Chapter Text
Rose wasn’t initially sure what to make of the offer.
Everybody knew the Doctor, had listened to his music at some point in their lives, tucked up in their bedrooms and poring over the lyrics insert. Everybody had a favorite album, too. They were never titled, only distinguishable by what he was wearing on the cover.
Her mum’s friends always talked about the Scarf Album or the Cricket Album, but Rose liked his newer stuff, the Leather Album and the Suit Album, even the Cravat Album (though she’d gotten into that one out of order).
So when he’d called her – and her – not her mum, actually called Rose, and invited her to be the opening act for his newest tour, it was kind of a heavy moment.
“I don’t deal with mums and I don’t deal with managers, and I certainly don’t deal with mum-managers,” he said. “You decide if you’d like to come along.”
Rose remembered the long silence down the line before he’d finally said, “I will say, I’d love you to come,” and then he’d hung up.
The next day he’d called again, asking one last time, and she’d not hesitated to sign on.
She’d spent the weeks leading up to the start of the tour a nervous wreck. The Doctor was famous for making people’s careers, or saving them when they were in trouble, but a single word from him could kill an artist dead in the water. Harriet Jones’ latest album had barely even charted, after he’d implied she was relying a little too heavy on the auto-tune.
Rose had been on tour plenty of times — playing sold-out clubs and theaters — but this was a new league of venue: arenas. As much as Jackie raged about the Doctor’s “no mothers on the road” rule, she finally agreed, for the sake of Rose’s career.
She was old enough to handle things on her own without her mum, manager or not. By things, her mum didn’t mean percentage of the take or proper billing on the posters. The Doctor had a history of bringing young women on the road with him — although there hadn’t ever been any proof of anything untoward happening behind-the-scenes. The gossip rags were rife with unsubstantiated rumors about the Doctor’s “Companions” (nicknamed as though they were a troupe of backup singers), but no one had ever scored a single incriminating photo.
Rose figured that if things got out of hand, well … her mum was only a phone call away.
She didn’t actually meet the Doctor in person until they were right in the thick of it, at the kickoff performance at Wembley stadium. Five minutes before she was due to be onstage, he knocked at her dressing room door. Without waiting for an answer, he came in, decked out in his trademark pinstripes and Chucks, his hair a glorious mess of spikes. He was taller and skinnier in person than she’d expected, and he just stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back onto his heels and surveying her as though she was a particularly interesting specimen of something … alien.
After a minute of this, with Rose watching the clock tick by on the wall behind his head, so as not to stare directly at the man whose music had gotten her through both being broken up with by Jimmy, and breaking up with Mickey, he finally spoke.
“You bring that with you,” he glanced to the trusty pink guitar resting in its stand to her left. “But you don’t play it on stage. Why’s that? Not any good? No, couldn’t be that, you seem like the type to be the best at whatever you do. I should know, I only take the best.”
The tone of his voice, the light ramble he slipped into, put her at ease and she instantly wanted to answer with the truth.
“Oh, product of my environment, I guess. They wanted a pop star, I wanted to be Joan Jett,” she gestured to her own trademark – a sparkled dress, “You can tell who won.”
The Doctor focused on her, locking their eyes, and Rose felt like she was seeing the history of music flash by, a million songs, anguished ballads and screaming punk, a thousand radio hits.
“Well, I want the real Rose Tyler, not some label’s packaged product. When you finish your set, put on whatever you’d like and wait at the side of the stage during mine. Bring your guitar.”
She wanted to protest, she had never actually played it in front of anyone, hours at home, alone, yes, but on stage it was usually her, her voice, and whatever flash effects they put behind her.
Before she could get the words out, she heard the two minute call and the Doctor ducked out the door.
Rose had seen concerts at Wembley over the years, Muse and Madonna and Green Day, so she knew the lay of the land. She’d walked onstage for her sound check a few hours ago, when the seats were empty and the lights were going up. But stepping out from behind the curtains, standing in front of the sea of faces and the roar of cheers pounding the stage like waves beating the shore, took her breath. She was in over her head and drowning, incapable of calling for help, face fixed into a rictus of a smile and dress sparkling like a disco ball. Then the drums kicked in, steady and familiar, and her knees unlocked.
“Hello, London!” She strutted forward, managed not to fall into the crowd, waved hello, and they cheered louder.
I only take the best.
Damn right he does, Rose thought. Because once the music started, she was a goddess – she held power over the audience, the power of love and emotion, of life and death.
