends well.
Full series [HERE]
Author:
akainagiFandom, Pairing: Doctor Who, Nine/Rose
Rating: R for language and pathetic angsty whinging
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.
=-=-=-=
Rose’s incarceration is blessedly short, thanks to superior alien medical technology. She is out of the infirmary the next day, albeit with instructions to return. She would probably ignore the instructions, but the Doctor has made it his personal mission to frog-march her down there on a daily basis. Under the threat of post-hemothoracic empyema, whatever the hell that means.
Despite past protestations that he is “not that kind of Doctor,” he lists the basics of Rose’s injuries in even more pretentious language than usual. She is not fooled. He’s the consummate blag artist, trying to dazzle with brilliance and baffle with bullshit at the same time:
- Ballistic trauma leading to borderline exsanguination (read: gunshot, fuck-awful lot of blood).
- Hypoxia caused by hemothorax caused by aforementioned ballistic trauma (read: you can’t bloody well breathe with a bullet-hole in your lung … well humans can’t, at any rate).
- Tertiary-level analgesic sedation to assist in Volume controlled continuous mandatory ventilation. (read: the TARDIS kept you monged out for days and breathed for you).
While it may all be true, it’s also absolute rot. Days of the Doctor’s voice being her only sensory input have apparently improved Rose’s bullshit radar where he is concerned. She can hear the wheels of that prodigious mind turning, which in Rose’s experience can result in either blinding genius, or total bollocks. Beyond his super-technical medical dissertation, the Doctor is tight-lipped about the events of the last several days. He fends-off Rose’s questions off with pompous jargon, then with false jocularity.
As ever, the Doctor wears his guilt as plainly as he wears that ubiquitous leather jacket. And when Rose tries to look him in the eye, more often than not his gaze skirts down and off. She knows that somewhere in his dual hearts, her injuries have been catalogued as yet another of his personal failures. Always the over-achiever, the Doctor has elevated self-flagellation to the level of high-art.
Rose wants to smack him just a bit. She’s convalescing for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t he know how much it hurts her to watch him hurt himself?
She spends most of said convalescence abed in her room, the need for rest nearly overwhelming all other desires. Rose uses the time to her best advantage. She thinks more in those few days than she probably did in her whole public school education. Of course the topic now is infinitely more urgent than 9th grade arithmetic; what to do with her newfound near-death-induced clarity?
Rose Loves the Doctor
Not exactly a revelation, and certainly not new. Rather a longstanding fact; like something you can look up in the encyclopedia. It’s probably filed under immutable truths of the universe. Right after death, taxes and gravity. She’d felt the irresistable attraction of the Doctor since that first mad dash through Henrik’s, may it Rest in Peace. Every day that followed only cemented his place of honor in Rose’s affections.
Then there is the even-more-loaded inversion of an already-loaded statement. Rose loves the Doctor and the Doctor loves …
What?
Chips? Long-distance sprinting? Jeopardy?
Despite her primate ancestry, Rose isn’t simple. She’d have to be daft not to notice the way he looks at her. She knows that she has some foothold in at least one of the Doctor’s hearts. It’s the quality of that affection that sometimes leaves her doubting. Some days he gives her a flirt, a wink and an appreciative stare. Other days he practically undresses her with his eyes. On those days Rose thinks that he might actually want her as badly she wants him. And other times he makes her feel like nothing so much as his pet ape.
Up until a few days ago she was content to toe the invisible line between the two extremes. But that line is always changing. Some days it feels as wide as all of time and space. Other days it feels so thin that a single nudge will cause its dissolution. The Doctor uses grand words to scoff at the biological imperatives and base instincts of presumably lesser creatures (of which humans are listed as one). Then he turns Rose’s insides alight with an ease that can only be deliberate. The heat in those eyes and the pitch of that voice do not belong to a creature who professes asexuality. The mixing of signals is enough to make her head spin on a good day.
The Doctor exudes masculinity. So much so that Rose is convinced that his lack of interest in the carnal is another piece of his armor. Worn and discarded to suit his purposes. Bruising intellect coexists with a rampant sensuality; a clear desire to experience the endless myriad of sensations the universe has to offer. The Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, far too sexy to be sexless. The idea that any creature could have a bum like that and be totally off the market ... well it's just bloody criminal. Rose should know. That rear looks particularly scrummy when he’s running. If the peril isn’t too dire, sometimes she purposely hangs back to enjoy the view.
Now, in bed and cocooned under her duvet, the ache in her chest returns for reasons that have nothing at all to do with physical injury. She replays countless memories in her head; a thousand glances, touches and smiles. Rose looks for confirmation that she isn’t about to make the single stupidest mistake of her short life. Just a few days ago she faced her own demise, her greatest regret a crushing weight around her neck. Now she has a second chance to make good. Will she shy away from it like a coward, afraid of the magnitude of what she might lose if she is wrong?
