happy birthday, nowrunalong
dw + text posts (1/?)
RTD Era Meme: [4/8] Scenes
Rose, I’ve just remembered! I can dance!
“Finally they get to this wrecked, deserted, nighttime, Dalek-invaded street, civilazation gone. And from the greatest possible distance, there they are: her with her great big gun and him with the TARDIS. And they run towards each other, like the biggest romance you’ve ever seen. - Russell T. Davies
AU - Nine and Rose wallsex
Ten/Rose, ~2000 words, Teen-ish
Angst (seriously, it’s like 98% pathos)
EDIT: Constructive criticism and critique welcome on this one — feel free, negative opinions OK, and all that. I promise I won’t take offense.
It’s a curious thing, causality. The possibilities of every microsecond, a spider web of moments, colliding, deflecting, forming probability vertices and bottlenecks of likelihood, or circling back on themselves, cementing fixed points and shunting other streams off into the infinite array of never-weres and might-have-beens.
And, every now and then, there’s the rare binary—one particular instance that spirals around itself, synchronous timelines never intersecting, and with each possibility equal in weight. A double helix of time, branching off from a single choice. Yes-or-no. On-or-off. He-loves-me, he-loves-me-not.
In this case, it’s definitely the former.
Tenth Doctor / Rose touch trajectory through Series 2
This is what happens when a behavioural scientist gets tired of hearing ‘clingy girlfriend’ comments…
For notes and a longer description, see here
Bonus fact: the biggest difference in touch frequencies was in the Rise of the Cybermen / Age of Steel two-parter, where the Doctor initiated touching five times to her one.
Casual reminder that when the Doctor did this:
He thought he was kissing Rose goodbye.
In the end, it’s easier than he thought it would be.
He was nervous, at first; timelines were shifting and his atoms still settling and the taste of her kiss lingering on his lips. But that night it all becomes so simple, when they collapse in bed and he threads his leg through hers, a few stray grains of sand coarse against her soft skin.
He kisses her and brushes away phantom grains on her cheek, the ones that stuck there all those years ago when she’d choked out the words he couldn’t yet say back.
Now they flow out of him like water from a brand-new 900-year-old stone.
After that, it’s life. There are twists and turns but she’s always there; his constant, his guiding star, his beacon, his anchor. His hand to hold.
There’s lager and credentials. Denim and adventures. Nappies and broken dishes. Football matches and flat tires. Beach holidays and training wheels and paracetamol and half-marathons and wrinkle cream and graduations and always, always, her.
There’s 11 grains of sand in a tiny glass vile at the bottom of his sock drawer.
There’s one life, spent with her.
There’s all he ever wanted.
We all have such fateful objects - it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another - carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of special significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane’s heart always break.