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He reminds her so much of him.
It’s a bizarre thought to have. Of course he is like him – he is him. But not like that. But not not like that. Not the same ways, not in most of the ways. But sometimes…
Right. Okay. That didn’t make any sense, did it?
She’s leaned back on the grass, the heels of her hand growing chalky with the soil of this tiny little moon they’re on. It looks suspiciously like Earth, but a step or three to the left, the hue gone wonky and the air a bit too sharp. But it’s warm, with two suns shining down and a third rising soon, and she has some Lady Grey, and a biscuit, and company she tore apart universes to find again.
Cracking open one eye, she looks at him. He’s sitting on a fussy little blanket he insisted on putting down, claiming it was for himself and probably meaning it. Still, he settled over to one side, leaving just enough space for River to ease herself down with all the grace of a jungle cat. It’s been only an hour now; he’s barely got the edge, the delicate weave now fully at the pleasure of the professor, propped on an elbow and gesturing to make one point or another.
He looks happy, she thinks. Well, no. He almost never looks that . But his lip twitches at some lewd joke, and his long form leans just so into River’s bubble when she asks him a question, and he seems so at peace.
But that’s not what reminds her of him. That’s not what brings her back to brilliant blue eyes and a massive grin and ears almost as big.
He’s just so tired.
Just because he looks older doesn’t mean he’s in the bin, Rose. Her late husband’s voice rattles around and she rolls her eyes. Of course not, dear.
But the gravity of him, the weariness: it’s palpable. She remembers just being a girl, young and stupid and deeply in love, wanting to crawl into that oversized leather coat and wrap her arms around him. To just squeeze the exhaustion away. Chase the memories, the fear, the haunting traumas, right out of his body with a big heart and the blundering force of will only nineteen years on the planet could hone.
“Rose, dear, you’re staring.”
He slices through her thoughts, interrupting River’s in-progress joke without even glancing up from his tea.
A flush crawls up her cheeks. How laughable. Too many years, too many universes, to still feel embarrassed like she got caught passing notes in the back of class. She glances at River to find her whacking the Doctor across the thigh, all the while smiling softly across at her.
“It’s about the blanket, isn’t it, darling?”
Rose grins. “No, no. I’m fine, really. It looks better under you, anyway.”
The boom and crack of River’s laugh brings her back to herself, drawing air back into her lungs and confidence along with it. When she looks back up, the Doctor is watching her, eagle sharp and icy blue.
“I was just thinking how much you remind me of him.”
He quirks an eyebrow, amusement swarming behind a perfectly blank expression. “Him…”
Heat comes swirling back and she looks down at the half-eaten biscuit in her hand. Oh, fucking hell . What is it about him, this one, that makes her feel so stupid? So young . “Him, err. Well. What regeneration was it…number Nine?”
“Ohh, I liked him,” River coos, readjusting to lay her explosion of curls across the Doctor’s lap. “A bit narrow, sure. Seemed to be all elbows. But I’ve learned that you get used to it.”
The Doctor misses the jab at him entirely, which is the first clue that she’s onto something. The second is how his gaze breaks, skittering away toward the ruby gold sun like suddenly it isn’t the thing too bright to look at.
Rose shakes her head. “No, no, that was the next one. Not him. This one…I don’t think you met him. He was…” she takes a deep breath, rolling over the countless, endless things he was . “He was…”
“Angry.” The Doctor’s words are brisk. “Angry, and violent, and irresponsible.”
There’s a pause, a breath. River is suddenly looking directly at her husband, eyes darting across his face. Her fingers snake up the intricate design of the blanket and slip through his. She squeezes; he squeezes back.
The pang of longing that it sends through Rose steals the breath right from her lungs.
“He was tired, ” she counters, firm. “Tired, and so, so lonely.”
Reprimand and empathy swirl together in her head, and she hopes it comes out in her words. It must, because he’s turning back to her. His other hand is running on autopilot, raking slowly through River’s mess of curls. The lines on his face run so long, suddenly. He’s narrowing his eyes at her, thoughtful this time, and it feels like one of the first times this one, this version, is letting her crack his shell.
It makes her want to laugh and scream and cry. All at once, then one after the other. Then reversed.
Instead, she holds his gaze, exploring the fleeting emotions that dance over his features.
He doesn’t think about him, that one , she realizes, chest constricting. Everything feels so small, suddenly, so claustrophobic under the big open indigo sky.
Finally, the Doctor closes his eyes, a long inhale gathering something with himself. The exhale sends it away, tension melting off his shoulders, his ribs, the angle of his chin. He nods.