She could keep mum. But an untruth of omission is still a lie, and lies between the Doctor and her seem too much like an obscenity. And if she lies today, then she will have to lie tomorrow. And the day after. And every day that follows. She will have to sit with him, laugh with him, run with him, and pretend that the elephant is still invisible, while it’s actually become a startling Technicolor plaid. As big as the TARDIS is, this particular elephant may just a tad too large for its confines.
She doesn’t know whether she hears him at her bedroom door, or simply feels him. She is slightly more in tune with the TARDIS since her mishap. Possibly a side effect from the ship providing her with agressive respiratory support for days on end; a rather intimate activity. Her improved awareness of the TARDIS apparently translates into an improved awareness of its master. She can feel when the Doctor is near versus far. It’s like a telepathic version of Marco Polo.
She’s warmly ensconced under her bedding and still thoroughly occupied with her own internal dialogue when he makes himself known. Rose sits up in bed, bleary eyed and waits for her eyes to focus. Silhouetted in the light from the corridor, she can see that his leather armor has been momentarily shed. She blushes. Bloody amazing; clothed in wool and denim from the neck down, the Doctor can do more to her insides than any other bloke could in the nuddy.
If there was ever a reason to risk everything, that reason is standing in her doorway. A reason that resembles nothing so much as a centuries-old wounded beast hidden inside the shell of a wide-eyed grinning boy. She hears him say her name, and that well-loved voice makes her lower abdomen clench slightly. The Doctor’s voice can make her name sound like everything from a curse to a benediction. Just days ago he used it as a litany to stave off death, and then he used it to joyously welcome her back to the land of the living. Layers of texture and subtext overlap, weaving a tapestry of meaning, and suddenly her choice doesn’t seem so much like a choice anymore.
Playing coy won’t work with him. Rose can’t sit around and wait for him to act like a normal man. Because he’s neither normal nor a man. He’s a pigheaded egotistical alien bloke, Lord of Time and undisputed King of Mixed Signals. He is the Doctor.
He has already unwittingly won the heart of Rose Tyler. Now she'll merely demand he take possession of his prize.
Rose spares a thought for her greediness, before she says the words that could transform or destroy the single greatest thing in her life to date. The Doctor has given her so much, and like a glutton, she still wants more. She wants more for herself and for him. He lives his life being crushed by forces she can’t begin to understand. She is not so conceited as to think she can erase his burden, but perhaps she can offer him succor when the burden becomes too great.
Rose is a human. She was just a shopgirl from London until the day the Doctor burst into her life and offered her all the things she hadn’t even known she wanted. Things of which she had never even dared to dream. With a contradictory feeling of absolute Zen and unbearable trepidation, she tries to return the favor. She can’t help feeling that what she has to offer pales in comparison.
She smiles. She speaks.
And offers him the only thing she has to give.
=-=-=-=
Her words ring in his ears and in his brain. The Doctor stares in awe and stupefaction.
Gone is Rose’s waxy pale of just a few days ago, her recovery nearly complete. She looks warm and soft; very alive and so very young, nearly lost in the landscape of her own bed. The subtle pink of her skin stands out in relief against the loud fuchsia of her comforter and the garish lime green of her pyjamas; silly flannel things with little blue spaceships all over them. His eidetic memory recalls seeing those spaceships once when she stumbled, bleary eyed, into the kitchen for her morning cuppa. The two of them had exchanged a long conspiratorial laugh at the inside joke.
Blue spaceships or no, he’s not laughing now.
The Doctor’s formidable mind goes to work immediately. Damage control must be enacted. An invisible, yet very real line has been irrevocably crossed. Not just crossed; rather skipped over, stomped on and laughed at for good measure.
What she’s just said to him is so incredibly wrong that it makes his mind light up with a thousand possibilities. Makes his body light up with more than a few as well. The combination of that smile, those words and the intimacy of seeing this rare, vulnerable, tousled side of Rose has a powerful effect.
Any ambiguity in her actual words is erased by the fact that she is broadcasting her emotions so loudly she might as well be using a bullhorn. The Doctor has the TARDIS to thank for that. The old girl apparently became quite attached to Rose during her period of ventilation, and now has no compunction about assisting her human friend in the communication department.
He doesn’t doubt Rose means what she said. He won’t insult her by asking her to repeat it. Even without the assurances from the TARDIS, he’s sure his Rose knows her own mind. And she must know his mind better than he ever suspected. Otherwise how would she know the exact words, the exact voice, and the exact smile to drive him to his metaphorical knees?
On the outside, the Doctor is inscrutable and immoveable; still in the frame of Rose’s doorway, watching her watching him. On the inside, his Time Lord senses unfurl a thousand different possibilities. From each of those thousand possibilities unfurl a thousand more. So much capacity for pain for both of them. Such vulnerability for both. Such capacity for joy. For both.
