Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being in the TARDIS is like being submerged, waltzing about the ocean floor.

Bit gloomy, really; everything lit in a green glow, bouncing off of the console’s coral shell, the copper walls and metal flooring. 

Chewing on her lower lip, Rose leans back against the pebbled strut, her book forgotten in her lap. It’s like it’s… in mourning, a gloomy veil of blue overlaying everything. But… that’s plain stupid, right? Daft idea.

Because it’s a ship. A baffling, amazing, time-travelling one, yeah, but still a vehicle.

Yet it fits, don’t it? 

Like him, deep sorrow flickering beneath that snarky attitude.

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A breath escapes her, awe and quiet delight intermingling into one as she steps further into the incredible, sun-stroked warmth of a rolling-green landscape. 

Butterflies flutter and dance all around—orange, red, blue and purple gleaming in the light’s rays. She stands at the bottom of a hill, the paned-glass door closing behind her, noiseless. But she pays it no mind, drinking in the beauty that should be impossible within a vehicle made of metal and whatever else. A gentle breeze brushes through her hair, the sensation real as anything.

How can something like this exist? How can the TARDIS make it exist?

She reaches a hand out and marvels as gentle pressure alights on her index finger. A butterfly with long tendrils trailing from its delicate wings flutters once before settling. It’s a shining fiery orange, scattered with pale dots—it’s unlike any kind of butterfly she’s ever seen. 

Shards of flaming earth dance off into the depths of space. A planet, Earth, fractured into pieces. Billions of years of history, gone. 

And she stands there beside the Doctor, watching as those pieces of her world twirl away into the dark through the observation window.

On a shuddered inhale, she closes her eyes, focusing on the solid soil beneath her shoes, the warmth of a sun that shouldn’t exist but does. Of the butterfly’s small feet as it repositions itself.     

Then lets it go on an exhale.

Silly really, that she's even considering it—that this room somehow cropped up when she needed it. Must be coincidence, like finding exactly what you need in a massive department store. Just rooms upon rooms until you stumble into the right one, like the crowds, all that life bustling around her, back in her time, her London. 

Getting to laugh around a bag of chips with the Doctor.

Beauty in a different form, she supposes, being surrounded by butterflies from who knows how many worlds or times. Just like that instant of joy so shortly after brutal loss.

She still has her Earth. 

Still has this. 

Smoothing her jacket of its creases with her free hand, she lets the butterfly go with a light flick of the other, watching it flit away to return to its dance. Then she turns and heads out, closing the door behind her.

Chapter Text

There’s always background noise on the TARDIS—a resonant thrum, like the beating of an ancient heart. Can’t quite call it mechanical, though, not when it seems alive most days. 

It’s louder than usual, that white noise filled out by the clatter and clink of metal, and the familiar whirr of the sonic—a brief flash of deep blue snagging through the holes in the grating. Rose’s shoes scuff in a consistent rhythm across the floor. Perching on the edge of the jump seat, she fiddles with the feathered head-piece, still cold to the touch from the Victorian night air. 

She peers in on what she can make out of the hunched silhouette tinkering around in the dark. “You tried the brakes?” she suggests as the sonic’s glow fades out. “Mickey’s car conked down once; it turned out it was something to do with cross-wiring—the lights, apparently. Had him tryin’ all sorts himself, insisting he could fix it.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” There’s obvious disdain that filters on through the open hatch, causing Rose to roll her eyes. “And this ship doesn’t do brakes. S’ not that anyway, even if it did.”

“What is it, then?” she asks, partially because she’s bored and partially because a part of her is genuinely wanting to nosy. The Doctor’s always been funny about the details.

His head pops up, big ears and all. And he squints at her, as if trying to make his mind up on whether he should say. Hoisting himself up to settle on the rim of the hatch, he wipes his hands free of oil before throwing the cloth aside. “Thermo-couplings, like that brake issue, they're minor. Won’t take me much longer.” 

Rose presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, turning it over in her head. “What, like, temperature readings?” 

“Entropy,” he replies flat as a punctured tyre, like that word alone explains anything. “Can overheat though—if they’re out of place or their casing’s knackered.” Ducking to grab the sonic, he fiddles with the settings.

Blinking, her foot stills. Even if she doesn’t get it, when’s he ever bothered properly trying to explain something about this ship’s parts to her? Yeah, she’s not big on vehicles or anything, but the TARDIS is… different that way. Amazing, wonderful and bloody barmy. Bit like him… A lot like him, actually. “So, you sayin’ it’s broke down then?”

"No, it's not broken down. Just..." he pauses, face screwing up like he's tasted something bitter. "Refusing. No—malfunction," he snaps the correction out fast, ducking back below the grating as if to escape the slip.

Leaning forward, she stretches a hand out, brushing her fingers across the console. Is it a tad warm, or is she imagining things? “Think we all have those days,” Rose says, cheeky amusement lilting through her tone. 

He trips up on things like that a lot; ‘Refusing,’ like it has its own sense of awareness, a personality enough to do so with. Mad enough that it's this brain-achingly immense—she got lost this morning on her way to the kitchen... well, one of them, anyway. She bets there are probably a dozen or so, all scattered around this ship, just to make her life extra difficult.

There’s a hiss beneath, a rising pitch from the sonic and: “Ah-ha!” the Doctor exclaims, triumphant, shooting up with a manic grin. 

Around them, the hum grows, the pale lights brightening, casting a green glow across copper, silver, and them.

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Chilling air stabs at her throat, yet does nothing to quiet the burning rasp. Stumbling in the wake of Dickens’ form—a smear of motion in the dimness—her lungs heave, heart hammering against her ribs. But the gap between them stretches on; an impossible path shifting beneath her feet.

