Title: The Centre Cannot Hold
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Authors note: Written for the latest challenge in![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
writerinatardis (I won! SQUEEEE).
Italicised text, in order of appearance, dialogue from “The Christmas Invasion”; dialogue from “New Earth”; extracts from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats.
It was on the planet with the purple sky and the orange grass that it all started to fall apart. They were running, his hand in hers, him slightly before her, tugging her forwards. She was laughing breathlessly, bubbling over with the familiar thrill of it, and he couldn’t help joining her.
It was one moment, just one, but that was all it took. He turned his head towards her, his own exhilaration finding voice in mirth. Their eyes locked, communicating, in one glance, their relief that they were still together, their joy that some things hadn’t changed, and in the split second their feet slowed a little, their attention wavered, and their pursuers struck.
His ears caught the rush of something cutting through air even as Rose jerked forwards, her laughter ceasing in a stutter of surprise. Time focused to a point and he saw it all – Rose’s hair in a messy halo, flying forward against the tide of her sudden cessation; the tiny trickle of sweat slipping from her temple; the messy clump of mascara caught on the lashes of her left eye; the perfect pearls of blood misting the space before her. Then Time rushed forwards, bursting outwards with the ferocity of an explosion.
With a frown, Rose abandoned his hand and her eyes lowered – hand and eyes meeting at her chest where scarlet bloomed in a rapidly growing pattern. Her mouth formed a soft ‘o’ of surprise, and then she was falling and it was all he could do to catch her before she hit the ground.
To the accompaniment of a triumphant battle cry and the zip of projectiles, the Doctor scooped Rose up into his arms and ran the last few feet to the TARDIS. Blood slicked digits curled around his key, but they did not slip as they rammed it home and twisted, tumbling them into the coral comfort of home. With one slap of his hand, the ship shot into the vortex, expelling them from the hostile purple sky in an emergency dematerialisation sequence he had not used for decades. He did not pause to watch the pulsing fruition of his command, though. Without breaking his stride, he carried his burden deeper into his ship, trying not the feel the hot blood cooling on his shirt, its touch a clammy cling against his skin. He focused only on the stuttering pulse of life beneath his hands; the fragile thud was the fraying tether of his control – beyond it seethed dangerous remembrances of a life sacrificed and an emotion denied, the deadening shield of regeneration fracturing beneath the onslaught of his fear.
Breathing fiercely through his nose, the Doctor placed Rose on the infirmary bed, hand immediately replacing chest, pressing down against the steady well of blood. With brutal control, he assessed his patient. The projectile, an alien bullet, had passed straight through her, entering beneath her left shoulder blade and exiting below her clavicle. Somehow missing bone and arteries, it had ripped through muscle and was bleeding profusely. It was nothing, however, that he could not fix. Of his own state he was far less certain.
**************
The Doctor sat beside Rose’s bed, watching her sleep. It was an old habit – one he had not indulged in since he had forsaken the leather and ears. She was too pale, but beneath the bandage wrapped around her shoulder and torso there was little more than two small scars to attest to her injury. The bandage was to limit her range of movement while the muscles healed – even the sophisticated instruments he had at his disposal could not eradicate the body’s need to mend at its own pace and the deep bruising, left as testament to her close call, would take several days to ease. Still, she was alive. She would be well.
His fingers clenched around the soft fabric of this trousers and for an instant his synapses misfired, confused not to find the rough texture of resistant denim. New new Doctor. He’d changed and they’d been running ever since, but now they were still and he was catching himself up.
He’d kissed her. Different lips, same urge.
She’d kissed him. Not her, but she’d been looking.
He’d run and run, laughing past the subtle shifts that made fingers linger a few seconds longer, gazes hold beyond complete comfort, speculation flutter beneath the skin. He’d run, telling himself that nothing had changed – not really. The fundamentals stayed the same, after all – new body, same man. They weren’t a couple. Each other’s plus one, but friends, just friends. Theirs was not a sexual relationship. One hell of an age gap, after all. But he’d been running then – leather and ears and denial. He’d been running since he met her. Faster and faster. Run and laugh and revel in spectacle and run. Run!
Now he was still and he could outrun himself no longer.
He tried, of course. He told himself that he was here, in her room, simply in case she stirred and needed him. He told himself that he was counting the gentle rise and fall of her chest as parted lips drew in and exhaled breath simply as a form of meditation. He told himself that there was no tremor in his hands and nightmares did not lurk beneath his lids. He told himself that he was not waiting to hear her voice, silent since the projectile stole her laughter. He told himself that he was not struck immobile by a conviction that, if he left her side, she would slip away from him for good. He told himself many things. He lied.
