"Picnic on Aix" (Nine/Rose ) 2/5
Jan. 26th, 2012 05:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fannishlisstitle: Picnic on Aix, part two
author:![[info]](../../img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8)
fannishliss
pairing: Nine/Rose
rating: ultimately NC17
length: 11,100 words in all, broken into parts. Part Two is 2300 words and still rated G.
summary: The Tardis strands the Doctor and Rose until they deal with their unresolved tension (post Father's Day).
Read Part One here :
Rose finds him a little later. He's immersed himself in a nicely bound copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury. Of course he knows all the poems by heart, but it's nice to leaf through the pages, and she's caught him lingering over the Robbie Burns, humming a melody that's recently been circling through his mind.
"Whatcha reading?" Rose asks.
"Poetry," he says, intentionally obtuse.
"Yeah?" she answers, looking interested anyway.
He looks down at the page: As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in love am I --
He looks back up at her, hearts pounding in his throat. "Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, / And the rocks melt wi' the sun," he recites -- the only two lines of the poem he can risk out loud with her standing right there in front of him.
"Rocks melt with the sun," says Rose, "to think I actually saw that."
"Yeah," the Doctor nods. Crazy idea for a first date, but that's the kind of man he is now, it seems.
Rose touches the books. "It's weird, isn't it? We're on some planet that thinks it's Provence, in a bookshop, reading poetry by a Scotsman who's been dead, how long?"
"This is the forty-first century," the Doctor said, "so, right around two thousand years."
Rose trails her hands across the books. "Two thousand years," she breathes, frowning.
"It's a bit like your schoolboys reading Latin," the Doctor said.
Rose laughs. "Not my schoolboys! They were more likely reading old copies of 2000 AD."
The Doctor nods. "Still, Keats got it right. A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
He looks at her when he says it, this time, looks right at her, and sees her heart rise into her eyes. His hand moves of its own accord, lifting to caress her cheek. She leans into his hand and he feels that he could lose himself in that gaze, that simple touch: forever.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and the moment passes.
"I'm closing up the bookstore now," Justine says, handing the Doctor a key, "but you two will probably want to go find something to eat. There are several good places I can tell you about."
Rose is tired, so the Doctor doesn't want anything too elaborate, and they choose the place that is nearest. As a bonus, it's run by Justine's cousin Liliane. It really is such a small town that many of the residents are related. The Doctor lends his coat to Rose again, and when they arrive, he goes to the washroom and quickly sonicks his jumper dry. He doesn't mind feeling a little damp, if a delicious meal puts the color back in Rose's cheeks and the smile back on her lips.
It's a wonderful evening. Liliane seats them in a cozy corner away from the other diners. She first brings pastis as an aperitif along with a jug of cool spring water. The Doctor pours, adding the faintest trace of the heady licorice liqueur to the water. Rose sparkles with delight and jokes about the green fairy, even though the Doctor assures her it isn't really absinthe. They sip at their drinks and before long, Rose is nibbling tiny olives and dipping bits of bread into the oil, and the Doctor is watching her so intently that she offers him a morsel from her fingertips.
The look in her eye, daring him to play along, tips the scale against his better judgment. He captures her hand and daintily seizes the bit of bread, just grazing her fingertips with his teeth. Her breath catches, her eyes go wide and dark, and he knows he hasn't made a mistake. So he holds out the next olive, and just as daintily, she takes it from him, the softness of her lips barely registering against his fingers.
When the olives have gone, Liliane gracefully whisks the plate away, bringing them ramekins of rich onion soup, thick with toasted cheese on top. The Doctor feels on fire with the game they've been playing, feeding each other, so he's grateful for the reprieve and dips his spoon with care. Rose makes delighted noises at the flavorful broth, and the Doctor smiles. Despite the rain, being locked out, getting so wet, the tiny room -- this trip is proving to be not so bad after all.
The Doctor chooses a vegetarian risotto for the plat principal, replete with toasted nuts, mushrooms, and succulent diced vegetables. It's like a treasure hunt for his fork. The portion is small, which is to his taste, since he doesn't need much food to keep him going. Rose has curbed her meat consumption since she's been traveling with him, even though he tells her he doesn't mind. Back on the Tardis, her least favorite cupboard in the galley is the one full of nutrition bars. She says they're disgustingly tough and bland, but for him, it's just a painless way to boost his protein intake, along with the hefty proportion of milk he takes in his tea every day.
