akashasheiress: (four/romana ii)
[personal profile] akashasheiress
This is my (belated) contribution to the [livejournal.com profile] eleven_romana  ficathon.



Fic: Soon, Love, Soon
Characters/Pairings: Eleventh Doctor/Romana (regeneration...let's just say ''unspecified'')
Rating/Warnings:
Teen, I guess. Mentions of Time Sex, but nothing graphic. Also, it's shippy as fuck, if that bothers.
Word count: 1,151
Summary: ''Soon, love, soon/Such a wide, wide chasm of faith to leap''
Disclaimer: I did not create Doctor Who *sends reverent thoughts to Mother Verity*
Notes: Title is from the song by Vienna Teng. Subtitles are from ''They'' by Jem, ''Mercy of Darkness'' by Eivør Pálsdóttir, ''Kiss, Kiss, Kiss'' by Yoko Ono, ''Take This Waltz'' by Leonard Cohen, and ''Pressing Flowers'' by The Civil Wars. The last one kind of inspired the whole fic. Also, this is only the second fic I've ever posted, apologies if it's crap, concrit is welcome etc etc. Thanks to [personal profile] clocketpatch  and [personal profile] jjpor  for giving it a one-over.

Enter your cut contents here.

They


They don't see the stars the way we see them. When a human being looks at a star, we see its past – as it was, 25 million years ago. When they look at a star, they see both its past and its present, and usually its end. Most stars are pretty similar, anyway.

''I'm not sure I'm awake,'' he mumbles, as she reaches up and pulls at his bowtie, unraveling it. They are on a hilltop, on a planet with aquamarine grass and a burgundy night sky. It's remarkably similar to the place where they first... In fact, it just might be the same place. He doesn't know and he doesn't care. His surroundings are utterly insignificant. They always are, when this happens, whatever it is. His brain is foggy, like when you're about to drift off while desperately trying not to. Or when you're really, really drunk. But he is happy. So very happy.

She leans against him, heavily, as if for support. He can feel her smile against his collarbone, her tongue wetting it. He caresses the back of her neck, under the fall of her hair. She's mostly ginger, this time (he's in no condition to be jealous at the moment). Yes, mostly. That's the thing. Her appearance seems to flicker and shift at times, like a bad signal. But, yes, mostly ginger. Green eyes in a pale, patrician face. Long, white fingers slip under his shirt, up his back, under his braces. He makes an undignified noise. There are always things he likes, no matter his body. He reaches out and clumsily attempts to  pull her dress over her head, in the same moment that she tugs at his braces. They laugh throughout their lovemaking. From happiness, exhaustion, and because they are alone together in an endless, cold, careless cosmos that doesn't care whether or not there is such a thing as Time Lords. Afterwards, they lie  in the tall grass, a tangle of limbs, and attempt to have a good old-fashioned discussion about the basic tenets of Geldofism, in an attempt to fight off  sleep. It catches up with him. It always does, no matter how hard he fights it.

When he wakes up, it's broad daylight. There is another note in his hand, with yet another list of coordinates. Her sonic screwdriver lies beside him in the grass.

Mercy of Darkness

It starts with her hand finding in his in the dark. He's in the TARDIS, in a room that he is sure wasn't there before. It is pitch black and he feels himself slip in and out of existence, drowning in an ocean of noise. If he didn't know better, he would think that the whole Universe was chattering inside his head. He does know better, of course. It's a bit like falling asleep, but different still. You wouldn't understand unless you were dying. Or a Time Lord. This time, the first time, her main form seems to flicker between her first and her second self. He can't see her, but he can feel her. At first, her voice is just one in what must literally be millions. When her hand slips into his, the noise subsides into a pleasant buzz. He is so happy he could die.

''I don't remember this bit,'' he breathes. ''You shouldn't. I'm not even sure I exist,'' she replies. The sit in the dark, holding hands, feeling the perfect symmetry of each others' pulses (he'd forgotten how that felt), until his eyelids being to droop. ''It's all right,'' she says, closing his eyes with her fingers and resting her head over his hearts. ''I think I have a plan.''

He wakes up in the library. There is a note and a white scarf.


Kiss, Kiss, Kiss

They are in a stall in a café. They kiss shamelessly, making as much noise as possible, savouring the sloppiness of the act. The patrons are blurs and might not even exist. They don't care either way. She has dark hair and brown eyes and sometimes her skin darkens a little.

A red glove, another note.


Rhythms We Invented

They are dancing. The ballroom is impossibly large and utterly empty, and yet there is  music, and he's sure he can hear people exchanging empty pleasantries and witicisms.

''Sometimes,'' she says ''Sometimes I can hear you in the dark. Just talking. Sometimes to me, sometimes to others, mostly to yourself.''

''I never talk to myself,'' he chortles. Their forheads are touching, as they dance. Not only does it come naturally, it also helps them stay awake for a little longer. They must look a little ridiculous. Like drunks. This time her hair is mostly short, her skin dark and she has dimples. Not that it truly matters what she looks like. It never really did. He just needs to remember. He must remember.

A chair in the ballroom. A stocking, another note.


The Poem of an Iron Bed

The bed is austere, made of iron, like the one he would sleep in at The Academy when he was being punished. He traces her spine with his fingers. She always liked that. She rolls over and touches his face. She likes it, she decides, and tells him so. Her appearance has stabilised slightly and he realises that he must have been flickering, too. Only another Time Lord could ever notice it. Her grabs her wrist and sucks lightly on her fingers.

The floor in his console room. There is no bed, just a miniature of the Eiffel Tower and another note.


A Secret That I Might Tell

She has her back turned to him as she watches the Sun set over the Gardens of Sergei XXIV of The Colony of New St. Petersburgh. The weeds reach her waist. She's leaning against the decrepit gate of the ruins.

''I overthrew him,'' she muses. ''One of my favourite revolutions''. Her image has stabilised almost completely. She's going with the ginger one, apparently. They need to have a word about this when...

''Stay here. With me.'' Or should that have been ''Come with me''?

''I have things to do.''

''We'll do them together.''

''This isn't supposed to be happening. At least not yet.''  He knows.

''I'm going to forget. Aren't I?''

She turns and takes his hand. ''Doctor, the items I left with you; whatever you do, keep them with you. Somewhere safe. It'll help you remember when the time comes for you to remember all this, and when it does, I'll call you.'' She straightens his bowtie, smoothing the front of his jacket.

They stand at the gate, holding hands and watch the Universe disintegrate around them.

''My name?''

 The words leave her mouth, perfectly pronounced.

The life and death of every star he's ever known races before his mind's eye. Most stars are pretty similar, anyway. He is ready.

Date: 2010-12-05 11:39 pm (UTC)
evilawyer: young black-tailed prairie dog at SF Zoo (Default)
From: [personal profile] evilawyer
Very pretty. You've have a nice lyrical rhythm going.

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