“He was. He was exhausted. And scared. And…” the tip of his tongue darts out between his teeth, thinking.
It reminds her of her husband. Of her Doctor. And that makes her want to cry, too, but it’s not so bad this time.
The Doctor continues. “Alone. He was alone.”
River murmurs something so quietly Rose can’t hear it, but she’s taking the hand from her curls and kissing the palm, gentle and reverent. The Doctor’s watery smile is for both of them, this time. Rose isn’t sure how she knows that, but she’s stopped thinking about it too hard.
“He was alone. But not for long.”
And then his face opens up, bright and smiling, and oh, there he is. There’s her Northerner, tucked away, shielded and safe. She can almost smell the leather coat and the wool jumper and the TARDIS grease again.
All at once she feels—not for the first time—much, much bigger on the inside.
“He was so scared of losing everything,” she muses aloud, taking in River, whose grip tightens on her husband’s hand and on the little blue journal tucked at her side. “So afraid he’d never find it again.”
The Doctor nods in agreement, drifting in and out of his own thoughts. It’s a lot, she knows, to look back on that man. It must ache. Even more so to realize those feelings never go away. Not when you love something as much as he loves the woman in his lap.
She pauses.
“So he picked up a 19 year old blonde in low rise jeans to dull the pain, I suppose.”
The atmosphere breaks with a snap, shattered by River’s gasp of scandalous delight and the Doctor’s sharp “oi!” of offense. He’s sputtering a useless retort, overwhelmed by riotous cackling.
Rose grins, warmth churning in her breast as much as from the sun on her skin. She loves him, this Doctor, as distant and unfathomable as he is to her. He’s still in there, her Doctor, she thinks at the same time she realizes how unsure she was; how afraid. This one isn’t her’s, but he, they, always are. His hearts never change.
“Oh, love, don’t be such a sore loser,” River admonishes as she tosses her journal pointedly to the edge of the blanket. She pats the ground where it was next to her, as if the space cleared up was suddenly enough for a third.
As if that little book was all the distance that stood between Rose and the two of them.
“You can’t lose at a conversation!” The Doctor says.
River rolls her eyes. “Well, of course, I can’t, but we both knew that already. Now, Rose, love. Sass like that deserves a proper snuggle, don’t you think?”
Another pointed tap on the blanket. Sighing, Rose sets her empty mug aside, shifting across the grass to tuck up along River’s side. She wiggles awkwardly as she tries to settle in, angling to rest her head on the other woman’s chest.
A cool touch lands on her forehead, guiding her to lean instead on the crook of the Doctor’s hip. It sends a jolt of surprise through her; and then again, when those long fingers slide just slightly into her hair, petting her with the same softness as they had River moments ago. It’s the most intimate touch she’s had with this Doctor.
When did she get this second heart, she wonders? That’s all that could explain the pounding in her chest.
River shrewdly takes in the scene and smiles approvingly before twisting, slipping her arm over Rose’s middle and molding up against her. Always the big spoon , Rose thinks, hooking her pinkie around the wedding ring on River’s finger.
“He made that lanky one for you, you know.” River’s eyes are closed now, but her tone dances with mirth nevertheless. “Told me after one too many mulled ciders.”
“He told you, did he?” Rose grins up at the Doctor, who is resolutely looking elsewhere, paying them no mind. She might believe it, if not for the way his ears were going red at the tips, and his lips were pressing into a thin line.
“Oh, yes. Quite a bit. Not him, obviously, the grump. But oh, my darling fiance. He was effervescent. It was all still so fresh for him, I think. He was properly proud, too. He–oh, what was it he said? ‘Got it in one.’ I do believe it’s one of the best gifts he’s ever come up with.”
Rose giggles. She thinks of the way that rubber band of a man looked at her sometimes, can imagine him tipsy and telling. “Well, yeah. I think you’re right. He’s not half bad at it. Made this one for you, didn’t he?”
She’s looking at the Doctor when she says it, catches the twitch of his lips and a lightning quick wink that sends her floating through the stars.
River is grinning into her shoulder. “Yeah. Suppose so. Glad he did.”
This little system’s third sun is creeping over the horizon, sending new heat across Rose’s skin from its rays the same as it seeps over from the woman at her side, and the hand on her hair. She sighs, closing her eyes, letting a warm afternoon and a warm century of memories wash over her.
It feels like she’s going to jump soon, but this? She’s pretty sure she can stay grounded for this just a little longer.