Archive of Our Own

“Shove your left hand in your pocket,” the Doctor whispers quickly to Rose as a ruddy looking older man approaches them from across the pub.

“Why?” Rose looks at the Doctor in confusion.

“Because I just told that farmer that you’re my wife and you’re not wearing a ring.” The Doctor grins as the man stops in front of them and immediately launches into his intended introduction. “Ah yes, Rose, this is the gentleman who I just spoke with about renting us a house!”

The man sizes them up, standing next to one another in their old-fashioned clothes. Rose has to admit, if anyone had asked her if she fit in, she’d say she did. They’d taken care to select clothes from the TARDIS which resembled ordinary 1930s clothing - the Doctor in long brown woolen trousers, a white button up shirt, and a grey tweed Norfolk jacket on the casual side, not even buttoned up. He’d emerged from the wardrobe room wearing a flat cap of sorts crushed over his tousled hair and Rose had immediately laughed and knocked it off his head. He’d replaced it with an indignant huff and looked her over, standing there against the railing. She’d selected understatement for their first arrival into the farming village, opting for dark green knitted jumper over a white Peter Pan collared shirt, and high waisted grey trousers which made her look more like a local than a city-dwelling lady. The Doctor had complimented her hair, which she had curled in soft waves around her face, and he gave her a woolen coat to throw on over her jumper. And so they’d departed, hand in hand in the dark down the dirt road off to the village with small satchels on their backs, walking by the light of the small flashlights the Doctor had pulled from somewhere.

Now, standing in the middle of the pub, Rose finds that the plan seems to be going well, except for at this time of night, she’s the only woman present save for the two barmaids, and all those present are looking at them with curious glances and whispers. Still, they don’t seem unfriendly.

“You can rent a room upstairs here or I can show you the house, if that’s to your liking.”

“Excellent!” the Doctor positively beams. “We’ll view the house now!”

And that’s how it starts.

Rose is beginning to think the Doctor had planned some of this in advance. Finding someone willing to rent them, as strangers, a home is one thing. Finding someone willing to show them to it in the middle of the night is quite another. Even more-so, finding someone willing to rent them a house which was fully furnished since the last renters had only just moved is an absolute accomplishment.

The farmer shows them down a dirt road to a little stone cottage only a few minutes walk away from the center of town. There it sits, mostly in the dark, nestled behind a stone wall and patterned with ivy crawling up its exterior. A small, two-story dwelling, it appears well cared for to all intents and purposes. The man walks them through the wooden gate affixed between the gap in the stone wall and the three of them walk up the little stone path to the front door.

Stepping into the cottage, Rose knows immediately that it’s exactly what the Doctor would have had in mind when she asked for someplace to rest. The front room spans the width of the cottage from front to back, with the kitchen and little parlor off to the right, and stairs in the center. Wooden floors with rugs overlaid, and a mantle with a small ticking clock and candlesticks among a few trinkets here and there. The walls are sparse and furniture plain, but there are details which indicate that the place has been recently lived in and ideal for them to immediately occupy.

“As yes, this will do nicely!” the Doctor says to the farmer, who nods.

“Two rooms and a toilet upstairs, and the sheets on the beds are clean. You’re welcome to use the whole house if it’s agreeable to you.”

The Doctor and Rose both nod, and exchange a glance of confirmation.

“We’ll take it,” the Doctor says, and reaches into his pocket for some cash.

The farmer takes it with a nod and sets the keys down on the table near them.

“Right then, I’ll leave you to it!”

“Thank you,” Rose says with a smile towards the farmer.

And just like that, the farmer bids his farewells and leaves the cottage.

The Doctor and Rose traipse up the stairs to the small landing, which has a bedroom on either side of the stairwell and the toilet at the end of the hall.

“Posing as your wife?” Rose says and gives the Doctor a light shove on the back and into the room as he opens the door to the first bedroom, at which he dramatically stumbles forwards. He turns and gives her a smirk.

“It’s the 1930s, they’re not going to rent us anywhere under any other circumstances, are they!”

“Thanks for the short notice,” Rose rolls her eyes but can’t stop herself from breaking into a grin as she flicks on the lightswitch.

“Oh you know,” the Doctor sighs in a dreamy sort of way, and drops his satchel to the floor next to a cushioned armchair. “That’s what I’m good for. Short notice marriages.”

He sinks to the chair at the same time as Rose sits with a heavy sigh on the bed. The room is small, but homey. A simple bed extends from the wall with barely enough room to walk around it before one reaches the small closet in the corner. Next to the bed is a narrow wooden table on which sits an empty ceramic pitcher, and cork coaster. Across from the bed, a window with little diagonal panes overlooks the back garden.

Rose flops back on the blankets and takes in a deep, tired breath.

“I don’t suppose you’re also good for making us a short notice cup of tea?”

The Doctor hums in response.

“I might be. Let me drop my things in the other room and we’ll take a peek in the kitchen.”

He picks up his bag and brings it across to the other room, where Rose joins him in the hallway, leaning on the doorframe of the second bedroom as he drops his bag onto the floor near the bedside table. The two rooms are mostly the same in size and layout, with the main difference being the addition of a small desk beneath the windows.

“You want this room?” Rose asks.

“Either will do, but this one does have a desk. I might could use a desk.”

“What are you going to use the desk for?” Rose asks, a smile quirking at her lips.

“I don’t know yet, but I like that it’s there.”

“Well, I like that the room across the hallway has a pitcher in it… I could find a bouquet of flowers and fill it like a vase.”

The Doctor’s expression softens at this.

