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The first time it happens the Doctor struggles to process the painful, suffocating weight of it all. He’s made of adrenaline and fury and passion – seams coming undone under the pressure of the whole affair.
He comes back to himself at the altar, hand clasped loosely around a bouquet, tears already drying on his face as he stares transfixed at the place before him where the floor has made itself known once more. The chulder are gone, lost to the infinite gaping nothingness promised to them by the void that had opened beneath their feet.
They’re gone and they’ve taken Rogue with them.
The Doctor slowly approaches the place where Rogue had been stood moments before, face plastered with a confident smirk even as his eyes had shone with tears. The tapping of The Doctor’s heels against the marble floor confirms that it’s solid – that it won’t crack beneath him and condemn him to the same hell Rogue now occupies.
He puts the bouquet down numbly, unsure what else to do, looking around him like a lost child as his mind attempts to catch up to what his hearts already know.
There’s no way to fix this.
Rogue is gone.
Ruby takes his hand and pulls him from the scene with a gentle kindness she’s learned from years of caring for lost children. She’s equally as shaken, having nearly shared Rogue’s fate, and the Doctor knows that he needs to come back into himself. He needs to be there for her, needs to pick the pieces of himself off the aisle as they make their way slowly back down it and compose himself for her sake.
Even as he musters enough energy to squeeze her hand back, even as he sends Rogue’s ship into orbit and attempts to console Ruby with meaningless reassurances that ring hollow, she sees right through him.
This hug is where it has to end, he decides as he allows himself a moment of weakness in her arms.
After this he has to put Rogue back, as though the bounty hunter was only ever something to be borrowed, never kept, his memory placed with thousands of others The Doctor still grieves in the recesses of his mind.
The Doctor does allow himself to keep the ring, however.
He slips it onto his pinkie finger once Ruby’s out of sight, as though the simple act of doing so is a sacred thing only for his eyes. A joke between him and the universe at the expense of his own inability to let go.
Perhaps this small, intimate act is the catalyst for what happens next.
The Doctor closes his eyes and, for a moment, the world is still.
The second time it begins almost like a play, one in which the Doctor knows his lines and rattles them off accordingly.
Something about dancing and “battle mode” and ordering Ruby not to accidentally get engaged.
His realises what he’s said a beat after the words leave him, not because of their nature but because he catches a glimpse of his hand in the warm light of the ballroom and it makes him stop in his tracks.
The ring on his finger is gone.
Ruby is off to explore this time period with a giddy spring in her step and the Doctor is alone, with the exception of a pair of eyes he can feel watching him from above. The room starts spinning as the music and excited chatter of those around him ebbs away to a dull white noise. The only thing the Doctor can hear in that moment is his hearts beating out of sync with one another; partly with anticipation, partly with fear.
He half expects to be met with nothing when he looks up.
Instead, on the balcony above the dancefloor, standing motionless as though he were carved from marble, is Rogue.
The Doctor’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of him, scared to blink in case the bounty hunter is a mirage conjured by his own grieving mind. He would consider this for certain a trick of some sort – a horrible joke played by some wicked power beyond his comprehension – but then Rogue’s eyes meet his for a fraction of a second, and all doubt leaves him in an instant.
He knows this to be real.
There’s no recognition in Rogue’s gaze, nothing to so much as suggest he and the Doctor might be acquainted, but it’s him.
It’s him.
The Doctor lets out a stuttering breath, eyes already welling anew with fresh tears even as his brain hurries to apply logic to this encounter.
Time-loop is the answer a small voice in the back of his head comes up with.
We’re caught in a time-loop.
However, this voice is drowned out by the white noise in his ears reaching a deafening pitch as he continues to stare at Rogue like a drowning man would stare at the shore.
Rogue’s own eyes widen as he takes in the Doctor, his eyebrows creasing and his head tilting to the side curiously in a way that fills the Doctor’s stomach with butterflies, his hearts still fluttering wildly.
