Thank you so much everyone!!!!

Nope, I've only ever seen a tiny patch of snow.

Have you ever been to another continent?

Yep, think I will

Oh I wrote it! It's just my BBC disclaimer, I get too creative with it sometimes.

Character/Pairing: Eleven/River
Rating: PG-13 (a bit of sexiness)
Disclaimer: The BBC owns my soul and this.

           

He knows. She knows he knows.

It’s one of those perfect moments, “Hello, River.”

There’s an awful lot of glaring and a slowly falling grin. She slaps him square across the face.

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since you’ve had any idea who I am? You don’t even have the decency to call when you know I’ll have to see you stare at me like you’re expecting a second head to sprout from my neck…”

He knows. She knows he knows. The smug understanding of his ignorance is invalid. This River is in no uncertain terms the most livid, passionate, gorgeous one he’s met to date.

“… do you know last week you thought I was going to…”

He muffles the rest of her tirade with a kiss, their first to him.


*~*~*

The sight of her waiting for him just outside the TARDIS was unnerving; her knowledge of his need for a cup of tea was downright nerve wracking.

His elbow clashes clumsily with hers on the tiny café table which is crowded to capacity by two cups of tea, his screwdriver, her diary, and the inexplicable ache to hold her hand. Instead he simply drums his fingers beside hers and waits.

*~*~*

He isn’t entirely certain whether the slowness of the kiss in comparison to the speed of his thoughts is making him dizzy or if this is the first time in a long while he’s been seriously properly and utterly snogged.


*~*~*

She squeezes his hand and picks up her journal, skimming through it like a novel. He surprises himself by wondering what they must look like from afar, a pair having tea, silence comfortable between them like a hearth. He finds it enthralling, mesmerizing, and the slightest bit disturbing- this peace.

When he finally decides to speak she folds her hands neatly below her chin and smiles.

“River, was it your idea or mine?”

“What idea?”

“This,” he says roughly, nearly upsetting his cup of tea, “On what sort of sane universe do I allow myself to barge in and out of your life, to interrupt your existence, to…”

She laughs again and this time it’s clear who she’s laughing at, “Who said anything about sanity, Sweetie?”

*~*~*

He thinks he hears the door behind her click open, he thinks they stumble into the flat, but like all his other thoughts these are blurred by the scent of tea, lemon, and ancient dust.


*~*~*

He sighs and pushes away from the table, finally upsetting his cuppa and nearly drenching his screwdriver, “I don’t understand you. You know everything about me. Why? How? When?”

She is serious now, a crackle of slow burning fire behind her eyes.

“They aren’t my rules,” she tells him, “if you’re wondering. If you had even the slightest doubt I’ll clarify it for you, I wish I could tell you right now who I am, what we are, and when we came to be. I wish I could tell you every single time I see you and you look at me like a puzzle with a missing piece. I wish you knew all of me,” she takes a breath and tries to grasp at her composure, “just as I know all of you.”

*~*~*

There are words that have no place between them, pieces that don’t fit like ‘I missed you’ and ‘I’m sorry’. They could waste their lives away in those words.

*~*~*

“Then tell me,” he pleads in a whisper, “just say it.”

Now that her mask is in place he can see right through it, knows now that the chilling smugness was always a ruse, “I swore to you.”

“I release you of your promise.”

“Well,” she says slowly, crushing lemon slices in her tea, “I don’t release you of yours. You swore so many things to me that night.”

*~*~*

A steady beat of four and the chill of his body beside hers wake her that day, she smiles when she looks up at him, his fringe half over his eyes which try to read her.

“What were you muttering last night? You know, Old High Gallifreyan is much easier to write than to understand.”


*~*~*

That afternoon in the evening air of a corner café he caught her in a lie.

“Why are you crying? Please, River, don’t cry. Are you afraid to tell me who you are?”

“No sweetie,” she laughs again, and this time he thinks he knows what the laugh is about, “I’ve just got lemon in my eye.”

*~*~*
They lay still for minute after minute, and she knows he’s thinking of what to say to her without telling her where they’ll end up some day.

“You crush the lemon in your tea when you’re upset,” he whispers, brushing away the curls of her hair, touching his lips to the hollow of her neck, “And you lie to me when you cry, River, you lie every time.”