They have more fun again with the cheese course. There are five different kinds of local, aged cheeses on the board, along with slices of delicious fresh fruit that Rose has never imagined, new varieties that even the Doctor hasn't encountered, bred in the hundreds of years since humanity spread to new planets. The Doctor watches, almost at a remove, almost in awe, as Rose tempts him with little tidbits of cheese and fruit, laughing as he prefers one flavor to another and trying to predict which things he'll enjoy most. He never thought he'd enjoy anything this much again -- something so sensual, so pedestrian as a fancy meal at what humans consider a fine restaurant.
Dessert is a small bowl of chocolate mousse, drizzled with a tart berry syrup. The Doctor and Rose share the bowl with two spoons. By this point, he is leaning toward her until their foreheads are almost touching. He is so attuned to her that he can almost feel the spoonful of mousse slide across her lips and tongue. She is smiling now, relaxed and happy, the strain of the past few days beginning to fall away.
Liliane brings small cups of strong coffee, with chocolate. The Doctor finds coffee too bitter to really enjoy, but Rose lets the square of chocolate melt in her mouth, chasing it with the coffee. Wanting Rose to experience the full effect of the five star meal, the Doctor asks Liliane to bring put the very best cognac. She brings it with a snifter and shows Rose how to swirl it to best enjoy the aroma. Rose's happy smile at the elegant digestif is more precious to the Doctor than the finest cognac could ever be.
Rose offers the glass to him and he takes a tiny sip, just letting the flavor travel across his taste buds -- but secretly, he's enjoying the traces of Rose from the rim of her glass, lighting up his senses more excitingly than any mere alcohol, no matter how fine.
The Doctor settles the check with Liliane -- in forty-first-century terms his line of credit is nearly infinite, though he lets the psychic paper pull the requisite numbers from storage somewhere deep in his brain. A penny saved is a quadrillion earned, as long as one keeps track of the investment.
The rain is still pounding outside. Liliane offers them an umbrella from a cache she keeps at the door, left by other patrons and never claimed.
The Doctor gathers Rose close to him, sheltering her on the short walk back to the bookstore, where they let themselves in with the key Justine gave them, remembering to lock up securely behind them.
Now they're standing in the foyer of the bookstore, streetlight shining in dimly through the shop windows. Rose is beautiful, sleepy eyes and parted lips, and the Doctor wants more than anything to keep that relaxed and happy look on her face.
"I'm not sure what to do about the room," Rose says, a little frown already appearing between her brows.
"I don't need to sleep. I'm just as happy in a chair," the Doctor assures her.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"Positive," he says. What's the alternative, really? Only things he refuses to let himself imagine.
"Okay," she says doubtfully. They go up two flights together, as the Doctor has some notion that he should see her safe to her room.
He pauses outside the door. "Do you want the sonic -- for your teeth?" the Doctor explains at her quizzical expression.
"Do you really sonic your teeth?" Rose asks, breaking into astonished laughter.
"Of course!" he responds, half-affronted, half-pleased he's made her laugh. "Toothbrushes, don't get me started. Here, watch: setting 15A. It's one of the most basic settings I have programmed. I mean really. Look at these teeth. They're spotless." He sets the sonic and demonstrates, trying not to laugh at her incredulous expression, trying not to imagine how the familiar tingling sensation would feel inside her mouth. He's done in a few seconds and hands her the screwdriver.
He smiles in delight as she opens her mouth and gingerly presses the on tab, sonicking the top and bottom rows of teeth just as he had done.
"Hmm," she says, a strange look on her face. "They do feel very, very clean now…. but not exactly minty-fresh."
"Minty-fresh is a flavor, not a setting," he says, frowning, but he's made her laugh again. He doesn't go into the other personal toiletry features of his miraculous screwdriver -- hair clipper, clothes freshener, shoe shiner....
"Um, goodnight then, Doctor," Rose says, looking shy.
"Goodnight," he answers, reluctant to go.
He doesn't make a move to turn away, and neither does she.
"Goodnight," she whispers, looking up him.
"Goodnight," he whispers back, staring down at her.
"I had a really wonderful evening," she says softly.