It happens like this: the Doctor is up on the balcony and upon Rogue before the band can even finish their song. He’s still staring at Rogue with an intensity few could rival and Rogue is eyeing him up in turn.
It’s a bizarre parody of their first meeting.
“…Do I know you from somewhere?”
It’s Rogue who breaks the silence between them, bringing the Doctor back to himself with a jolt. A flash of disappointment must cross the Doctor’s face, not lasting more than a second as he quickly regains his composure.
He blinks his tears away, straightens his posture and allows the reality of the situation to wash over him.
Time-loop, he reminds himself, of course, Rogue doesn’t remember him.
Of course he doesn’t.
“N… No, no. I don’t think we’ve met before.” He replies, delivery shaky.
Rogue raises an eyebrow and the Doctor’s brain quickly runs through one million and one ways to move this conversation forward before the urge to kiss Rogue or otherwise scream at the top of his lungs becomes too much to bear.
They’ll be plenty of time for that later (the kissing, not the screaming) if he plays his cards right.
It’s so very rare, after all, that the Doctor is afforded a second chance.
“Why?” He leans against the balcony railing, feigning relaxed confidence with a flirtatious smile on his face. “Do you come here often, babes?”
It’s too polished a performance, any actor worth their salt would be appalled.
Rogue hesitates for a brief second, before letting out an unimpressed scoff and finally breaking eye contact. He places both hands on the railing, gazing into the crowd below once more.
“I’m not in the mood for whatever you’re clumsily attempting to initiate. Go and pursue your facile pleasures and leave me alone.”
The Doctor mentally steels himself.
Back on track, he thinks as Rogue delivers his line on cue.
The Doctor already knows this story – knows its characters and its setting.
He’s learned his own lines and now all he has to do is polish the script a little.
If he can do that, he might be in with a chance of changing the ending.
It happens like this: Rogue looks beautiful lit by candlelight beneath the canopy of wisteria that hang from the overgrown pergola in the garden.
It’s very easy to become distracted by the way Rogue is observing him, and The Doctor only comes to register the corpse on the floor and the gun in Rogue’s hand abstractly, like they’re props and not tangible things.
Like the duchess wasn’t once flesh and blood.
Like the gun in Rogue’s hand isn’t aimed at him.
His mouth feels dry and, all of a sudden, he’s struck by the need to explain everything to Rogue. It should be okay, right? He should be able to change the outcome of events if things begin to shift in a different direction now, right?
He’s not sure how the rules of this new found timeline work, as such he’s been attempting to stay on the original path as much as possible for fear of losing said path all together and ending up back in the woods. It’s not a completely new sequence of events, just an alteration of what came before.
A slight nudge in a new direction, perfectly incongruous, not enough to cause any real harm.
He raises his hands in the universal display of surrender.
“Rogue…” The words begin to spill out of him all at once as he goes off script, trying sound as convincing as possible. “I-I know what you’re thinking, but you have to believe me: I didn’t – “
“You didn’t do this, I know.” Rogue finishes, calmly.
“No, Rogue, I swear this wasn’t me.”
“I know, that’s what I just said.”
“You have to believe me I… Wait…” The Doctor furrows his brow, frozen in spot with a look of bewilderment on his face. “Sorry, come again?”
Rogue rolls his eyes and makes a grand display of lowering his gun.
“You didn’t do this. I know.”
The Doctor must look as lost as he feels in that moment because Rogue can’t stop the smirk that forms on his face at the clueless timelord’s expense.
“I… I’m sorry, did I miss something?”
Rogue just shrugs.
“The species I’m looking for can shape-shift into anybody. They can disguise themselves as anything. By all accounts I should be resistant to any attempts at communication whilst carrying out my mission. And yet…”
The Doctor shakes his head, raising his arms in a display of bewilderment.
“…And yet?” He prompts, gaze darting down to the gun now pointed at the ground between them.
Rogue narrows his eyes.
“…And yet. You didn’t do this.”