Though I'd love a tiny River to pieces, my first thoughts looking at that little girl go to the Mysterious Little Girl (yes that's totally her name) that knows Jack in Torchwood. She can predict the future and because he knows her through quite a stretch of time I don't think she's human, but she does dress in these sort of older times style.

Does anyone know who I'm talking about? I'll try to find a picture.

Oh hi! I just got here, *fangirls about River with you*

Sour cream and onion.

Favorite book?

Hi everyone!

 I'm Adri, known around the interwebs as adribetty394. I became a fan summer of 2009 and watched all of the new series in a month. My project for this summer is to start with the classic episodes!

My Doctor is Ten, and I will always always love him, that said Eleven is amazing and I adore him and Nine deserves more love than he gets. My favorite episode of Series 5 is Vincent and the Doctor, though my all time favorites would be the Library two parter and the Series 4 finale episodes.

I have a River Song fangirl flag and I'm not afraid to wave it. I'm the Mod of Spoiler_Song, a River Appreciation Comm at LiveJournal.

Shameless plug is shameless: http://community.livejournal.com/spoiler_song/

I'm a big shipper, and my main two are Ten/Rose and Eleven/River, but I'm also a multishipper, I basically love most romantic pairings and I try to reconcile as many as I can.

Ooooh I like talking about myself, that's enough now 

Character/Pairing: Eleven/River, Rory/Amy
Rating: PG-13 (allusions to violence)
Disclaimer: The BBC owns my soul and this.


“If I’m honest I don’t think I can say, ‘until death do us part’.”

“Is that a spoiler?”

