1.04: Aliens of London + 2.07: The Idiot’s Lantern
His face is perfect.
Gallifrey, our childhood, our home.
Anonymous For a doodle request, Mickey holding Martha?
Or Donna and Lee (from the library?)
Matt & David
Billie + David, right after Billie’s last scene on Doctor Who.
Do you ever just…
Thanks to Jensen I will no longer be able to take men who drink from straws seriously. Thanks Jensen.
ben x hannah
«You’ll grow old at the same time as me?»
She settles on the sofa, legs curled up under her body, while he sits sandwiched between her knees and the coffee table. He refuses to turn on the ceiling light, preferring the way the blue glow of his newly refurbished sonic screwdriver contrasts with the soft yellow light of the table lamp. He is, undoubtedly, the same man and she loves him desperately.
“Rose?” the Doctor answers, his usual buoyancy deflated.
“Can’t send you anywhere, can I?” She misses him, loves hearing his voice, but she is supposed to be chastising him for getting arrested. Again.
She laughs, charmed by his sudden obsession with photography, then swipes her thumb along the frosting and licks it, pausing for a moment so he can get his shot. “Gorgeous,” he sighs, lowering the lens.
“I did splurge for the tiny umbrellas” Rose laughs as he sets the camera down and stalks toward her, hunger burning in his eyes.
“This should be better than 1833 Leonids in our universe, Rose, and they were brilliant!” he explains while he sets up a late-night picnic. He gasps when she steps into the yard, dressed for the spectacular astronomical event the Doctor decided was this universe’s “Welcome Home” gift. They miss the meteor shower; she blushes when he says he prefers seeing stars to falling rocks.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journey’s end in lovers’ meeting—
Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ‘tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty,—
Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
-from Twelfth Night
“Are you proposing to me?”
“It might be nice ‘s all I’m sayin’, but only if you want to, I swear.”
“Could I still call you Rose Tyler?”
“Rose?” his voice raises an octave like it always does when he’s nervous.
“I love you,” she says, tears spring from her eyes against her will as he watches her, confused, “I’m pregnant.” He doesn’t answer, but his breath catches and his eyes shine.
She loves it like this, spontaneous and needy, without a care for where or when. He pulls at her jeans pounces, then stops, looks to her belly, then back to her. She rolls her eyes, grabs his bum, and pulls him back into her orbit.
“Hi,” she whispers after tumbling into bed, her dress rumpled and unzipped and stained by some sort of alien goo but not yet discarded.
“Rose Tyler,” he grins, leans in for a kiss.
“Yes, Doctor Tyler?” she asks before he silences her.