The Doctor remains quiet, allowing Rogue time to gather his thoughts. The bounty hunter worries his bottom lip between his teeth and studies the Doctor carefully, as if trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.
After a pregnant pause he slips his gun back into its holster and shrugs.
“Don’t ask me how I know, I just have a hunch that you didn’t do this, which means you’ll help me find who did. Right?”
His words feel like the clouds parting to reveal the sun and their effect on the Doctor is instantaneous.
The Doctor’s expression immediately shifts from baffled to delighted, a bark of laughter escaping him as though he just can’t contain it.
“Oh Rogue, baby!” He wheezes, unable to keep the joy from his voice. “Rogue! You brilliant, ridiculously hot bounty hunter!”
Rogue scoffs.
“You think I’m hot?”
The Doctor continues to chuckle breathlessly.
“Hadn’t I made that obvious?”
“Perhaps that was one of the things that clued me into the fact that you weren’t a chulder. I know they enjoy make-believe but nobody is that good of an actor. You’re not from Earth either, I take it?”
“No. You’re right about that.”
Rogue nods, once.
“And you know I’m a bounty hunter… I don’t recall telling you that. So… we’ve met before, right?”
“Yes, I suppose you could say we have. Right again.”
Rogue takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them.
The Doctor straightens up in response to their close proximity, meeting Rogue at eye-level, still grinning from ear-to-ear as Rogue reaches for him slowly. The movement is hesitant, as if Rogue’s body can remember preforming this action before, but his mind is struggling to comprehend why.
His hand comes to rest on the Doctor’s face, thumb ghosting over the curve of the timelord’s lips gently, like an unspoken question.
“Am I right about this too?” He asks, his voice quiet and cautious.
The Doctor closes his eyes and leans into Rogue’s touch.
“Yes, love. You’re right about that too.”
“…When? I’ve never met you before, I’d remember.”
The Doctor sighs.
“Memory’s a funny thing. A man is the sum of his memories, A timelord even more so, is a philosophy I subscribe to, personally.”
Rogue raises an eyebrow.
“The hell’s a “Timelord”?” He asks, punctuating the question with a sharp intake of breath as the Doctor pulls him closer.
The Doctor’s lips against Rogue’s own are the only answer Rogue is afforded in that moment and, for now, it’s the only one he needs.
Time attempts to heal itself around the Doctor like an open wound trying to scab.
Every new event in this diverging timeline, every new shared look between them, every new sentence spoken, every time they turn left instead of right the Doctor feels it like a new fissure forming in the fabric of reality.
It happens like this: The Doctor and Rogue are plastered to the underside of a carriage roof attempting to control their breathing as the chulder stalk them below. The Doctor feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of what he has to do – thoughts speeding through every possibility imaginable as the climax of the story approaches.
His eyes are on the carriage floor.
Rogue’s eyes are on him.
“You look like you’re catastrophizing.” Rogue whispers into the darkness between them.
The Doctor returns his gaze.
“Roll for insight.”
Rogue’s face splits into a smile bright enough to put suns to shame.
The Doctor thinks, as they climb down from their hiding place, that he wants to protect that smile. He wants to have time to cherish it and bask in it and enjoy it somewhere not in the vicinity of evil cosplaying birds.
There are many thoughts that keep The Doctor moving throughout this familiar night, but that particular thought is perhaps the most motivating.
He’s managed so far, through small efforts here and there, to steer the timeline back into a facsimile of what it was before. He’s sprinkled in remembered dialogue from prior conversations and kept the locations and large “plot relevant” story beats the same.
Even if exposing Rogue as a Kylie Minogue fan was done under much friendly circumstances this time around – no triform or death threats to keep the Doctor from playing the song in its entirety as Rogue had chased him around the ship in embarrassment.
Even if watching Rogue fall in love with the TARDIS again felt, to the Doctor, like falling in love again himself.
Even if turning away from Rogue’s proposal a second time had made his hearts ache horribly.
Even as Rogue parrots the word “zizz” back to him questioningly.
