Work Text:
Courage Comes Slowly
by keeperofthetardis
He doesn’t mean to sleep in her bed again. At least, that’s not his intention; not what he tells himself. It’s only that he’s found himself walking to her little cottage room again, nearing bedtime, opening her door, holding the giant beekeeping manual in his hands, and asking if he could crawl over to the opposite side of her bed again, just to read next to her while she falls asleep. She assents with a warm smile, and it’s ridiculous, his clamber over her, and the way he loses his balance and falls back against the pillows with a muffled grunt followed by laughter. It’s stupid, but she’s laughing right along with him as he struggles to get himself under the covers, and settles himself back against the headboard with an amused sigh. When she elbows him on purpose, and he finds he doesn’t mind, a half smile quirking at his mouth as he thumbs through the pages to find the spot on “The Many Uses of Propolis.” It’s only a few minutes before Rose herself settles, drifting gently towards sleep with the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek, her breathing easy, the covers pulled up to her shoulders.
“Will you put out the lamp when you’re done?” Rose murmurs.
“Of course,” the Doctor replies, glancing down at her drowsy face. She moves a few inches closer, more of a tilting towards him than anything else, her shoulder pressing against his side. She feels warm and very human, and deep down, in a very tactile way - he loves that.
The lies he tells himself sitting here in her bed are as tiny as the little black and yellow striped insects he is reading about, and there’s a slight sting, knowing that he really has little interest in the beekeeping book at all, only that it’s an excuse to do something, to be near her when there’s really no reason to be there otherwise. He can’t very well tell her how easy it is to rest at her side, and to drift into a sleep which is untroubled when she is near. He strongly suspects that it’s either this or the sharp gnawing of his regular nightmares, eviscerating his mind and leaving his body exhausted - things the TARDIS shields him from when he sleeps aboard her, but which plague him away from his ship’s shelter. So he doesn’t, only studies the lives of bees until his eyes grow heavy, and he has to close the book, rub his eyes with tiredness, and debate his options.
Well. He’s here. And to leave, he’d have to crawl over her again, not over the end of the bed at the foot, because it creaks tremendously, and that would surely wake her. And so would crawling over her to be fair, so he can’t very well do that anyway. The sting of that small lie is lessened as he leans over her body towards the lamp, the fabric of his baggy pyjamas brushing hers as he stretches his arm beyond to switch off the light, balancing himself precariously on his elbow, making a concerted effort not to lose his balance and collapse on her slumbering form. Instead, it settles like a gentle, burning warmth in his chest as he shifts to properly lie down, leaning back against the pillow with an exhale, and looking towards the moonlight shining in through the little diamond window panes which are outlined in soft light against the sheer curtains. He listens. Attunes himself with her breathing, and the not-so-muffled harshness of the wind outside, and the sounds of owls hooting in the distance. And of course, though the ache of exhaustion sits there too, it takes longer than he’d expect for him to calm his nerves, to force his mind to stop spinning and simply rest, leaving behind the endless speculations about absolutely everything.
Rose is a heavy sleeper. He’s known this about her for ages, having struggled on many occasions to draw her from her sleep prematurely, anxious to show her some new and beautiful sight among the stars, only to be met with a very cranky and exhausted human. He finds it endearing, which is slightly troubling seeing as in any prior regeneration it would have irked him to no end. But Rose is different, and with Rose, he’s learned when to let her be and when to coax her into the light of day. Now, lying in the bed next to her, he’s grateful for how heavily she sleeps because it means his fidgeting and restlessness won’t disturb her as easily. When a solid twenty minutes of laying there with his eyes closed and timing his breathing to match hers fails to result in sleep, he gives up, turning on his side and propping himself up on his elbow again to catalogue as many details of Rose as he can see. The stupidity of it frustrates him, but he shoves it away, and tries to ignore the niggling guilt he feels at being here at all. She’s so lovely, in a dreadful, unfair, sort of way. And she’s your friend, and in your care, he reminds himself in an attempt to shake himself free of a dangerous reverie he can feel pulling him closer like a cinder block tied fast around his ankles as he sinks fast and direct into the deep of uncharted waters.
And there it is, another sting. He’d thought this would help - being near her. Whatever it’s doing, it’s something else entirely. He’s overwhelmed with the desire to touch her, to stroke his fingers through her hair, or brush her cheek with thumb, or pull her body close to his to entangle their legs and let himself fall into the exhilarating safety of loving her. But he can’t. He shouldn’t. She’s too peaceful in her rest, and after the way he’d held her beneath the tree in the afternoon, any more of that sort of thing and she’ll take it wrong.
It’s not that he wouldn’t mean it. He would mean it. He does mean it - that much at least is blindingly clear. It’s that the way she’d take it is exactly how he feels it and that kind of care should be outlawed to him, forbidden both by the structures of the society of his people whom he’s outlived, and a universe which would only seek destruction of that which he completely loves. No, this is how it must be.
He lays his head upon the pillow and still watches her, thinking of a small acquiescence he could give to himself - something to hang onto, something to soothe him in the way he intended staying in her presence would do in the first place. It’d have to be something he knows she wouldn’t mind, something gentle. It takes a few minutes of hesitation before he decides the curl of his fingers and palm over her upper arm is the way to go. And the moment he does it, he feels like he can finally breathe.
