Chapter Text
The Doctor watches the TARDIS door close behind Clara. Her words keep bouncing about in his head.
You asked me if you’re a good man, and the answer is I don’t know. But I think you try to be, and I think that’s probably the point.
Is she right? He doesn’t know. He wonders if he’ll ever know.
Feeling nostalgic and--though he won’t admit it to himself--a bit melancholy, he steps to the control panel. He wiggles a few switches, flips a lever, grumbles, “you know what I want,” to his ship, and almost— almost —smiles when she chimes at him in response.
They don’t go far. Just a bit sideways, and not at all forward or back in time. He steps out into a familiar courtyard, knowing she won’t be there, knowing she’s a universe away, but flooded with the memory of her just the same. Everything here is drowning in Rose: the stairway, the balcony, the very ground under his feet. At least it isn’t snowing. He remembers his “goodbye tour,” just before one of his regenerations, when he saw her here; there were fat snowflakes floating down, settling in her eyelashes, her cheeks as pink as her name…
“Doctor!”
That voice. That voice cuts into his memories like a knife.
She can’t be here. She’s been gone for years. But the footsteps running up behind him are unmistakably Rose.
He can’t bring himself to speak. For a fraction of a moment, even before he turns to look at her, he just breathes her in, his skin sparking to be in her presence again.
“Rose.”
It comes out as an exhalation, a sob, a prayer. Because this can’t be real, and he wants it so badly both hearts feel like they could beat right out of his chest.
But that voice, those steps, even the breath, slightly labored from running.
His Rose is unmistakable.
It’s still only been a second, maybe two. He still can’t see her-- he has to turn, to look, but what if she is only in his head?? --but he knows the instant she sees him . Her footsteps hesitate, nearly stumble, then she’s running again, right in step.
“Doctor!”
This time he can’t help but turn; her voice is a beacon, a magnet, an irresistible force. And there she is, yellow hair flowing behind her as she runs to him. And understanding washes over him; he sees her blue leather jacket, the dimension cannon strapped to her wrist, and knows this is his Rose, but he cannot keep her. She has promises to keep, and miles to go before she sleeps.
Stop thinking about Rose and snow , he chides himself. It may be true, but Robert Frost won’t help anything.This is already going to hurt. Don’t make it worse.
And just before she throws herself at him another realization hits: she called him Doctor, even after she saw him. Has she met him before, in this body, sometime in his future? Or does Rose simply know him, no matter what shape he’s in? He was standing outside the TARDIS, but so could anyone. Honestly, he can’t discount either possibility. Does it matter? Either way, he doesn’t have long to ponder, because his arms are full of Rose, his Rose, and that nonsense he told Clara about not being a hugger has flown out the window. The tears stinging his eyes surprise him; he blinks several times to keep them from spilling, pressing a kiss onto the top of her head.
After a little over a minute Rose pulls away; only a bit, but just like that his arms ache from the lack of her. She looks him up and down, a glint growing in her eyes. Finally she says, “Looks like you grew up some, Doctor.” Her voice is light, teasing, and a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding onto relaxes. Grinning, she says, “I like it. It suits you. And maybe now you look a bit closer to your age.” She chews on her lip. “How old is that, now?”
He hesitates. “A mite older than last time,” he hedges.
Her eyes widen. “And you’re Scottish ! That’s new.”
He needs to speak to her, to say something, to say anything . But her eyes are so big, shining up at him, and her lips are right there, parted ever so slightly, and it’s been years, so many years, but he still remembers exactly how she tastes. He feels a tightening in his chest, his hearts pound and his body uses up the oxygen it has stored and demands more; when was the last time he took a breath? All he sees is eyes and lips and cheeks and hair and breathing is too much to bother with.
Still, some small part of his brain must be functioning, because somehow he manages to croak out, “Rose, I--”
He is rudely interrupted by rain pouring from the sky.
✰✰✰
“She looks different too,” Rose says, her hands dancing lovingly over the TARDIS console. “Beautiful girl,” she says, her voice soft and low.
They’d found fluffy towels waiting for them just inside the doors, of course, because his ship always takes particularly good care of Rose. Pink, the perfect compliment to Rose’s glowing cheeks. I’ll bet I look ridiculous , he thinks, scrubbing at his dripping hair. “Couldn’t you have found blue?” he mutters.
