Present Fluff

Pre-Christmas Celebration, with obsessive spoilerish fangirl musings. I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist. Well, technically, the ones I should be apologizing to are my parents, who were left in curious unintelligibility as I spent more than two hours of my day-before-Christmas-Eve (which equals Christmas Eve, in Norway) absorbed in writing this piece instead of preparing for the Big Day, which is what I should have been doing, but then again - how does one deal with anxiousness, if not with outrageous fandom exploitation and fictious couple worshipping...? (My mother thinks I should not feel that ashamed, though.) My way of abreacting, works exceptionally well. This story is so very Christmassy and cute and fluff-filled, and I really love it, but I've realized it's probably for the fans - mostly. The rest may appreciate my skills (?) in composing English prose. With or without television references. I'm also a sucker for perfection, but since that doesn't always conincide with perfect input of intense creativity, writing kicks of massive quantity, I did spend an awful lot of time editing a considerably short work, that could have been completed sooner, had I only been slightly more inspired. Effective. Whatever. Anyways, the final result is here; a little sentimental Christmas morning tale with which I am - admittedly - quite content. And of course, I hope all the nitpicking paid off. Errors, disputes, shipping, silliness; all belongs to yours truly. And may you still enjoy! Merry Christmas, beforehand! Me is excited and it shows.

FANFICTION: "DOCTOR WHO". Reunion-fic, starring Ten and Rose, loads of shippy innuendos. Set post-Doomsday, and thus spoilerish. One, ultimate version of the possible meeting between two timeless lovers. Sad and angsty, but bear in mind the Christmas factor. And the fact that I still, and always, love Happy Endings. Option: the second paragraph constitutes a kind of choice If you like the official "Doomsday" version, you can either stop reading and love my continuity, or love my continuty and accept my personal twist which follows immediately. Alternative: the first paragraph may be seen as a "Doomsday" alteration, whereas the other one is (sort of) series four-related; could be a connection between the two events. Regardless, my starting point for the fic was that of Rose in her bed, hearing The Doctor's voice, as seen in said "Doomsday". Moreover, one may of course interpret as one pleases, although reader moderation is recommended. Don't read to much into it, in other words. Disclaimer: All characters property of the BBC. I don't own the BBC, but the BBC owns me - heart and soul. Thanks for lending me themes I never tire of writing about. All my love, to the Series of a Lifetime and the Production Company I adore. Happy Holidays, guys!

"Present for imagination"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et and the ever-so-devoted fangirl.

"Rose..."

Just a breath. A meak, warm breath of air against her ear lobes, softly drifting into the auditory senses and colliding with her dozing consciousness, pulling her out of her sleep. Slowly. Like fingertips dancing smoothly across her forehead, in the perfect steps of a waltz, tracing the line of her hair and sliding through loose strains at the back. She shivered slightly when the neck came in contact with the unmistakable form of a knuckle, drawing fleeting strokes along her arteries. She hadn't open her eyes yet; mostly because this mysterious guest to her intimate spheres opted for a few light touches across her lids as well. Lying perfectly still, she let the caressing continue, and hoped its originator was aware of the tiny smile on her lips that it had brought about. Judging from the increasing pressure against her skin, that had already been affirmed. Her duvet was folded carelessly around her body, the neck of her night gown had shifted out of place and was clinging to her upper arm. The seams of its edging kept pressing into her skin, and somewhere beyond her current mental perception, there was a notion that maybe she should relocate herself to a better position; or even get up, start the day; a rational conclusion that she ought to depart from slumberland and maybe find out who the heck was playing with her face. But then she decided it could wait. After all, she was not severely bothered by the sudden intrusion. Despite the awkward resting position, and the uncertainty regarding the cicrcumstances for the physical proximity, she found this state of being absolutely comfortable. Almost unnoticeable puffs of a whispering voice lingered in the atmosphere above her, and whilst mesmerized by its low tone, she attempted to work on her concentration and determine the various syllables. An urge grew, within her drowsiness, to figure out some meaning behind the kind-sounding utterance. After a while of furrowing her brows, and picking up a few familiarities, she changed her mind and decided the murmuring were not to be conceived, it must rather be fully appreciated. If only as dream-caused illusions, accentuated by the surrouning silence. A trail of despair caught up with her, when she realized, but she brushed it away with the equally strong desire to enjoy the illusion as long as it lasted. It was hardly the first. But quite real, she thought, even deceptively realistic. She remembered the many earlier occasions when she had supposed it would be truth, not dare. Just to be disappointed again, much more than she could bear. So this time, she rejected it. Happily, she dove into a rhythm of patting and humming, and induldged in the sweet devotion of the stranger. There was a quick break when the bed moved and she felt a pile of warmth shoot up her spine as someone, obviously another person, lay down beside her, and the first and most foremost sentiment that hit her brainwork was oh my god, I can't tell anyone about this dream, they'll think I've gone insane. And of course, when she eventually exited this set of made-up pieces, this wishful thinking, she would never mention it again. In fact, she told no-one about her multiple situations of flashbacks and false discoveries. They wouldn't be able to comfort her in the manner she craved, nor would she have been able demand it. Such was the fate she was condemned to, and that was a fate which she, right now, didn't wish to achnowledge. "Rose", came the whisper, buried into her nape, and further out in the realms of her awareness, she pictured the never-ending stir inside the never-tidied console room. The rapid motion and the extatic exclamantions, the tumbling over loose wires and their friends' shouting as the ship heeled. Desperately, she clung to the prospects of these being something else than images of her imagination. That she didn't wake because she didn't have to, that her response was due to recognition; the grand, old instincts; and that she would be allowed to trust in this. Willing to endure anything, as long as she were given a single chance. The sleeping body apparently wanted no further hesitation, so it made the choice on her behalf. She lifted her arm, out of pure habit, and gave room for the other to tuck his underneath. A steady grip tightened around her waist and she grabbed the cold hand at the end, warming it with her own. The load of memories washed over her, engulfing her in a breathtaking flood of glee and pain and connection and sorrow. These trips; the wanting, the waiting, the never-ceasing lust for adventure. How they'd played with the most terrible, abhorringly ugly and fearful or forces; how they'd laughed at darkness until they were sure it'd vanished. At least all they could see was the light. They made a run for it, the two of them, and they honestly thought they wouldn't be interrupted. Despite facing danger every day, or maybe precisely therefore, they'd distanced themselves from it. Now, she felt it all coming back. Every, single, minute, insignificant, inexorable part if it. Suddenly, she'd returned to this peculiar life she once beheld, without having given it any grave concern, without challenge. A dreamer's invitation; would be on no account refused. And so, she shook off her doubt. Again. She locked her fingers around his, like she used to, and squeezed her gaze shut. A chin was placed gently in an oblong cave of skin and bone on her shoulder blade, fitting perfectly, and the voice whispered her name once more, slowly, with explicit security, and she thought this is enough, right here, this is all I need. This is my home. Please, please don't go.