She doesn’t stir, and he closes his eyes, brushing his thumb twice over the bare skin where the sleeve of her shirt ends. She feels warm, with her body heat seeping from her skin to his probably cold hand, easy and natural. So he was right. Being in contact with her does actually soothe him, making it possible for him to calm himself and rest. Sleep doesn’t come immediately, but it comes faster than it would have otherwise, and as his thoughts finally slow, he feels grateful for that.
When he wakes the following morning, he’s flat on his back, and Rose, still asleep, has turned on her side to face him. They’re not touching except for in two places. Her hand is laid over his forearm the same way his was over hers when he’d fallen asleep, and her forehead is pressed against the side of his shoulder, her breath tickling his arm in soft puffs. He wonders if she’d done it purposely, or if she is unavoidably drawn towards him in sleep, as he knows himself to be with her.
He thought it’d be longer - that he’d get a few more days in, or at least a week before the inevitable solemnity of this particular realization sunk in. He sighs, but doesn’t move, only keeps his eyes on the ceiling, avoiding the thought which, unbidden, saunters rather obviously into his mind - and he’s without the energy to fight it.
He’s in too deep.
It goes on in a similar manner for the next four nights. On the second night, he shows up at her door with the book again and mutters something about becoming sleepy much faster on this side of the house, on the third something about her lamp being better to read by, and on the fourth, he simply slips into her room with a questioning look, saying only,
“Yes?” and meeting her eyes.
“Yes,” Rose nods and pats the space next to her, letting him climb over her again in a way which could easily be remedied by her standing up to let him slide in, but she’s starting to cherish this little routine.
As he adjusts the pillows behind him, Rose lays a hand on his arm and he pauses.
“Okay, answer me a few questions then,” she asks, then taps the heavy beekeeping book on his lap. “Why beekeeping? What’s got you so interested in them?”
“The question should be, ‘why not beekeeping?’ It’s a fascinating craft, cultivated over thousands of years.”
“Alright then,” Rose nods, pondering this. “So then what makes you want to read this book specifically before sleeping, if it’s so fascinating?”
“Oh, well it’s like anything else. There’s a lot to take in - and that information clogs the brain a little bit so it wears you out, pushing you towards sleep faster. Unless you’re me, in which case, I’m reading it because beekeeping is something I’d like to try while we’re here.”
A smile breaks over Rose’s face; a pleased sort of grin.
“So at last we’ve found something that you actually want to do!” she beams.
The Doctor can’t help but grin back in a rueful smile.
“It’s your month to rest but a man needs a hobby.”
“I thought I was your hobby,” Rose teases.
“Ha!” he lets out a chuckle, and raises an eyebrow, “Yes, you’d like to think that wouldn’t you.”
Is she doing this on purpose? He’s not sure, but he can give it right back, and something in him dares him to entice her into trying her worst. He sits back and opens the book.
“I would,” Rose says in response, but it’s still a teasing tone, and she rests back against her own pillows, settling down next to him and doing something she hasn’t done on any of the other nights. This time, she turns to lean her head against his shoulder and states simply,
“Read it to me then?”
He nods, secretly a bit pleased, as it feels comfortable to have her leaning at his side. Capable of thinking of more than one thing at a time as he reads aloud, he steers his thoughts toward gratitude she’s his friend and companion, and away from thoughts of how he could easily stretch his arm above his head and bring it down around her shoulders to pull her in closer.
“I’m in the chapter about propolis,” he explains, pointing to the title at the top of the page he’s on, and the accompanying illustration.
“What exactly is that?” Rose queries, inclining her head towards the book and examining the drawings closely.
“Let me read this page to you here and it will explain,” he flips back and starts reading, his voice pleasantly paced and measured. “Propolis is a natural resinous mixture produced by honeybees from substances collected from parts of plants, buds, and exudates,” the Doctor pauses to explain, “that’s trees leaking out sap in other words.” He continues reading, “The word propolis is derived from Greek, in which pro stands for “at the entrance to” and polis for “community” or “city,” which means this natural product is used in hive defense. Another name of propolis is bee glue. Due to its waxy nature and mechanical properties, bees use propolis in the construction and repair of their hives—for sealing openings and cracks and smoothing out the internal walls and as a protective barrier against external invaders like snakes, lizards, and so forth, or against wind and rain. Bees gather propolis from different plants in different temperate climatic zones.”
“Hmm…” Rose hums, signifying she’s paying attention, but shifts to settle closer against his side in a way which indicates she might try and drift off as he reads. He’s read to her before of course, in the TARDIS library with them both settled on either end of the sofa, or cushioned into the bean bags he’d managed to let Rose convince him to buy around the time of her birthday. Usually it’s been narratives, but she finds he’s equally as good at making informational texts come alive in the same enthusiastic way he spouts off science-y explanations with the energy of a child on a sugar high, and now, listening to him tell from the book all about how bees use propolis to protect the hives, and how it’s used as an antioxidant and has many health benefits for humans, or how the composition of it changes based on the biodiversity of the climates around the world where the bees live, Rose concludes that it should be boring but it isn’t, because he himself is not boring. He talks about beekeeping as if he’s done it before, and Rose isn’t entirely certain that he hasn’t - only that he may have forgotten about it. The way he speaks with such fascination about learning new facts about them brings about a quiet sort of affection in her as he grows in excitement.