There’s a reason the Doctor tries to avoid examining the parts of timelines directly involving his own actions. Avoiding such things is a fairly standard practice, not that he's much for blind adherence. Even a Time Lord’s senses can be somewhat befuddled by witnessing infinite variations of oneself making infinite mistakes with infinite consequences for an infinite variety of reasons. He has a newfound respect for this particular policy of restraint. His mind is awash with a myriad of variations on the next ten minutes alone. A few of them are so … inspiring that he is aghast to feel himself stiffening in his trousers.
She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, this silly human child. Doesn’t know the wolf she’s inviting in the door. But he does. He’s seen that wolf loosed. Watched it destroy devour, debase everything in its path.
He so very nearly lost her, this beloved creature. A nebulous anger settles in his gut at the sheer fucking capriciousness of the universe. The universe nearly took Rose Tyler from him. In the space of days she was lost and found, now only to be lost to him again by virtue of her own shortsightedness.
And it is too much. Rose’s eerily serene gaze is rapidly losing its serenity with every moment of silence. The Doctor’s serenity is nonexistent, long destroyed by pain and guilt and fury without end. He does not want to be the one to bring that look of doubt to her eyes, but now it is too late.
Her courageous, loving, cruel words go unacknowledged. He cannot give her what she wants, and he cannot accept what she wants to give. The cost is too high.
The Doctor tonelessly reminds Rose of her infirmary appointment and retreats back into the bowels of the TARDIS. He can feel the ship’s recrimination at his crass behavior, and he welcomes it. He is a prodigy at punishing himself, but as someone recently pointed out, some things are more effective with two.
Then the TARDIS decides to fight dirty, bleeding just a little of Rose into his mind, the breadth of painful emotion is staggering; regret, loss, guilt, anger. All the Doctor’s old friends. He has to put a hand out against the corridor wall to steady himself. He makes it to his rarely-used bedroom and falls into bed, boots and all, deliberately closing his mind to all but the required autonomic functions. Not for the first time he curses his Time Lord perception. For once he wishes for blissful ignorance. He fears the knowledge that, even with thousands of possible futures, that there may not be a single one where all this ends well.
Full series [HERE]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-24 12:40 am (UTC)This is completely 100% true. The Doctor cannot help beating himself up over his perceived failures.
As ever, the Doctor wears his guilt as plainly as he wears that ubiquitous leather jacket. And when Rose tries to look him in the eye, more often than not his gaze skirts down and off. She knows that somewhere in his dual hearts, her injuries have been catalogued as yet another of his personal failures. Always the over-achiever, the Doctor has elevated self-flagellation to the level of high-art.
I must wholeheartedly agree with the following:
The Doctor is, for all intents and purposes, far too sexy to be sexless. For any creature to have a bum like that and be totally off the market ... well it should be considered a crime.
Rose, of course, is the brave one in telling the Doctor how she feels. It is heartbreaking to see the Doctor turn away from the gift that she freely offers him.
Thank you for another wonderful chapter!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 11:54 pm (UTC)I've always loved Rose for being an a$$-kicking woman, yet still being very human and flawed and therefore intriguing. I can so see her eventually getting tired of the whole disparaging-human-sexuality-in-one-breath-while-shamelessly-flirting-with-the-other-routine and just snogging Nine silly from sheer frustration. And who *wouldn't* fantasize about that bum??
When I play this pair out, Rose is almost always the instigator. Nine is too damaged after the War to take that kind of initiative. He connects cheerfully and superficially, but has walls a mile high against interpersonal connections on a deeper level. But, like I said, Rose kicks a$$, and if anyone can scale those walls it's her.
My OTP - Nine/Rose
My OT3 - Nine/Rose/TARDIS!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-27 03:14 pm (UTC)Rose is just the right person to breach the Doctor's emotional barriers. She will not let him hide forever.
Once Rose adjusts to the whole Time Traveling/aliens thing, she exhibits a lot of fearlessness. Go get 'em Rose!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-24 04:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 11:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 08:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 11:57 pm (UTC)Nine is totally sex-on-legs. Rose would have to be daft not to notice, and our Rose is not dumb!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 11:30 pm (UTC)So true. You know them so well. Please continue!
(no subject)
Date: 2012-06-25 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-07-31 05:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2012-08-21 06:01 am (UTC)Then there is the even-more-loaded inversion of an already-loaded statement. Rose loves the Doctor and the Doctor loves …
TO
The idea that any creature could have a bum like that and be totally off the market ... well it's just bloody criminal.
You present a clever, funny, eminently logical analysis that has to put paid to the question of the alien's sexuality. Let's call it the AkaiNagi Bum Theorem and apply it as necessary.
This story is brilliant in execution, in style, in detail; yet it flows easily. I love your juxtaposition of the way their voices and speech affect each other, making it clear that each of them recognizes those truths-- (this no no mere 3rd person narrative!)-- the Doctor's repetition of her name a litany that kept her alive; Rose's words courageous, loving, cruel, and well-chosen. You write of the effect of their words on each other with such strength and empathy because it's a power you wield with expertise.