Fic commentary: Reconciliation

[platypus]

For karenor. The original story is here. If you'd like to request a commentary on another story, go here and let me know.



It feels a little strange to follow up a commentary on my oldest fic (posted three years ago) with one on my newest fic (posted two months ago). I've scarcely looked at this one since I posted it, though, so even two months have changed my perspective.

The kinkmeme prompt for this was "Duplicate Ten/Rose, shower sex. Bonus points for making it angsty somehow." How could I resist? I wrote up a bunch of notes immediately (the sex part, naturally) and then... sat on them for six months. I wasn't sure what the angst was going to be about, really; I wanted Rose to say something that made the Doctor leave the room, so I could do the whole finding-him-in-the-shower bit, but I didn't want it to be anything so horrible that they couldn't resolve it by the end of a shortish PWP.

Patching together my scattered notes later on was, predictably, hellish (I have to write this way, I am not a linear person, but I drive myself nuts sometimes). I went with the fairly standard "duplicate Doctor is not sufficiently careful with human body, gets hurt" setup, but I was kind of ambivalent about it, because people writing serious stories have addressed this with actual depth, and here I am all "this could prompt them to have angsty sex, right?"

I also worried about possible similarities to doona_rose and chicklet73's fabulous Lather. (If you have not read Lather, go do so now. I'll wait.) And there were a few questionable things – the mole, the comment about washing someone's back... uh, soap suds on the Doctor's ass. That sort of thing. But in the end, the stories are not very much alike; even the moments of overlap are used in different ways.

This was a very, very hard story to finish, and in the end posting it felt sort of like flinging it under a bus and running away. I was shocked at the positive response it got (it was recced on three_settings, for heaven's sake!), and when I opened it up today I was cursing myself for not getting it betaed and expecting it to read like Frankenstein's monster.

But much to my surprise, I actually like it. It flows a lot better than I expected; you almost can't see the chewing gum and string holding it together. I still should have had it betaed, but my guilt over kicking it out the door as-is has lessened.

The quiet rattle of a key in the lock is all it takes to jerk Rose from her restless half-sleep. Her laptop, still displaying a live data feed from Torchwood HQ, tumbles from the sofa but she ignores it, racing to fling open the door.

"Rose?" the Doctor says, blinking. He pockets his key absently. "I thought you'd be in bed." He's a mess, his suit torn and muddy, dark smudges under his eyes.

All the things she thought she'd say catch in her throat. When he told her on Bad Wolf Bay, just weeks ago, that he only had one life, she never stopped to consider how short it might be. Half of her wants to crush him into a hug and never let go, and the other half wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. She crosses her arms firmly instead. "What the hell did you think you were doing? You could have been killed."

These opening paragraphs have a shitload of stuff to establish, and I'm actually pretty happy with the end result. OTOH, in the "should have had it betaed" category, I'm not entirely sure how easy it is for the reader to follow along and get "Okay, this is after Journey's End and they live together and work for Torchwood." In retrospect, I really should have stuffed at least a quick "solo mission" reference into this paragraph, because maybe people are reading this part and thinking "Where the hell was he, and why wasn't Rose with him?" I figured that Torchwood didn't necessarily treat them like they were joined at the hip, and that he'd be happy enough to go alone into a dangerous situation where he had some particular expertise and she didn't.

His lips quirk. "I'm glad to see you, too." He kisses the top of her head and brushes past her into their flat. "Please tell me you ordered in. I'm starving."

I was worried that he might be a bit too flippant here, but I did tone it down from earlier drafts. It's something that comes up fairly often in my fic, actually, the Doctor trying to deny or minimize that he's hurt or can't handle something, dodging questions and being generally obfuscatory. Is that really in character? Well, this is Mr. Always All Right. So it's probably not too far out.

Rose, too, might be a little snappier here than strictly necessary, but (despite her usual empathy) I can imagine her relief that he's okay being quickly followed by frustration that he's taking unnecessary risks. Also, I need him to piss her off, so the Doctor's being nudged a little toward 'annoying' and Rose is being nudged a little toward 'annoyed.'

She follows him into the kitchen and watches him rummage in the refrigerator. "Doctor, I'm serious. You left your team behind."

"They knew nothing about dealing with mud-breathing aliens," he says around a mouthful of cold pizza.