“Rose! The ancient Egyptians used propolis from the bees in embalming mummies! Oh, and the Greeks and Romans used it for mouth disinfectant and an antiseptic and healing product in wound treatment. And Stradivari used it for varnish on his violins!”
He’s off on a tangent but Rose doesn’t mind, letting him read for another hour before the drone of his voice becomes the soundtrack to her easy fade into rest. When he realizes that she’s drifting off he stops and turns his head towards hers, where she leans on his shoulder.
“I forgot to tell you,” he says after taking a deep breath in through his nose, pressed against her hair, still damp from her evening shower. “Propolis is extremely pleasant and aromatic. It’s the primary smell in your shampoo.”
Rose makes a small noise to indicate she’s heard him, but is mostly asleep already. When she wakes the next morning, they’re closer, the beekeeping book closed and wedged between the bed and the wall, having accidentally slipped down in the night. He’s still asleep but his face is still pressed lopsidedly against the top of her head, and it’s only then that his words about her shampoo come back to her. Perhaps his reasons for reading up about bees and propolis aren’t so unusual after all.
Watching him during the daytime is anything but a boring experience. Rose stands at the small kitchen sink of their rented Yorkshire cottage and washes the remnant dishes from their late lunch, as she looks out the window and to the garden. He’d made good on his promise to start a small garden for them, and walked into town on his own after lunch to visit the local nursery, ensuring her that he’d be returning with surprise plants and that they could plant them together to spruce up the beds which line along the stones of the cottage and walls around the front and side garden. She’d expected him to return then with a pot or two - perhaps some seedlings, but it’s a long flatbed farm lorry which rolls up alongside the house when he returns, with two adolescent boys from the local nursery and a flatbed full of topsoil and gardening supplies.
Looking through the window now, as she rinses their plates, she smiles to see the three of them, all looking very similar with their trousers in shades of brown and grey, and braces stretching over simple white shirts with sleeves rolled up at the elbows. The Doctor is good at giving directions, and the two boys seem good at following them. The younger one can’t be more than eleven, and the older one looks to be about fourteen. When the dishes are finished, she joins them in the side garden and dons her gardening gloves, relishing the feeling of getting down into the fresh earth; something her own city-dwelling upbringing had seldom afforded her the opportunity to do. The Doctor makes quick work of the introductions, explaining that the boys were at the nursery when he met them and spontaneously employed them to come help with the planting of flowers in the garden and the potting of plants.
“This is Francis,” he points to the older of the two, who nods with a polite half smile, the wind ruffling his sandy hair. “And this is Alfie,” the Doctor gestures to the younger boy who grins and itches at his freckled cheek for a moment, leaving a smudge of dirt across his face.
To the boys in turn, the Doctor points to Rose with his thumb,
“And this is Mrs. Tyler, my wife,” the Doctor states, in as natural a way as if he had been saying it his whole life, though pointedly avoiding her gaze on the off-chance that either of them would burst out laughing.
“Very nice to meet both of you,” Rose says, smiling back at the children, then turns to the Doctor, laying a hand on his arm after glancing down the stone path leading from the front door to the gate towards where the vehicle is parked. “Did you drive here?” she asks.
“Of course I drove here. How else would we have gotten the potting soil back?” he says, inclining his head towards hers with a gentle sort of amusement. Rose raises her eyebrows.
“I didn’t know you could drive.”
“Didn’t know I could drive?” he retorts in an incredulous way. “Outrageous!”
“How can you not know if your husband can drive or not?” Alfie blurts out. “You can’t have been married long then?”
“Alfie, that’s not polite,” Francis replies with something of a grimace and apologetic look at Rose and the Doctor.
Rose pauses with a terracotta pot in her hand, realizing that maintaining their disguise may be a bit harder than first anticipated.
“Not too long, no,” she replies with a smile.
“We’re from the city, you see!” the Doctor jumps in, “And when we met there was no real need for driving since you could either walk everywhere or take the train. And this is our first trip to the country since we married.”
“Which city?” Francis asks, deeming this question polite enough to ask in between planting the pots with seedlings brought back from the nursery, as instructed by the Doctor only moments before.
“London. We came north because of the fresh air… better for my lungs,” Rose explains, and clears her throat for effect.
“Ah yes, well that explains your accent,” Alfie quips.
“I suppose it does!” the Doctor grins.
“I meant hers!” Alfie replies.
“Oh, right then,” the Doctor shrugs, hoisting a bag of soil up over his shoulder and carrying it to the corner flower bed where he intends to spread it. Rose laughs, and they get underway planting the absolute wealth of plants purchased by the Doctor. Rose doesn’t pretend to understand his design for the beds, or why gardening itself has drawn him in and sparked such enthusiasm, but she laughs alongside him and the afternoon hours pass quickly as they make conversation with the two youngsters.
