Silence
by Shadowesuqe13
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama/Romance
Summary: And not a word passed between them. Nine/Ten, implied Nine/Other Doctors and Ten/Other Doctors. Sort of romance. You'll see.
And so here they were, trapped in a seemingly endless cycle of need and pain. One underneath the other, always the same, always thrillingly new. The nights were wordless, none needed, only motions. His tenth form let out a yelp at such. His ninth form gave a long moan. There was pleasure whenever they needed it. None of his previous forms were the same as this, right now.
It's not that the others weren't fun. They were just too innocent. And then the tenth appeared. They ran into each other in Moscow, literally, in fact. Although it was never admitted (and they both knew that it didn't need to be said aloud), the ninth figured that his future self had been waiting for him to come along. Things left unsaid were communicated that night, and nights after. There was something different now than every other time a night had been spent in a different-styled TARDIS.
Innocence. That's what the ninth decided it was about. This tenth one knew exactly what he went through, and the rest hadn't a clue. So many times, either one, he had wanted to say something, to give a warning or hint about the future, their future, their past. With each other, neither had to say anything.
Guilt was what the tenth decided upon. Too much guilt held in, unable to let it out, unwilling to ruin his former selves. Incapable of feeling as much as they did because of it. It was like a sort of detachment and apathy, and he was sure they knew this. But there was understanding left not to ask.
There just happened to be even more understanding between the two of them than any of the former forms. And this was precisely why they did this, night after night, the bed, the wall, the floor, tangled together without a word between them.
Rose (both of them) was perfectly fine with this. If only because neither had bothered telling their version of her what was going on. One form followed the other onto one TARDIS, and something would be muttered as they went by about repairs or something of the sort, and while the Roses never believed it (what with a bit of hurt or confusion or annoyance in their eyes, depending on the day and which one), it was not questioned, and nobody ever questioned why she never did.
The clothes could never quickly enough be removed. It was the contact that made it complete, the real skin upon real skin. The touch of another, one who was just as guilty, one who had lost such past innocence, too. The slip of a tongue, the gasp that would follow, fingertips and hair and skin and eyes meeting one another finally; finally, unlike with other encounters with other forms.
Feeling. That was what they deduced was the reason behind this, assuming there was one. The need to feel. The need to know that he exists. That he can, in fact, still feel, the numbness subsiding at least for a few precious moments. The knowledge that he had a past and still yet a future, a validation of sorts.
Motions and movements and everything but a mere syllable passing by. It was enough to feel.