“What?” Rose questions.

“That’s what I like about this. The...” he pauses, then shrugs, “domesticity.”

His face looks more open than she expected, his posture relaxed.

“I thought you didn’t do domestics?” Rose asks in reply.

“That was a long while ago that I said that. We’re here, aren’t we?” the Doctor gestures to their surroundings.

Rose nods, accepting his answer, if a bit quizzically.

“Well, if you’re so into domesticity, you definitely can make us tea. Go on then,” she says and steps aside to let him go down the stairs, following after him with a smile.

In the kitchen, which is decently stocked with supplies for tea, the Doctor leans against the counter while the kettle boils, and Rose sits at the table beneath the curtained window.

“I’m shocked there’s fresh food here. It’s like they were expecting it to be let at any moment!” Rose remarks, leaning her cheek on her palm as her elbow rests against the tablecloth.

The Doctor tries to hide his guilty smile but fails.

“What?” Rose laughs at his face.

“Nothing, it’s just that I may have done my research before taking us here… the previous folks had left only this morning. Which I took into account before we landed. We'll need to get more food tomorrow though.”

“Oh, so you knew it would be this house then?”

“A technicality. I knew there would be an advertisement in the paper next week if we didn’t show up, so I did a little digging as to when exactly to land. Weather and house listings, nothing fancy.”

“Mhmm. I see you have it all planned out.”

The kettle begins to whistle as the Doctor tilts his head a little, contemplating Rose’s statement.

“Not really. I just wanted it to be nice is all. I have no real plans.”

Rose regards him with a long look as he turns and takes the kettle off the gas burner and pours the water into both of their mugs. After rustling through a few drawers, he finds the teaspoons and sets the tea down in front of Rose, then sits across from her at the small table.

“See, that’s not like you. I just watched you for the last 42 hours on that planet scheming away. You’re always planning something,” she says with a curious smile.

The Doctor for his part focuses on pouring the milk into his tea.

“Not always.”

“No?”

“No. That’s what this is about. Not having plans.” He looks up at her as he stirs the tea now, meeting her observant gaze.

“Well, I did ask to go for a rest in the country, so I suppose that’s alright,” Rose says.

The Doctor nods,

“Sometimes it’s nice to just see what happens someplace. I promise you that finding the house is really the extent of my digging. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on in this town. However… let’s say that you do have a country trip wishlist. You know, things you’d like to do if you had the opportunity. What would make the list?”

“Ooh, a country wishlist? Let me think.” Rose smiles over the rim of her mug as she takes a sip. “I think I have a few. Attending a fair… going on long walks in the fresh air, and a picnic at some point.”

“I can help with the second two. The first one we’ll have to work on. What else?” the Doctor asks.

“Gardening?” Rose says with a bashful grin.

“Gardening? I have it on good authority you’re good at killing houseplants, Rose Tyler!”

“Says who? On what authority?”

“One Jackie Tyler. And Mickey, for that matter!”

“It’s only because gardening is totally different from looking after potted plants. It’s different when they’re in the ground, in fertile soil and not stuck up on the balcony or windowsill!”

“Hmm, so you say. I’ll indulge you of course, but only if you let me help you so you don’t kill whatever it is I end up buying you.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes but the look quickly transforms into a teasing smirk. Rose covers his hand with hers where it rests on the table.

“It’s awfully kind of you to offer,” she says in a saccharine tone and the Doctor bursts out laughing and turns his hand over to tickle the underside of Rose’s wrist, so she yanks her hand back suddenly with a yelp and a giggle.

“You’re welcome.”

They finish their tea in companionable conversation, then wash the mugs at the sink. Rose yawns as she rinses the mug and the Doctor leans facing the opposite direction against the counter next to her.

“Very sleepy?” he asks, turning his head towards her.

“Getting there, yeah,” Rose says as she sets the mug down upon a towel to dry.

“I’m tired now too. I’ll just…” he waves a hand towards the stairs in a vague gesture.

Rose nods.

“Alright. You go get changed and tell me how clean the loo is; I’ll be up in a moment.”

The Doctor nods then raises his hand to his forehead in a mock salute.

“Yes, ma’am!” he says with a smile then heads up the stairs.

Rose looks around the cottage for a few more minutes, taking in all the details. The floorboards creak beneath her feet as she walks around. There’s a wood stove in the kitchen, along with the fireplace in the sitting room. The chill in the cottage is significant enough that they could use a little heat, so Rose sets to work at the wood stove, shoving a log inside it and surrounding it with newspaper which had been placed adjacent to the stove itself for that purpose. It takes, and the fire crackles to life. She closes the door and warms her hands in front of it for a few moments before standing and walking upstairs to find the Doctor.

She reaches the landing at the same time as he exits the ensuite, wearing what appears to be Howard’s old pyjamas and the blue robe from Christmas, which makes her smile.

“The loo’s clean enough!” he says, and she steps past him, close enough to smell the minty scent of toothpaste as she does.

“So it is!” she smiles back at him, looking over the shades of white in the room and noting the clawfoot tub seems large for the time period. She grabs her things from the room which she’s now claimed as hers and changes into her own pyjamas quickly, brushing her teeth and giving her face a proper wash. Tired but contented, she looks at herself in the mirror and takes a deep breath, savoring the feeling of safety at last.

When she exits the bathroom, the Doctor is sitting in the hallway with his back against the wall, as if he’d been watching the door and waiting for her to emerge, and looks up at her with a kind of anticipatory expression she can’t place. He pushes himself to his feet with a sort of scramble and Rose reaches an arm out to steady him.