When the light begins to fade on the horizon, it paints the garden in a blue haze of dusky light as the sun sinks behind the trees and the stones of the house appear both grey and purple. They all pile into the little cottage kitchen in sock feet, removing their muddy shoes and lining them by the door. After a thorough washing of their hands at the sink, Rose brings out the leftovers from the fridge and assembles some cold plates for them all, until at last they’re sat around the round table in the creaky wooden chairs and digging into their dinner with gusto. Rose notices that the boys seem ravenous, more so than the Doctor and she.
“That hits the spot,” Francis murmurs, finishing the last few bites of his sandwich with his eyes cast only at the plate and drinking a few swigs of milk. This comment is met with a vigorous nod from Alfie, who exclaims around a mouthful of his own sandwich,
“We’ve had nothing since eight. This is excellent!”
Francis side-eyes his brother as if this were yet another thing he should not have said, but doesn’t correct him.
At Alfie’s words, the Doctor and Rose glance at each other with a shared immediate look of apprehension.
“Do you regularly skip lunch then?” the Doctor asks lightly, his voice careful but concerned.
“We do now. Since....” Francis trails off, pausing, though not to swallow, instead, as if something is holding him back. “Our mother was widowed two months ago,” he admits, with a half-second look at the Doctor and Rose before looking back down to the chipped plate in front of him. Alfie is also quiet for a moment, and takes to tapping his finger repetitively on the table, watching Francis as if for a cue, before looking at the Doctor and Rose.
“It was an auto accident with some drunk from the pub. Dad was out on a delivery, and they just hit him from the side, that’s what Mum said,” Alfie explains, his voice calmer than the Doctor expected it to be. Rose is quiet, but the Doctor looks over to her to catch her reaction. Her eyes, wide and compassionate, stay fixed on the two children seated at their table, and seeing this the Doctor’s hearts twist a little within him.
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says quietly.
“We’ve cut back a bit on expenses since then,” Francis says, his voice tight.
“My mother was widowed as well,” Rose says in a soft voice, after a moment in which the Doctor thinks she might have laid a sympathetic hand on Francis’s shoulder if she knew the boys a bit better. “He was struck by an automobile while walking.”
At this, a look of mutual understanding passes between the boys and Rose. The Doctor stops to consider her phrasing. Widowed. He hadn’t thought of it quite like that… only thinking of Rose’s mum as a single mother, like plenty of other women around the estate who’d had divorces and relationships which didn’t work out, or fathers who’d left. But that’s not what had happened at all, and it was clear Rose carried that knowledge with a mixture of sadness and pride at knowing that though her father had been lost, neither she nor Jackie had ever been abandoned by him. Unbidden, the image of Rose’s face after witnessing her father’s death springs to the Doctor’s mind, a clear and vivid memory of loss - and an expression now mirrored in the faces of the two young boys before them.
“Was it difficult after? For you and your mother? I mean...” Francis asks, clearly working hard to restrain his feelings. “To find work.”
“I was very young, but yes,” Rose nods. “It was difficult after. But not all the time… things will get a bit better as time passes, especially as you get older and are able to work more. There will be more opportunities for income.”
Beneath the table, the Doctor reaches for Rose’s hand and holds it, intertwining their fingers. He forgets how practical she can be, always rooted in emotion and care but thinking forward to solutions which time and the future could bring. Her optimism never ceases to steady him. He squeezes her hand a little in support and she returns the slight pressure.
“Lack of work’s not a problem… we always did well before the accident. But we’ve a small farm, and sell milk, eggs, and cheese. Without Dad, it’s just a lot of labor to share between us,” Francis explains, but a little of the burden in his eyes seems to lift. He sighs. “On that note, thank you, Doctor, for the work this afternoon. But we’d better get back as the cows and goats will need milking. My sister, Florence will have my ear if she has to do it all herself.”
Alfie wipes his mouth on his sleeve and stands up from the table.
“You’ll drive us back then?”
“I will,” the Doctor nods.
“Thank you,” Alfie says, finally seeming to remember the manners Francis kept trying to get him to recall. “Mrs. Tyler, the sandwiches were perfect,” he smiles with a lopsided, crooked toothed grin.
“Glad to hear it, and you’re welcome,” Rose says as they all stand, each taking their plates over to the counter.
As the boys sit to pull their boots back on, the Doctor pulls Rose aside with a hand at her elbow. He speaks in a hushed voice,
“I’ll be back soon, they’re just a five or six minutes down the road via the car. I want to talk to them a bit more. We’ll have tea when I return?”
Rose catches his warm and familiar eyes, beginning to anticipate their evening routine.
“I’ll have it ready,” Ross nods in affirmation.
“Right then, see you.” He gives her a smile back and before she can move away leans forward and kisses her cheek in a very quick peck as he turns and heads out the door. Neither of the boys seem to have noticed or care, but Rose stands quite still in the kitchen for a minute after the door shuts behind them. She raises her hand to her cheek and presses her fingers to the spot where his lips had been only moments before. Her fingers are cold, but her cheeks feel very warm. With a sudden shiver, she decides to get the fire re-started at the sitting room hearth before doing anything else.