Unlike some headlining divas in the music world, the Doctor had given her free rein in choosing her set list. She sang her current hit first, of course; but after that came the songs she’d written herself, the ones the label liked to put on the b-side because they made her appear “authentic.”
Halfway through the last song she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, standing just offstage, watching her with a grin on his face. Not the smile he gave in his music videos or concerts or interviews, but a small twist of his lips, the expression of a man delighted by something unexpected.
It was a good look on him, that grin.
It was even better that she’d put it there.
When she finished that song, and the lights had dimmed, the road crew trotting out to arrange things for the Doctor’s set, she all but ran back to her dressing room.
Should she change?
There weren’t very many people who saw her without the armor of something shiny, and walking on stage like that seemed almost unimaginable. Something in her wanted the Doctor to see it first, alone.
Besides, she wanted to show the world, or at least Wembley stadium, that the Rose Tyler they knew could do this. If the label saw the audience responding to her, in wardrobe, with a guitar, maybe they’d let her bring it out once in a while.
Trying to play in jeans and t-shirts could come after that.
That decided, she grabbed her guitar, and forced herself to walk slowly back to the offstage area, fielding congratulations from some of the crew milling about the halls.
From her spot in the wings, she watched the Doctor’s set, enjoying the way he paced the stage with his guitar in between breaks from singing. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch, more like he was trying to get his thoughts in order before the next verse, his fingers on the instrument almost second nature.
And then suddenly the music had stopped and he was announcing a special guest, one, he said, who might look familiar, from, ohhhhh, 45 minutes ago. She had only a moment to think about how much she loved the conversational way he addressed the audience, before a crew member was plucking her guitar from her hand and rushing to plug it in.
Rose followed him out, watching the Doctor’s face in the bright lights as she went.
She ought to have felt panic — they hadn’t rehearsed anything together, and she was familiar with his songs enough to wing it, maybe, but there simply wasn’t a plan. For Rose, everything had always been planned: costume changes to match the mood of each song, pyrotechnics, back-up dancers, every aspect of the show predictable and easy to manage.
So far, the Doctor had been anything but predictable, and Rose had the distinct impression that trying to manage him would be a nightmare.
He smiled as she walked across the stage, arm extended in welcome, and the crowd roared. She grinned back, tongue between her teeth (oh he noticed that, his gaze flickering to her mouth for a split second). She waved at the audience and slung her pink guitar across her body; wearing it out here, in front of all these people, was exhilarating and terrifying and exactly like going down the steep drop on a roller coaster.
In the glare of the stage lights, every last detail of the Doctor’s face was illuminated — the angles of his cheekbones, the constellation of freckles across his skin, and the mischievous gleam in his bright brown eyes.
“Rose Tyler, are you ready?” he mouthed at her, so the mic wouldn’t pick up his words.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
The Doctor turned to the audience, bouncing on his toes in excitement, full of manic energy, and shouted at them, “Are you ready?”
The response was deafening. He winked at her and his fingers moved over the strings of his guitar. After the fourth chord, she was playing right along with him, and when he belted out the first lyric she came in right on cue: “Hit me with your rhythm stick; Hit me! Hit me! Je t’adore, ich liebe dich; Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!”
He couldn’t have known. There’s no way the Doctor could’ve known about this song, and the way her father used to sing it to her at night, before his car accident. This song, and the way it was worn into her bones like grooves on a record.
After that, it was the clichéd blur she said she’d never describe being on stage as, but there it was. There was a sense of home, of something familiar, up there, on the worn floorboards, and it wasn’t all in the memory of her dad.
The Doctor had a manic, happy look on his face (to match her own, she was sure) by the time they’d finished the song. She pulled him into a tight hug on impulse, the crowd roaring louder and a thousand camera flashes going off before she released him, not missing the way he definitely hugged her back.
The photos would be on every music blog from London to Cleveland by morning, but she didn’t care. If the in-ear monitor was anything to go by, it had been an amazing performance – hopefully they’d mention that, too.
She walked off-stage with the Doctor and it was only when they reached a tough-looking woman in a business suit that she realized they were holding hands. Had she done that? Oh, god. She let go of the Doctor’s hand as casually as she could.
“You two were brilliant! The press will go bonkers for that!” The woman said, her ginger hair shining in the backstage lights. She turned to Rose, “I’m Donna Noble, I manage Rock Boy over here.”
Rose stuck out her hand, realizing too late it was probably sweaty from playing (and holding the Doctor’s), but Donna shook it and didn’t comment, “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Noble,” Rose said.