"They were your backup."

"It was a delicate situation."

"And you needed them! I saw the reports. When they finally tracked you down, they had to drag you out of there."

"Yes, well—"

"Unconscious."

"Does Pete give you access to everything?" he mutters. "Fine. I wasn't expecting quite that much hostility. But I talked them into leaving. Your lot with the guns, they would have overreacted." In my head, the unnamed aliens decided to take whatever petty grievance they had out on his ass, just on principle, even though he convinced them to back down on any larger assault. And he kind of knew that might happen, which is why he ditched Torchwood. He pops the last bite of pizza crust into his mouth and brushes his hands on his ruined suit. "Anyway, I'm fine."

"This time! If you get hurt, you won't regenerate. You're not—"

"Him?" he says bitterly. "I know."

Again, this is just background stuff in my head, and the story should work without it – but in this particular take on things, he's the one with the bug up his ass about whether or not he's as good as the original Doctor. He feels like he has something to prove, much more than Rose feels he does. So he's trying to singlehandedly save the world, and taking risks he really can't afford anymore, and she's just trying to tell him that he's not indestructible and needs to be more careful. But he, of course, is assuming she's making some unfavorable comparison to the original Doctor, and that assumption (which has happened often enough to be a point of conflict between them) is the last straw, and she just lashes out because she's pissed off and frustrated and she was worried, dammit.

"Then stop pretending you are!" That's too far, she knows it, her mouth snaps shut in horror but it's too late. He flinches and she reaches out to him, desperate to take it back. "I didn't mean it like that."

He avoids her eyes. "I'm going to wash off this dirt," he says, and turns on his heel.

Rose sags against the counter, burying her face in her hands. Could she possibly have handled that any worse? This isn't the reception she planned on giving him when he returned from his first field mission. I really should have said something about that earlier.

In the distance she hears the steady noise of water running, and nothing else. Not the cap of the shampoo bottle snapping open, not a dropped bar of soap, not even a change in the rhythm of the water. She should give him some space; they both need time to cool off. But the silence goes on and on, and before she knows it she's tiptoeing through their bedroom to the en-suite. I have NO IDEA what to call bathrooms in British. Is it always en-suite if it's a master bath attached to a bedroom? I see that a lot in fic. I assume it's only a loo or whatever if we're talking about the toilet, which we're not. He looked awful; what if he's passed out?

Cautiously, she eases open the bathroom door, peering through the haze of steam. He's just standing there under the spray, facing away from her, his hands limp at his sides. She should go. He's fine.

No, he's not. She makes up her mind and steps through the doorway. It took me a truly absurd amount of time to come up with those two lines, and it was such a relief when I did. I had the stuff about her looking at him and thinking she ought to go, I had the stuff about her entering the room – but I COULD NOT transition between the two. This works fine, plus it helps show a more empathetic Rose, who knows that he's just tired and frustrated too, and maybe a little freaked out by the close call, and she probably shouldn't have poked him in his insecurities right then no matter how difficult he was being. The Doctor glances over his shoulder, watching her with a wary vulnerability that makes her chest ache. She can't stand it, and she can't think of a damned thing that will make it better. What finally comes out is the most inane thing possible. "Wash your back?" Her voice wavers, and the hard set of his jaw softens fractionally; he shrugs one shoulder before turning back toward the wall.

Rose undresses and steps into the shower without waiting for a more enthusiastic invitation. Pulling the glass door shut behind her, she picks up a flannel...

Okay, I think we need to pause here. British people, apparently, do not shower with washcloths/flannels. Even that Squeeze song carefully specifies that a flannel is for one's face. But the fooling around with the washcloth was some of the first stuff I had for this story – I mean, it's shower fic, why not go for it? – and I really didn't want to lose it. So I did some research on shower habits online (no, really, I wasn't just procrastinating) and ended up rather amazed/appalled. Kids These Days apparently think showering with soap and a washcloth is disgusting. The things that washcloth has touched! It will never be clean again! There are even racist remarks about washcloth use. But sponges, still used occasionally by some people, are somehow not gross. (I think they're gross.) Some people use a bar of soap alone; some people think soap is disgusting. Bath puffs and shower gel are apparently the way to go, even for manly men.