“Technical Term.” He explains, just as he had done before. “I can make this transport gate carry four…”
He trails off.
This is it.
This is how he can win.
“There might be others.”
He pretends to think about it for a beat.
“Right… of course. Five, then. Five, maximum.”
Ruby walks down the aisle.
The Doctor feels an immense wave of pride wash over him at the sight of her preforming her role so perfectly.
She’d have made an incredible actor, in another life.
Rogue, on the other hand, looks at the Doctor with unabashed sympathy in his eyes.
“I’m sorry” he whispers, his voice raw as if reliving the recent loss of his own companion vicariously through the Doctor.
The Doctor allows himself to deviate again from the original timeline.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he reckons.
“It’s her. It’s Ruby. It’s an act.”
In all honesty, the Doctor doesn’t know if he says it to convince Rogue or himself – the way Ruby cocks her head from side-to-side is eerily convincing even with the benefit of hindsight. Rogue looks from the Doctor, to Ruby, back to the Doctor, back to Ruby and then shakes his head disbelievingly.
“Doctor…” His voice is so unbearably soft in its sincerity, laced with so much grief and understanding that the Doctor can’t help himself.
He brings their lips together quickly, reassuringly.
It’s a chaste union, lasting barely a second and entirely unbecoming of a grand finale.
But it’s theirs and it’s perfect.
The Doctor can see the adoration in Rogue’s expression when he pulls away and it’s enough to make him weak in the knees.
“It’s her… Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
It sounds like a promise in Rogue’s voice, like a vow.
The Doctor presses their foreheads together.
“Follow my lead, here’s what we’re going to do….”
“For the desecration of Ruby Sunday, you deserve only this. Triform on!”
Rogue may be an awful actor, but he’s blessedly good at timing his cue correctly.
The Doctor places the final piece of the triform down as Rogue sweeps across the floor with the grace of a seasoned dancer. He sweeps Ruby off her feet with ease, carrying both her and himself out of the triform just as it activates below.
The room devolves into chaos as all of the onlookers frantically scramble over one another in their bid to get to the door. The chulder scream bloody murder unsuccessfully trying to free themselves, thrashing in place with all the threat of a hawk with no talons.
Rogue keeps his arms around Ruby as she reorients herself, wedding bouquet still clutched tightly in a white-knuckle grip as she sheds the role of “chulder” – slipping back into being “Ruby Sunday” with a sharp exhale.
The Doctor only spares them a cursory glance to make sure they’re both okay, before turning on his heel and disappearing down the corridor to deal with the other chulder he knows to be somewhere nearby.
It happens like this: an angry cry, the dull thud of a body collapsing to the floor and then a single set of footsteps echoing throughout the great hall.
The Doctor comes back into view through the grand double doors, carrying the limp body of a chulder.
In an act devoid of compassion, he all but throws her onto the Triform with her brethren.
“Emily, you fool! How could you let him best you!?” The chulder wearing the Duchess’ body screeches, despite it being clear that her peer is unconscious.
“Venusian aikido.” The Doctor chimes. “Very handy skill to have, actually.”
The chulder say something else, all talking at once, filling the room with unholy chorus of squawking. Perhaps they’re chiding the Doctor, or cursing him.
Maybe they’re begging for their lives.
It has all the impact of white noise to the Doctor’s dulled hearing as he pushes the button without a second thought. His face remains blank as he watches the earth beneath the chulder’s feet swallow up them up.
It only takes an instant.
The Doctor leans forward as the raw hole into infinity begins stitching itself back together, catching a final, fleeting glimpse of the chulder’s descent before the triform deactivates entirely.
Good, is the only opinion about the chulder he can muster in that moment.
He then resolves to never think about the chulder again, if he can help it, turning all of his attention to the other two occupants in the room. Ruby is back on her feet – already tossing her bouquet to the side and making her way towards The Doctor in a half-run, heels clicking on the marble floor over where the chulder had just been stood.
