title: Road Trip to Freedom, a romance in drabbles
author: fannishliss
rating: PG13
spoilers: none
pairing: Rose/Nine
notes:  this story was written off the one-word prompts of the day by drabble Blue Skies drabblethon.  Thanks so much to those who read along!
summary:  The Tardis takes them where they need to go.  A romance blossoms under ancient alien trees.  Things change for the better.  



~Road Trip~

When a scarred and weary space man meets a sweet city girl, destination unknown is everything.  Wide open spaces, a map that won’t refold -- the Tardis chucks the map out the window. No sticky leather, crumbs down the seat, ice cold beer in the cooler in the trunk; no miles of fields and telephone wires; no asphalt under the tires or dust to cake their blue jeans ...  she isn’t made of chrome or gasoline.  But she’s the same color blue as freedom and the Vortex is her highway.  The storm and the wolf are her children:  she’s ready to roll.


~Meadow~

“Botanical specimens-- but how?... climate, soil type... ”

“Human ingenuity.”

“Red grass? whoever heard of ...  d’you hear singing? Is it ... the trees?”

He nods, solemn, pointing.  Her eyes widen:  the tag says Gallifrey.

The trees pull a song out of long ago; the grass prickles sharp enough to cut.

She sits crosslegged on his jacket, protected from the sharp red blades. Head in her lap, his eyes are closed, senses open. 

The breeze is too moist, sky the wrong color, planet far too young.  Still, it smells nearly right.

Eyes closed, he can dream he’staken her home.


~Sweat~

The trees, slightly psychic, sing the song they found in his mind. How long can he lie there dreaming?

He can't bear to open his eyes to a sky blue instead of orange.  He can't bear to see no spired, wind-sculpted cliffs, no jagged red rocks.

Her thighs have gone sticky with sweat, but if he moves, the tears in his eyes will spill. 

A voice joins the trees:  Rose singing, pure and true, his soul song.

He opens his eyes and it is dusk. One star shines.  His companion is golden, glowing.  Her heart is a garden, his home.


~Scent~

The trees are singing: she’s listening, learning. The song they sing is the Doctor-- his soul.

He must think she’s blind not to see the tears darkening his lashes, deaf not to hear the truth of the sad, beautiful song the trees are teaching her. He doesn’t know she can somehow smell his thoughts -- the cinnamon red of his gaze when he thinks she isn’t watching him; the citric blue of his restraint; the violet tang of his wanting her.

She sings; his scent rises.  He looks up through the slanting light and she tastes his crimson and gold.


~Wildfire~

This planet’s sun sets crimson and gold.  It’s not Gallifrey, never again, but the light is like wildfire, catching the fuse that runs along the horizon, burning the clouds magenta and deepening the shadows into charred scars.

He should flee the devastation promised by this fiery girl, run before her searing heat drives him over the brink.

Instead, he sits up. His secret song echoes in the trees, in her mind and throat.   He offers her the softest touch of his lips.  One spark, if it catches, the whole world will burst into flame, and willingly he will be consumed.


~Shelter~

Night falls soft, cottony, warm, no plunge of arid desert temps. Dew falls and Rose is damp. He steals her heat and her lips tremble. Hand in hand, they find the Tardis beyond the red grass verge. 

Home, ship, friend-- the Tardis is so much more than shelter. She contains palaces, rooms upon rooms full of precious secrets.  The  Doctor leads Rose down the whitewood way to a courtyard where one tree hums. Rose sings his soulsong and the tree chimes a polyrhythmic counterpoint. The song envelopes him, luscious and warm, and he’s swaddled in the quilt of her compassion.


~Sultry~ 

She sways, eyes heavy-lidded, brushing so lightly against him.  She steps in close, finding his hands with her own, humming the song he’d given up listening for. The heat of her glowing skin scalds him; her openness terrifies.
  
He seizes her, revels in the moisture of her arms.  He imagines carrying her to a silken bower, feasting her with honeyed fruits and wine, lounging with her on cushions. 
 
His rooms are no sultan’s tent, simple, plain, but he treats her like a queen.  Her smile, her embrace, the welcome of her thoughts  --  she’s thrown open wide the gates of paradise.


~Storm~  

“Are you afraid?” he whispers, poised. The heated air is heavy in their lungs, a tempest ready to burst. 

“Should I be?” 

His glittering stare pins her. “I’m dangerous,” he groans.

“You’re amazing!” she cries.

“I might live forever.” 

“I only get one chance.” 

“What if lightning strikes?”

“That’s a chance I’ll take!”

Unleashed, lightning blazes.  In the dark, wet slides against wet, slick against smooth. Breath becomes breeze. Coolness descends and steam rises up, making clouds and rain. Life-giving rivulets, thirsty ground: in an elemental dance they mingle and are one.


~Ennui~

Under his soothing, reverent hand, her breathing evens.  She roams the land of dreams and he contemplates her gilded surface, her fragility and her strength.

He’s journeyed the aimless pathways of hero and fool.  Now he’s her lover: the universe whirls, metamorphosing from pointlessness to purpose. She’s his lodestar, singer of his song.  

She’s sundered his cloak of reticence and fear, unveiling the glory of their potential, exploding his ennui with fireworks of delight.   She’s here with him now, and the universe is a field of daisies, an array of diamonds. Life stretches out before them, a grand new adventure.


~Freedom~

Rose wakes up alone. The sheets are cold.  She’s pleasurably sore.  A grin breaks over her face.  She takes her time showering, gets dressed, putters around in the galley.  

He’s at the console, of course. He won’t meet her eyes at first, but the hope she sees when he finally looks up takes her breath away.  She flies into his arms and kisses the living daylights out of him.   
   
Life is not a dream. All of it, all the heartrending joy of it, all of it is real.  
   
Haring off on a road trip, finding that botanical garden with its shard of Gallifrey, and slightly psychic trees are real. They sing like choirs of angels.

The Doctor opening up to her and the love they share is real.

“I want a golden Wednesday morning, sunshine streaming onto white sheets, breakfast at some little cafe where we just sit and talk for hours, and then, like, we rescue a kitten or run from a rain shower... yeah?”

“Done,” he beams.

Freedom’s not just endless highway.  It’s mingled laughter and tears, footsteps clattering down the street at midnight, and home walking right alongside you, that precious hand holding onto yours.