Now, I was reading British forums/blogs/articles, but I know that the commenters weren't necessarily British. And I had the feeling that most of the people saying this stuff were college-aged at best, so I really don't know how older adults might feel about these things. (Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.) But in the end, I really couldn't justify having a flannel in this story. Here's the thing, though: you cannot give a guy a hand job with a bath puff. It is a non-starter. I suppose some shower gel could be involved, but there's going to be sex later, and shower gel is not lube. Ick. (Indeed, no form of soap or shampoo is lube, and the story is fairly careful about not getting any on anyone's relevant bits.) In the end, I gave up and said (a) it's a kinkmeme fic and (b) if pressed, I could always play the Pete's World Anachronism card. They have zeppelins, for heaven's sake. Are washcloths such a stretch? But, yeah, I still feel kind of bad about the misplaced cultural reference.

...reaching awkwardly around him to wet it in the shower spray. She soaps it up and runs it over his neck and shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them, scrubbing away a smear of dried mud. She goes lightly over a darkening bruise on his shoulder blade, trying not to think about how he got it. When she finds a knotted muscle and works it loose he makes a funny little sound, a kind of moaning sigh; encouraged, she wrings out the cloth and moves lower, gliding down the small of his back. She pauses just short of the curve of his buttocks; a trail of soap suds continues the journey, but she hesitates. This reads a bit fast, but I think that's sometimes just an artifact of reading your own story. It's also a bit "she did this, she did that," but I was tying myself in knots looking for other things to throw in and other ways to structure sentences.

"Turn around?" she says, but he makes a noncommittal noise, lifting his face into the shower spray. Apparently he hasn't relented quite so far as to want to look at her. Sighing, she soaps up the flannel again and reaches around to wash his chest.

When she grazes a hard nipple, she feels his sudden indrawn breath. Oh. So that's how it is. She rinses the flannel under the shower spray, then slides it over the tense muscles of his stomach, feeling him twitch with an involuntary laugh as she dips into his navel. Of course he's ticklish. When her hand drifts lower, reaching the curly hair at his groin, he becomes very still again.

She leans in and kisses the mole between his shoulder blades, the one she never saw on his other body. I don't know if it was really necessary to establish that she wasn't sleeping with the original Doctor, but I like the mole, and the whole thing sort of serves as another indicator that she accepts him as the Doctor. Plus, I think being fond of someone's mole or freckle or whatever is kind of cute. "Turn around," she repeats, very gently this time, and he does.

She tries to keep her eyes on his face, though it's hard to ignore his obvious arousal. He looks so young, wet hair flattened to his forehead, his eyes wide and dark, a little uncertain but not at all embarrassed.

More sure of herself now, she starts again on his chest, running the wet cloth over the shadows of his ribs. He's always been skinny, but now he's almost gaunt; they'll have to do better than cold pizza later, she thinks. First things first, though. She traces the light line of hair below his navel, following it down, and his Adam's apple bobs as the flannel grazes his hard cock. She swirls the cloth around him, then takes a gentle grip, pulling up and sliding back down. Both of his hands go to the tile behind him for support as his hips follow the motion.

He's beautiful, his mouth half open, eyes drifting shut, water cascading from his shoulders and running down to where her hand is curled around him. She licks her lips and starts stroking faster, ready to finish this right now if that's what he needs, but he reaches out a shaky hand and takes the flannel from her. I keep saying I hate it when fic starts something it doesn't mean to finish, but here I am doing it. I do get disappointed that fic so frequently treats hand jobs or oral sex purely as foreplay and never an end in themselves. Especially if the main act turns out to be bog standard missionary position sex that isn't nearly as interesting.

"I think I'm clean," he rasps, and gestures for her to turn around. He brushes her hair over her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep it dry—did she imagine the touch of lips on her newly exposed neck?—and then the soapy cloth starts on her back. He does a sketchier job of it than she did, moving down her spine with a few long strokes, giving her arse a slippery squeeze; there's no doubt where all of this is going. The slick slide of the flannel over her breasts is delicate, not lingering, but he leans closer to her, the water slippery between their bodies, his cock hot and hard against her lower back. He rinses off the flannel and strokes it down her belly, across her inner thigh as she reflexively parts her legs. She closes her eyes in anticipation as he moves up, up, nudging between her folds; the cloth is warm and wet, somehow soft and rough at the same time, and her whole body jerks the first time it touches her clit. He holds on, pressing gently as he rocks with her, and she knows he can feel every reaction of her body as she quivers against him.