When it takes, she puts the kettle over it on the old fashioned cooking grate to boil, and wonders if the Doctor kissing her cheek signifies something else, something more. Up until now, they’ve hugged and held each other plenty, sharing the bed the last few nights in what she believes to be his efforts to avoid his haunted dreams, but kisses were mostly for reassurance, in moments of anguish, or torment - to soothe. But this... never had they kissed each other’s faces in sweet farewell, except once, and that was before he regenerated. The thought makes her chest buzz briefly with something between a bittersweet nostalgia and excitement before she calms that sensation to keep herself steady as she pours the hot water into the teacups.
She’s just placed their teacups and saucers on the small wooden table in between the arm chairs and the love seat, then crouched down to look in the built-in cupboard and rifle through the board games she’d found the other night when he returns, stepping into the hallway and shrugging out of his grey jacket to hang it up on the hooks placed near the front door.
“Well then, you've got the tea ready I see!” he says with a grateful smile.
“Yes, still warm if you hurry,” Rose says as she pulls out a box containing a game. The Doctor lifts the teacup from the saucer on the table and sinks with a tired but not unhappy sounding sigh to the settee. He sits back, leaning his neck against the back of the sofa and slouching a bit, following Rose’s movement as she sits down in the wingback armchair opposite him.
“How were things back at the farm when they arrived?” Rose asks, taking a sip of her tea.
“Seemed alright to me. I introduced myself to their mother - her name is Margaret. She seemed exhausted and overworked, but was thankful for the money I’d paid to the boys. They did a good job helping us with the garden, I thought.”
“They were hard workers. How did you find them anyway? And with a flatbed no less?”
“They were hanging about the nursery when I showed up, and their older sister Florence had driven them there. She works in the haberdashery in the village center and the nursery is adjacent. They’d just been turned down by the owners for extra work assisting with the nursery, when I saw them and overheard, so I thought I’d come up with something for them to do for us instead. I mean… I could have given them the money outright, but at that point I didn’t know what sort they were, and thought it’d be better to get to know them. And that’s the real reason I wanted them around. You can find out a wealth of information from youngsters! If you really want to know what’s going on in this town, Rose, that’s who you need to hang around with. Adults are too boring and polite, but kids will say anything! Take Alfie for example!” he grins and takes a sip of his tea, gesticulating casually with his hands as he talks, his words sounding easy and unrehearsed. But the kindness of his actions sink in as suddenly, Rose realizes why exactly he’d returned with a flatbed of garden supplies and two young helpers.
“So that’s why you bought all those plants... to give them something to do so you could pay them? It did seem a bit excessive. God, you’re soft!” Rose says and smiles with her eyes, an affectionate look over her features as she looks back at the Doctor, whose own face turns a somewhat embarrassed shade of pink.
“Just don’t tell anyone,” he quips, looking away from her, as if he doesn’t like being caught out.
“Only if you’re lucky,” Rose replies ambiguously. He laughs, her words amusing him for no reason and she reaches forward as his tea sloshes with his laughter towards the rim of the porcelain teacup.
“If you don’t watch it, you’re going to spill that!” Rose laughs and takes the teacup from his hands, placing it back on the table. Something tangible seems to pass back and forth between them, and Rose wishes she could just find the courage to tell him how very much she adores him.
“I wouldn’t have spilled it!” the Doctor huffs in mock exasperation, and earns a raised eyebrow from Rose which tells him that she doesn’t believe him for a second. “What game have you got for us then?” he asks.
“Chinese chequers!” she announces and takes out the small game board, placing it on the table between them. A few of the game pieces are missing, but it’s playable enough for the two of them. As the fire crackles, they start their game in the same easy companionship which has accompanied their past week at the cottage.
The Doctor watches her as they begin, his thoughts lingering on her reaction to the boys during the meal, and the way she seemed to know exactly what to say, what was needed to alleviate rather than deepen the struggle felt by the children. Her way of things is not dissimilar to his, and he knows that - each of them drawn in different ways invariably towards the difficulty presented by the boys’ situation and captured by a desire to help. Rose and he resemble each other in actions and thoughts far more than he initially expected. But then, he expects there are sides of him which have changed purely due to her influence. He is kinder because of her, more attentive and smoother around the edges.
“I’m going to teach Francis how to drive,” the Doctor says after a moment where the conversation had drifted to other things.
“Really? Are you sure you’re qualified to do that?” Rose teases, but there’s an element of truth in it.
“I fly you around time and space and that’s the response I get? I’ve already told you - I can drive. I’ve known how to drive since I was in my third regeneration.”
“Alright, alright, point taken,” Rose smiles half-apologetically. “I can’t drive, actually. I’d always have to get Mickey or Mum to do it, and mostly just took the bus.”
The Doctor pauses to think about that, about Rose when he met her. For a moment, he can envision her on her daily commute, walking in the rain with an umbrella in her hand, or seated on the bus, leaning her head on the window. He wonders what she would have been like, and if she would have been the kind of person to listen to music while she walked, or read a book on the bus, or if she’d have been motion sick at that. When Mickey drove her, would she have kissed his cheek goodbye when she got out of the car as he dropped her off, like the Doctor had kissed her earlier? His heart twinges with a little jealousy at that thought, towards the man who, though universes away - got to have Rose more completely he. Factual probability from previous observation indicates that she probably would have kissed Mickey. Rose is casually affectionate like that - things like goodbye kisses and unprompted hugs come easily to her.