Darkness presses in, thick and suffocating. It swallows up the gas lamps, the pavement… everything beyond the house’s faint outline. 

And she’s alone to face it.

‘They’ll be okay,' she tells herself, shoulders squared despite the impossible reality around her. ‘They have to be.’

Except… 

Thick and acidic—a terrible stench burns through her nostrils. 

The air ripples as a deafening roar shatters the silence. 

Glass blasts outward, twisting mid-air before vanishing into smoke. Flames snatch at skeletal window frames and blackened stone, biting through. Except it isn’t just fire. It’s alive, a writhing, hungry mass that shrieks and howls, shifting from orange-red to glowing blue.

It reaches for her, flickering claws licking at her heels.

Burning brighter than it ever should, until…

She runs, and it chases.

Glowing blue swelling to searing white.

And as it slams into the back of her, consuming her, there’s a voice. A single word, mournful and clear: “Rose.” 

In a scramble of limbs and tangled blankets, she sits upright with a shout. Chest heaving, eyes wide, she takes in vibrant pink walls, drawers scattered with make-up and accessories on the surface. The fallen teddy bear peeking up at her with beady eyes, half-buried in the rug…

She runs her hands over her face. 

“Dream, jus’ a dream.” 

Bloody stupid one.

She can still taste ash on her tongue, clogging and bitter; the prickling of non-existent heat against her skin.

Raking trembling fingers through her hair, she puffs out a breath. The tightness in her chest is refusing to walk out the door and leave her alone. 

Her first attempt at sleep since Cardiff, and of course this is what her mind gives her.

“It wasn’t real,” she orders the room, impresses onto herself. 

But why does it still feel like it was? 

Shuffling to the edge of the mattress, she scoops up the bear, clutching to its plushness, the soft fur, as if it will chase away the lingering pressure.

The dulled lights flicker, drawing her gaze.

A faint hum rises, the pale yellow brightening to a warm amber. It’s almost too soft to catch, that sound, but it’s enough to draw a faint frown from her. 

It’s as if the ship’s making it out of sympathy.

No. Amazing time-ship or not, it’s still just that: a ship. It can’t care or feel.

Setting the teddy bear aside with a shake of her head, she gets to her feet. She’s putting things on it that aren’t there. Like human traits on an animal. She’s been around the Doctor’s slip-ups one too many times; it’s rubbing off on her, she’s sure. 

Pacing doesn’t help, though; the walls of her room feel like they’re closing in on her. 

Hurrying across the rug, she busies herself with putting an outfit together. Trying to brush aside the touch of those flames and the call of a Welsh-tinged voice that’d accompanied them.

Chapter Text

Green grass sways in the cool, artificial breeze, tinged by the faintest hint of blue. A colour that leans just that side of alien enough for her to notice. 

Sighing, she plucks strands of it from the earth, resting her chin on her knees. Sleep had been a lost cause anyway—better to be somewhere quiet than staring at her ceiling. Twirling the thin pieces between her forefinger and thumb, she tries to ground herself in the bobbling sensation of them. 

It’s quiet. Even the background thrum of the TARDIS has taken a back seat, leaving behind only the rustle of leaves… and the fast-paced rhythm of her heart. Shuffling until her back hits the rough trunk of the tree behind her, she curls her hand around the bits of grass. 

The fire’s still blazing through her mind’s eye. 

Old grey stone blackening with the remnants of Gwyneth and the dead inside. 

A sob catches in her throat. 

Wrapping her arms tight around her legs, she buries her face in her knees, tears swiping across the trousers' material, staining it. 

She should’ve stayed.

Even if it’d been for a little while longer, choking on the lack of air.

She should’ve.

For Gwyneth’s sake, if nothing else.

Dead already, the Doctor’d said.

The instant she’d gone under that arch.

Yet those hours before, Gwyneth had been laughing along with her, shocked at how forward-thinking she was. How Rose had seen the world compared to the restrictive views of that time.

Younger than she is, and now…

She's gone. Burnt to ashes with the rest of them. 

Yet here’s Rose, still alive, sitting in this garden, surrounded by grass that isn’t even exactly green, with a sky hanging above that’s as still as anything.

A place Gwyneth’ll never get to see, never could’ve dreamed of.

Boots crunch over earth, a familiar Northern burr calling out, “There you are! Been looking all over for you. I was thinking, we’ve been to the past, the future. Not done another plan—”

There’s a pause, footsteps slowing, stopping.

In one sharp motion, Rose wipes at her face, looking up and over at the Doctor.

His hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable, still as a bronze statue. But the slope to his shoulders tells a story that doesn’t match up with the rest of him, squared and stiff, as if he’s bearing the weight of an entire world. 

“Sorry,” she rasps, her voice lilting toward light-heartedness, despite how far removed she feels from it. “Wanted to take a breather, y’know, somewhere less urban. Had to make do with your fake garden.” 

For a heartbeat, he remains as if he’s made of inanimate material. Then he comes to life, treading over to her. “This here’s better than most of the galaxy’s attempts,” he retorts, tone bright with arrogance, yet layered with a hint of brusque understanding. 

“Yeah? I heard that ‘most’.” She manages a grin, tongue poking out between her teeth, even as her chest twists in discomfort over being caught out like this. “Bet there are fake gardens out there that’d make this look like someone’s backyard.”

Slowing to a stop beside her, one of his eyebrows quirks up. He settles against the trunk, leather jacket creaking. “I'll have you know this particular 'backyard' has got a brilliant display of exotic plant life in it.” 