“Woah there,” she says laughing at his sudden clumsiness.

“I just wanted to say goodnight,” he says.

“Oh! Okay then,” Rose says and steps into his embrace as he moves to hug her. He feels different wearing the bathrobe - so much softer and reminiscent of when his body was brand new. The Doctor tightens his arms around her and breathes a soft sigh as she tucks her head into the crook of his neck. There’s no excuse for it, only again, that he seems unable to stop himself from wrapping her in his arms and holding her to remind himself that they both made it off Krop Tor and out of a black hole alive. There’s a certain tenderness in the way he lets go, as if he doesn’t really want to pull his hands away from her side, instead letting one rest at her waist and the other at her elbow.

“Goodnight, Rose,” he breathes, and Rose is taken aback by his expression, with some dark, fragile emotion barely restrained beneath the surface of his look.

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she replies, letting her fingers graze his as he lets go and turns for the door of his room as she turns for her own.

“Not if I see you first,” he says, halfway between a quip and an entreaty, just as her hand touches the door handle. Her heart skips a beat as she turns to look back at him but he’s already snicking the door closed behind him.

Rose stands in the hallway for a moment, listening to the beating of her heartbeat in her ears and straining her ears for the sound of his movement. Only when she hears the rustle of sheets as he climbs into bed does she enter her own room with a shake of her head to try to make sense of his words. Crawling under the covers and pulling them up under her chin, she stares at the patterns of moonlight through the curtains against the wall, reliving the feeling of his holding her and his touch on her skin for a long time before sleep claims her.

Still, she leaves the door open a crack, so he knows.

He awakes with a gasp, followed by a strangled sort of sound ripped from his throat. He’d been dreaming of falling, then of fire, scenes of war and destruction blazed in his path. He clutches at the sheets, his hearts hammering, his breaths uneven and shallow. Gripped by terror, the Doctor pushes himself out of bed and stumbles to his feet. The hardwood floor is freezing in the dark, but he barely notices, for all his body feels like it’s burning. He needs to find her.

Through the dim lighting he feels his way around the bed and finds the bedroom door, opening it and stepping across the hallway to the threshold of the other room. He hesitates for a split second before turning the handle and stepping into Rose’s room. It’s brighter in here, with the sheer curtains doing little to block out the moonlight from streaming in.

It’s his breathing which stirs her into wakefulness as he stands a meter from her bed.

“Doctor?” Rose stirs, the quiet question one of sleepy confusion. “Are you alright?”

He hovers for a moment, like he’s about to dart away, his breaths still refusing to steady themselves. Instead, he shakes his head.

“No,” he breathes at the same moment as Rose reaches. This seems to be the tipping point, and he all but falls forward into her arms. In a clumsy and desperate way he somehow twists his body onto the mattress, with Rose drawing her arms close around his shoulders, his torso laid over hers.

He shudders as he presses his face to her neck and holds back a sob, still breathing quickly, somewhere between relief and panic. His hands find hold at her ribs and her shoulder, as if trying to pull her into him, despite the fact that he knows he’s crushing her. He sucks in another breath, unsuccessfully trying to regain some control, with the respiratory bypass system doing absolutely nothing in his favor.

“Hey, shhh, it’s alright,” Rose murmurs.

She holds him gently at first, but at his increasing desperation, tightens her arms around him and pushes her fingers into his hair to cradle his head. It’s this one thing alone which seems to bring him down, beginning to slow his ragged gasps against her neck with the gentle stroke of her fingers against his scalp. He shudders again, twisting in agony, but Rose keeps him held against her until he starts to still.

Finally he relaxes into her embrace. She can feel his hearts slow their pounding and he no longer sounds like he’s choking on oxygen. After a minute of silence like this, Rose stills her hand in his hair and waits for him to speak. He rolls off of her then and to his back on the other side of the bed with a sigh, bringing both hands to his face and covering it for a moment.

“Were you dreaming?” Rose asks. The Doctor lets his hands fall away and back to the mattress.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, the word soaked in shame.

Rose reaches for his hand and grasps it tightly in her own, steadying him.

“I thought it had been a while since that happened?” she says softly.

“It was. Yeah, no… it has. It hasn’t been as bad recently.” He says, still looking at the ceiling.

“Why tonight then?”

The Doctor sighs on another ragged exhale.

“I’d forgotten about the TARDIS. She offers a certain level of telepathic shielding when I sleep aboard her. Not enough to stop it, just… enough so that I don’t end up like this.”

“But she’s still translating for us? I thought we were close enough?”

The Doctor shakes his head.

“No, I’ve been speaking English. We’re too far away with her up on the hill.”

“Oh,” Rose says.

“Yeah,” the Doctor says again, his voice awkward and resigned.

Rose is still and quiet, thinking about whether to press him, to ask him to tell her of his dreams, or to let him tell her only what he wants to say. She turns her head on her pillow to look at him. At her movement, he turns his own to look at her. His eyes are what stop her, full of equal measures of dread and anguish.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and rubs his thumb over hers.

“Why on earth would you be sorry for nightmares you can’t control?” Rose says almost on reflex. It sounds harsher than she intends and she winces.

“No, that’s not…I-” the Doctor pauses. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Go on,” Rose replies, as gently as she can make her voice go.

He remains wordless, only watching her from his position on his back, breathing and letting his eyes caress her face in the shadows. Rose waits.

“I dreamt of Gallifrey. During the war,” he starts, turning his body a little so he’s more on his side. Rose mirrors his movement. “Then the planet, Krop Tor. And then both at the same time… just flashes. And you. And… fire. That’s why I’m sweating. Or I was. I’m cold now.”