"Me too," he answers.
They've run out of things to say, but she still hasn't turned away.
"Will you wake me in the morning?" Rose whispers.
"What time?" he asks.
"Whenever you want," she says, but there's something more in her eyes. His instinct is to pull her closer, take her in his arms, open the door, and lie down with her on that narrow bed. In the whole of the universe, right now, there's nothing more important to him than Rose Tyler, beautiful human, staring up at him like he's the only man she's ever seen. He wants that, craves it -- the feeling that he matters to her like she does to him --
He pulls her close, just for a second, allows himself the press of his lips against her forehead. Time holds still for a moment as he catalogs the smell of her hair, the temperature of her skin, the beat of her heart and the flow of her blood and the nerve impulses shooting through her body, the aura of her intentions radiating out from her temporality, that strange familiar golden aura that slips away from him whenever he tries to examine it -- the heft of her human body fragile in his arms, but so strong, so alive and there and real -- so precious -- too precious to risk -- and he pulls away.
"Good night, Rose, sleep well," he says as he turns and in a moment he's down the stairs headed for the nineteenth-century English, ready for the works of Byron and the comfy reading chair Justine has set up in a corner for her customers.
Literature is one of the Doctor's favorite distractions. His Time Lord brain can hold so many layers of experience, he remembers eidetically every time he's read a piece, and the words pick up layer after layer of meaning, multiplying every time he reads them. Now Manfred's vision of Astarte will forever after call up the memory of his lips against Rose's forehead, and a corresponding chain of images of Rose, running, her hand in his, her tongue between her teeth, the Earth exploding, the Gelth oncoming, the chronovores diving, and her brave beauty facing down all of it. Manfred is a git, and so is he if he loses her, survives her with nothing but regret for a cold comfort.
He starts from the page, the spell broken. Was that a noise from upstairs?
The old house, full of books, creaks and settles in the night, worlds different from the hum of his Tardis as she spins through the vortex.
There, again, a noise. Rose!
He's up the stairs in an instant, pausing at the door.
He hears an unhappy groan, and raps lightly at the door. "Rose?" he calls softly.
"Doctor!" Rose calls. "Doctor!"
He doesn't hesitate, but sonicks the locked door open.
"Rose, what is it?" he whispers, crouching beside the narrow bed.
But she's still asleep. It's a nightmare. Her eyes are tightly closed, her brow clenched.
"Doctor!" she calls again. "No! Doctor!"
"Sh," he says, feeling helpless. He lays touches her shoulder, bare beneath the sheet.
"Oh!" she says, breathing in sharply, and her eyes finally open, muzzy and unfocused.
"Doctor?" she mumbles.
"Yes, Rose, I'm here. You were having a nightmare," he says, patting her gently.
"Horrible! Those things, from the sky, they were chasing you --" she groans.
"That's all over and done with. You'll never see those things again," he soothes.
"Please," she says, "stay with me. Lie down next to me. Please, Doctor," Rose begs.
He's truly helpless now. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the doorknob, and lies down, spooning himself to her back, on top of the covers with the sheets and blankets between him and her naked skin.
"Thank you," she whispers, and with a heavy sigh, she falls back asleep.
Go on to Part Three!
author:
fannishlisspairing: Nine/Rose
rating: ultimately NC17
length: 11,100 words in all, broken into parts. Part Two is 2300 words and still rated G.
summary: The Tardis strands the Doctor and Rose until they deal with their unresolved tension (post Father's Day).
Read Part One here :
"Do you have any nineteenth-century English?" he says brightly.
"Of course!" she says, and they clatter down the stairs, away from the claustrophobic little room. He needs a proactive breather from any potential domestics.
Rose finds him a little later. He's immersed himself in a nicely bound copy of Palgrave's Golden Treasury. Of course he knows all the poems by heart, but it's nice to leaf through the pages, and she's caught him lingering over the Robbie Burns, humming a melody that's recently been circling through his mind.
"Whatcha reading?" Rose asks.
"Poetry," he says, intentionally obtuse.
"Yeah?" she answers, looking interested anyway.
He looks down at the page: As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in love am I --
He looks back up at her, hearts pounding in his throat. "Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, / And the rocks melt wi' the sun," he recites -- the only two lines of the poem he can risk out loud with her standing right there in front of him.