“It’s a thought. There are other things I can vow.”
~~~~~

It starts with death.

He’s thinking about mercy and how little he’s got left and considers that each new body should be refilled with the stuff, but at the moment he seriously doubts that’s how it works.

He is thinking about mercy and how he doesn’t think he’ll find it in himself to forgive whatever did this.

Amy stands frozen by the side of the blue box which sits so impeccable that it gleams amongst the sand and the blood. It says something about how plastic-Rory spent his days that rather than shock and terror there is more of memories and pain in his eyes.

This is one of the images that the Doctor knows will be burned in his mind no matter the color of his eyes or his choice of tie. This image is his now, not because of guilt, but because it will forever be the image behind his need to avenge.


I give to you my protection, my allegiance.

There is a tug of something he used to call instinct and a recalibration of gravity leading him twenty yards to the left, three paces back, behind a rock, five corpses to the right.
There is something pulling him to her or her to him.

It starts with death but not with hers.

*

It takes Amy more than a moment’s time to recognize the body that seems to be surprisingly just the tiniest bit alive.

She doesn’t see it in the brownish curls matted in blood and grime, or the slightly distorted curves of her face.

She sees it in the way he makes his way straight towards her, picking out her barely breathing chest from a sea of dead. She sees it in the way he picks her up, oddly gentle and smooth, and the way he marches back inside with her nearly limp body in his arms.

She sees them. It breaks her heart a little and also it makes it sing. She holds her husband’s hand a little tighter and marvels at the other woman’s faint breathing.



To cherish and keep.


It seems to her, there’s always enough life left when someone holds you in their arms.

The Doctor says a great many things about PTSD and shock and internal wounds and he says them very very fast, but as he places her broken body on a too large unused bed all that he’s really truly said is, “I could wake her now, but she’d only be frightened, pained, and sad.”

In their own just right room, in their own just right bed, they whisper thoughts out loud about the trillion colors of the stars and the infinite twisted pretzel shapes of love.

*

It isn’t the longest time they’ve stayed in place, but it feels like it. Sometimes the two men find each other when they can’t find sleep. They don’t talk much but listen to the humming of the ship and sometimes Rory holds the Doctor’s hand without any shame and says, “I know you’re afraid, but you’ve got to be brave now.”


Our love will open windows to the worlds we lived in as children.

Courage is something he’s always had but fear is something he’s smart enough not to lose, and he looks at her just laying there and tells her half of part of a fairytale upside-down.

“Last month,” he says, “437 years from now you were twenty-five, and you waltzed up to me and asked me to dance and I’ve rarely said yes so quickly in my stupidly long life.”

He shifts the curling halo of her hair, “The week after that you were thirty four or so you said, and that day I asked you and you said yes and it was one of the most fantastic nights of my stupidly long life.”

Her unconscious movements look like a sigh and he wishes they would look like a laugh, “But now I think you’re not twenty five. Now, I think, you are child; it scares me how gorgeous you already are.”

Sometimes when sleep found Rory as it did his wife but still did not find the Doctor, not even with a map; he lay beside her and told her whole fairytales right side up.
He tells her, “Once a very long time ago not too long from now, there was a boy who liked to watch the raindrops shine like silver on the ruby red grass.”

*


I promise to cross stars just to be the sight you wake up to once in a while.

When she wakes up she doesn’t ask the - who, what, when, or why. She opens her eyes to the three staring down at her and focuses on the silly pretty boy in the bow tie. She doesn’t ask the – who, what, when, or why but rather she is asked, “Do you have any idea who I am?”

She remembers many men saying those words and on many days she’d said, “Darling, I don’t care who you are.”

But today when she’s asked by the silly pretty boy in the bowtie she’s compelled to say, “No, but Sweetie, I can’t wait to find out.”

The silly pretty boy with the secret-filled green eyes smiles and the red headed girl laughs and the big nosed boy mumbles something that sounds like, “She’s back.”

*

As it turns out River is nineteen and no longer a child and no one questions that. She doesn’t ask many questions about the lost place filled with sand but she asks if they all died, and when she’s told that they have no one speaks for a while, and Amy’s certain they’ll never really find out who They were.

River walks around the console room at a leisurely pace and he likes to think he can just stand back and watch, but he likes to think many things and act otherwise, “Are you surprised at all?”

“By this place? Yes,” she laughs breathlessly, “yes, I am.”

“It wouldn’t seem so,” he says and counts the steps between them and tries to keep them as they are, “you seem quite at home.”

“It’s just,” she says placing tentative hands on the buttons and levers, “everything about this place feels right.”



I promise that I’ll always sometimes occasionally let you drive.


She smiles and he grins at that, and when Amy and Rory make their way down they find the Doctor teaching River where the breaks are and telling her if she doesn’t leave them on it’ll just ruin the flight.

After one maybe two maybe five bumpy starts, River lands them on a planet with an ocean made of lights and for once in a long time there’s not monster in sight.

“Alright Doctor,” Rory says as the two girls leave them behind laughing their way to the sand, “from now on she drives.”

*

Amy decides quite resolutely that the Doctor and River need to chat for a while and grabs her coat, keys, and man for a night in the town. The town happens to be Viniz on Forin 3 and the sky is a spectacular shade of purple specked with gold.

“Do you think they’re married?”

Amy laughs and picks out the best pink grapes from their batch, “They’re so married.”

“It must be hard for him," Rory sighs, "she has no idea who we are.”

“His turn isn’t it? It’s only fair.”

“No, Amy,” he says, and his eyes turn old, “being forgotten is never fair.”



We will share a lifetime of eternal, immeasurable love.


“Do you remember those days when you were all Roman Rory with your Roman Rory thoughts?”

“Yeah, why?”

“What did you dream about? Did you dream about all the war and fighting?”

“Sometimes,” he said, touching the fire of her hair, “but mostly I dreamt about your eyes.”

She would have teased before, but there were things that didn’t deserve teasing now, “My eyes?”

“I saw them every night,” said her sometimes silly husband, who wasn’t at all silly sometimes.

*

“Torch,” he demanded from below the console.

She sighed as she placed it on his outstretched hand, “Torch.”

“Tercic duplicator.”

River sighed a bit louder this time as she handed him the tube-like device, “Sweetie, are we going to do this all night?”

The tinkering from below the console stopped--- Sweetie she’d said, Sweetie, yes she had---“Is there something else you’d rather do?”



And I’ll always dance at weddings, especially ours.


He could hear the click of her heels on the glass floor, “Amy and Rory are on a date.”

The tinkering recommenced, “So they are.”

“Couldn’t we do that?”

Torch and duplicator clattered to the floor.

It was something like being hit with a cricket bat, surprising, disorienting and just what he needed.

His words were muffled as he squirmed out from under the console, “You want to go on a date?”

In some ways it was as if she hadn’t been here all this time, in some way River had just waltzed in the door, “I thought dancing maybe. Do you dance?”

He blinked; once, twice. Her gaze was steady.

“Yes,” he nodded after a moment, “yes, I dance.”

The night sky is all shades of purple and the stars draw pictures of adventures, twisted timelines, and their eyes.

It ends with dancing, except it doesn’t really end at all.