Unwillingly, he concludes that perhaps he’s not trying hard enough to avoid slipping into the same model of behavior, if only because he wants it so much. His own people would be disgusted at his blatant fraternization with the people of Earth; they’d made that already clear plenty of times before the end. He knows his craving for companionship, in all of its warmth and physicality, has weakened any semblance of austerity he might’ve shown if the Time Lords were there to look down their noses and reprimand his obvious care for Rose. They were a bunch of bigots, most of them, he knows that - and their moral superiority complex at times made them equally as devastating in their expectations as the crimes of their enemies upon their society. To care for Rose as he so wishes, and for them to find out he’d regenerated for her would earn him an ostracization which would likely be fully merited. But they’re gone now, all of them. No one to judge, no one to care, no one to disappoint. And he’s powerless when it comes to his feelings for her, ruled in lessening measure by fear and guilt, overtaken gradually by his love for her. And as he is now, with Rose, he can’t help any of it.
The Doctor smiles at Rose instead of hinting at this contemplation, speaking instead of his experience with the boys and their short trip back to the farm.
“Francis was shaking like a leaf from the moment we got in the flatbed. I think he’s afraid of it because of his father’s accident.” The Doctor moves one of his chequers, his countenance sobering with this statement. Looking across to Rose, he tries to read her face as she looks away from him and to her tea as she takes a sip.
“It took me until the age of about twelve before I could cross the street even casually without thinking of how Dad died, once I learned the truth of it,” she says after a very still moment. She sounds smaller than he expected her to, her voice betraying emotion which springs to the surface rather than staying deeply hidden. Behind her eyes, he can see the quiet sort of grief; the sort which has lived there for a while, restrained, but very much still active. Her hand rests on the table, and the Doctor reaches to cover hers with his own, curling his fingers under her palm, and leaning forward to be a little closer to her. If he could just take a little of that grief away… if he could show her that he knows what loss is like.
Rose looks back up at him then and gives him a watery smile.
“Sorry. Not sure where all this is coming from all of a sudden,” she says and blinks a few times, swallowing hard. The Doctor shakes his head, his eyes holding comfort without speaking it. Her compassion for the boys, sourced from her own understanding of the emotions of loss makes his chest burn a little. How is it possible that one woman can be so attentive and kind?
“I thought you were perfect with the children,” he says tenderly, in a soft way Rose wasn’t expecting by the sudden brittle laugh she gives at this statement. He strokes his thumb at the curve of her wrist a few times, finding her expression fading into genuine smile as she considers his words.
“That’s funny… I just… I never really thought about myself around children. I only really see them properly at the holidays, you know, with my cousins coming over for New Year or what have you. Have always thought I just couldn’t be bothered with them. Maybe I’m just not around them enough?” Rose shrugs casually, but there’s a discomfort in it.
“That’s not what I see,” he tilts his head in contemplation, looking off to the fireplace for a moment, at the room bathed in the soft, flickering light before looking back at her, “You’re good with children. You showed them empathy and compassion, something I think they were sorely lacking before this afternoon.”
Rose turns his hand over and begins to fiddle with his fingers as a distraction, and he presses back against hers as she does. He seems steady, as if willing her to tell him more, urging her to continue.
“It’s tough to lose a parent when you’re young. It’s tough to lose a parent at any age,” Rose says, not quite a whisper.
“I know,” he says, “the wound of it is still… new,” he says, carefully. She knows that look on him - the same as he gave her in the church the day her dad died, or before he spoke the words, ‘go to him.’ She knows what he’s getting at - the way he works around a topic without ever quite saying what he means. They’re both good at drawing the same associations between events and particular feelings - the death of her father is no different. But that’s not the only thing. Rose thinks of her mother, who carried on and always fought her hardest to give her daughter a safe and happy life. Again and again, Jackie’s love has been a beacon of stability. Rose isn’t sure she fully appreciated that until now.
“Not only that,” she counters, bringing her other hand to cradle his as he continues to stroke his fingers over hers. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost or had to leave Mum,” she says truthfully. “I think that’s what made me feel for the boys. I know what it’s like to be just this small family. Me and Mum. Us against the world… it can be lonely.”
The Doctor nods in understanding, but the weight of her words appears to settle in his ribcage, and he has that look - the blank one, when she’s known him to be frightened. He looks across at her and holds her gaze for a moment before dropping his eyes back to the board.
“I haven’t brought you back to her yet,” he says, sighing, and using his other hand to move one of his chequers, keeping the game play moving.
“No, don’t worry, I didn’t ask you to,” Rose soothes, covering his forearm with her hand in a gentle way. “I want to be here.”
“Do you?” the Doctor says, narrowing his eyes a little, “Because you don’t have to be if you don’t want to. We can go back to see your Mum sooner if it’s too much for you.”
“Who are you and what have you done with the Doctor?” Rose tries to joke, but it comes out funny, and he pulls his arm away from hers.
“No, I’m serious, Rose. I only suggested this because I thought maybe a month in the country would be restful. And.... and nice. If it stops being that, you should say.”