”Ms. Noble, I like this one! Please call me Donna though,” she turned to the Doctor, “And you! No more than three encores! We load out tonight, not in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Doctor said, ruffling his own unruly hair before he snapped to mock attention and directed a salute at her.
“Oi, don’t sass me, Rock Boy.” The crowd was screaming; it sounded like an impending riot. “Get out there and give them that encore, before they tear the house down!”
He was about to turn away, but Rose grabbed his hand — why did she have this impulse to hold onto him? — and blurted out, “You were brilliant, too!”
“Oh, me? I’m always brilliant,” he replied, and coming from his beaming face it wasn’t so much conceit as it was statement of fact; not something he was proud of, simply a truth he knew about himself. His long fingers squeezed hers and he was gone, bouncing back onstage as the crowd roared even louder.
“C’mon, I’ll show you were they park the buses. This place is a maze, and I don’t have any extra troops to send a search party if you get lost.”
Rose had nearly forgotten Donna was there.
The two women fell into easy conversation as Donna guided her through the depths of the stadium to the loading bay. It was packed with lorries, some already being loaded with Rose’s own stage equipment, some waiting for the Doctor’s. In the midst of everything stood two tour buses. Rose’s was exactly as her mother had stipulated in her contract: a hulking thing, black and gleaming under the fluorescent lights like a spaceship. The Doctor’s battered blue bus looked small beside it, chipped paint and balding tires attesting to years on the road. Rose realized he must love this bus — there was no other reason someone with his resources would’ve kept such an ancient thing.
Donna gave her a hug before excusing herself to see to all the other details of wrapping up the evening’s show. Rose took her time cleaning up, showering and changing into a tank top and pajama pants. She’d just settled in with a romance novel when there was a knock at her door.
Rose checked herself in the mirror next to the dresser, poking at her cheeks to get some color into them, before opening the door. What would she say to him? Should she have stayed for his encores? No, Donna had been the one to lead her away – surely she would know if the Doctor would get fussy that she left.
She took a deep breath just as another knock came and she opened the door with a grin.
It was not the Doctor.
Her smile faltered as a woman about her own height and build stood in the entryway. “Hi, I’m Martha Jones, tour physician.”
Quickly recovering, Rose shook her hand. “A doctor for the Doctor?”
“Something like that,” Martha laughed. “A doctor for you, too. I just need to do a quick physical, legal reasons for the label and all that. Should’ve done it before the show tonight, but the Doctor warned everyone off visiting you – I think he wanted to stop by himself first.”
Martha’s tone implied that it could have been a question, but Rose wanted to keep that visit for herself a little longer – until she had to do some interview about the tour and how the Doctor was treating her, at least.
Rose nodded and Martha continued on.
“Anyway, just some quick checks.” She pulled a stethoscope from a small bag she was carrying.
Martha’s bedside manner was impeccable, putting Rose at ease with questions about her favorite bands and her mum as she checked her blood pressure and looked in her ears. But Rose wanted more information on the Doctor from this inside source.
“Is there a lot of illness on your tours?” Rose said.
“Oh, no, not much at all,” Martha said. “But the executives keep me around just in case. In fact, I think the Doctor insists on it. And someone’s got to stop him from eating only bananas and chips all time.”
Rose laughed, guilty. “I have a bit of a weakness for chips, too.”
Martha put the medical equipment back in her bag. “Oh, you two will get on like a house on fire then. I bet he’ll stop by soon, he always likes to make sure the other acts want to continue after the first show. Don’t mention the chips unless you want to find yourself eating some at,”she checked her watch, “Half past 11.”
And with that, Martha left, leaving the door open behind her.
Rose plopped down on the small sofa with a sigh and reached for her novel again, but before she could even open the cover, the Doctor popped his head inside the door. His hair was wet, which meant he’d cleaned up, but for some bizarre reason he was in a fresh pair of pinstriped trousers and shirtsleeves — still in costume. He glanced at the plush bus, then surveyed her from head to toe, and arched his eyebrows at her choice of novel (oh god, she was reading The Virile Viking again, why hadn’t she packed War and Peace or something?).
“Well, come on then. We’ve got to be in Conventry by morning, we’re doing an interview on the local morning show, and Donna’s got the buses leaving in two minutes. Are you going to stay here?”
And with that he popped right back out again, strutting away to his ancient blue bus.
Don’t let things get out of hand, Rose Tyler! her mother’s voice crowed in the back of her head.
“Oh, stuff it,” she retorted aloud, tossing The Virile Viking across the room and following the Doctor to his bus.