Shoulders easing, she pulls up another clump of grass, letting the strands rest in her palm. “Blue-ish grass don’t really scream exotic to me.”

“Shouldn’t be doing any screaming at all.”

Now that gets a laugh out of her, surprising even herself under the weight of nightmares still clinging to her insides. Even if it ends with her rolling her eyes at him. “Terrible, you are.” 

Flashing her a quick grin, he slides down to sit beside her, one leg pulled up, arm draping across it. “Have a plant around here that does that. Looks like a lily, shrieks like a banshee when you poke it.”

“Come off it.”

“It’s true!” Pausing, his head tips to the side, gaze drifting a moment, as if catching onto a stray, swift thought. “Nothing like on Gladrix, though. They have singing flowers that span the entire planet.”

“Bet that’d be a headache for the people that live there,” she jests, even as she leans further toward him, intrigue brightening her features. Where the shadows of the flames still lick at the edges of her mind, the potential of what it’d be like to walk among flowers that make music takes centre-stage. 

“Nah, more like wind chimes—gentle stuff.” Shoulder brushing hers, he gestures at nothing in particular. Yet it’s a picture painted in the air, of bell shapes tinkling in the breeze. “Changes with the seasons, though. Spring's a proper symphony.”

“Proper symphony, huh?” she murmurs, lips quirking upwards despite herself. “Bet you’re making that up.”

“Would I lie to you?” He shoots her a look, feigned affront on his face.

“You might stretch the truth a bit.”

“Well, maybe just a bit,” he concedes, squishing his thumb and forefinger together in the thinnest of lines.

Without thinking much about it, she leans against him. “Will have to show me then, won’t you?”

Freezing up as he had before, he glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “Could do,” he manages after a moment, voice gruff but not pulling away. "When you're ready."

Grip loosening on the strands of blue-tinged grass, they flutter back to the earth. In an instant, she imagines Gwyneth standing just short of the tree they’re under, hands clasped together, staring wide-eyed at the garden. She wonders what would she make of singing flowers? 

Maybe they’d be like angels' voices, but actual ones, this time.

A smile tugs at her lips, bittersweet, but… the thought’s comforting. “She would’ve liked this,” she murmurs.

The Doctor doesn’t ask who, just hums in acknowledgement, low and steady. 

She doesn’t make a move to get up just yet; instead, she finds reassurance in his choice to stay. 

Chapter Text

Mud squelches up the side of her boots, marking them near black. Swamp water’s seeping into Rose's socks, chilling the skin of her ankles. She has to suppress a shudder. She shifts her weight as if to move, and a calloused hand presses against her arm. 

“Don’t,” the Doctor mouths, body tense yet still. 

Through the thick, overgrown grass, Rose glimpses jade scales glinting, blurring, as something immense slides past. Heart hammering, she forces herself to think less about the disgusting situation of her boots and moreso on the whole notion of: at any moment, they could get eaten.

With a barely perceptible gesture of her head to the rustling of grass ahead of them, she watches as the Doctor pulls out his sonic screwdriver in one smooth, cautious motion and points it at a low-hanging metal ‘tree’ in the distance. 

There’s no standard, familiar whirr when it’s clicked, some odd setting he must’ve set it to, but a branch cracks and splashes into the mud like a dropped firework, anyway.
On a warbling hiss, a flaring jade and scarlet form surges towards the noise.

Grabbing at her hand, the Doctor pulls her atop a nearby log, and she intertwines her fingers with his as they run, footsteps thunking along the surface. 

Slipping on the rusting ‘bark’, the Doctor’s cool grip tightens, hauling her upright without breaking stride. 

“We need to get to dry land,” he states, timing his hop onto another smaller log alongside her. “Recorem are drawn to vibrations, noise. Can’t function beyond this muck, not made for it.” 

“So what you’re sayin’ is,” she pants, following his lead across it, “it’s just after a good mud pack? Should’ve said—I’d have pointed it to that beauty parlour past Tesco.”

There’s an answering rumble that reverberates toward them, sounding anything but impressed. Seconds later, jaws snap down with a thunderous crack through their previous perch. 

Rose jumps, near on losing her footing again and it’s only thanks to the Doctor’s swifter-than-human reflexes that she stays on. But in the middle of that, as her chest twists with pattering terror, a grey-green blob catches her eye. Land, it’s definitely land. Must be. “This way,” she tugs him along with her, resolution steadying her steps as they make a bee-line across log after log. And a thick cluster of 'reeds' tower up from the muck.  

A flare of pain tears through Rose’s arm as they brush past them, hot and sharp. Not organic at all—they’re thin filaments disguised as plant-life. 

Chunks of metal scatter in intermittent splashes behind them, air hissing as their pursuer shakes its head of the remnants. 

She keeps going, ignoring the warm trickle down her sleeve. 

They half-run, half-stumble onto solid ground, the transition sudden enough that Rose nearly pitches forward. The Recorem's massive form rears up, jaws snapping—but stops dead at the swamp's edge, as if it's hit an invisible wall. "Told you," the Doctor says, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Not made for dry land." He's not even broken a sweat, the git. 

Rose parks herself on the ground, pulling her legs in as she catches her breath. She tries to ignore both the creature's too-long fangs and its bizarre anatomy—all thick scales and legless, except for those weird stumpy 'arms' jutting from below what passes for its neck.

It’s like someone's gone and super-sized a snake, then got creative with the extras. “What about the TARDIS?” she asks, between one breath and the next. “How we gonna get back to it now?”

“Ah,” he replies, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t think about that.”

“Always in the moment, you are.” She prods at his leg with her foot.

