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It wasn't supposed to happen like that. But then, pretty much nothing her entire life was supposed to be like that, so in the end, what was one more thing? And when she had been crouched there on the floor of some nondescript hotel floor, clutching a .48 and a little white stick that was half blue, even then she hadn't known everything that was gonna happen - all she knew was that something was.
Whatever name that was scrawled down at her birth was forgotten by all but the decrepit clerk who had to shove around dusty filing boxes, but by the time she met the Doctor she was going by Rose Tyler and it fit her. Fit her in the way that the skimpy outfit and day old mascara did not and, true to his moniker, he saw her not for who she was trying to be in that moment, but everything she could have been, every she was going to be, and when he held out her hand with a whispered invitation, she shrugged and accepted.
He wasn't silver-tongued and he wasn't conventionally handsome and he didn't promise her diamonds and fine wines and a life of ease, but he did introduce her to the finest martial arts trainer on the globe and he did arrive to pick her up eighteen months later. The woman standing barefoot and bare-armed in the desert heat wasn't the frightened shadow he'd left, this was one who'd earned and would continue to earn her own moniker - Bad Wolf. And it fit her. Fit her when she flashed her golden eyes right before slashing out a throat, fit her as she rose through the ranks to become his right hand - the lightning to match his storm. And if the others muttered behind their hands when she disappeared into the Doctor's bedchambers, there was no one but the alcohol and the night air to hear them.
And then came the night, far away from the formidably comforting presence of the Doctor, in a nondescript hotel room when the small white stick turned blue and the world crashed down around her before suddenly opening up. For a brief moment she considered ending it, taking both of their lives where nothing in this godforsaken world could harm them, but everything had changed and she laid down her weapon and picked up a map.
She had limited cash and only a particular set of skills, but she was young and blonde and it wasn't long before she found a small town about as far from her bloody past as one could get. Nights were spent soaking her pillow with tears, memories of the Doctor's loving hands, his eyes lit up with joy to see her, his body shielding hers. She shivered as she considered his despair when the weeks flew by and she didn't call him, but she had another obligation and she was determined.
His name was Mickey and she knew the ruse that her unborn child was his would last precisely no time at all in this tiny town, but desperate times and she knew he was the loyal sort who believed the half-baked story of an abusive ex and would raise a child to be as steady and dependable as he was. It was all she could ask for and more than she knew she deserved. They didn't bother with the formality of a wedding when a justice would do the job and when the sun set and the Doctor had not appeared, she took her first deep breath in months - eight to be exact. She pushed Mickey away when he wanted to consummate their union, claiming sickness and she was, but it had nothing to do with her tiny offspring and everything to do with the glimpses of bright blue eyes she saw around every corner.
The delivery itself was practically painless, the nurses amazed when she hardly cried and she pressed her lips together - what was this compared to memories of days spent learning self-discipline in the burning desert - and at last she heard a tiny cry, the sign of new life. She held him once, that beautiful infant, the spitting image of his father, before they whisked him away and encouraged sleep. And when she awoke, they were all gone.
Her limbs were nearly useless, but she used them anyway - searching first one long corridor and then the next. The hospital was deserted, the rooms as silent as tombs, the patients vanished. She half expected a ghost town when she exited and she was not far off, the town was tinier than she remembered, the people moved to the bigger cities and leaving this one to the woods and the coyotes and the dust. A newspaper told her five years had passed, children who used to play in the streets wore black robes and walked across the stage to receive diplomas. Whatever sick benefactor who had kept her alive was unknown and the residents were as surprised at her sudden appearance as she was at theirs.
Mickey was dead, she found a grave on the edge of town - "Died protecting his own" - and she knew, knew with every beat of her stubborn heart what had happened. Could picture the struggle, Mickey brave in his own way, standing before them until the end. Of her son there was no sign, though she searched for graves, the faces of the youngsters playing in the park, for anyone who may have seen or heard, but no one had much to say about the Hospital Massacre, as the guidebooks called it, but she knew.
Tracking the team down was child's play - Toby first and Adam last, meeting them on their turf and fighting with their choice of weapons, when they asked for guns she shot them, when swords she sliced them, when poison she filled their drink. She fought with the abandon of someone who does not need to live - her mission what woke her in the morning, what covered her at night, and what sent her staggering to her feet when she had been knocked, bleeding to the ground.
She saved him for last - building, honing her skills until she felt like she could face him. And she was ready to face him, ready to face the monster - for that's what form he took when he endlessly snatched her child from her arms on those rare moments when she closed her eyes - and finally, finally exact her revenge. She was ready to face him right until the warm September night when she walked into his home - their home - and saw him, his broad shoulder stretching the maroon jumper, his head turned down and away from her, his steady voice rumbling. For a moment she considered doing it now, but she needed to face him and so she took a step forward. And so did the person he had been speaking to, a small tow-headed child with overlarge ears and whose whiskey-colored eyes lit up at the sight of her.
"Mama!" Her ears rang with the word even as she dropped to the ground and opened her arms for the boy running to throw his small arms around her, her name an endless refrain from his lips. She wanted to speak, wanted to cry and scream and throw things, but she did not. Instead she held her child, listened as he babbled about how she had been missing and now was not, sat near him as he ate a bedtime snack, pulled the covers up to his chin, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It was clear the man leaning outside the door wanted to say something, but she gave him no chance, beating on him, not with the weapons by which she had taken down a dozen men (a hundred, a thousand), but her own fists, made ineffective by the tears pouring down her face. And he allowed it, not raising either his voice or his hands to protect himself, not until she had worn herself out and her body slumped against his, her cheek resting against his broad shoulder. Only then did he wrap his arms around her and carry her to a bed, holding her loosely while he poured out his story in a broken whisper against her hair until she fell asleep, exhausted from the day, from the years, from her life.
She was supposed to have hated him, to rip him into pieces for what he had done, to loathe him for all eternity, and indeed, she did not forgive him that night, nor the next day when her child held both of their hands, nor the next week as they went on small adventures - their missions catching bugs or tossing their son in the surf or being convinced to get a dog - nor in the months to come. Later she was never certain when she forgave him, whether it was when he taught his son how to hold a sword but cautioned him against violence or when he rested an arm behind her while they watched cartoons or when she allowed him back in her bed or when he introduced himself to people as "John", a man wanting to protect only his family and whose goal was to provide for them and the Doctor, the man whose moniker caused fear and terror, vanished. But eventually she looked over and she did not hate him and however it was supposed to happen, she knew that it had and she was content.