"Rocks melt with the sun," says Rose, "to think I actually saw that."
"Yeah," the Doctor nods. Crazy idea for a first date, but that's the kind of man he is now, it seems.
Rose touches the books. "It's weird, isn't it? We're on some planet that thinks it's Provence, in a bookshop, reading poetry by a Scotsman who's been dead, how long?"
"This is the forty-first century," the Doctor said, "so, right around two thousand years."
Rose trails her hands across the books. "Two thousand years," she breathes, frowning.
"It's a bit like your schoolboys reading Latin," the Doctor said.
Rose laughs. "Not my schoolboys! They were more likely reading old copies of 2000 AD."
The Doctor nods. "Still, Keats got it right. A thing of beauty is a joy forever."
He looks at her when he says it, this time, looks right at her, and sees her heart rise into her eyes. His hand moves of its own accord, lifting to caress her cheek. She leans into his hand and he feels that he could lose himself in that gaze, that simple touch: forever.
Footsteps sound on the stairs, and the moment passes.
"I'm closing up the bookstore now," Justine says, handing the Doctor a key, "but you two will probably want to go find something to eat. There are several good places I can tell you about."
Rose is tired, so the Doctor doesn't want anything too elaborate, and they choose the place that is nearest. As a bonus, it's run by Justine's cousin Liliane. It really is such a small town that many of the residents are related. The Doctor lends his coat to Rose again, and when they arrive, he goes to the washroom and quickly sonicks his jumper dry. He doesn't mind feeling a little damp, if a delicious meal puts the color back in Rose's cheeks and the smile back on her lips.
It's a wonderful evening. Liliane seats them in a cozy corner away from the other diners. She first brings pastis as an aperitif along with a jug of cool spring water. The Doctor pours, adding the faintest trace of the heady licorice liqueur to the water. Rose sparkles with delight and jokes about the green fairy, even though the Doctor assures her it isn't really absinthe. They sip at their drinks and before long, Rose is nibbling tiny olives and dipping bits of bread into the oil, and the Doctor is watching her so intently that she offers him a morsel from her fingertips.
The look in her eye, daring him to play along, tips the scale against his better judgment. He captures her hand and daintily seizes the bit of bread, just grazing her fingertips with his teeth. Her breath catches, her eyes go wide and dark, and he knows he hasn't made a mistake. So he holds out the next olive, and just as daintily, she takes it from him, the softness of her lips barely registering against his fingers.
When the olives have gone, Liliane gracefully whisks the plate away, bringing them ramekins of rich onion soup, thick with toasted cheese on top. The Doctor feels on fire with the game they've been playing, feeding each other, so he's grateful for the reprieve and dips his spoon with care. Rose makes delighted noises at the flavorful broth, and the Doctor smiles. Despite the rain, being locked out, getting so wet, the tiny room -- this trip is proving to be not so bad after all.
The Doctor chooses a vegetarian risotto for the plat principal, replete with toasted nuts, mushrooms, and succulent diced vegetables. It's like a treasure hunt for his fork. The portion is small, which is to his taste, since he doesn't need much food to keep him going. Rose has curbed her meat consumption since she's been traveling with him, even though he tells her he doesn't mind. Back on the Tardis, her least favorite cupboard in the galley is the one full of nutrition bars. She says they're disgustingly tough and bland, but for him, it's just a painless way to boost his protein intake, along with the hefty proportion of milk he takes in his tea every day.
They have more fun again with the cheese course. There are five different kinds of local, aged cheeses on the board, along with slices of delicious fresh fruit that Rose has never imagined, new varieties that even the Doctor hasn't encountered, bred in the hundreds of years since humanity spread to new planets. The Doctor watches, almost at a remove, almost in awe, as Rose tempts him with little tidbits of cheese and fruit, laughing as he prefers one flavor to another and trying to predict which things he'll enjoy most. He never thought he'd enjoy anything this much again -- something so sensual, so pedestrian as a fancy meal at what humans consider a fine restaurant.
Dessert is a small bowl of chocolate mousse, drizzled with a tart berry syrup. The Doctor and Rose share the bowl with two spoons. By this point, he is leaning toward her until their foreheads are almost touching. He is so attuned to her that he can almost feel the spoonful of mousse slide across her lips and tongue. She is smiling now, relaxed and happy, the strain of the past few days beginning to fall away.