He darts away from her, playfully affronted. “Says you. Wouldn’t have caught its attention if you hadn’t gone dashing off. First alien planet I take you to and what do you do? Go off to nosy at a tree.”

“Those’re made of metal!” she retorts, though laughter lights up her tone. “‘Course I had to. Don’t see many of those growing back home. Or movin’ for that matter.”

“So they reconfigure themselves! Doesn’t make them gawk-worthy.” Shaking his head, he sweeps his gaze across the swamp-land as the Recorem gives up, slithering back into the depths. “A tree, of all things.”

Chapter Text

“Stay still,” the Doctor orders, grabbing at her arm.

Rose has to clutch at the bed frame instead of making a mad dash for the med-bay door. “Coulda warned me first,” she retorts, catching his grey-blue eyes as her brow furrows.

His gaze flicks away and down to her bloodied sleeve, discomfort or muted frustration flashing through it—she can’t tell which. “You want me to sort this out?” He peels back the congealed layers with practised precision; it causes her to hiss through her teeth. “Could always leave you to it, since you know what you’re doing all by yourself an’ all.”

Snorting out a laugh, she shifts a bit on the mattress. Bloody hell, it burns. “Nah, s’ fine. I’ll leave this in your professional hands.”

He shoots her an affronted look, all raised eyebrows and mouth quirking down on one side. “Oi, I’m medically trained. I’ll have you know.”  

Chapter Text

Can’t really go wrong with hot-pink wallpaper, not even in the deepest depths of space itself. And, well, if she’s going to be moving in properly and all, she’s gotta make this space her own. 

A part of her still can’t quite believe it—that she’s fully committed to this now. But then again, maybe she had been all along. Maybe it started the moment she saw the Earth die, thousands of years into her future. Given her a couple of nightmares to last. For a bit. It should’ve scared her off, really. 

But it’s not like large green monsters strutting around in dead people suits were any better.

The Doctor’s stuck with her now, and that’s that.

Dumping her suitcase on the bed, she unzips it, scooping out one of a few clothing bundles.

The Wardrobe’s great, but it’s nothing compared to the comfort of her own clothes sometimes. “Even on a time-travelling ship, gotta have a couple of pyjama days,” she says aloud, opening her cupboard doors.

As she tucks said pyjamas into a cubbyhole, though, the ship’s hum shifts slightly—like it’s listening. She pauses, glancing up. “Oi, don’t you go earwigging!” she scolds, hands on hips, before catching herself with a shake of her head.

“What am I doing talking to it? Goin’ almost as mad as the Doctor, I am.” She snorts at the very thought of him hearing that, picturing his smug face; all quirked eyebrow with that daft grin of his.  

Chapter Text

Copper bleeds to coral, the walls settling into a pale cream as Rose sighs for what’s probably the fifth time in as many hours. Or one, as the case may be. Her footsteps clack down the snaking hallways, reverberating around her, ahead of her. 

“Just as bad as tryin’ to hunt down a kitchen,” she states aloud, her brown gaze scanning each door she passes. Her jacket slips from the bundle tucked under her arm and she readjusts her grip with a huff. Simple things, that’s what gets you on this ship—finding somewhere to wash your muddy jeans shouldn’t need a map and a compass.

Though knowing the Doctor, he’d make a crack about primitive human brains, always needing directions when they can just go about finding it themselves with ‘gut instinct’ or some other daft excuse. 

“What was it he said again? A blue wooden door?” She passed the spiralling staircase a good while ago, so it should be around here. But all she’s seeing is grey, grey and more— Oh! 

“Finally!” Lengthening her stride, she makes a beeline for a grainy, deep blue door. Circular patterns flow across it like patches of ice growing across a pond—she’s seen enough of it by now to recognise it as the Doctor’s alien script, though it just looks like elaborate crop circles to her. Probably says something profound like: ‘Push to Open’ or ‘Mind the Step!’ With a shrug, she heads in.

Musty sweetness of old books intermingles with the metallic alien smell that seems to permeate every corner of the ship. And overhead the dim lights glow brighter, casting over dusty shelves, nick-knacks and cluttered furniture. 

Rose pauses on the threshold, brow furrowing. “Well, this is definitely not the laundry room,” she mutters, stepping past a toppled stool to inspect an abstract glass figurine. “Unless the Doctor thinks ancient alien rubbish counts as a washing machine.”

Righting a nearby dusty old chair, she drops the clothing bundle on it before moving to pick up the odd little sculpture. Dark purple in hue, there’s a shimmer beneath its surface that reminds her of a galaxy’s stars. Like that… what was it called…? “Rosette nebula…? Yeah, think that was it.” She turns it about in her hold, watching as it gleams in the dim light.

The Doctor’d taken her to see that right after that mess with the Slitheen. 

“Fantastic, isn’t it?” he’d said, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, watching her reaction to it more than the nebula itself. She'd caught that soft look in his eyes, the one he gets sometimes when he thinks she's not paying attention.

Breath-taking it’d been, as nearly everything has been since she met him. 

A wonder of a lifetime that only astronomers’ve got to see close up through their telescopes—and there she was, an ex-shop girl from London, witness to it up-front and centre. 

A dazzling display of clustering stars in reddish-purple hues. 

Setting it back down, she ventures further into the depths of this dusty old place. It’s like a storage room… Probably is one; probably been sitting in here for ages, forgotten.

She trails her fingers along one of the fuzzy shelves, her gaze drifting from a yellowed recorder, half-concealed in the shadows, to a pile of curling papers stacked haphazardly nearby. A fur-lined winter coat’s draped over one end of the frame.

Her foot catches on something solid, sending her flailing forward. 