The Doctor pulls her into a grand-finale-worthy hug, lifting her off the ground and twirling her around a few times as they both giggle in a way only truly relieved people can. It’s a breathless kind of giggle infused with adrenaline, stating without the need for words: “I’m so glad we’re both alive!”.
Not for the first time tonight (and for the love of Rassilon, it has been a long night) the Doctor allows himself to truly feel in Ruby’s arms, his happiness too exhausted to be anything but genuine.
“Rubyyyyyyyy!” He says in the giddy, excited tone he exclusively reserves for her name.
Followed by: “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby!” Set to the tune of the song by Kaiser Chiefs, prompting Ruby to snort and slap him playfully on the shoulder as they break apart.
“Alright, enough of that…”
She takes the Doctor’s hands in her own, squeezing them fondly.
Even as they smile at each other the Doctor can feel the ghost of a tremor through her hold on him.
“I’m so glad you knew it was me.” She says, simply.
The Doctor feels a wave of guilt crash over him.
“Of course, I knew it was you, silly!” He chides, even as he schools his expression into something more neutral. “In all seriousness though, never do that again.”
“Never pretend to be a murderous bird pretending to be me pretending to be from the regency era?”
“Yes, Ruby Sunday. Never pretend to be a murderous bird pretending to be you pretending to be from the regency era – promise?”
They both beam, their expressions a reflection of one another.
“Yes, I promise.” Ruby answers sweetly, feigning innocence. “I keep my promises. Unlike you Mr. Don’t get engaged.”
She shifts her eyes towards Rogue not-so-subtly.
“Yes, I did say that didn’t I…”
The Doctor turns his head.
The warmth that floods Rogue’s face when he locks eyes with the Doctor almost feels like a tangible thing. It’s like a match striking, as though the two have so much chemistry they might actually catch fire. Ruby squeezes the Doctor’s hands one more time in encouragement, then lets them go. It’s an ironic parody of a wedding ceremony; Ruby giving the Doctor away and the Doctor walking the final few steps needed to be face-to-face with Rogue at the end of the aisle.
“I…”
It’s then that the events of the day crash down upon the Doctor all at once.
The crippling loss he’d felt when Roge had fallen through the floor two feet and a life time away from where they are now.
The fear and confusion that came with starting the night afresh, locking eyes with Rogue once more from across the dancefloor. The unbridled joy that came with realising that, even though Rogue had no memories of the aborted timeline, he still instinctively trusted the Doctor.
He’d looked at the Doctor and known they’d met before, somehow, in another life.
The fear that Rogue could have so easily been lost to him again.
“I…” The Doctor repeats, but he sounds winded and his eyes are welling up.
He tries to play it off with a brisk chuckle, a sound of amusement at his own expense as he tries to collect himself. Rogue reaches for him, his palm unbearably warm against the Doctor’s cheek.
Firm, unflinching, real.
Here.
He brushes away the single tear that falls down the Doctor’s face with the same care he’d shown in the other timeline, back when the Doctor had been despairing at his inability to save Ruby.
“I know.”
This version of Rogue can’t know – he can’t know that lost in the infinite possibilities of the universe there’s another version of him condemned to what the Doctor himself had deemed a fate worse than death. But when Rogue leans in with unwavering confidence, with absolute certainty in the choices he’s made that have led him to this point, it brings the Doctor back to himself.
Their lips meet and the Doctor allows this action to ground him.
This is their grand finale.
It happens like this: Ruby and Rogue are chatting away to each other as the trio walk back through the gardens. The Doctor is happy to simply listen to their voices as they talk about nothing in particular, strolling with a spring in his step and a content smile on his face.
Rogue hasn’t let go of his hand since they left the great hall.
The Doctor gives it a squeeze every few moments to convince himself that Rogue isn’t suddenly going to slip through the cracks in the cobblestones.
