thedreamer | open post;

"Happy is good, happy is — what I am, too. But more than that...bigger. In fact, I don't think there's a word that can contain it altogether. What I feel, that is. With you. I'll come up with a word!"

With their foreheads together, he smiles softly, resting the palm of his hand against Thomas' cheek. "I think you should kiss me, though. You're really very good at it."

Thomas cups his face gently and smiles before he does kiss him, before he loses himself completely.

"Doctor...I think you might love me," he mutters before he simply draws him in again.

There's a contented, pleased little hum under his breath for a moment, smiling against Thomas' lips as they kiss again. He's yet to speak, but his fingers move through his hair until his thoughts catch up at last.

"Think, or know?" It's playful a bit, yes, but also gives him a moment to — get his bearings on it.

"I cannot speak for what is in your heart. ...hearts," he acknowledges. "So I believe it. I think I know. But only you can know."

He keeps his hands up, fingers dangling on the Doctor's wrist as he pulls him in for another kiss.

Only he can know his own thoughts, his own hearts, but...even he doesn't know sometimes. So many times, really. It feels suddenly so important that he get it right. And he so rarely gets matter of great importance right, like this, he thinks.

Like a paved road that comes to a screeching halt over a deep ravine — he's found where words fail him, his fondness and ease with affection can be the bridge filling in the gaps. He feels he's good at words so much of the time, but then this. And where is the bridge? What eases him further? What is actually left holding him here at the edge?

"Quite right, Thomas Jopson," he finally says, as if this encompasses everything. Kiss him again, he thinks, that'll suffice. So he does. And the words don't feel big enough, but maybe Thomas knows, maybe he knows for sure now?

He does know. He knows deeper than any words could actually penetrate. He knows how this works, how everything between them has gone up until this point. He knows what it means to love so deeply that he would give up everything he's known to follow them.

Except - that isn't what he's doing here. He isn't following as much as he is existing with him. Traveling with him.

He returns that kiss and stands up slowly so he can wrap an arm around him.

Everything that he feels for him — it's so much more than all the words in every language could contain, maybe that's why he can't fathom containing it in only words.

He loves him. He does. He loves this man, deeply, profoundly, beyond and beyond, in a way that he's not afraid to acknowledge now. It's because of Thomas that he can feel this. It would have (and has) scared him too much to accept the briefest flicker of the brightest light because it couldn't last. So he didn't trouble himself with those human feelings; or at least, he tried not to, but he's skirted that edge more than once. But it's been this way for a while now with Thomas, knowing there's nothing left to lose but the peace and happiness of this. It's okay to want Thomas, it's okay to need, it's okay to wrap his arms around him in return, but not to stop there, no, to...to hold him tighter, closer, a little longer.

Thomas doesn't pull away as he might have before. Knowing now, without a doubt, that he isn't harming him with his presence and his coldness, he breathes him in and slides one hand along the nape of the Doctor's neck, enjoying the feeling of him here.

"I love you," he finally does mutter against the kiss.

"Thomas —"

The way he breathes out his name, it's husky, somewhere between a laugh of joy and something like surprise. Why should he be surprised, though? He shouldn't be. He's just — slow on the uptake about these things. It all feels so much more important now than ever before, so big.

"My Thomas." He keeps their foreheads pressed together, cradling his cheek. "If you're going to say things like that then I need you to hear this loud and clear — I expect you to be here 'til the very end of me." It's not fair to expect such promises, he knows, but he needs to say it. This is the one life he never thought he could have, and it's already incredibly...unlike anything he could have ever fathomed. He doesn't mean to ruin the moment, but he needs to say it.

Thomas breathes in, his heart beating loudly in his chest. "I will be there. If there is no you, then there is no me." He kisses him again, holding fast to his shoulder, around his back.

"Just tell me how."

"How," he smiles softly, tenderly, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"You're off to a very good start with that already. You have been all this time. You're here now, you will be." His hand moves, briefly threading through Thomas' hair before running his fingers down his neck. "I believe you when you say it, that you'll stay. As long as — as long as we're both here."