It’s only through quick reflexes that she steadies herself against a coffee table, the old wood creaking under her weight. “Ten points for style,” she mutters, her mum’s voice filtering through in lecture-mode over how people should clean up after themselves.

Glancing down, she frowns at the culprit—a long, slender umbrella is sprawled across the floor, its velvet black surface so dark it looks like its absorbing the dim light. The handle, shaped like a vibrant red question mark, juts up as if mocking her.

She prods at it with her foot. Who’d want to carry something like this around? Definitely not the Doctor, that’s for sure. Picturing him posing with it in that leather jacket of his causes her to snort.

Though it dips away as she lets her gaze drift across the chaotic mess around her once more.

“Seriously though, what’s with all this…?” It’s all just… random, like if a charity shop exploded, scattering this stuff all over the place. But like the umbrella, it’s not really the Doctor’s style, is it? Knowing him, though, this must mean something. 

Maybe they’re just souvenirs from alien planets? “… Look like they’re made for regular people, though.”

As if to confirm this, when she steps away from the table, her attention’s caught by a glint of metal. With her brow furrowing, she leans forward to pick up a cat brooch from a hectic pile of them. All gleaming pale gold. It sits there on her palm, smug as anything, peering up at her with emerald eyes. “S’ kinda cute, if show-offy.” Weighing it in her hand, she hums in thought. “These must’ve belonged to someone, but why aren’t they in the Wardrobe…?” 

A thought strikes out at her: what if these belonged to people that’ve travelled with the Doctor in the past? 

It’s a weird thought.

And an uncomfortable one.

Dropping the brooch back among the others, she huffs to herself, shaking her head. “Right, enough of that. If I hang on around here any longer, I’ll turn into a mannequin.” And she’s had enough of letting her thoughts spiral on from question to question. 

Throwing one last glance at the mess about her again, she decides on taking the smug little cat with her, anyway, tucking it into her pocket. Might be a good chance to prod the Doctor about later.

Though considering how evasive he is about his past at the best of times, she wonders if she’ll even be able to get an answer out of him about any of this.

Gathering up her bundle of clothes, she heads back toward the door. With her luck, the laundry room’s probably wandered halfway to Cardiff by now.

Chapter Text

“C’mon, can’t have you fainting or something because you’re not eating.” Tugging the Doctor along with her, she leads him on down the corridor and away from the console room. 

The amber lights grow brighter as she goes, as if the TARDIS is approving of her decision. She’d say it’s anthropomorphising it, but in this moment, it feels right, considering.

“As if I’d do a thing like that,” the Doctor protests, frowning at the back of her head. She can tell, getting that prickly sensation you always get with stuff like that. He’s not pulling away, though. Just a bit tense. “I’m not like you lot, can’t handle a day without a bit of sugar in your systems, can you?”

“Says you with your daily cuppas,” she retorts, flashing him a teasing grin.

He huffs, pulling his hand free of her grip, straightening his jacket. “That’s different, that is. I don’t dump as much as you do into yours.” Still, he walks in step beside her, no retreating back to the central console. It’s definitely an improvement in her book. 

The usual trek’s closer to a short walk, as they only need to turn a couple of corners before a door opens all by itself ahead of them. Gold seeps out from the kitchen onto the copper floor. 

As Rose passes the threshold after the Doctor, she pats absently at the door-frame, gratitude flitting through her. 

Surprise flashes across the Doctor’s features, his gaze catching on hers. Then it softens, and he quirks a small smile. Catching himself, he shoves one hand in his pocket, striding over to busy himself with the toaster. 

“Don’t know why you bother,” he grumbles. “Got better things to do than this, you know.”

“Well, it’s either this or ordering a Chinese,” Rose says, amusement catching at her tone. “And last time I checked, you were outta money for something like that.”

He huffs, making a face as he presses the lever down. “You humans and your obsession with it. You can’t even step outside your own house without it.”  

Chapter Text

“It’s in the back, near the bundle of paint tins,” the Doctor calls to her as she swerves around the work-bench—huge, covered with scratches and burn marks. Just like it, the entire room’s a chaotic muddle: from forgotten tools to metal scraps and wood pieces. 

“Should learn to clean up in ‘ere once in a while,” she says over her shoulder, hint of cheek to her grin.

“Says you, leaving all your rubbish everywhere,” he retorts, and she can hear the leather squeaking, knowing he’s gone and folded his arms, all loose defensiveness. 

Stepping around what looks like drill bits—some made of a transparent material she’s sure isn’t plastic—she finds the shelf he’s after. “Like I’m as bad as you.” As she plucks up a glass tube, her fingers brush over dried paint. “S’ like a clown’s made a circus of these shelves.”

“Have you got it yet?” 

She rolls her eyes, though it’s fond. There he goes, being all impatient. Alien or not, he’s still a typical bloke. “Yeah, I got it.” She thinks so anyway. “This stuff better not melt my hand off.” She tilts the tube to peer at the weird substance inside. It’s an amber colour, this one. Bit like liquid, curling around the glass sides as if it has a mind of its own. Definitely not something from Earth, then. 

Picking her way around the workshop, she offers it out to him. “What’s it for, anyway?”

He pushes it back toward her, then twirls away with a bounce to his step, heading down the corridor. “You’ll see. Come on! Can’t hang about here all day.” 

Following his lead through to the console room, he gestures for her to head on through the doors first, pressing a button and then a small switch, letting them creak open.

The sweet tang of grass twirls on through the vast space, rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s uncanny how much it resembles the butterfly room. 