“Hmm?” asks Rose absently, fingers still tracing changes here and there.
“Nothing,” the Doctor grumbles.
The TARDIS chimes; short, staccato notes
“Keep your thoughts to yourself,” he snaps back.
“What’s that?”
The Doctor looks at Rose; she looks back, her gaze level. Finally he says, “My ship is calling me names.”
Rose tries to stay serious but fails. Through her giggles she says, “What did she call you?”
With a dignified look the Doctor says, “There isn’t an exact translation, but something rather like, ‘spoiled child.’”
“She’s been with you a very long time, Doctor. She knows you well.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not you too. And stop with the mock seriousness. It isn’t funny.” He points at her all-too-serious face. “It isn’t.”
Rose’s giggle completely negates his stern tone. “Actually, it’s very funny.” He glares, but that only makes her giggle more. “You look all cross, but I know you’re not, I can see it in your eyes.”
He points. “It’s the eyebrows. They have minds of their own.”
She steps closer to examine his face--brand-new to her and fairly new, even to him--and all other thoughts vanish. His hearts speed up again, quickly followed by that squeezing, aching feeling in his chest. He wants to hold her, to hold onto her and take off into the stars, into forever…
...but she does not belong to him.
That’s a stupid way to put it , he thinks, berating himself--anything to keep his brain away from too-dangerous territory. Rose belongs to herself . But now more than ever he cannot have her. She is here, so close he can see an errant drop of water trickle down her face, just in front of her ear, but in a few heartbeats she’ll be gone again. Besides, she’s not looking for him. She’s looking for the other one, with the stripes and the silly shoes. He fixates on the drop of water, watches its slow progress, past her jaw, down her neck, to disappear behind the collar of her shirt. And then, without conscious thought, he takes one more step, invading space that isn’t his to invade. He can feel the heat of her body now, and his hands are tangled in her still dripping hair. Funny, he doesn’t remember moving his hands. And her hands--oh, one is fisted in his shirt and the other is pressed against his cheek, fingertips just barely threaded into his hair. His skin sings at the contact, and although a (small) part of his brain chatters away about how he’s only breaking his own hearts, the rest of his brain bellows “SHUT UP!” at the offensive voice, logical though it may be.
Her lips are only a breath from his when she stops. He thinks his hearts might stop as well. She looks up at him through dark lashes and says, “I love you.”
He frantically searches for the right response. He settles on, “Yes.”
She smiles a shaky smile, eyes twinkling her amusement. “And you love me.” Her voice quavers the tiniest bit, but it is not a question.
He only hesitates a moment, his brain rushing through the scenarios. There’s a fine line, but he thinks he can walk it.
“Yes,” he says, and he could fly through the universe without the TARDIS from the look of joy and love on Rose’s face. “But,” he says quickly, “I can’t say it. I’m sorry, Rose, but it wouldn’t be fair. He should be able to say it first.”
Her face falls, just a little. Then there’s a new smile, a smile that’s sweet and hopeful and heartbreaking all at once.
Her body sags in his arms, suddenly unable to bear the weight of standing. “So I’m really gonna find him again.” Her voice, muffled as it is by her face pressed into his chest, overflows with relief and a hint of unshed tears. Then he feels tension return to her body. “You, I mean. Find you again. The other you, the earlier you.”
The Doctor easily scoops her into his arms. Choosing to brush aside her outburst, he simply says, “Long and stripey?” He chuckles, a rumble deep in his chest. “Let’s just say I’m confident you should continue on your mission.” Kissing the top of her head, he turns to carry her to the jump seat.
“You know about my--”
“Put it back !” he barks, startling Rose; she starts and he nearly drops her.
“Wha--” she she begins, but is interrupted by a tumbling chime from the TARDIS. “Ah,” she finishes, relaxing again into the Doctor’s hold.
“Now!” he growls. “I’m warning you. I know every inch of your circuitry.”
The ship does not reply.
The moment draws out; the jump seat does not reappear. Finally the Doctor lets out a frustrated breath. With a calmness he doesn’t feel he murmurs to Rose, “Let’s go find some dry clothes, shall we?”
The TARDIS’s answer, a laugh-like trill, is most definitely smug.