Rose sits up a little straighter, trying to suss out the meaning of the suddenly very confusing subtext of the conversation. Does he not want to be here with her? Does he think that he’s taking her away from her family, and that she’d rather be anywhere else than at his side?
“Well, I haven’t said that, so you need to take me at my word,” Rose says, and can tell the way it lands hits him fairly squarely on the chest. For a brief few seconds, he is completely readable, insecurity written all over his scared expression, but he shifts it quickly to a mask of composure. “How did we go from teaching Francis to drive to here?” she presses.
“We’ve been here for a while,” he replies, quietly, his hands folded in his lap and his gaze withdrawn.
All of a sudden, though she’s not completely sure of it, recognition dawns - that it’s not so much here that he’s concerned with. It’s them. Each time she thinks it’s finished, that she’s hinted enough times and in enough ways that she wants to stay with him, and that she’d gladly share her life with him, and she wants to be stuck with him, she finds he’s somehow misunderstood. Rose feels frozen, stilled by how heavy the air feels between them. She can’t speak.
He moves his hands from his lap to the sofa, one hand on the cushion beside him and the other curled around the curve of the sofa arm, his fingers pressed into the rough upholstery, as if trying to ground himself. When he looks up, his expression floors her - his brown eyes wide and sad, holding her gaze like he is searching for something.
“Do you want children of your own?” he says softly and out of the blue, seemingly against his will. Then, as if realizing he’d said something dreadfully inappropriate, he suddenly pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry, I’m sorry. That’s too personal of a question; I apologise.”
Rose can’t breathe, a sudden wave of surprise washing over her in a manner not dissimilar to the electric bewilderment of his kissing her cheek earlier. She’s sure the shock is written on her face.
“I-” she starts, “No. I mean, I don’t know, I guess.” She stumbles, her heart racing. “It’d have to be with the right person. I wouldn’t want to be on my own. But… I suppose yes, maybe someday.”
Again, she cannot breathe. The Doctor looks caught between a bird entangled in a trap and a sailor enraptured by the pull of a siren’s song near shore. He nods, a symbol of quiet acceptance.
“Sorry,” he repeats.
It shouldn’t mean so much, this question. It’s the kind of thing people ask at parties as an ice breaker among casual friends, not exactly a taboo subject. But it does mean something, especially to the Doctor, and she can feel it, as real and as dangerous as the fire crackling in the hearth next to them. If it meant any less, it wouldn’t feel so fragile and important.
Rose picks up a chequer and moves it a few hops across the board, stretching her legs out in front of her to settle her feet next to his, knocking into his leg with hers. If she’d have been closer she would have bumped their knees together and criss-crossed her ankles with his - anything to calm him and ease whatever this thing is that’s overtaken him.
“It’s not an inappropriate question,” she states clearly, but in a warm way, trying to reassure him.
He nods twice, but it seems clear he doesn’t quite have a reply yet. The two of them are quiet for a few moments longer through three more turns of the game when he lays his hand back on the table, and she reaches for it before he can pull away again. He sighs then, and she can tell from the sound of it he must be shaking a little.
“I think you’d be a wonderful mother,” the Doctor finally says, without looking at her, in a voice so soft and sorrowful Rose wonders if she’s heard it at all, and her heart pounds in her chest. She wants to find some sort of counter to his statement but finds she doesn’t have it in her. Something about the way he speaks those words makes her ache in a way which only serves to strengthen the sense of binding she feels to the soul of this gentle and confusing man.
“Thank you,” she does whisper this time, but he hears it, as he moves his final chequer into the spot to complete the triangle.
“I won,” he says with a soft smile, their sensitive conversation not so much brushed under the rug as set to the side.
“So you did!” Rose replies and finishes the last of her tea. But his melancholic contemplation has descended like dew upon the blades of grass, and when they rise to go to bed, she finds he goes to his own room this time, no beekeeping manual or bedtime ritual having been observed. He’d bid her goodnight in the hallway without touching her, and closed the door to his own bedroom. Tired from the gardening, Rose tilts towards sleep easily, even though the question of why exactly he’d asked her about children still rests at the forefront of her mind, and she finds herself missing the low hum of the TARDIS interior.
Only hours later does she wake to the sound of a desperate cry leaving his lips from the next room over, and she rises, padding her way across the hall and opening the door to his room. There, tangled in the blankets and in the throes of a nightmare, she’s never seen him look so small. Rose lays a hand on his shoulder and speaks his name softly, until he properly awakes with a sudden, shuddering start.
“Rose…” he gasps, a few times in a row, trying to catch his breath, then turns on his side with his back to her. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m fine now.”
“No, you’re not,” Rose states, and makes the decision for him, crawling into the bed behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso, spooning around him in as safe an embrace as she knows how. He feels cold, and is still shaking, and beneath her hand and against her chest she can feel the rapid pounding of his double-heartbeat hammering into his ribcage. He makes as if to curl more into a ball, away from her attempts to pull her legs closer to his beneath the blanket, but she only curls closer around him, nestling her face at his neck in a way which makes him suppress a whimper of anguish.