Fiddling with the tube, she takes her first step outside, breathing in more of that crisp air, marvelling at the fact that she’s standing here on some unknown planet’s soil, so far away from anything she’s ever known.

There’s a bright fluttering in her chest, a sensation she doubts will ever fade with each new place they visit, and takes in their emerald-green surroundings. “S’ beautiful here.”

“Kastellion IV,” the Doctor replies, the TARDIS doors closing behind him with a muted thunk. “Small. A planetoid, really. And protected.”

Stooping down to admire an orange flower, she looks up at him. “Protected?”

Hands shoved in his jacket pockets, he waltzes over to consider a nearby tree, draping low like a weeping willow, but there’s no water-source in sight. “Yep, protected. Can’t have just anyone stomping around ruining the place.” He reaches out, the thin orange branches trailing across his palm, before he lets them go again. “This here’s a sanctuary for some of the most endangered creatures across this side of the universe.”

“Oh.” Turning that over in her head, she straightens, side-stepping around the flower. Doesn’t stop the impish grin from growing across her face, though. “Yet here we are,” she says, “stomping on through.”

“Well, you might be, but I’m not.” 

“Oh yes, proper ballerina you are.” She laughs, heading over to join him by the tree. It looks weirder up close—bit like the metal ones from that swamp. Reptilian, almost, considering the scaled bark.

Warmth’s working its way through the glance he casts her, the hint of a smile that’s one of those rare genuine ones. Then his attention flits to the tube in her grasp. “Right,” he claps his hands together, “can hear a stream nearby.” And off he goes, with her shaking her head, hurrying to walk alongside him. 

She wonders just how good his hearing actually is. “Got dog DNA in you somewhere?” 

He huffs, turning his nose up. “Me? Dog DNA? Nah. That’s you lot—whole species is a dog’s dinner, really.”

“And here I thought we were apes in your eyes.”

The foliage ahead of them rustles, and something small scampers past in a blur of fluff.

Rose slows to a stop, eyeing where it went before picking up her pace again. 

“No touching,” he says. 

She shrugs. It’s like he reads her mind sometimes. “Wasn’t gonna.”

The Doctor quirks an eyebrow at her, disbelieving. But it’s gone soon enough, the burble of water over rocks now noticeable to her hearing. Not just his.

And soon, she sees it: a stream that glints in the pale gold sunlight. Clear as anything, she can see right down to the bottom as they near —even catching glimpses of scales, as fish with trailing fins flick through the currents.

“How can anything be this clear?” she asks, crouching down to peer into it. She’s tempted to trail her fingers through the water, but is mindful of the Doctor’s earlier comment.

No touching. What would happen if she did anyway? It’s not like she’d be doing much harm.

“Got it’s own way of doing things,” he says, and she shoots him a puzzled look. “Natural filter,” he continues, gesturing toward the rocks… which don’t actually quite appear to be rocks, the more she’s looking at them. There’s something about the ragged look to them, bit off with how smooth the rest of the bed is. “Keeps it clean. Sort of… symbiotic. Does the job better than any tech.”

“No aquariums for these guys then,” she jokes, watching a lavender coloured fish nip a bug from the surface of the water before vanishing. 

“Wouldn’t be able to keep them in something like that if they tried,” the Doctor replies, then shifts his weight. “Go on then, pop the cork on that.”

“What?” She flicks down to the tube still in her grasp. “Oh.” She does so, tilting it up into the light.

“In the water with it,” he says, with a jerk of his head to said stream.

And on a blink, she lowers the tube in. 

The amber within swirls out, dissolving into a pale orange colour, before…

She gasps.

Patterns of every colour imaginable bleed through that once light hue, twining through the gentle currents; red and blues intermingling with yellows and greens, before breaking apart.

And as they dance, the rocks wobble, then split apart. Small eel-like creatures lash out, snapping up the rainbow particles. 

Rose quickly draws her hand back, gaping down at them.

“It’s a mineral,” the Doctor says, crouching down to watch the display alongside her. “They munch it down, yum yum.” He mimics eating the liquid mineral. “Then it gets recycled. Vented out from their shell.”

A laugh breaks free of her. “Gross.” 

“Just as it is,” he says, regarding one particular set of ‘eels’ fight over maroon debris. 

On automatic, Rose trails her fingers through the water, and the ‘eels’ whip back into their rocky homes. 

This time though, the Doctor says nothing on her actions, just plops himself properly down, boots just brushing the stream’s edge. “What d’you think?” he asks.

And she grins at him. “Brilliant. Almost up there with that ice place we went to.”

“Woman Wept?” he corrects, raising one leg to drape an arm over his knee. “You’re placing this below that?” He shakes his head, his lips quirking up. “Dunno why I bother sometimes.” 

“You were the one who wanted me to go to it.” She prods at his arm, and he rumbles out a laugh. “Least here I’m not shivering beneath multiple coat layers.”

“Still gawked at those frozen waves we went under.”

“Alright,” she sticks her tongue out at him, “you got me there. This rainbow stream can’t quite compare to that.” If she was being honest with herself, nothing could. Not when it’d been the first time she’d ever got to see the Doctor smile like that—quiet, gentle, just… being more him than he usually lets himself be.

Chapter Text

Emerald green glints beneath the wardrobe’s lights, reflecting off of the pale gold body of the little cat brooch. Rose has settled herself down on the spiralling staircase, watching with amusement as the Doctor shoves his way past cotton-yellow racks, mumbling to himself over the state of them.

Today they were supposed to have gone to the eighteen-hundreds, but the TARDIS had other plans.

“Why’s it all bananas?” the Doctor grumbles, loud enough to carry to her. “Swear you’re laughing at me, you are.”