Of course, he’d known the moment her simple plea for help had roused him from his post regeneration healing trace; the urge to save her, whatever the cost, the need to save her, whatever the cost, had not just survived his metamorphosis, it had intensified. He’d battened it down, pressed it deep, held it fast within him. It smouldered, though, sending out telltale little sparks.
I just thought... 'cos I changed...
I want that body safe, Cassandra!
Today, beneath lilac clouds, the embers had flared into an inferno and now he was left with only charcoal and ash.
He unclenched his fingers, rubbing his palm unconsciously up and down against his knee. He’d washed away Rose’s blood but it felt as if it had permeated his skin, marking him indelibly, tattooing Rose’s mortality on his soul.
He’d known, of course he’d known, but after saving her, ridding her of her foolish, brave, impossible wolf, he’d permitted himself to believe he had years, decades, left. Decades to come to terms with the inevitable loss. Decades of memories to store up, buffer against the grief. It would never have been enough, but he’d convinced himself that there would be more. He had built a house of cards, and one small puff of wind had rendered it derelict.
Rose shifted in her sleep, a frown marring her smooth features, as her shoulder nudged the mattress, and a murmur of discomfort whispering into the hushed air. In an instant, he had moved, his long fingered hands easing her into a position of comfort, his soft voice shushing her with melodious sighs of a dead language. As she slipped back into a deep, healing sleep, his thumb hovered over the wrinkle between her brows, his fingers ghosting her pallid cheek. He itched to touch her, to feel the warmth that had returned to her skin, to feel the gentle, regular, pulse of life beneath its surface, but he dare not. So he simply stood, bent over her like a sheltering sky, his fingers envious of the air that was free to caress her.
*************
He felt the change – the shift in breathing, the slight rise in temperature – that heralded her waking. He was not ready, but it was dawning on him that he might never be. Instead, he steeled himself, erecting new barriers inside his mind, schooling his features into a semblance of normalcy; he was still new to her, his face not yet mapped entirely by her perceptive scrutiny, so he might dissemble.
Focusing inward, he reached for control, only for it to shy away from him. Horrified, he strained – lean muscles bunching, jaw clenching, fingers twitching in involuntary paroxysm, mirroring the internal fight for concealment. It was not to be; the tethers that held his mask in place, snapped free from their restraints, fought like wild things to remain emancipated, ripping clear of questing digits, evading his frantic grasp.
Things fall apart.
Time – he needed more time! There was, however, in this moment of need, no more time to be had. Mocking, complacent, time slipped forward, slithering through his hands like an agile fish, leaving him, like the angler, gaping in surprise at the unanticipated loss.
As her eyes opened, closed, opened again, he was unprepared – no inane ramble at the ready, no prevarication, no half-truth, no feint against the rapier of her sight.
‘Doctor.’ His name a sigh on her lips, like a homecoming, struck with the certitude of a cobra, and in the instant there was nothing left between him and the abyss.
‘Rose.’
Her hand wandered towards her chest, her eyes wide and questioning and his stomach clenched, his hearts beat wildly, at the recollection of scarlet.
‘You’re fine, Rose. You are fine.’
There was camouflage, in facts.
‘You fixed me?’
‘Yes.’
Camouflage, but not safety, because there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to hide. Nothing was certain anymore.
Desperate, he looked into her luminous eyes.
‘Doctor, what is it?’
Time fell silent, waiting. Waiting, and offering him no clue.
‘I…’
Words failed him.
‘Are you alright?’
The centre cannot hold.
He closed his eyes.
‘Doctor?’
With a sigh, he breathed free the last tattered remnants of his rigid control. It was illusion, nothing more. Oh, how Romana would have laughed; she’d always seen through his worst excesses. Surely, some revelation is at hand?
‘Doctor? Please! What is it?’
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.
Drawing in breath, he let his lids rise, let himself contemplate her, let himself be seen, let himself fall.
‘D…Doctor?’
Time focused to a point.
And then he kissed her.
END
~
~
~
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Authors note: Written for the latest challenge in
writerinatardis (I won! SQUEEEE).Italicised text, in order of appearance, dialogue from “The Christmas Invasion”; dialogue from “New Earth”; extracts from “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats.
It was on the planet with the purple sky and the orange grass that it all started to fall apart. They were running, his hand in hers, him slightly before her, tugging her forwards. She was laughing breathlessly, bubbling over with the familiar thrill of it, and he couldn’t help joining her.