Rose nods a sympathetic nod then tugs at the sheets.

“Get under here.”

He obeys, pulling the blankets out from under himself and covering up beneath them. He can feel the warmth from Rose’s body radiating from beneath the sheets, but he doesn’t move closer, only gives her whatever space he thinks she deserves.

Rose reaches for his right hand with hers and slides her fingers along his upturned palm before threading hers between his. He breathes, then takes his other hand to encircle her wrist, pressing his index finger to her pulse point.

“I left you.”

“What?” Rose says, surprised.

“I left you alone, on the surface of Krop Tor, with a crew full of strangers, and a black hole above. Which is unconscionable.”

“You left me,” Rose presses her palm with a bit of pressure into his, “to go get the TARDIS so you could rescue us all. That’s not the same thing.”

“Yes it is. It is,” he insists.

“No, it’s not.” Rose counters, but doesn’t quite know how to explain.

“It is. Are you telling me that you were perfectly able to defend yourself? That they just fired up the rocket and you said, ‘Great, okay! Let’s go!’ and just hopped on board? I know you.”

Rose sets her jaw for a moment, then relents.

“No, they drugged me and dragged me on board. I woke up on the rocket.”

“And I love them for it,” he says, and lets it linger. Rose looks at him, trying to read his expression, but she finds his eyes distant as if he’s suddenly elsewhere, lost in thought. Then, he resurfaces, his expression taking on the familiar weight of remorse. “I won’t abandon you again.” Abandonment. That’s what it feels like. That’s what’s burning in his chest, the heat of shame all-consuming in its devastation. The Doctor untangles his hands from hers and rolls back over onto his back, looking at the ceiling again. “It’s what I did to my people. I won’t do it to you.”

Rose takes a deep breath of her own.

“We had this conversation last night,” she says, and it’s true. His need to keep her safe, his vow, still rests at the surface of her thoughts and memories.

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I let myself fall into the pit.”

Oh. So the cord hadn’t been cut. He hadn’t slipped… he’d chosen it.

“Why’d you do that then?”

He sighs a long sigh, furrowing his brow and shaking his head.

“I don’t know. It was just there, this sort of niggling need to take the risk... It wasn’t very calculated. I thought I could survive,” at this he lets out a sad chuckle. “And I was right.”

“Ida said… that you said my name,” Rose says, almost a whisper.

“Yes,” The Doctor confirms. He seems to want to say more, but only repeats, “Yes.”

“What were the circumstances?” Rose asks.

“We had fifty minutes left of air. It was either fall or sit there running out of oxygen. I took my chances with the fall, and with the Beast.”

“Oh,” Rose says, pondering this.

“Rose, I…” the Doctor starts, then stops. “I…”

She waits, patiently, knowing how close he is to saying something important.

“I won’t let you die in battle,” he says, his voice thick. Rose’s eyes widen. “I can’t let you-” He halts and tries to breathe, as if he might begin gasping for air again. “I won’t lose…”

He sighs then, almost a growl of frustration and turns toward her on his side.

“I can’t be this far from you,” he acquiesces and reaches for her at the same moment as Rose responds,

“Come here then,” as he rolls over to lay his head on her chest with an aching sigh and wraps his arms close around her. Rose’s heart quickens beneath his ear, and he can hear her breathing. She sounds so alive. He clutches at her. Rose hasn’t seen him quite like this before, so distraught - gripped by such needful emotion. She ghosts her fingers over his skin, rubbing her hand up and down his arm before resting it at his cheek. She can feel his shaky breath against her skin.

“Do you know that I feel safe?” she asks.

He is very still in her arms.

“Do you?”

“I do. I lived my life for nineteen years with my mum, on our own, fending for ourselves, like plenty of other folks around us, and it was fine. But when I started traveling with you… it’s not the places you took me, or the adventures that did it. Because that was mental and it still is. It’s knowing I could tell you anything. It’s... holding you. It’s the sense of being grounded even when I’m millions of miles from home and thousands of years in the future. You’d never abandon me. You’d never leave me for any other reason than to keep me from harm. And I know that. I know that.”

He could weep with it, the way his chest explodes with warmth. He thinks he can hear Rose’s heart rate continue to increase as she speaks. His whole being fills with awe for this precious human being.

“I don’t deserve it,” he speaks, breathless, turning his head to press his lips to the bit of exposed skin at her collarbone in a single, chaste kiss.

“Maybe not,” Rose says, and lifts his chin so he can look at her. “But there it is.”

Something in him clicks and settles with the way her hand slides back into his hair, and her gaze steadies his own. He wants to drown in it.

“Safe,” he repeats, once.

“Safe,” she nods in confirmation.

He sleeps in her arms until dawn.

The second time he wakes, it is with a shiver, his body warmed where it touches hers but the back of his neck uncovered. The covers had fallen during the night, so he reaches to pull them up over his shoulders and around himself, burrowing down against the morning chill. He’d forgotten what life could be like, out here in the country, with radiators which might need kickstarting. The sonic screwdriver is in the other room, and there’s no telling for sure exactly why the radiators aren’t running without getting up and taking a peek at them. Blinking a little as he pulls deeper under the covers, he allows himself a moment to look at his bedmate as she sleeps.