Their conversation dies out when they reach the TARDIS, an unspoken question of “what now?” lingering in the air. Ruby takes this as the opportunity to excuse herself, mumbling something about needing to change out of her outfit. She disappears behind the TARDIS doors, leaving her fellow time travellers to themselves and the Doctor makes a mental note to thank Ruby for her discretion later.
Alone, the Doctor and Rogue fall into a comfortable silence for a long minute that stretches on like it’s decided not to conform to the definition of what a “minute” truly is. The pair perfectly content within themselves to simply gaze at one another, as if properly seeing each other for the first time.
Rogue takes the Doctor’s other hand in addition to the one he’s already holding.
He breaks the silence.
“We’re not actually engaged, you know.”
The Doctor blinks.
It takes him a moment to register Rogue’s words and their meaning.
“Uh… Yeah.” He fumbles, with an awkward nod. “Yeah, course. Of course. Obviously not, it was all part of the act, yeah? Big crowd, distract the chulder, save the day. Of course.”
He makes to break the hold Rogue has on his hands, but Rogue’s grip is stronger than his.
He pulls the Doctor closer towards him.
“That’s not what I mean.” Rogue clarifies, pausing to gather his thoughts.
His expression is perfectly neutral but the Doctor can feel the way that Rogue’s palms are sweating beneath his own.
“I mean, you didn’t say yes...”
Another pause.
The Doctor chuckles awkwardly, looking down at where their hands meet.
“I… Uh…” He shakes his head; the action is part disbelief part wonderment at the bizarre, beautiful man in front of him. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“I don’t know yours, what’s in a name anyway?”
“I don’t know where you’re from, or your age. Hell, I don’t even know your star sign! I mean how am I supposed to know if we’re even compatible?”
Rogue bursts into abrupt laughter at that, prompting the Doctor to do the same.
The joy between the two is infectious, it’s like an entity hovering in the air around them, enclosing them in a perfect little reality that bends only to the will of its two inhabitants.
“I think we’re plenty compatible, don’t you?” Rogue manages between his laughter, breathless with cheer.
The Doctor feels his hearts beat faster, high on adrenaline.
“I don’t know where you’re from, honey, but most on most respectable planets it’s customary to buy me a drink first.”
“That can come later…”
Rogue finally relinquishes his grip on the Doctor’s hands in favour of rummaging around in the pocket of his tailcoat.
For the second (or perhaps the third, who’s counting?) time, he gets down on one knee.
There’s not a hint of hesitation in his demeanour, and Rogue is nothing if not a terrible actor. He looks up at the Doctor with all of the sincerity in the universe. It’s a look that promises all of the love he can muster and so much more.
“…You don’t want to marry me.”
The Doctor’s protest sounds weak even to his own ears.
Rogue just continues to smile as he flips the lid of the jewellery box open, revealing the signet ring inside.
“You said: We could argue across the stars. That was something of a proposal itself, was it not?”
“…Okay, yeah, I did say that… But you didn’t agree.”
Rogue cocks his head to the side, expression still aglow with childish delight.
“I’m agreeing now, I’ll argue across the stars with you forever. If you’ll have me…?”
He gestures to the ring box with his eyes, lifting it marginally higher. The Doctor stares at it hard, as though it’s a living thing, liable to bite him should he approach it without caution.
He absently caresses his pinkie finger as he remembers the weight of it, blood rushing in his ears.
“Yes…” He says, barely a whisper.
He shakes his head as if to rid himself of any further doubts anchoring him in place.
“Yes.” He repeats, louder.
Let me have this.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
The Doctor crescendos with a grand sweep of his arms, leaning over to pull Rogue to his feet.
He kisses the bounty hunter until they have to break apart from lack of oxygen and then kisses him some more until his lungs burn. Even as they separate, The Doctor’s reluctant to break contact, placing his forehead against Rogue’s as they both catch their breath.
“Here’s to us then.”
Rogue takes the Doctor’s right hand in his own and slips the signet ring onto his pinkie finger, with the stars as their witness.
“To us.”
The Doctor closes his eyes and, for a moment, the world is still.