"I won't go", she heard from the neighbour pillow, "I promise". She wanted to reply how he'd said so the last time, too, how he'd always made himself indispensable through promises. But just as she wanted to break free of the grasp, to cut off the taunting visions, the voice went on. "I came to stay", it lured, "and about time, I reckon, my apologies for being a little late - but truly, you should know what I went through to get here. Blimey. There was this sandstorm combined with a space tremor, major star dust undertow and a rocket off course in the middle of it, really inconvenient, and I was sucked into a - I dunno, spiral caleidoscope thing - and you should have seen me riding the tide wave of the whole...", at this point she'd turned and was staring disbelievingly into his overly enthusiastic face. Then taking in his messy hairdo, his crinkled shirt, his more recently acquired wrinkles; the striking appearance of someone who oughtn't be there, but seemed to have popped up anyway. Work of magic, how typical. Some other signs of ageing, a different colour to his suit, and an awful tie - but she instantly knew, nonetheless. That beautiful, brilliant look; the tears were running down her cheeks as she finally extended her shivering thumb to test the reliability of the shape before her. It complied with a kiss. The same, huge grin to follow; she observed, with pleasure; the crooked nose, the unchangeably bizarre ears, the twinkle in his focused glance. The same man, basically. "You're back", she blurted out, in utter delight, and he nodded. "Seemed as the only appropriate undertaking. Especially considering the season." The wide-awake girl tucked in his embrace replied to this with an incredulous expression that he later changed with an action consisting of another kiss and a more explanatory follow-up phrase: "Merry Christmas, Rose." She beamed, then gasped, then rolled her eyes. She cupped his jaw, one palm on either side, whilst he - on his side - gave the impression of an insolent child. The innocense was so tangible, she found it hard to bear. No wonder he challenged her concentration. Self-reproaching, albeit not very regretful, she let him in on her newest finding. "I forgot", she said, "in the midst of everything, I've forgotten!" Three seconds passed, then it dawned on him, and he was laughing out loud. On which she punched him lovingly in the stomach. Multiple times, till he was shrieking his surrender; yet his fits of laughter prevented them both from putting a stop to it. "But still", he continued, when finally regaining his strength to speak and having captured both her fists in a firm grip, "that is of a somewhat lessened importance to me, at the moment. Also, I can think of worse things you could have forgotten." She smiled back at him, and leaned in to seal that agreement properly. After a short while, she added the obvious, but necessary greeting that would make his hearts leap and the idea of forever come a giant, reassuring bit closer:

"Merry Christmas, my Doctor."