It was one moment, just one, but that was all it took. He turned his head towards her, his own exhilaration finding voice in mirth. Their eyes locked, communicating, in one glance, their relief that they were still together, their joy that some things hadn’t changed, and in the split second their feet slowed a little, their attention wavered, and their pursuers struck.
His ears caught the rush of something cutting through air even as Rose jerked forwards, her laughter ceasing in a stutter of surprise. Time focused to a point and he saw it all – Rose’s hair in a messy halo, flying forward against the tide of her sudden cessation; the tiny trickle of sweat slipping from her temple; the messy clump of mascara caught on the lashes of her left eye; the perfect pearls of blood misting the space before her. Then Time rushed forwards, bursting outwards with the ferocity of an explosion.
With a frown, Rose abandoned his hand and her eyes lowered – hand and eyes meeting at her chest where scarlet bloomed in a rapidly growing pattern. Her mouth formed a soft ‘o’ of surprise, and then she was falling and it was all he could do to catch her before she hit the ground.
To the accompaniment of a triumphant battle cry and the zip of projectiles, the Doctor scooped Rose up into his arms and ran the last few feet to the TARDIS. Blood slicked digits curled around his key, but they did not slip as they rammed it home and twisted, tumbling them into the coral comfort of home. With one slap of his hand, the ship shot into the vortex, expelling them from the hostile purple sky in an emergency dematerialisation sequence he had not used for decades. He did not pause to watch the pulsing fruition of his command, though. Without breaking his stride, he carried his burden deeper into his ship, trying not the feel the hot blood cooling on his shirt, its touch a clammy cling against his skin. He focused only on the stuttering pulse of life beneath his hands; the fragile thud was the fraying tether of his control – beyond it seethed dangerous remembrances of a life sacrificed and an emotion denied, the deadening shield of regeneration fracturing beneath the onslaught of his fear.
Breathing fiercely through his nose, the Doctor placed Rose on the infirmary bed, hand immediately replacing chest, pressing down against the steady well of blood. With brutal control, he assessed his patient. The projectile, an alien bullet, had passed straight through her, entering beneath her left shoulder blade and exiting below her clavicle. Somehow missing bone and arteries, it had ripped through muscle and was bleeding profusely. It was nothing, however, that he could not fix. Of his own state he was far less certain.
**************
The Doctor sat beside Rose’s bed, watching her sleep. It was an old habit – one he had not indulged in since he had forsaken the leather and ears. She was too pale, but beneath the bandage wrapped around her shoulder and torso there was little more than two small scars to attest to her injury. The bandage was to limit her range of movement while the muscles healed – even the sophisticated instruments he had at his disposal could not eradicate the body’s need to mend at its own pace and the deep bruising, left as testament to her close call, would take several days to ease. Still, she was alive. She would be well.
His fingers clenched around the soft fabric of this trousers and for an instant his synapses misfired, confused not to find the rough texture of resistant denim. New new Doctor. He’d changed and they’d been running ever since, but now they were still and he was catching himself up.
He’d kissed her. Different lips, same urge.
She’d kissed him. Not her, but she’d been looking.
He’d run and run, laughing past the subtle shifts that made fingers linger a few seconds longer, gazes hold beyond complete comfort, speculation flutter beneath the skin. He’d run, telling himself that nothing had changed – not really. The fundamentals stayed the same, after all – new body, same man. They weren’t a couple. Each other’s plus one, but friends, just friends. Theirs was not a sexual relationship. One hell of an age gap, after all. But he’d been running then – leather and ears and denial. He’d been running since he met her. Faster and faster. Run and laugh and revel in spectacle and run. Run!
Now he was still and he could outrun himself no longer.
He tried, of course. He told himself that he was here, in her room, simply in case she stirred and needed him. He told himself that he was counting the gentle rise and fall of her chest as parted lips drew in and exhaled breath simply as a form of meditation. He told himself that there was no tremor in his hands and nightmares did not lurk beneath his lids. He told himself that he was not waiting to hear her voice, silent since the projectile stole her laughter. He told himself that he was not struck immobile by a conviction that, if he left her side, she would slip away from him for good. He told himself many things. He lied.
Of course, he’d known the moment her simple plea for help had roused him from his post regeneration healing trace; the urge to save her, whatever the cost, the need to save her, whatever the cost, had not just survived his metamorphosis, it had intensified. He’d battened it down, pressed it deep, held it fast within him. It smouldered, though, sending out telltale little sparks.
I just thought... 'cos I changed...