Liliane brings small cups of strong coffee, with chocolate. The Doctor finds coffee too bitter to really enjoy, but Rose lets the square of chocolate melt in her mouth, chasing it with the coffee. Wanting Rose to experience the full effect of the five star meal, the Doctor asks Liliane to bring put the very best cognac. She brings it with a snifter and shows Rose how to swirl it to best enjoy the aroma. Rose's happy smile at the elegant digestif is more precious to the Doctor than the finest cognac could ever be.
Rose offers the glass to him and he takes a tiny sip, just letting the flavor travel across his taste buds -- but secretly, he's enjoying the traces of Rose from the rim of her glass, lighting up his senses more excitingly than any mere alcohol, no matter how fine.
The Doctor settles the check with Liliane -- in forty-first-century terms his line of credit is nearly infinite, though he lets the psychic paper pull the requisite numbers from storage somewhere deep in his brain. A penny saved is a quadrillion earned, as long as one keeps track of the investment.
The rain is still pounding outside. Liliane offers them an umbrella from a cache she keeps at the door, left by other patrons and never claimed.
The Doctor gathers Rose close to him, sheltering her on the short walk back to the bookstore, where they let themselves in with the key Justine gave them, remembering to lock up securely behind them.
Now they're standing in the foyer of the bookstore, streetlight shining in dimly through the shop windows. Rose is beautiful, sleepy eyes and parted lips, and the Doctor wants more than anything to keep that relaxed and happy look on her face.
"I'm not sure what to do about the room," Rose says, a little frown already appearing between her brows.
"I don't need to sleep. I'm just as happy in a chair," the Doctor assures her.
"Are you sure?" she asks.
"Positive," he says. What's the alternative, really? Only things he refuses to let himself imagine.
"Okay," she says doubtfully. They go up two flights together, as the Doctor has some notion that he should see her safe to her room.
He pauses outside the door. "Do you want the sonic -- for your teeth?" the Doctor explains at her quizzical expression.
"Do you really sonic your teeth?" Rose asks, breaking into astonished laughter.
"Of course!" he responds, half-affronted, half-pleased he's made her laugh. "Toothbrushes, don't get me started. Here, watch: setting 15A. It's one of the most basic settings I have programmed. I mean really. Look at these teeth. They're spotless." He sets the sonic and demonstrates, trying not to laugh at her incredulous expression, trying not to imagine how the familiar tingling sensation would feel inside her mouth. He's done in a few seconds and hands her the screwdriver.
He smiles in delight as she opens her mouth and gingerly presses the on tab, sonicking the top and bottom rows of teeth just as he had done.
"Hmm," she says, a strange look on her face. "They do feel very, very clean now…. but not exactly minty-fresh."
"Minty-fresh is a flavor, not a setting," he says, frowning, but he's made her laugh again. He doesn't go into the other personal toiletry features of his miraculous screwdriver -- hair clipper, clothes freshener, shoe shiner....
"Um, goodnight then, Doctor," Rose says, looking shy.
"Goodnight," he answers, reluctant to go.
He doesn't make a move to turn away, and neither does she.
"Goodnight," she whispers, looking up him.
"Goodnight," he whispers back, staring down at her.
"I had a really wonderful evening," she says softly.
"Me too," he answers.
They've run out of things to say, but she still hasn't turned away.
"Will you wake me in the morning?" Rose whispers.
"What time?" he asks.
"Whenever you want," she says, but there's something more in her eyes. His instinct is to pull her closer, take her in his arms, open the door, and lie down with her on that narrow bed. In the whole of the universe, right now, there's nothing more important to him than Rose Tyler, beautiful human, staring up at him like he's the only man she's ever seen. He wants that, craves it -- the feeling that he matters to her like she does to him --
He pulls her close, just for a second, allows himself the press of his lips against her forehead. Time holds still for a moment as he catalogs the smell of her hair, the temperature of her skin, the beat of her heart and the flow of her blood and the nerve impulses shooting through her body, the aura of her intentions radiating out from her temporality, that strange familiar golden aura that slips away from him whenever he tries to examine it -- the heft of her human body fragile in his arms, but so strong, so alive and there and real -- so precious -- too precious to risk -- and he pulls away.