~~~~~

“And do you ever keep any of your vows?”

“Every single one.”

Characters/Pairing: Doctor/Rose (Rose, Eleven, TenII, and OC)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: If this were mine, I could afford a decent laptop.

He holds her image behind these new eyelids. He sees her; she is an eternal battle of dark roots in blond hair, edible ball bearings, and the Universe shinning out like a sun from every pore.

He follows a heart beat like a road map and knows that in finding him he will find her. He wonders if---sensing him in their world--- he is holding her tighter, asking her to run and not look back.

He doesn’t want to interfere or interrupt; he only wants to see her… because he can. Because it very possibly doesn’t matter anymore.

The heart beat in his mind is only a wall away now and he sits across the street, eyes on the bright blue door --- like a protest against the relentless white that surrounds it.

The door clicks open and his head snaps up, three figures on the threshold. She makes a grab for her keys as she is unceremoniously shoved out the door.

“A walk? What do you mean a walk? What are you two going to do in there…”

A little boy with crazed brown hair and clever eyes asks questions with the tilt of his head and jumps up and tugs on her shirt.

 “Jack, is that your father’s screwdriver? Doctor,” she sighs looking up at the figure in shadows urging her out the door, “I thought we said you wouldn’t let him play with it. I don’t need a walk…”

He finally succeeds in pushing her out the door and for a second their eyes meet across the street. The man with the single racing heart stands, shoulders squared with annoyance and trace amounts of fear. He only spares a glance for him, crouching pathetically on the pavement; he turns back to her with a grin.

 “Rose,” the voice sends a shiver down his spine; tinged with ginger wit, morphed, changed. Still familiar, “He isn’t playing, he’s helping me with a posotronic entigator and you most definitely need a walk.”

The little boy is sitting on his hip now and their identical grins make her shoulders ease, she bounces on the balls of her feet, she kisses them both.


She whispers something in his ear and his face shifts--- he’s been caught--- clever clever Rose. She smiles at the boy, “When I come home, the toaster better be in one piece.”

He smirks at the boy, they share a secret thought, “Dog’s not going to build itself is it?”

The little boy’s face lights up at the prospect and they melt away into the house. Distractions gone, he jumps in with both feet and takes in the whole sight of her. She still hasn’t got any time for the roots of her hair and her shirt looks like it’s seen many football games and nights of dancing and warm deserts on galaxies too far away to name.

Now she is marriage bands and bedtime stories and unreachable adventures.

She doesn’t look both ways when she crosses the street, but she makes it through just fine. He briefly wonders how she’s made it this long without the most basic safety precautions, as if life with him weren’t dangerous as it was… and then she’s there.

She doesn’t see him, that is, she smiles and says good morning and bounces away and is ageless and glorious and too happy to care.

“Rose?”

She turns ---not slowly as one would see on silver screens in black and white--- she turns in a flurry dropping purse, phone, and keys. She runs to him, she’s nineteen again. She’s never heard his voice before but she’s heard her name sound like a prayer before --she’s heard it not a minute ago-- and here he is now, only he isn’t, only he is.

She clings to him and she still smells of the stars and cherry. The sun may or may not have set and risen before they let go.

His voice is like a whisper, may she never hear this voice shout, “The world broke again, Rose.”

She smiles and he knows she won’t ask; she doesn’t want to know. She’d always wanted to know, but there are bigger things now, “His first word was Doctor.”

There was no space in his huge ancient brain for Mother Rose, “It’s cracked to a million bits.”

“He still won’t call you dad,” she laughs, and she has things she needs to say to him, things he no longer understands, “mum hates it… and I think you love it.

He finds himself begging, “The Silence is chasing me.”

“He has your eyes,” she begs back.

She’s still the one thing in existence he won’t resist, “Not mine.”

“But they are,” she holds this face and studies it; “they’re old and bright.”

This Rose, she has finished running. Her Universe has shrunk. He thinks he is happy for her, so he has to let her know, “The Silence is coming here too.”

He doesn’t want to see her cry, so he closes his eyes as she pounds against his chest, he lets her cling to his tweed lapels but he won’t see her cry. He can’t help but hear it in her voice, “Will you fix it for him?”

