Revelations in Dream-Time
Aka the obligatory Impossible Planet/Satan Pit “first time” fic; was originally supposed to be PWP and has now evolved into an 8k word thing (Smut-free version here!). Full of angst, introspection, dreams/nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort, bed-sharing, weird literary and religious themes, and a healthy amount of fairly explicit smut. Definitely nsfw.
Don’t be fooled by the innocent gif. There be smut in these parts.
The cabin is small, but not as horrible as Rose feared. Four metal walls, a tiny water closet, and a single bunk let her know that this is a room typically reserved for one. But at least it’s clean. It’s private. And most importantly, it’s safe. Then again, it’s entirely possible that a year (two years, three?) of ending up in prison cells, damp caves, muddy pits, and pre-plumbing Europe has distorted her perspective on this sort of thing just a bit, so.
“Well,” the Doctor sniffs, nose in the air and hands in his pockets as his gaze wanders about the place, “It’s actually not bad, considering.”
“Considering?” Rose asks, even though she knows the answer.
“You know,” the Doctor replies. Traveling feet stop their journey around the room, a preview of words to come. “That we’re stuck,” he finishes.
Rose tilts her head, arches an eyebrow at him. “You trying to convince me, or yourself?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think we’ll find a way out,” Rose says, shrugging. “We always do.”
The Doctor’s responding smile is a pale imitation of its usual self. One hand leaves the safety of his pocket to push down on the bunk mattress, fingers pressing into foam long enough to leave a warped starfish impression behind.
“Care to make a little wager on that?” the Doctor asks, looking at his handprint instead of her.
“I do,” Rose replies without hesitation. She watches as the mattress rises again in agonizing slow-motion, like it’s loathe to let the shape of his hand go. Rose does not think about how that’s an apt metaphor for everything that’s happened since they came here, absolutely does not wonder if the rest of their lives will be stuck in molasses and preserved in amber.
“Well,” the Doctor chuckles under his breath. “I should warn you, I plan to collect. And I’m afraid the odds are unfairly stacked in my favor.”
Shaking her head, Rose laughs. “Nah. You and me, we’re always a safe bet.”
The Doctor’s grin grows genuine, then, the edges softened by fondness. “Quite right, too,” he says.
He doesn’t say anything after that. Rose wonders if she’s ever seen him so quiet, before.