He truly does talk too much, but Thomas listens to every word as if he might memorize the way that it sounds in his ears. He hangs on every small syllable, barely able to comprehend it.

"I don't want to be without you," he assures him in a hushed whisper. "But is this - this really what you want?"

"I've never — let myself truly want this, Thomas," he admits quietly. "I've come close, but I couldn't —" His voice is soft, pensive, turning over the depth of emotion he feels. "Being afraid to want it isn't going to stop me this time, though."

He doesn't want to be without him, either.

He reaches up, cups his face, wanting to meet his eyes. "I won't let it," he tells him rather firmly. Because he's not going to let him withdraw. Retreat. Give up on this. They're too important, the two of them together.

"I will give you anything you want," he tells him. "You have but to name it." Which is, he knows, always the hardest part.

In the moment, with Thomas saying he'll give him anything, it wrenches something loose in him, a great big knot that's been coiled around his hearts. It's okay to want Thomas, it's okay to need him. There's nothing left to fear. There's — what's always there, loss, yes, but the fear of not having him fully, of losing that chance, is even worse. To not love him as deeply as he can.

"I — I want you, Thomas. All of you. I have," he says huskily, speaking with certainty as he reaches up to cover his hands, leaning in to kiss him fiercely now.

Thomas doesn't expect this shift, and there's certainly a shift. Hands are firmer, fingers are tighter, the kiss is deeper and heated and Thomas feels that flush all the way up to the tips of his ears.

"Here?" he mutters. "Now?"

"Well, I was —"

He doesn't know how to explain it. Perhaps the obvious would be to simply say it, to express the things in his mind in a coherent fashion and not as disjointed snippets, like anyone with an ounce of sense might do.

How hard would it be? He could say it, People leave. They leave me. They have before. I've lost them or they've gone because they had to, they chose to. And I know what comes, inevitably, what always comes and I'm always left, but you're here, you promise to be here and I believe it. He could say that, he should. He should explain that it makes him feel safe when Thomas speaks as he does. That, nearing the end of his own life, he could let himself want this without fear, without hiding, without running, without the worry that he's stealing Thomas away from a better life. Because that's what he should do, isn't it? He should get Thomas as healthy as he can be and he should return him to a human life somewhere else, not with him. It's selfish to want this, to cling to this, but he believes for the first time that because Thomas really might want this too, it's okay to let go and hold him closer.

He knows how to be intimate with someone, he has been despite all evidence to the contrary, though it's been a very, very long time. He hides behind deflections, walls to protect himself, to protect others from him and how very...too much he is. He's not as fumbling and bumbling and unsure as he really appears sometimes. He's a contradiction, more than he'd generally allow anyone to know. Deflecting is so much easier for him, it's instinctive, like breathing. It's true emotional honesty and vulnerability that's so much harder for him. His emotions can fluctuate wildly at times; he can be so calm and suddenly snap in a moment of intense fear. He can live so long hiding his true feelings and that passion can surface in a flash if he knows it's okay to feel it.

He can only really let go of the floodgates if he's sure, absolutely sure, that he's wanted in that way. But he didn't even ask, did he? He should have. He assumed. It was all about what he wanted. Again. He miscalculated.

The Doctor pulls back just a little, lets out a breath, manages a small smile. "Now doesn't have to be now now — only when and if you say so. Only then. Or — just this, just you near."

It is very, very difficult for him to genuinely ask for what he wants as it pertains to being close to someone, always mindful that he could easily be greedy, possessive, take too much when it's not wanted, make it all complicated by saying anything at all. He wants everything on Thomas' terms. And, he never actually needs more than this, either. He's different in that sense — intimacy isn't something that occurs to him right away, or very much at all, in fact. He wouldn't feel anything was missing.

Edited (changed wording!) 2024-10-15 14:07 (UTC)

Thomas isn't the sort of person to take these things lightly. Intimacy isn't something to be feared, something to be revered, either. It's been a long time for him, as well. Time, illness, his mother, his expeditions, his work, it all accumulated into a sort of fog of moments and minutes and weeks and years devoid of that.