His Rose isn’t here. This woman before him, she is an impossible man’s wife; she is a brilliant little boy’s mother. She once saved worlds and kissed stars and she is magnificent and her name is Rose--- but she’s not his Rose.

 “Yes,” he promises, because this life of hers is precious, more precious to him (he must admit) than it probably should be.


Because she needs him to, he doesn't let the Silence take him, “Yes Rose, I’ll try and save you.”
*~*~*
The Universe is healing now and he thinks he deserves this. He thinks he’s earned this much. He wants to see her because he can.

Right now, she is all roots; her dark pigtails fly up like sparks on rusted estate swings. She is hard cherry candies, sticky fingers, and swinging up up up.He watches from a bench, subtle as he can, careful not to give off ‘stalker vibes’ as Amy often warns. The little boy that runs up to her has adoration in his eyes.  She asks to be pushed higher and he sends her as far as his little arms can.

When it isn’t enough, Rose jumps. She grabs at the wind with her sparkling finger tips. This is his Rose.

Oh perfect! I'll post more in a bit then.

Yes! I have several, but I read that the limit is 5?

Thank you! I've copied it here 

Thank you!!! I was just lazy about reformatting it but I think I will.

Their Hearts Like Glamorous Beasts, TenII/Rose (PG)

"He tries to remember the way her hands speak; the way the pulse on her fingertips told him secrets now and then."

On Live Journal: http://community.livejournal.com/then_theres_us/108086.html






This London is a glamorous beast.

            He once knew a London from its rise to its fall, and he had words for it, but he’s lost those now. He used to know what every glance meant, and there where days when he could read her smile like a map of stars. But he may have forgotten, or the stars may have moved.

 He says, “Tell me, Rose Tyler, what have I missed?”

            So she tells him what little she knows of the days after the metal men. She tells him of the ash and how they rose from it, and of the smoke and the paper fans they cleared it with, and the way buildings bloomed out of ruins. They look out onto the winding avenues, the wet pavement reflecting streetlight like starlight wrong side up.  She doesn’t tell him of Mickey’s guns or the scraps of steel that littered the streets.

             She tells him what they’ve told her. How it was all done with much class, with much … elegance.

                                                                 Rose makes faces at the word- because she’s Rose- and it quickens his heartbeat.

            She tells him all this as they sit, legs dangling off the ledge, and below them the city is this heavy breathing thing with a heartbeat that courses through them. She regrets not getting to know the city, but she didn’t see much of anything, she says, until the stars started going out.

                                                                        "The world was ending again, but you weren’t there.”

            She’s quiet now and her fingers flutter beside him, like an assumption and a question and a leap of faith. He takes her hand--- he tries to remember the way her hands speak; the way the pulse on her fingertips told him secrets now and then. Somehow the drumming in his hands is tangled with the lights dancing below; they try to shout something he won’t understand.

            When she speaks again he thinks her voice and the sounds of the city are trying to say things they have no words for.

            But she’s clever as always. Clever clever Rose. She whispers it like a secret,

                                                                                                                                                 “I had to be you.”         
   The thought stings, being him, single hearted and stranded; it had ‘impossible’ etched across it like graffiti on a wall.

            But he can see her-- being him. He can see her giving orders, being obeyed--- he can see her single heart stretching out to planets beyond her own. He can see everyone run around trying to save their world while she stands and thinks, and wants to save them all, has to save them all. He can see them all cowering at the wisdom of the big bad wolf.

            There’s no one to wink to or laugh with. There’s no one there to tell her to stop, to close her eyes and run away.

                                    What that must feel like.

            Her hand tightens around his in this silent understanding; their pulses synchronize as the city keeps time.  So maybe neither of them is a god, maybe they lost something in the void between separate existences. Maybe they gained something. Perhaps everyone is meant to have two hearts, perhaps everyone is lacking. Maybe it’s all in the chase.

“There is nothing in saving a city,” he says, “nor anything in saving a world, Rose, if you haven’t run in it.”

 He squeezes her hand with a wink like a dimly lit corner. They wander the streets, shattering puddles into millions of unfamiliar stars, mapping curves like the contours of their palms. Their pulses combine - a rhythm of four. The city pulsates beneath them - tonight, this London watches as they run.

Oh, I definitely want to share some of my stories, do I have to post the fic itself onto a post or can I just link to it?