500-word Doctor Who ficlet: "Slowly . . . Breathe" (Ten/Simm!Master), PG-13

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Title Slowly . . . Breathe
Fandom: Doctor Who / post-Last of the Time Lords
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, second person/ mentions of canon character death
Pairing: Ten/Simm!Master
Disclaimer: Not for profit, just for play.


(Slowly . . . . breathe.)

Perhaps you should dress, but you are afraid that the warm silk you had acquired in the shower would have rubbed off on any clothes you put on. You want to hold on to a bit of comfort for a while so you wander over to your bed, skipping the wardrobe and even the bathrobe, and become reacquainted with the mattress and soft sheets. You pull them up to your chin and stare at the opposite wall. You are all right, you tell yourself. You are warm, comfortable, content and . . . slipping.

(Slowly . . . . breathe.)

You close your eyes and tell yourself that a few minutes will not hurt. A few minutes will be enough to rest your eyes and your head, to settle down into the bed and settle your thoughts. You focus on the warmth around you, the second-skin that has enveloped you since the relaxing shower. You wrap the sheets around yourself tighter, to keep that feeling in. You adjust the pillows, and give a small toss and a slight turn. You are warm. You are comfortable. You are content. You are . . . slipping.

(Slowly . . . breathe.)

It is not a dream. You are not asleep. It is not a delusion. You are not delusional. It is not real. It cannot be real. It just is: An intruder has crept into your warm cocoon, first with breaths and sighs, then whispers and words. The warmth around you is no longer warm. It is no longer yours. There is a thief in your bed, and in your thoughts. You feel him there, creeping. You feel him still, lingering. You are warm. You are comfortable. You are content. You are . . . slipping.

(Slowly . . . breathe.)

His hands move over your side like you have seen them move a hundred times before: over a railing, over the table, over Lucy’s shoulders. It is a slow, sensual caress, the sort that makes every cell under your surface hum from the attention. The feel of his skin on yours is a sensation you have only experienced on a handful of occasions, only pushes or pulls that resulted in his knuckles on your collarbone. This is something entirely new. You are warm. You are comfortable. You are content. You are . . . slipping.

(Slowly . . . breathe.)

His arm snakes across your waist, following the line of your hip. His thumb settles just below your navel. He moves closer, or you move closer. Perhaps your thoughts have moved closer, instead. His mouth settles near your ear and two words reach you: I’m sorry. With just two words, everything vanishes. Your warmth, your comfort, and your contentment. Once more, you stare across at the wall. You move your arm, tracing your own hip. You move your own thumb just below your navel. “I’m sorry, too.” You stop slipping.

(Slowly . . . breathe.)