“Draw the background” they said, "It will be fun” they said. Oh god, it wasn’t fun at all, I’m so so tired of this, but I just had to draw the Tardis interior by myself. Doctor and Rose deserve the best.
Oh savallah, the days I’ve spent with this image, floating in my mind, because of You and this damn rpg. You have no idea. It belongs to You, along with my heart and soul.
If anyone was wondering, which galaxy is behind the Tardis, it’s this one, obviously. Is there any other?
“[Rose] doesn’t think all too hard about it when one day the Doctor suddenly shoves her up against the nearest brick wall and snogs the living daylights out of her.
Except that she does. In fact, all her mind can do is remember that one time when the Doctor had admitted to having danced with a woman before. All her mind can do is catalogue every little moment of the Doctor’s soft lips coaxing her mouth into a heated response. All her mind can do is forget entirely about the fact that they were being chased by revenge-seeking guards not two seconds ago and that obviously the best possible route of distraction was to kiss each other until their lungs were burning and their cheeks had turned pink.”
finally done with this one! But I’m pretty self-satisfied here rn.
My sweet sweet bby savallah, I’ve finally finished what I had promised! Doctor and his Rose in the Tardis, just as it should be, forever and ever (You heard that, Mr Moffat?!). For You, as always (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)
After the first desperate hug, his fingers raking through her hair - all rich and chocolate like her eyes now - and her head buried in his neck - is he wearing a bow tie? - there isn’t time. It’s all the desperate clasp of hands and unfamiliar voices shouting at them to hurry. Only after everyone is safe and Rose learns that the ginger is called Amy and the pretty one is called Rory, is there a stillness of what-comes-next hanging in the air, the business of who-sleeps where. Domestics.
Rory excuses himself to bed; Amy follows him only a few minutes afterwards. Rose thinks she’ll have to grab the other girl for chips later, maybe sweet-talk the Doctor into taking them to see Sarah Jane. Maybe sweet-talk the TARDIS into it instead, if he decides to get stubborn. She stops, for a moment, wonders if he’s as obstinate now as he had been before. She glances at him - green eyes darting about, fussing with this and that trinket, hurriedly kicking something under the bed.
“I’m still me,” Rose says softly, borrowing his words and placing a hand on his arm. The Doctor tenses, just enough for her to hear a sharp intake of breath. She’ll just have to convince him then. Signs tell her more than he does, in this room, not-quite-untouched - a banana peel in the bin, a half-eaten bag of jelly babies on her dresser next to her favorite shirt. This room has been used since she’s been gone. Used for what, she can probably guess. He tends to nest when he mourns.
He’s turning to say something when she spots it. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as she makes a split-second decision and dives onto the bed for her prize.
“Rose, I -”
Silence reigns, before the Doctor, a smile dawning in his eyes, takes two strides directly into Rose’s personal space, where she’s holding a pillow case and fighting a smile like a guilty child.
“Rose Tyler,” he said slowly, leaning down, nose nearly brushing hers as he reaches behind her. “You’re on.”
After that it’s all a tangle of fwumps and pops and of course, of course he’s got the kind of pillows that explode like snow if you hit too hard, so that they’re rolling around in a blanket of white down when it devolves fast into a tickle fight, his fingers seeking familiar sensitive spots and driving peals of laughter from her out into the TARDIS. It’s almost like a missing part clicking into place, and he can feel the old time ship soaking it up greedily.
Rose tries for payback, really she does, but her hands have their own agenda, and soon tickling turns to caressing and smiles turn to learning what it feels like to be kissed by new lips. Her heart breaks at his fingers digging into her back, and the soft, almost agonized noises he makes, and closing her eyes she’d never be able to tell the difference between bowties and pinstripes and leather.
He leaves -marks-. He’s never left marks, not ones she’s sure are still going to be on her in a few days, maybe even weeks. She’s not even sure he didn’t mean to, because she’s learned a little Gallifreyan, and the words he says are sharp and hungry and possessive. She responds with things he knows - her lips on his jaw, the backs of her feet against his calves, and the rising tempo of her voice. Oh, she’s not going anywhere. Not any time soon.
Later, when they’re lying warm and bare while the Doctor artfully arranges curly white feathers in a pattern on her hip, he finally speaks. “You’re still you,” he says with a shy smile - one she hasn’t seen since his eyes were blue. She gives him a tongue-touched grin and reaches across his chest for the bag of jelly babies, and offers him one. “I’m still me.”
He thinks, as he sculpts her from memory, that he can hear her speak to him.
“You sayin’ I’ve got arm flab?” her voice rings teasingly in his ears as he tries to shape the contours of her arms, Michelangelo watching him with an eye for criticism and the sharp tongue to point out where he’s going wrong.
“My bum is not that round,” she protests futilely as he chisels the flow of her Roman dress over said gluteus maximus, and at that he can’t help smiling. Time Lord memory, Rose Tyler. Perfect detail, not one iota out of place. He can practically see her scowling at him, and he chuckles.
Michelangelo is the one scowling at him after that.
“You don’t need to put all my rings on,” he hears later as he’s sculpting her hands, and this time her voice is surprised. As if he hasn’t memorized which rings she wears on which fingers, and the way they glint in the sun when she waves her hands around to speak to him. Does she really not notice how he sees her?
Michelangelo instructs him with the face, guiding his hand so that he can create a perfectly realistic replica of her expressive eyes, her bright smile, her dimples. She doesn’t speak then, but he hears her gasp, sigh, and hmm.
When he’s done, he stands back to look at Rose-as-the-goddess-Fortuna, and Michelangelo praises his work, extolling him as his fastest-learning pupil yet. The Doctor is focused on the statue, however, imagining Rose stuck in stone in Ancient Rome and knowing now that he’d be able to save her. The fire rekindles in his chest (she wasn’t lost after all) and he hears her one last time.
“Thanks,” she says, and he knows that even if this isn’t really Rose he hears, she’s still reaching out to him all the way from Ancient Rome so that he can feel the ripples in time and space become her voice.
Because in that one simple word, he hears I love you.
The Angel: You think it’ll last forever: people and cars and concrete. But it won’t. One day it’s all gone. Even the sky. [long pause] My planet’s gone. It’s dead. It burned, like the Earth. It’s just rocks and dust. Before its time. Dean: What happened? The Angel: There was a war, and we lost. Dean: A war with who? [The Angel doesn’t answer, seemingly lost in thought.] What about your people? The Angel: I’m an Angel. I’m the last of the Angels. They’re all gone. I’m the only survivor. I’m left traveling on my own, because there’s no one else.