"Good night, Rose, sleep well," he says as he turns and in a moment he's down the stairs headed for the nineteenth-century English, ready for the works of Byron and the comfy reading chair Justine has set up in a corner for her customers.
Literature is one of the Doctor's favorite distractions. His Time Lord brain can hold so many layers of experience, he remembers eidetically every time he's read a piece, and the words pick up layer after layer of meaning, multiplying every time he reads them. Now Manfred's vision of Astarte will forever after call up the memory of his lips against Rose's forehead, and a corresponding chain of images of Rose, running, her hand in his, her tongue between her teeth, the Earth exploding, the Gelth oncoming, the chronovores diving, and her brave beauty facing down all of it. Manfred is a git, and so is he if he loses her, survives her with nothing but regret for a cold comfort.
He starts from the page, the spell broken. Was that a noise from upstairs?
The old house, full of books, creaks and settles in the night, worlds different from the hum of his Tardis as she spins through the vortex.
There, again, a noise. Rose!
He's up the stairs in an instant, pausing at the door.
He hears an unhappy groan, and raps lightly at the door. "Rose?" he calls softly.
"Doctor!" Rose calls. "Doctor!"
He doesn't hesitate, but sonicks the locked door open.
"Rose, what is it?" he whispers, crouching beside the narrow bed.
But she's still asleep. It's a nightmare. Her eyes are tightly closed, her brow clenched.
"Doctor!" she calls again. "No! Doctor!"
"Sh," he says, feeling helpless. He lays touches her shoulder, bare beneath the sheet.
"Oh!" she says, breathing in sharply, and her eyes finally open, muzzy and unfocused.
"Doctor?" she mumbles.
"Yes, Rose, I'm here. You were having a nightmare," he says, patting her gently.
"Horrible! Those things, from the sky, they were chasing you --" she groans.
"That's all over and done with. You'll never see those things again," he soothes.
"Please," she says, "stay with me. Lie down next to me. Please, Doctor," Rose begs.
He's truly helpless now. He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the doorknob, and lies down, spooning himself to her back, on top of the covers with the sheets and blankets between him and her naked skin.
"Thank you," she whispers, and with a heavy sigh, she falls back asleep.
Go on to Part Three!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:28 am (UTC)Now I'll just have to find a way to kill time while I wait for part three...
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:17 am (UTC)There is one way to kill time --- I have a fair number of stories, mostly Nine/Rose, that I've written over the past year. You can pull them up by tags from my LJ. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:34 am (UTC)I really liked this part a lot more than I should. I was laughing way to hard thinking about this.
"Hmm," she says, a strange look on her face. "They do feel very, very clean now…. but not exactly minty-fresh."
"Minty-fresh is a flavor, not a setting," he says, frowning, but he's made her laugh again. He doesn't go into the other personal toiletry features of his miraculous screwdriver -- hair clipper, clothes freshener, shoe shiner....
Oh Doctor, you are so far gone. There is nothing this man wouldn't do for Rose. What a sacrifice it must be for him to lay down beside Rose and spoon her through the night.
Thank you for sharing! More please!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:20 am (UTC)I love the Doctor's attachment to his screwdriver. I found an old VHS of Three and Jo on a planet where there are a lot of Daleks, who capture Three, and when he empties his pockets, there's his sonic! I was very pleased. :)
It's really true that he'd do anything for Rose.... wait till the next part to see how his night goes! :P
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:13 am (UTC)Love it. :D
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:20 am (UTC)I'm glad some of my lolz are shared by others!!
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:26 am (UTC)I love the way you capture the Doctor and his devotion to Rose. The little comments and moments that make them.
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:36 pm (UTC)I know a really pretty melody for that poem, so it plays in my head quite a lot. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-27 12:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-30 01:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-30 03:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-24 10:48 am (UTC)This story is enchanting!
His Time Lord brain can hold so many layers of experience, he remembers eidetically every time he's read a piece, and the words pick up layer after layer of meaning, multiplying every time he reads them. .... Manfred is a git, and so is he if he loses her, survives her with nothing but regret for a cold comfort
I am in love with the Doctor you are painting with these thoughts
no subject
Date: 2012-02-24 11:24 am (UTC)I love the Doctor too, so I'm glad he's coming through. :D