The same as in nights before, it takes a while for him to still - to come down from the anxious panic of the dreams which seem close enough to touch. As he comes down, Rose murmurs gently at his ear, soft and lovely words of comfort he knows he won’t remember in the morning, his vision too tunneled, but which calm him immensely. He reaches for her hand with his, entwining his fingers with hers and tightly clutching her arm to his chest.
“What were you dreaming of? Gallifrey?” Rose asks when he seems to resurface.
He only nods, and she can feel the tremble in his chest and unsteadiness of his breathing which means he’s holding tears at bay. Then, comes the word she did not expect.
“Children,” he says, his voice watery and shaken.
And at once, Rose realizes that it’s not only the adults who were lost in the Time War, to the harrowing destruction of the Daleks. It was the children too.
“I see their faces,” the Doctor whispers. Rose can’t speak, can’t think of anything which seems adequate, only tightens her grip around him in the hopes he can feel how her heart breaks for him and how much she seeks to take away his pain. “I lost them. All of them,” he says.
At this, it begins to make sense - why he would ask her if she wanted children, and why he’d reach out to help a family who’d lost their father, and why he would be concerned with reuniting Rose with her mother. Perhaps he’s measuring, the weight of his own loss and devastation witnessed too heavy to bear without seeking to mitigate the potential loss of others. Holding him, it seems clear that Rose forgets too easily what an ever-present companion grief remains for the man in her arms.
It takes a while for him to come down, and she makes no effort to move or to speak until he seems calmed - awake but no longer caught in dreams. Courage comes slowly, as it often is between them. Rose rubs her flattened palm in circles over his chest, summoning the bravery to speak. After his breathing seems very steady again, she finds the words she knows she must ask.
“Why did you ask me if I wanted children?”
She thought perhaps he would startle or pull away at her words, but he doesn’t, only lifts his hand from where it fell to cover hers, sliding his fingers in the spaces between hers, as if he knew her question was coming.
“Because if you want them,” the Doctor says, his voice gentle but resolute, “You deserve to have them.”
“But…” she starts slowly, “why would that make a difference?”
“Doesn’t it?” he responds, and she wishes she could see his face.
She struggles to find the meaning in his words, to decipher the exhausted fear in his voice. Trying desperately, she attempts to imagine a future in which she settles back in her time on Earth - starting a family with some faceless and as of yet unknown stranger, a future in which the Doctor is absent and a part of her past instead of the center of her present. The thought is every bit as foreign as the furthest reaches of space and most unusual planets to which the Doctor has taken her, as alien as the brightest and wildest of species of things she’s ever seen.
“I don’t… want that,” she says, aware that it’s a woefully inadequate way to phrase what she really means. It’s impossible for her to want anyone other than him, or to desire a home different than the one she thinks he’s already given her without saying it - close to his heart and cradled in his arms. How could she then want a family if it wasn’t with him?
He shakes his head imperceptibly.
“What then? I want-” he starts, then stops again, taking a deep breath and bolstering himself before continuing. “I want you to have everything. Everything, Rose.” His voice nearly breaks in the saying of her name.
Rose is still, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he could feel her heart thumping in her chest, the way she’s curled around his back. If he only knew how much she wants, how heavy the massive weight of her hope presses down upon her. But then, there is a moment of clarity, unspectacular and simple. He thinks that to give her what she truly desires, she’ll have to leave.
“I don’t need everything. I don’t want everything, for that matter,” Rose says, and shifts to turn her face into his neck so she can feel him, pressing her cheek against his skin. She can tell he doesn’t quite believe her by the way he barely reacts - that she hasn’t said it clearly enough. So she brushes her thumb over his and presses her hand firmly against his chest, wrapping him in as safe an embrace as she knows how to give.
“Doctor,” she begins, and he shudders a little, and she knows then that she has to say it, because he needs to hear it.
“I don’t want to go.”
At her words, he lets out a breath that he’s been holding.
“No?” then, after a beat, “You don’t?”
He sounds surprised, as if, as always, he had assumed she would want to leave him eventually.
“No, I don’t.” Rose repeats.
He nods, but doesn’t speak for a long time. After several minutes where he’s been very quiet and very still, Rose concludes that he seems to have processed her words, but she’s suddenly mindful of the fact that it was she who had slipped in here to comfort him. It was he who sought to sleep separately from her this time… maybe she should return to her own room. She begins to extricate herself from around him, but he immediately tightens his grip on her hand, so desperate it’s nearly painful.
“Rose?” he rasps. “Will you stay?”
It sounds deeper than a simple question, it sounds like more. Rose reverses her action instantly, curling around him again with her face back at the slope of his shoulder. She turns her head and presses her mouth to his neck in a kiss of comfort, as soft as she knows how, as gentle as she could ever hope to be. Then again. And again. And at the fourth, when he sighs, a sound somewhere between agony and forbidden relief, Rose’s heart aches for him.
“I will stay,” she says as he lowers his guard, letting her tangle her legs with his, drawing him closer, willing him to know that she means it always, that she doesn’t want to be absent from him ever, and that her love for him is real. She will reassure him as many times as it takes. So, she gathers her courage once more to push her luck a final time: a kiss pressed beneath the curve of his ear, with whispered words of protection and promise.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”