Stifling a snort, Rose leans back against the railing. It’s funny how he does that thing sometimes, talking to the ship like it’d answer. … But maybe, there is something to it. It does seem like this is some kind of big prank it’s pulling.

“Refusing again, is it?” 

“Yes.” He pokes his head out amongst the sea of banana-themed onesies. “Hang on—no. Another malfunction. Nothing more. Will get it fixed in a jiffy.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s not wanting us to leave,” she says, flashing him a tongue-in-teeth grin.

“You don’t know any better.” He retreats behind the rack again. The familiar whirr of the sonic screwdriver starts up. “What’s that you’ve got there, anyway? Doesn’t look like your usual sort of accessory.”

Pausing fiddling with it, she looks down at the brooch. “Oh, found it in one of your storage rooms,” she says, aiming for nonchalant. Hoping she’s getting it.

For a good while now, she’s been wanting to breach this with him. But never found the opportunity.

Suppose this is as good a time as any.

“Oh, that all?” he replies, dismissive. The screwdriver changes pitch, maybe he’s undoing something along the coral wall. “All sorts of knick-knacks in those; not worth bothering with.”

She crosses her legs. “You say that, but there’s all sorts of funny things in there when I bothered to look.” Granted, she had stumbled upon this particular one, but still.

“And what’s your take on ‘funny’?”

“Umbrellas with weird handles, for one. Ended up near going flying—it was just left on the floor.”

For a beat, there’s nothing but the buzzing hum of the sonic. Then the Doctor brushes aside the yellow mass, steps half-back out into the open. “How’d you find that, then?”

He’s trying to act casual, she can tell. Got that face on, the one with the extra lines to his brow, despite his loose posture.

“What, this?” She turns the brooch around, revealing the little cat design in all its glory to him. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s an odd glint to his eyes now. “Found it in a bundle of ‘em,” she continues. “How many people have travelled with you before me?” 

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it. 

His shoulders square. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, quick. But he’s not looking at her, his attention’s on the brooch.  

Swallowing back a fierce want to retort, she softens her pitch instead, “Doesn’t it?” Then, because she can’t help herself, “Think I have a right to know.”

“No.” The Doctor’s lips thin, murky brown eyes darkening in that way they always do when she’s pressed too much. “You don’t.” On a breath, he strides over, plucking the brooch from her grasp, his rough fingers brushing hers. “This,” he says, brandishing it like a shield, “is going back where it belongs.”

Then he turns away, moving back behind the sea of yellow. And Rose frowns after him, fingers curling around the edges of the stairs.  

Twirling a strand of hair that’s come loose from the claw clip, she eventually pipes up, “Had a fur coat in there—if you get this fixed, could always just stuff it in with these onesies and call it a day.”

She swears she catches a faint scoff. “I’ll get it fixed. Always do,” the Doctor replies, tone carrying a hint of chipper energy. 

Some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders. She props herself up against the railings again. “You better hurry then,” she says on a laugh, “cos I’m not gonna wait around much longer.”  

If he wants to keep it quiet, she’ll let him. Least for now. It hurts that he’s harbouring these secrets from her. That he doesn’t trust her enough to talk about it.

But there’s that bit of her that knows, really, it’s like his planet.

S’ like him being the only one of his kind, somehow.

Just wish she’d be given enough to work out how this is the same. Because she… she isn’t sure what she’d do if there are others out there that she has no clue about.

Who’ve gone through all these experiences with him, and then left.

What does that say?

Shaking her head, she stands, heading down the stairs. 

Best not thinking about it too much. There’ll be walking 19th century streets soon, and the sooner all this yellow’s cleaned up, the sooner she can get dressed in something just right for it.

As she heads for the rack where the Doctor’s working though, something catches her eye along it; a plain white shirt with the silhouette of a wolf emblazoned on it.

For a moment she pauses, frowning, then she calls out, “Think you must be doing something right,” she teases, “got something other than banana-themed stuff popping back in.”

“Fantastic! Another few mins, then we’ll be set.” 

Chapter Text

A golden song calls from a great distance, tugging at her heart—wanting her to find it. It’s like veins of bright mineral through rock, thin yet gleaming, as if caught in the right light. 

She tries to answer, curl invisible fingers around those rocks, but they’re drifting further than she can reach. Glinting across a dark ocean. 

Then gentle warmth sweeps around her, wrapping her in arms that remind her of her mother. No. Not that. There’s a hint of aftershave, a sharp press of it that doesn’t belong to anyone in her life.

And a murmur from a deep voice, London accent rolling through that feels right, though she’s never heard it before. An almost hesitant hold compared to Mum’s fierce ones. 

It aches in a way that’s painful. 

‘She was meant to have this,’ something within her cries out. And what’s left of the ethereal notes so far away, dissolve into nothing as she presses closer into her father’s embrace.

Eyes fluttering open, she runs her hands over her face on a quiet sound, cuts stinging across her cheek from her last misadventure. 

Dad… When’s the last time she had a dream about him?

All she’s got are photos, those old trophies her mum would pull out when she was drunk, all those stories about him. Dabbling with different ideas: tonics, solar power. And yet, there he was, hugging her like it meant something.

Like he was right here with her.

Heart twisting in her chest, she throws her legs over the side of the bed. Gets to her feet. 

Feels like she’s only slept about two hours. Everything pressing down on her shoulders, her head full of cotton wool. 

Running a hand over her opposite arm, she tries to hold on to the safety she’d felt, that soft reassurance. 

Even though he’d embraced her so carefully.

But she’s never seen him, just… 

She runs her hands through her hair, working out the blonde tangles. 