One wet finger finds its way beneath the cloth, stroking, testing; she's slick with more than soap and water, and with a groan he drops the flannel. He bends her forward, guides her hands to the cool tile of the wall. In some drafts, she did this herself, to give her a more active role and make it clear that she's okay with it. But it felt like it slowed things down, and, well, I just found the image of him guiding her hands kinda hot. His cock presses awkwardly against her, the angle not quite right, but then she lifts her hips and he gives a sudden push and all at once he's in. She gasps at the suddenness of it but he's already pulling back for another sharp thrust, another, until he's driving into her with no restraint at all, a headlong rush to a conclusion that can't be far away. It's really hard to write several things happening quickly or all at once; words slow them down and spread them out and I never quite feel like I adequately captured a sense of urgency. Despite this section being some of the first stuff I wrote, I reworked it over and over, trying to find the right feel. Ultimately, I think I overdid that; there's a point of diminishing returns, and I pushed right on past it. When I looked back at an early draft, which I often do right at the end just to make sure I didn't lose anything particularly good in editing, I found that I liked the earlier version of this better than the later one, and resurrected most of it.

Also: shower sex? I think the awkward part's the standing up, not the water.

She can't keep up but she doesn't care, he's here, he's alive, and right now all she needs is this.

"Rose," he says urgently, and she's not sure if it's a plea or a warning but then it's too late to matter. He comes with a choked cry, the wet pulse of him within her making her shudder, his hips slamming forward like he's got to be as deeply inside her as he possibly can. When it's over he stays there, pulling her upright so he can wrap his arms tightly around her, burying his face in the side of her neck as his erection slowly fades. She finds herself stroking his arm, rocking them both back and forth, whispering soothing nonsense that he probably can't hear over the rushing water anyway.

Eventually his lips start moving softly against her neck, and she can't help shivering. "You didn't come," he murmurs in her ear, sounding more like himself.

She extricates herself enough to turn around and look at him. "I don't mind," she starts to say, but the slow smile spreading across his face silences her.

He drops to his knees and kisses her belly, her wet curls, the inside of her thigh as he hitches one of her legs over his shoulder. She leans back, suddenly grateful for the ridiculous little non-skid decals he insisted on putting in the tub. They're ducks. I don't know if tub stickers are also non-British, or ridiculously old-fashioned, because the internet failed me when I tried to find out. Nonetheless, I felt an obscure desire to explain why she's not going to fall and crack her skull in the middle of this. And I thought it was funny for the Doctor to want tub decals.

His fingers spread her open and his hot breath is on her and then, oh god, his tongue. I really didn't go into the story meaning to write this bit, but it spontaneously came out in a tumble of OH, WHAT THE HELL, IT'S THE KINKEME! HAVE SOME MORE SEX! There was no way there were going to be simultaneous orgasms in this story; he's far too preoccupied to help out and it all happens pretty quick, and I'm tired of orgasms just kind of happening without any effort whenever there is fucking. It's everywhere, sliding and flicking and caressing; it even dips inside her, lapping, and she feels a sudden rush of wetness. I suppose this could be a bit kinky or squicky if you're thinking about it too hard, but I don't think he'd care, so story is breezing by it. It's almost too much, too intimate, but he's so clearly enjoying it, making little murmurs of encouragement that send sparks straight through to the core of her. He's so good at this, the pleasure's building so fast she doesn't even have to reach for it, she can just relax and let it wash over her, carrying her higher and higher. Finally he draws her clit between his lips, sucking in quick pulses, and that's it, she's coming, burying her hands in his wet hair and trying not to buck.

Like many fic writers, I sometimes find describing orgasms to be a little difficult or repetitive. Some people are really turned off by various words or metaphors, though you can't worry too much about that or you'll never write anything. The things I do worry about are more like, is this how I would describe this, or is it just how I've seen it described? I mean, nobody spontaneously thinks up words like "laving"; they pick them up from fic. And it gets boring to see the same descriptions used over and over like that. I've also seen many good stories that didn't feel the need to belabor the point when it came to orgasms at all. At any rate, when it comes to smut in general I'm trying to work on not needing to describe absolutely everything in equal detail. Not because I'm feeling prudish about it, but because it can get tedious to have a play by play that, well, feels like a play by play.