Inextricable, that’s the word for it - for the way Rose has woven herself deep within the fabric of his being. He’s still near her, very close, and in the soft light of dawn she is perilously beautiful in her rest. His legs are tangled in the sheets just next to hers, and he allows himself to gently slide his hand across to pull the covers closer around her, so she won’t be as cold as he is. Humans are more vulnerable and susceptible to temperature changes. Still. Lately he’s allowed himself to burn quite a lot hotter in his own body regulation. Not the same thing as giving himself a fever, but kicking it up a few notches so his hand is less cool in hers when she takes it. He focuses now on using some of his energy from sleep to heat his own body up, moving a bit closer to Rose so he can tuck her body nearer to his own. It feels like holding a Prince Rupert’s Drop, as if the slightest touch could break this fragile maneuver and shatter this fantasy he’s allowing himself to live.

A month in the country. What was he thinking? His hearts are aching for it at the same time as he’s stumbling like a fool over her, unsure of exactly what he’s trying to prove. Well, that’s not quite true. He knows what he wants to prove to her, just that everything he longs for will meet an impossibly bitter end.

A life with her. Rose shifts towards him in her sleep, rolling into his side in a way which he couldn’t have planned but rejoices at nonetheless. He wraps his arm around her back and cuddles her into him, moving a little to tuck her into his shoulder and rest his chin at her head. A life with her… why does the thought of it make him feel so much like he’s going to combust?

She is his most precious thing, he admits to himself in the quiet. He can feel her breath against his neck, and shivers at the sensation. Oh, he would do anything for her. His best and dearest friend. Nervous though he is, he presses his lips to the top of her head and rubs his hand in tiny circles at her back. She’s still fast asleep, her breathing tells him so, and she won’t wake up for at least another twenty minutes if he’s lucky. He smiles into her hair and lets himself cradle her.

It is when she stirs moments later that he realizes both startlingly and expectedly that he wants to hold her forever. He stills his breathing, letting the respiratory bypass system kick in, hoping in silence that she’ll continue to sleep, so he won’t have to let go. His hope isn’t granted, and Rose wakes up further, blinking and lifting a hand to rub her eyes. She lifts her head to look at him for a second but puts her head right back down and into the crook of his shoulder. He responds by pulling her a little closer and tucking himself into her sleepy embrace, his face grazing hers as he turns it into a hug of sorts.

“Your nose is cold,” she squirms a little, and he chuckles softly.

“I know, sorry, I’ll take a look at the radiators when we get up. It’s early yet.”

“How early?”

“Half six.”

Rose hums in a disgruntled way and burrows into him.

“I’ll stay here, thanks.”

“I’d like it if you did,” he replies, grateful that she can’t see his face because already he’s wondering if this is too much.

Rose is very still, but her breathing stays steady. Sometimes she’s far too good at not giving anything away.

“Are you better then, after last night?” Rose asks after a long, quiet moment. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, knowing he should have seen this coming, that she wouldn’t have forgotten the reason he ended up here.

“You’re a very focused individual, do you know that?” he asks her, but with a certain warmth to his voice which betrays him. “I’m… much better. I’ll be fine.”

This time, he means it. She feels almost like a balm against his seared soul, and it’s terrifying, the way she soothes him. Rose nods, and brings her hand up to cover his chest. The fabric of the pyjama shirt is thin, and he can feel the warmth of her palm and fingers seeping through to his skin.

“I just want you to be okay,” Rose admits, her care evident and soft. At this, he covers her hand with his own and wiggles his fingers under hers, lifting her hand to his lips to press a kiss to her fingers.

“Thank you,” he states simply. “I am. And I will be. We’ve got a whole month of ‘okay’ ahead of us.”

Rose doesn’t nod but he can feel the way her lips curl into a smile, hear it in her gentle movements. He lets both of their hands rest back on his chest, but higher this time. Rose extends her thumb to where the collar of his shirt forms a V, brushing her finger against his bare skin near the hollow of his collarbone in a slow sweep. Does she know what she’s doing? He makes every effort to quell his rapid heartbeat, and slow his pulse but she doesn’t half make it easy. As an experiment, he lifts his hand away from her hand and instead starts at her forearm, running his fingers over her skin from her elbow down to her wrist and back again. He tries not to smirk as her thumb stills at his chest and he catches her intake of breath where she’s pressed against his ribcage, accompanied by the subtle increase of her own heart rate. Two can play this game.

He doesn’t allow himself to speak, aware that if he does, he’ll break this moment and he sure as hell doesn’t want it to end. Instead, he focuses on the emotion he’d pour into his caress if it were remotely possible that Rose could experience touch and telepathy the way his people used it. Touch has always been a powerful tool for him, only softened by his experiences of war, finding himself craving opportunity to use that touch for care and protection alone. And to that end, Rose’s incredibly tactile nature has offered him more of an opportunity to express that care than he had ever hoped to find. He admits that his actions right now, unhurried and deliberate, are a bit further than he expected himself to go, but she isn’t stopping him, so he lets himself breathe and hold her.

Eventually it’s Rose who pulls away, sitting up to move the covers aside. He pushes himself up into an upright position, resting back against the pillows and observing Rose’s sleep-ruffled appearance. She rubs her eyes and runs a hand through her hair then smiles at him, reaching forward to tousle his hair briefly before standing up and putting on her slippers.

“I’m going to find us some breakfast. Time waits for no man, as they say!” she announces, and pads out of the room.

He watches the empty space of the doorway for a brief moment after she leaves, grinning like a fool and reliving the ghost of her touch as he lets her words sink in.

When Rose walks back into the kitchen after breakfast, she sees the Doctor with a pad of paper and a pencil in hand, sitting at the small table next to the window, puzzling out what appears to be some sort of list.

“What are you writing?” she asks, leaning against the counter. The Doctor looks up at her with a pleasant smile and twiddles the pencil between his fingers.