It was bigger than it looked from the outside, strewn with the evidence of bachelor living, everything inside decidedly masculine. No hint of any other “companions” anywhere, not that she could see; either it didn’t exist, or he’d hidden it away quite well.
“I’m starving,” he said, depositing a large container of chips into her hands. “Good old Donna, she knows what I need. Always has a basket of these waiting for me after the kickoff show. She was the one who first showed me your performance tape, y’know. The one from that club in Soho — what’s it called? — the Shadow Proclamation! That’s the one!” He plucked a few chips out of her lap and stuffed them into his mouth.
“Oh, no. Yeah. The gig where the sound equipment malfunctioned,” Rose said, rolling her eyes following his lead, stuffing chips into her mouth.
“You’re really brilliant unplugged, you are,” he said, waggling his eyebrows again, and she giggled. “You ought to sing like that more often.”
Rose finished chewing, intending to thank him for the compliment, but what came out instead was, “Oh, these are gorgeous!”
The Doctor laughed and nodded, snagging a few more from her pile with a wink. Eating chips like this all the time, how the hell did he stay so skinny? The label had her on an exercise regimen that included a ton of treadmill running, but somehow she couldn’t imagine the Doctor doing the same, at least not on a machine.
He did have those long, thin legs that would be perfect for running though, and the way his trousers – she needed to focus, he was staring at her.
“Remind me to thank Donna then; singing unplugged is great, when I can get away with it. Usually takes an act of nature, or electrical malfunction.”
The Doctor smiled. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that. I got a first in electrical malfunction, by way of jiggery pokery.” He leaned forward in his seat, arm stretching toward the bus’ small fridge. He opened it and took out two bottles of Vitex and handed one to her.
“Tour sponsor,” he said with a shrug.
Rose eyed the bottle before opening it. “My dad always thought this would be a great idea – a health drink that tasted good, too.”
“Oh, yeah? What happened? Because it looks like someone beat him to it,” the Doctor said, taking a swig from his bottle. “Although whether this actually tastes good is a matter for debate.”
Rose dropped her eyes to the floor, focusing on the Doctor’s scuffed trainers. It always made people feel awkward when she told them about her dad, like they didn’t know how to respond.
“He – he died. Car accident, when I was little.”
The Doctor put a hand on her knee, light enough and low enough to be proper.
“I’m so sorry. I should have – I try not to get too much each information on the other acts before the tour starts. Makes the discovering much more fun. I should’ve known about this though.”
Rose started at his hand on her knee, the way he was leaning into her across the small built-in bench.
“It’s all right, I don’t really even talk about it interviews. It’s weird though, that song tonight, Ian Dury, he used to sing that with me before he died. What made you choose it?”
Before he could reply, the bus lurched into motion, throwing them both to one side of the bench. The Doctor’s hand, which had been so properly placed, slipped upward. Rose let out a very undignified squeal, the Doctor stuttered apologies as he scrambled backward, and the chips went flying onto the floor.
He was on his knees in a flash, scooping bits of fried potato back into the basket. “Ten second rule!”
She eyed the speckled chips as he climbed back onto the bench next to her and shook her head. “More for me,” he said with a shrug, stuffing a few in his mouth. One bite in, he spat them back out into the basket, making a noise like a five-year-old rejecting broccoli. “Bleh! I think I picked up more than just the potatoes there.”
She couldn’t help it — she was giggling again.
“Hmm, that’s enough of that,” he said, tossing the basket onto the nearby kitchenette table. “Where was I? Oh yes! Ian Dury.” The bus had pulled out of the stadium and they were well into the streets of London now; it was darker here, the city lights floating outside the bus window like stars, the hum of the bus engine familiar and comforting. “It’s a classic, that song, one of my favorites. And there’s a video — the internet, that cesspool of moments we wish the public would just forget about — anyway, a video of you in a coffee shop, you were just starting out and you sang that song during open mic night.”
Several thoughts struck Rose all at once, but she only managed to say the first one that popped into her head: “You were googling videos of me on the internet?”
“Well-l-l-l, not exactly.” He looked more than a bit mortified, tugging at his ear and latching his gaze onto the ceiling. “My drummer, Adam, he kind of has a thing for you, and I just happened to be walking by when Adam was —”
Rose waved her hand, cutting him off — although she did like seeing him embarrassed. This wasn’t the Doctor, Rock God; he was a regular bloke, blushing and adorable. “I haven’t sung it in ages. I’m glad you picked it.”