I want that body safe, Cassandra!
Today, beneath lilac clouds, the embers had flared into an inferno and now he was left with only charcoal and ash.
He unclenched his fingers, rubbing his palm unconsciously up and down against his knee. He’d washed away Rose’s blood but it felt as if it had permeated his skin, marking him indelibly, tattooing Rose’s mortality on his soul.
He’d known, of course he’d known, but after saving her, ridding her of her foolish, brave, impossible wolf, he’d permitted himself to believe he had years, decades, left. Decades to come to terms with the inevitable loss. Decades of memories to store up, buffer against the grief. It would never have been enough, but he’d convinced himself that there would be more. He had built a house of cards, and one small puff of wind had rendered it derelict.
Rose shifted in her sleep, a frown marring her smooth features, as her shoulder nudged the mattress, and a murmur of discomfort whispering into the hushed air. In an instant, he had moved, his long fingered hands easing her into a position of comfort, his soft voice shushing her with melodious sighs of a dead language. As she slipped back into a deep, healing sleep, his thumb hovered over the wrinkle between her brows, his fingers ghosting her pallid cheek. He itched to touch her, to feel the warmth that had returned to her skin, to feel the gentle, regular, pulse of life beneath its surface, but he dare not. So he simply stood, bent over her like a sheltering sky, his fingers envious of the air that was free to caress her.
*************
He felt the change – the shift in breathing, the slight rise in temperature – that heralded her waking. He was not ready, but it was dawning on him that he might never be. Instead, he steeled himself, erecting new barriers inside his mind, schooling his features into a semblance of normalcy; he was still new to her, his face not yet mapped entirely by her perceptive scrutiny, so he might dissemble.
Focusing inward, he reached for control, only for it to shy away from him. Horrified, he strained – lean muscles bunching, jaw clenching, fingers twitching in involuntary paroxysm, mirroring the internal fight for concealment. It was not to be; the tethers that held his mask in place, snapped free from their restraints, fought like wild things to remain emancipated, ripping clear of questing digits, evading his frantic grasp.
Things fall apart.
Time – he needed more time! There was, however, in this moment of need, no more time to be had. Mocking, complacent, time slipped forward, slithering through his hands like an agile fish, leaving him, like the angler, gaping in surprise at the unanticipated loss.
As her eyes opened, closed, opened again, he was unprepared – no inane ramble at the ready, no prevarication, no half-truth, no feint against the rapier of her sight.
‘Doctor.’ His name a sigh on her lips, like a homecoming, struck with the certitude of a cobra, and in the instant there was nothing left between him and the abyss.
‘Rose.’
Her hand wandered towards her chest, her eyes wide and questioning and his stomach clenched, his hearts beat wildly, at the recollection of scarlet.
‘You’re fine, Rose. You are fine.’
There was camouflage, in facts.
‘You fixed me?’
‘Yes.’
Camouflage, but not safety, because there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to hide. Nothing was certain anymore.
Desperate, he looked into her luminous eyes.
‘Doctor, what is it?’
Time fell silent, waiting. Waiting, and offering him no clue.
‘I…’
Words failed him.
‘Are you alright?’
The centre cannot hold.
He closed his eyes.
‘Doctor?’
With a sigh, he breathed free the last tattered remnants of his rigid control. It was illusion, nothing more. Oh, how Romana would have laughed; she’d always seen through his worst excesses. Surely, some revelation is at hand?
‘Doctor? Please! What is it?’
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.
Drawing in breath, he let his lids rise, let himself contemplate her, let himself be seen, let himself fall.
‘D…Doctor?’
Time focused to a point.
And then he kissed her.
END
~~~
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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*Hugs* And congrats you deserve it!
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*hands over chocolate prize*
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I was so worried about this round. It gets scarier every time! I'm a complete wreck!
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This was really well done, you so totally deserved whatever win it earned you. Very much enjoyed!
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:-)
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;-)
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I clearly have a style, even when I think I don't!
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And by the way, lovely story :)
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But thank you!!! HUGS!
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*blushes*
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This was a remarkable story, it was my favorite of the group.
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*kisses*
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*squees*
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The rest was beautiful. Loved the build-up to the fall, as well as most of the metaphor. And especially the description of her getting injured in the beginning!
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Each word is the exact right choice (except what I think is a typo - "asset" instead of "attest"), but somehow, it reads effortlessly. It's stunning. I was sucked in and holding my breath, terrified he would make the other choice and fight it.
I love it.
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PS Have fixed the typo - thanks for pointing it out :-D