“I’m making a list of all the things that we need to get in order to plan this afternoon…” He looks back down to the paper. “Firstly, I think that we’re going to need to get some food, since as you discovered, the icebox is now rather sparse. Secondly, we definitely don’t have a basket. Or a blanket except for the ones off the beds. So we’ll need to either grab a spare one of each or buy them. Maybe rummage around in those cupboards and see if you can come up with something. You wanted to go on a picnic, right?”

Rose smiles, the thought of a picnic warming her heart.

“Picnic sounds nice. But a long walk first sounds better. That way we can work up an appetite for lunch and have a nice rest.”

Rose then pulls out the wooden chair at the table and sits across from the Doctor. To look at him now, he appears much the same as his usual self. Calm, but obviously planning something, with a hidden, restless sort of energy which could be stirred and brought to the surface with only the slightest poke. She likes to watch him plan things; likes to see the joy which starts to bubble up - a welcome sight after the last few harrowing days. He sits in front of her wearing his second pair of clothing so far on this trip. She assumes it’s at least moderately authentic to this early part of the twentieth century, since he looks the part. A white shirt, but no collar. Dark brown braces, and the gray brown trousers from yesterday. It’s a different sort of look, much softer, leaving his boyish features far more open to examination than he appears when wearing his brown suit and long coat. As she did this morning, she finds it hard to resist letting her gaze linger a bit too long on his face. Though, he seems caught up with the planning so perhaps he doesn’t notice.

“I think quite a few long walks are in order,” Rose announces. “The only problem is that I haven’t brought the greatest shoes.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that I have to go shoe shopping with Rose Tyler!” The Doctor says,

rolling his eyes in a belabored expression of dread... but there is a smirk behind it. Rose shakes her head and smirks back.

“Listen you,” she says, reaching forward to snatch the pencil from his hand and paper from beneath his fingertips, “You only wish you could go shoe shopping with Rose Tyler on the regular. I’ll have you know that I am an efficient shoe shopper, and a good judge of sizing. All that time at Henrik’s makes me a quick judge for fashion.”

“That’s not what your long hours spent in the wardrobe seem to indicate…” the Doctor retorts.

“All right, all right,” Rose says. “You just leave me in charge of the fashion, and I’ll let you take care of the destination logistics.” He hums in assent and watches as Rose scribbles down an addition to the list and slides it back to him, now reading, “Take Rose Tyler Shoe Shopping.”

“There,” she continues. “And as far as destinations go, I’m hoping you’ll find us a scenic walk for later. You know, lovely trees and flowers, with bonus points if you can find us some real farm scenes with cows and sheep. I’m thinking James Herriot and the like.”

The Doctor raises his eyebrows and scribbles down a note on the list. Rose glances over to see that his cursive reads, “Find Rose some creatures great or small.”

“It can be arranged,” he says with a smile as he adds the period to the note.

They make quick work of the rest of the shopping list, and set off into the morning. The walk towards the center of town is already so picturesque that Rose feels like she’s lifted two feet off the ground. Beside her, the Doctor walks a bit ahead of her, at a purposeful pace just beyond a stroll.

Oh, she loves watching him in sunlight. He squints against the golden beams as they beat down upon his head, but the air is still morning-crisp, and a bit of dew rises off of the fields as they trek down the dirt road. It hasn’t rained very much, but Rose thinks there must’ve been a drizzle the night before. Part of her is itching to take the Doctor’s hand, although there’s really no reason to do so. She holds herself back, instead settling for watching his even gait and the way he flicks his eyes every which way, taking in all of the sights at once. To all intents and purposes, he seems relaxed. She’s glad of this, his strained and anguished need for care from the previous night seemingly forgotten by him, even though she remembers it clearly.

“It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it,” the Doctor says. It’s redundant - he’s already remarked it at least once, the first time being when they stepped out of the door of the little stone cottage and back onto that stone path leading to the front gate. In the daylight, they can see how the bushes have grown and the new leaves of spring are emerging in different bright colors of green against the brown and gray soil of the lane.

Rose beams back at him, the smile she reserves for moments of true appreciation and wonder.

“It really is!”

And there’s something precious in it, the way the light casts over the scenery, and the way the birds fly and chirp overhead, and in the trees nearby.

They reach the end of the road which opens up into the center of the town again. There are a few people about the cobblestoned town, where the roads from each direction converge into a village centre. There are a few sections of grass towards the centre, ideal for meetings and gatherings, and to her wishlist idea, Rose could foresee a little market or fair being planned for such a space. Up and down the side streets there are shops, although the roads aren’t too busy yet, with it being still early on a Tuesday.

It’s he who takes her hand in the end.

“Well, come on then. Shoe shopping with Rose Tyler it is!”

They make relatively quick work of the shops, their whole venture taking about two hours from start to finish. It’s surprising how fast they settle into their fabricated personas of husband and wife on a journey to the country for a bit of fresh air. They agree that the cover story should be that they’re visiting from London on account of Rose needing a bit of fresh country air to aid in her recovery from a recent case of pneumonia. If she coughs hard enough every so often, it’s a believable tale. 

The Doctor seems high on the exploration of it all - picking out blankets at the haberdashery and advising Rose on her shoe selection at the cobblers with definite interest. Rose for her part enjoys selecting food for their picnic and settling their purchases into their newfound picnic basket, which cost a pretty penny. The people of the shops seem curious but friendly, and as the morning progresses a sense of happy enjoyment settles over the Doctor and Rose.