Then, even in Lakeside, he was deprived of touch, of anything, because of the temperature of his skin.

He doesn't want to be that way.

But 'now doesn't have to be now now sounds an awful lot like no, and Thomas just laughs, shaking his head as he looks down. "Of course not," he says in a rush of air, pulling back so he can sit heavily back in the seat he was occupying.

"Then we should - get to where we're going next."

Oh, good, it's all gone perfectly well — the kissing and touching that he was enjoying so much, getting closer and closer to him, and then, and then, well, he just had to be so very himself about it, didn't he? One way or another, he mucks it up. Thomas laughs, sits, pulls away from him entirely, and all that he wants to do is grab him and kiss him again with all the love he has in him. And everything he's done such a bang up job trying to say. How could he get it so very wrong when he wanted to say yes so vehemently to everything?

The idea of — at the very least — just holding him with nothing between them, no cold skin, no blankets, only them. But that's — he's lost his grip on it, if they'd been edging closer to that at all.

He doesn't know what will show on his face in response and he doesn't want that to be seen, whatever it may be, so he briefly smiles and quickly turns away, nodding to himself, flicking a few levers rapidly on the console. "The finest medbay in the whole of the universe. You'll rest up and heal and have loads of chocolate custard, all you can eat!"

Only the best for him. The best of everything. He can do this, at least.

"That sounds wonderful," he says, though his voice betrays his true feelings. He doesn't doubt that the Doctor loves him or feels for him or anything that he says. He doesn't believe that the Doctor is lying about that.

But it doesn't have to be so goddamn difficult, especially when Thomas is finally able to touch him without hurting him. When Thomas can stare at him with love and want.

Only moments ago, Thomas had gripped his face and so fiercely promised he wouldn't let the Doctor's own fear stop them moving forward, taking another step together, but he'd trampled over that, over everything Thomas has tried to do and say just now. Everything that's meant so much, in all the ways he's been so patient and loving when he didn't have to be, for someone who's made it such a minefield to navigate any deeper emotions.

He's just made it all more confusing than ever, when his actions don't follow his words. He glances at him briefly over his shoulder, looking down, letting out a breath. He moves around to the other side of the console, pulling another lever, quietly leaning against it. Even just that small distance is him running again, though, he knows it. He lingers in it only a moment before he comes back closer.

"And after that, I have — something planned." He doesn't technically yet, but it's the beginnings of a plan.

Thomas remembers his face in his hands, the way that he looked and felt and tasted with that kiss. It's still there, electric on his tongue, and he sighs.

It's all so complicated, all the time. Two steps forward, one step back. Two steps forward, one to the side into the gutter. He doesn't even know where the journey is taking them except that he would like to do it without all of the backsliding and bureaucracy.

"Something planned?" he repeats. "You never plan anything."

He improvises, thinks on his feet, acts in the moment. And then he builds a plan around it as he goes. Which is less planning and more like a thing, like doing. Like a plan but with more greatness. But it sounds lovely (he thinks), so he likes to say it.

"How does a plan start? With a thought, a concept, and — generally — a subject. I've got a thought, many, and I've got you. I have many thoughts about you, more in fact as I go."

Many. Many thoughts about him.

Thomas just looks up to him with a hint of a laugh. "That is hardly surprising; we spend days together. So tell me what this plan is starting to be for you."

"Now don't rush a masterpiece, Thomas Jopson."

Is he...stalling? Definitely. Is he hoping it sounds like he knows exactly what he's doing now? Also definitely. But does he? Debatable.

He does a little slide around the console again, thoughts somewhat coming together as he goes. Which is always how it happens — as he goes. The only thing he knows for sure is he thinks he might have mucked things up, like he does. And he wants to fix it. Somehow everything will fall in line along that central theme as he pulls levers and presses buttons.

He does finally look up, though, peering around the console. "— do you feel well enough for another trip right now, though?"

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -

Re: singillatim au -