The Mirror Cracked From Side To Side
Disclaimer: No matter how much I petition the Beeb, they still won't let me own Doctor Who...probably a good move, god knows what I'd do with it xD
Disclaimer Take Two: The title actually belongs to Agatha Christie, as it's the title to one of her Miss Marple Mysteries. It's a damn good book, I'd recommend reading it...
Disclaimer Take Three: I also don't own Star Trek, Eastenders, or Friends...they belong to their respective networks...
A/N: I suppose this reflects my life right now. I just needed a way to vent since my best friend is a real arsehole sometimes, no matter how much I love him. So this appeared from the recesses of the Big Bag of Weird I fondly refer to as my brain...it's a little angsty, a little introspective, a lot Ten. It will turn out to be two, slightly unrelated drabbles, one from Ten's POV, one from Mickey's, about how they're actually a lot more similar than they'd like to admit when it comes to Rose...so, um, enjoy, I guess...
A/N Take Two: Please remember that all reviews are greatly appreciated so once you've finished reading, have a go at pressing the purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page...Pretty please with an even prettier Time Lord on top?
Intergalactic Casanova (or 'How We Learnt To Avoid Pistols At Dawn')
She ran towards you. You. But you tend to forget that sometimes.
You forget because you must; there are so many rules that must be obeyed and you just can't stop yourself from breaking them around her. The rules of your people and of Space and Time, the rules that your own parents broke so long ago and so far away. Your own rules. You need discipline but it doesn't always exist in your hectic, inexplicable world where the impossible is so much more than that. Sometimes you want to believe that you can break those rules, that you can change and that you can truly have what you want…but it's not that simple. Not for you.
She could have all that, of course. Maybe she will one day. If she wanted, she could have the normal life, she could settle down and start a family with a man who would love her forever and cherish every second he spends in her company. You are not that man. But neither is Mickey Smith. Not now, anyway. Not yet. He'll need training; right now he's just the Tin Dog, the consolation prize, but with the right guidance he could be so much more. He could almost be worthy of her. Almost.
You realise sometimes, a slight dawning realisation that you do bend, if not completely shatter, the rules; you take her to the most beautiful places, all the sights that humans were never meant to see, planets of diamonds and shining stars. You took her to Woman Wept but you'll never admit that it was a mistake. Waves of glittering ice, hundreds of feet high and towering over you when she was still in the mindset of a nineteen-year-old London shop girl and you wore a leather jacket and the weight of the Universe on your shoulders. You remember that night as if it were happening all over again; the towers of silver, blue and pink under a midnight sky as she lived up to the planet's name. It was the first time that you had really allowed yourself to let go of your stringent inhibitions and hold her like you had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
But then the guilt wracks you, clawing at your insides, tearing every semblance of indifference from your usual demeanour and you know, you just know that you are so completely in the wrong, as you always are when you take them away from their lives without a backwards glance. She has someone at home who could give her everything she will ever need, who wants to create a life with her, around her and you have stolen her away, charming her with the glamour of a life amongst the stars. And it works, selfish old man that you are.
You encourage the lies and the cheating; every time your fingers slip in between hers, every time you hold her just a little bit closer than is necessary. It's all about the primal instincts, the idea of marking your territory, your possessions, ignoring the fact that they're supposed to be someone else's because that someone else wasn't good enough to own them. The act of theft is surreptitious, a silent move in the night. You could have been a cat burglar, a shadow in the dark of consciousness and feeling. But you're not silent or shadowy in the slightest; you're all about the flashing neon and the glitter glue. The 'Hey, look at me, I've got a Time Machine' school of flirting; it's blatant and obvious and completely in-your-face arrogant, but it gets results and you suddenly feel cheap, yet fulfilled.
But that was when you wanted her. Now you have her. You could almost say 'for better or for worse' if it didn't sound like it came from some sort of tacky Star Trek-Eastenders crossover. The Time Lord and the Human; a sitcom to rival Friends. It could almost be laughable if it wasn't so damn near the knuckle, because you're currently experiencing all the clichéd stages of sitcom romance; the soppy grin, the flirty banter, first-date syndrome, the seductive contact, intimacy, cold feet, and that terrifying green-eyed monster. They might not have been experienced in the classic order, especially since you gave her the key to your 'apartment' well before the first kiss and since you supposedly haven't even considered the other perks that come with living together, but they're definitely real and completely inconvenient.
Sometimes you find it difficult to concentrate on defeating the bad guys and saving the world when she wears an interesting outfit, or when she bites her lip in that little nervous habit that you find so damn endearing, but now it's almost impossible. It was Sarah's fault, suggesting that Mickey the Idiot should tag along with you, but it wasn't like you could refuse when you saw Rose's face. She looked so reluctant that you realised that this could stop you embarking on anything as ridiculously inappropriate as kissing her without a good enough excuse as absorbing the Time Vortex.
It's not love. It can't be, not her, not you. You've always imagined love the way your parents described it; forbidden and beautiful. Broken, just like them. Sometimes you wonder what Freud would have made of you; a lost, lonely little 945-year-old boy. But it's not love because you won't let it be. But the jealousy undercuts that because she lets that stupid ape kiss her and hold her and all other things that couple in love do, all while giving you that wanton look that she does so well. Somewhere in a cross between lust and love, somewhere that you know so well that it almost hurts. But it's a dull ache, not a sharp fleeting stab; constant and forever.
So you push it, ignoring the idiot, ignoring her…boyfriend. Pretending that it's just the two of you; Shiver and Shake, the old team, bit of a smile and an awful lot of running. The Doctor and Rose. In the TARDIS. Just as it should be. And it's cruel and uncaring but that's just you. You don't care if you hurt him because he was there first and you begrudge him that claim because you don't want to accept that someone has been here before you, that someone has broken through the barriers that you oh-so carefully set up. Because you don't have that freedom to be so damn unprofessional…but that implies that this is a job, a chore, and you kick yourself at the thought.
One day you'll lose her and all the worry will have been for nothing, so why not just reach out and claim her? It's not like she'd protest. But you're a coward. Every time. And just like handling a gun, you never would, and that sickens you.