After the sixth and final shop - a local bakery, where they depart with scones, croissants, and fresh preserves, the Doctor shifts their bag of things to his other hand and grabs hers again.

“Ready for that walk?” he asks.

Rose nods with a grin, squeezes his hand, and together they make for a road heading out of town the opposite direction from whence they’d first come.

In the end, the Doctor finds a quiet field atop a gently sloping hill and settles them down beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree. It’s a bit warmer than before, so the shade is welcome. His method is intentional - the thought being that here in this secluded space, there won’t be any farmers or passersby to tell them they’re trespassing. The unmown grass is a little tall, but not so tall as to make traipsing through it difficult. Beneath the shade of the oak, Rose spreads out their new blanket and together they unload the picnic basket of the food they’d bought. They begin with sandwiches and finish off with the scones - washed down with water poured into two mugs from a thermos the Doctor had actually managed to find from the supplies in the cottage.

“This was a good idea,” Rose says with a happy sigh, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them to gaze out over the grass to the sloping views below.

“So you approve of my picnic spot?” The Doctor says around a mouthful of scone, swallowing as he does. He sits on the other side of their foodstuffs, cross-legged on the plaid blanket, his jacket discarded to the side of him.

“I do, very much,” Rose nods, turning to look at him with a soft smile. “Do you remember when…” she pauses, as if unsure whether to continue. The Doctor turns his head a little and waits for her. “With my dad. At the wedding. I told him these stories of what I imagined life to be like with him growing up. All the things that would have happened.”

The Doctor nods.

“I remember.”

“Well, this is what I would dream of, as a kid. You know, picnics in the country and fresh air and all that. All the opportunities city kids wish for.” A wistful breeze ruffles through her hair and she tucks it behind her ear.

“I know, I do remember you said that,” The Doctor says and packs a few of their now finished plates and supplies back into the picnic basket, so he can move to sit closer to her. He shuffles forward and settles down next to her, hooking his thumb underneath his braces and pushing them off his back to make himself more comfortable. He wraps an arm around Rose’s shoulder and she towards him with a smile, letting herself lean towards his own shoulder without actually being so bold as to rest her head against him.

“You were right to dream of it,” The Doctor says, watching the way the wind ruffles the grass in waves, the soft sound of it as gentle as the seashore. In the trees above them, songbirds chirp happily, swooping down to fly after each other and land in the meadow dotted with wildflowers.

“Maybe. But it took me ages to get here… and that’s thanks to you, really.”

The Doctor shrugs a little, with a contemplative hum as he looks over at her.

“I think you would have gotten here in the end. Yorkshire’s not that far from London.”

Rose bursts out laughing.

“Yes it is!” she giggles.

“No, not really!” the Doctor replies, captured by her infectious mirth, his own laughter starting.

“Oh, you have no idea how long travel actually takes, do you?”

“I know exactly how long it takes for me, thank you.”

“Well, that’s one reason I keep you around,” Rose says and leans forward to knock the sides of their heads together in something of a teasing bump. He grins at this and gives her shoulder a squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear there’s more than one reason.”

“Yes. And if you don’t push your luck, and take me on more picnics, maybe I’ll even share a few of them with you.”

“And if I do push my luck?” he queries.

“I’ll just make you work harder.”

“I think I’m already doing that,” the Doctor grins. “That cottage wasn’t cheap.”

Rose hums and gives him a smirk.

For once, he doesn’t have a reply, only allows himself the moment to gaze upon her beautiful face and the pure kind of joy emanating from her look. Her eyes are squinted a little against the brightness of the early afternoon, and her cheeks are flushed from their walk and the wind. She looks increasingly happier these days when he sees her, and perhaps there is something to it, the idea that he’s given her these things which she’d kept hidden in her heart - dreams locked away that she thought she’d never have, or didn’t quite deserve. She runs a hand through her tousled hair again as he breathes in a deep breath. These quiet things.... At once, although he’s known now for a while, he feels sure he would die to keep them.

“I’m glad,” he blurts out.

“What? About the price of the cottage?” Rose looks at him in confusion.

“No, I mean,” he shakes his head. “To be able to give you this.” With his hand, he gestures to the scenery around them. It’s a bit more on the nose than he expected himself to be, but that’s been the whole last three days. Something about the fall into the pit had changed him.

“Ah well, you’ve been doing that for a while now, I think,” Rose says, reaching her hand up to hold his hand where his arm rests slung over her shoulders. She strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, and his fingers twitch a little against hers, his own thumb grazing her fingers in a way which is clearly deliberate and meaningful.

“That’s the idea,” he breathes, and she hears, but she knows him well enough than to look at him just then.

After a long few minutes of companionable silence, Rose announces,

“Alright, budge up - my back’s a little sore.”

They pull away from each other and both stand. She pulls the blanket a little closer to the tree and sits down again, leaning against it.

The Doctor shuffles a few of their things around then turns back towards her, his trousers sitting low on his hips in a way which makes him seem impossibly long-waisted without the braces.

Rose holds out her hand and crooks her finger at him in a gesture for him to join her against the tree and he complies willingly, sitting down against the broad tree trunk shoulder to shoulder next to her.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yep!” she says, popping the ‘p’ at the end of her word and immediately reaching over to take his hand in both of hers again.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” the Doctor wiggles his fingers, letting her stroke her fingertips up and down the tendons of his hand, turning it over in her own.

“Yes,” Rose says in a decisive tone, grinning.

“Okay good, because I was going to say that I deserve something a bit nice after this picnic and renting a cottage for you to live out your country fantasies.”