He beamed. “So you’re on-board with all this, then?” he asked, waving vaguely at their surroundings.
Rose looked at the bus, at the open door to the bedroom at one end, and tried not to squeak. “Pardon?”
“The tour! Not ready to jump ship yet, I hope? Because the duet bit in the middle of my set — perfect. I’d like to make it a regular thing, every single stop!”
Rose rushed to agree: “That sounds perfect! I think it’ll help me make a case with the the label for a little more freedom.”
The Doctor looked hurt and she charged on to correct her mistake, “I mean, that’s second though, to singing with you.”
His grin made the chips she had managed to eat stand up and march around in her stomach.
“We can stick to covers for now,” he said. “Maybe we’ll get into a groove in a few stops, and can try writing something together.”
Rose’s head swam. “Oh, oh, yes, oh wow.”
The Doctor seemed not to notice her stumbling. “But for now Rose Tyler, we have to sleep! Well, you do. Don’t need much, me. You can take the bed, I’ll camp out here.”
Before she could protest, he was ushering her toward the back of the bus and the tiny bunk, no door to speak of sectioning it from the rest of the space.
Her head met the pilllow just as her adrenaline crashed and she cocooned herself into the sheets, surrounded by the smell of something spicy and clean and Doctor. She was just pondering what it could be – cologne, aftershave, soap – when she dropped off to sleep.
The next morning, she was jarred from sleep by the sound of the radio:
This is Hark the Shark with your morning drive and coming up in the 8 o’clock hour, we’ll have the Doctor and Rose Tyler, stars of the newest arena tour out of the Gallifrey Records label!
8 o’clock! And the bus wasn’t moving. Oh god, she had to get ready.
“Doctor!” Rose’s voice echoed off the small interior of the bus and the Doctor bolted upright from where he was lying on the bench, apparently listening to the radio.
“What, what is it?!”
“What time is it? I can’t go to the studio looking like this!”
The Doctor looked her up and down and Rose blushed. “Aw, you’d be fine. Jack would probably say something about seeing you the morning after without a night before, though.”
Rose groped around at the edge of her bed for her shoes – when had she taken those off?
“Jack?” she said, distracted.
“Hark the Shark, of course! Helped him get his start in the business, he’s always a stop for press when I tour.”
“Oh, sure, right. Listen, I’ll meet you in the studio.” She brushed by him on the way out of the bus, careful not to aim her morning breath anywhere near him.
Donna had everything planned out to the second, from ushering them through the crowd of press at the front door of the radio station (Rose didn’t mean to huddle against his side, the camera flashes were disorienting, that was all) to exactly how long the Doctor was allowed to hug Jack hello, both men slapping each other on the back with the enthusiasm of long-absent childhood friends.
Hark the Shark was quite nice to look at, Rose decided as he winked at her over the Doctor’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’ve been looking forward to this moment — Rose Tyler herself, pop goddess!” Jack said when Donna pried him apart from the Doctor. “Hello, gorgeous!” He moved closer with a casual grace, almost like dancing, his hand out for a shake.
Rose took his hand and just like that she was folded into his arms, twisted around and dipped backward — they were dancing. She laughed delightedly and his megawatt grin was her reward.
“Oi, Jaaaaack! Ease off, she’s not used to your kind,” the Doctor snapped, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“What d’ya mean, my kind? American?” he retorted. “I know for a fact Rose has toured the States, she’s had a gander at American beefcake before.”
“All right, boys, get hold of yourselves,” Donna interrupted, extracting Rose from Jack’s arms. She was grateful; managing that on her own might’ve been a bit of trouble. Donna pointed at a chair, and Rose sat down. The Doctor sat beside her, and Jack across the table, next to his sound board, and before she knew it there was a red light and they were on-air.
Their segment was supposed to be a quick promo, a few questions from callers, but the way the conversation went, they might as well have been sitting in a pub chatting over pints. Forty-five minutes later, Jack charmed Donna into the soundbooth, only there weren’t enough microphones to go around, and so she had to share with Jack. It didn’t escape Rose’s attention that Jack’s arm was across the back of Donna’s chair, his fingers playing with her hair, the entire time.
It didn’t escape Donna’s attention, either, and she started to stutter a bit as they bantered on-air.
The Doctor grabbed Rose’s hand under the table and for a split-second she was breathless, wondering what on earth to make of that, except he tugged on her fingers and shot her conspiratorial looks, winking at Jack, and before Hark the Shark’s show was over, Donna was sitting in Jack’s lap.
The entire morning was, Rose decided, the best she’d had in months.