She comes down slowly, aware of his tongue still lazily stroking her clit; he waits until he's drawn out every last tremor before easing her leg back down and getting to his feet. She's still catching her breath when he turns off the shower and leans out to fetch a couple of towels.

"I'm sorry," she says, echoing in the sudden quiet. "I shouldn't have jumped on you."

The corner of his mouth twitches and she hastily corrects herself. "Before. I shouldn't have yelled. I was just so worried." She lays her hand helplessly over his single heart. This must be how he felt all the time, when she was the only fragile one. It takes some getting used to. I like this point, but I'm not sure I made it as well as it could be made. I really hate that 'only,' because I think it messes with the rhythm of the sentence, but logic forced me to acknowledge that he's not any more fragile than she is.

I mentioned in brief comments when I first posted this that I was a little ambivalent about having Rose apologize. She's fundamentally right, after all. But sometimes, even though you are right, you apologize for the part you're sorry about.

"Even though you were right?" he says wryly, tucking his towel around his waist. He wraps the other one around Rose, and pulls her into his arms. I don't think this Doctor is any better at apologies than the original, but it means something when he makes a concession. Ten said he was sorry a lot, but it felt kind of meaningless after a while.

"Even though." She glances up at him. "You're not indestructible. That's all I was going to say, earlier. Not... anything else."

His arms tighten around her, and she sighs, letting the last of her tension dissipate. "Maybe we should try this again." She slips her hand behind his neck and pulls him down for a long kiss, soft and languid and just involved enough that they're both breathing a bit hard when she draws away. "I'm so glad you're safe." She rests her forehead against his. "Now try to stay that way." I hope this doesn't just look like she's capitulating entirely. I think the last was said a bit fiercely, but couldn't find a good way to express that. I'm also trying to resist spelling out exactly how I hear every bit of dialogue in my head, or exactly how I imagine every little gesture, because I think that's another tic I could do without. Writing fic isn't like describing a TV show, and as a reader I get bored with being told exactly how to hear and interpret everything in a story. (So then I come here later and tell you just that in commentaries!)

"I will." He smiles, but his eyes are serious. "Rose, I'll get it right eventually. We have time."

She slips her hand into his, and trusts that they do.

It was SO DAMNED HARD to end this thing. I wanted them to resolve their argument, but you can only work so much of your shit out at the crack of dawn after an extraordinarily stressful day and a bunch of sex. They should be on the verge of passing out by this point.

I'm happier with the post-sex talk than I was when I first posted it, that's for sure, but it could probably still be stronger. So, let this be a public service announcement: kids, use your betas!

Comments

[nonelvis]

Slipping on my beta hat for a moment ...

1) I had no problems following those first paragraphs, and it seemed reasonable to assume Torchwood might not always pair Rose and Handy on the same missions. I wouldn't have gotten "first solo mission" out of that opening without you having said it later, but I don't think that's a critical distinction; it's enough that Rose knows Handy's been off doing something dangerous and that she was worried about him.

2) The conversation at the end is perfectly fine. In both this case and the previous one, it sounds to me like you're worried you're not providing enough information for the reader, but I think less is more here; anything longer than what you have would disrupt the story's flow.

... and from a purely non-beta perspective -- as I think I said in the comment I left on the kinkmeme, before I knew you'd written this: I don't know how you managed to hit so many of my kinks in this story, but you did. It is seriously, seriously hot.

[platypus]

I'm glad you think the beginning and end both work okay. I didn't want to overexplain, and thought it was probably enough that I knew some of the background details, but sometimes it's hard to see how it'll come across to somebody else. (I still think the best time to ask those sorts of questions is before posting, and I'd probably have felt better about the story if I had, but by the time I was done-ish I couldn't bear the thought of touching the damn thing again.) And I am pleased that you liked it :).

[kalleah.livejournal.com]

There are even racist remarks about washcloth use.

..................... whut?

[platypus]

There is some seriously weird shit on the internet.