“A bit nice?” Rose laughs. “I didn’t see you complaining about the picnic spread. That was a bit nice.”

“Yeah, but this is a bit nicer,” he says, leaning his head back against the tree, closing his eyes, and making no complaints as Rose tugs the sleeve of his shirt higher to show more of his forearm, massaging her fingers into the muscle there.

“You’re right,” Rose says, surprising him. He smiles, but keeps his eyes shut. Perhaps she feels it too… an increase in the number of impulses to just touch the other in affectionate displays of care. His heart thrums with a sort of warmth and he’s quite sure she’s making his heart rate rise but he really couldn’t be bothered, so he leans his head to rest against hers. He loves this.

“I usually am,” he says after just long enough to know that when he says it, it’ll be funny.

Rose smacks his arm immediately, breaking into laughter and pushing away from him. He opens his eyes, giving her a mischievous grin.

“Ha! That’s what you think!” Rose laughs.

“That is what I think,” he smirks.

“Well. You can think about that while I use your legs as a pillow. This tree has a few bumps in it.”

Rose stretches out to lie with her head and shoulders pillowed against his thigh and at first he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, until she looks at him expectantly.

“Well then?” she says.

He only quirks an eyebrow in response.

“I am not a mind reader,” he says.

“That is the literal, exact opposite of the truth.”

“Okay then. Tell me what you’d like.”

“Hair,” Rose says.

“Hair? Really? You’d like hair? Not happy with the hair you’ve got?” he’s going to make her work for this. Rose rolls her eyes and blushes.

“Would you please…” Rose starts, then turns redder.

“Please, Doctor, would you stroke my hair?” the Doctor prompts her in a mocking sort of voice, and Rose covers her face with both of her hands in embarrassment.

“Please, Doctor, would you stroke my hair,” she huffs in frustration from beneath her palms.

“That’s all you had to say,” he replies lightly, slipping his fingers into her hair to stroke gently at her scalp. Rose still keeps her palms pressed against her face for the first moment, then takes her hands away, letting out a blissful sigh as the soft brush of his fingers against her hair send her straight into the most relaxed feeling she’s felt in a long while. She opens her eyes and blinks up at him, watching his face as he concentrates on the task at hand. He looks serious, but calm and safe.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Rose says quietly.

“Yes,” he replies, nodding, his fingers still working through her strands of hair.

“What did you dream of, as a child?”

The Doctor’s response is muted, a half expression of surprise, fading quickly into contemplation.

“Well, you’ll judge me for this answer. But honestly, I can barely remember. During the Time War, certain things became muddled. It’s not that I can’t remember, or the memories are gone. Some things are repressed, and under the right circumstances could be retrieved, even though the process would be physically and mentally painful. It’s just… I can’t be sure of what’s true. Whether the memories are real, or imagined.”

Rose is still, taking in his words.

“I don’t judge you for that.”

“No?” he replies, brushing his thumb at her temple.

“No,” she shakes her head.

“You would be the first,” The Doctor replies, with a sad smile.

“You’re not to blame for that, for whatever happened. Whatever made it where you can’t remember.”

“Maybe,” he is quiet for a long moment, continuing to stroke her hair, lost in his own thoughts. “The thing is though… I would tell you if I could remember.”

“You would?” Rose replies, surprised, as if she didn’t expect him to say it openly.

“We’re there,” the Doctor shrugs, with a quick glance downwards to meet her eyes before looking away and towards the tree branches above.

Oh. And she supposes, in a funny sort of way, it’s an admission from him - not of what they are, or where they’re headed, but of the fact that he trusts her enough to tell her of his darkest and brightest past if he could remember it clearly. For a moment, Rose wonders if she may have ruined their beautiful picnic, and thrust him right back into his torment, until he looks back down at her with an expression so unexpected and grateful that her eyes widen a little and she is very still.

“Sit up for me,” the Doctor says, giving her forehead a tap and removing his hands to let her move. Rose does as he asks, a bit confused, but giving him an opportunity to figure out whatever it is he seems to be looking for. No sooner has she sat up than he reaches out his hands to gently guide her back to sit with her back leaning against him, spooning her with his arms around her waist and her head resting at her shoulder. His cheek brushes hers and he sighs, melting into her and burying his face into her neck and hair.

Rose rests her hands over the tops of his and lets him take the comfort he seems to crave from her. He’s a puzzle, and she can’t sort out whether she’s said anything wrong or not.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “That question was a bit personal.”

“No, don’t be,” the Doctor says, settling his chin back on her shoulder and holding her close. “I’m just… looking for the right words is all.”

“Oh,” Rose replies, and waits, fully agreeable to sit and be held by him. He takes his time, breathing in and out and thinking until he finally speaks again.

“I dreamed about the same things as you did when you were a child.”

“What, of picnics on a hillside and fresh air in the country?” Rose replies.

He shakes his head and threads his fingers through hers, brushing his thumb over hers in a tender sweep.

“Of belonging,” comes his quiet response. She can feel his voice resonating in his chest against her back with these words, as he completes the statement by turning his head and brushing a soft kiss to her cheek. Glittering beams of sunlight make their way through the still-new spring leaves of the oak’s branches to dapple the blanket and the two of them with patterns of light, and everything feels at once new and old at the same time.

A smile blossoms on Rose’s face as her heart floods with warmth. She raises the Doctor’s hand and presses a kiss in return to his knuckles, hearing his contented hum without needing to see his smile. When she speaks again, something slides into place, as if it, and they were always meant to be here.

“Belonging…” Rose repeats; her heart made achingly whole. “Quite right too.”