“So much for a decent rest,” she mumbles.

Shower should help, then a coffee. 

Looking through her drawers, she picks out some plain stuff. Before grabbing her denim jacket.

Just… doesn’t feel like a hoodie day to her. 

Doesn’t take her long to get ready, quick wash, getting dressed and all. Takes her longer to find the kitchen—it’s moved again. But the short break in-between getting a drink and actually perching on the side of the kitchen unit to have it… doesn’t help much.

Not when her thoughts keep whirring around the dream, her heart aching in a way it hasn’t done for some time.

Fingers curling about the edge of the cabinet, she looks up at the ceiling. The thrum of the ship’s apparent in here. Only place it doesn’t go into is in all the gardens.

“What d’you think?” she asks it, glad she’s alone. “S’ just me being stupid. Going over it like I’m back in the playground again. Jus’ boasting my dad’s away—will be coming back home soon.”

The hum gentles, curling into a song almost. And she sags a bit, takes another sip of her bitter coffee.

That sound reminds her of… something. But it floats away before she can reach for it. 

“… I want to see him,” she says, into that quiet. Remembering her mum’s face, how she’d always get this distant, pained look in her eyes when talking about him. “The real him.” 

Her fingers tap against the ceramic. She downs the dregs of her drink. Sets it aside to wash later.

“You’re a time machine, yeah? Wouldn’t take you much.” She runs a hand down the wall, then heads for the door. “Maybe I should talk to him. The Doctor. Ask him about going there.”

The door opens for her, but on her way out, the lights dim.

She finds him lounging on the jump-seat, fiddling around with some kind of… bobbly sphere, all copper, like the walls. 

It takes a moment for it to click: “That’s the…”

“Yup, the sicillion. Was a key, now it’s closer to a Soma sphere.”

Gone defunct, he’d said, once they’d used it to seal off those ruins. And now he’s tossing it from one hand to the other idly. 

Fiddling with the end of her sleeve, she draws closer. “I had a dream last night.”

“Oh yeah? Don’t do much of that myself. Don’t need to.” Still, he regards her, all sharp for a moment. Then centres his attention back on the sicillion again. “What about?”

“It was about…” Hesitance makes her pause, trail her fingers across the  console. “Peter Alan Tyler, my Dad.” She takes a breath, and tells him. Six-years old with her mum making room for her on the mattress as she showed her the photo album, spoke of her dad and all the wonderful memories they’d made together. Like she’d done so many times before, when she was a kid.

How he was always having adventures.

How he would have loved to have seen her now. 

Resting against the console, her voice gentles, “That's what my Mum always says. So I was thinking... could we? Could we go and see my Dad, when he was still alive?” 

"What's got you thinking about him now?" he asks, curt, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

That stings, as if caring too much, wanting too hard’s scraping her raw. And she breaks eye contact. “All right then,” she shifts, messing with a lever, “if we can't, if it goes against the laws of time or something, then it don’t matter. Just leave it.” 

“No,” he says, quick and easy. “I can do anything.” Though his gaze flickers over her face. “I’m just more worried about you.”

She doesn’t look away, lets her resolve in this carry through her expression. “I want to see him.” She’s certain of this. Has been since she was six, wondering what’d be like to have not just her Mum but a dad too.

“Your wish is my command,” it’s delivered light, with the same confidence he holds in near everything. “But be careful what you wish for.” And he unfolds from his seat with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, then pulls the same lever she’d been messing with, down. 

Chapter Text

The road outside’s growing emptier and emptier. All she can hear are the shriek of those bat monsters rushing by the cathedral windows, slamming against it in hopes of getting in. It’s worse by the altar, but she can’t bring herself to move from it.

It’s all her fault. 

Wherever he’s gone, the Doctor’s avoiding her. He must be. Because of what she did. Who she saved.

But she couldn’t— 

It hadn’t been right to just leave it like that. To leave her dad to… 

Tipping her head back, she fights the tears threatening to spill, caught in the morning light creeping through the panes above, like everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong.

A quiet shift of footsteps against the floor has her turn her head, catching sight of Pete Tyler himself, looking a little lost, weighed down. But he still approaches. “This mate of yours. What did he mean, this is your fault?” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, keeping his distance.  

“Dunno.” She can’t keep looking at him, not right now. When it’s… “Just… everything.” She doesn’t know how she’s managing to hold herself together. That accusing look the Doctor’d given her. Pinning her down without saying a thing. 

And everyone across London… The whole world maybe, is likely being torn apart by those things out there. Must be, considering how fast they can rip people apart, appear wherever and whenever they wished.

“I gave you my car keys,” he continues, and she can hear it, the disbelief. See it in his face, but she can’t say anything about it. What if it makes things worse? What if she makes everything ten times worse. “You don't give your keys to a complete stranger. It's, it's like I trusted you. Moment I met you, I just did.” He regards her, careful, the tension around his shoulders lessening. And her heart twists hard in her chest.

He knows.  

“A wound in time. You called me Dad. I can see it. My eyes,” his voice wavers as he draws closer, “Jackie's attitude. You sound like her when you shout.” Then he’s reaching out, brushing a hand across her cheek, his skin’s rough from all his odd jobs, there’s the catch of a small scar across his index finger. And it’s no longer her heart but her whole chest that aches, a sob building up only to be lost as he hesitantly pulls away. 

It’s what has her grabbing hold of his wrist, drawing him back to her. To press his palm against her cheek again, just… getting this moment with him. Desperate for the reassurance.  

“You are,” he breathes out, and the awe there has her scrunching her eyes shut. “You are. You're my Rose.” He brushes strands of her hair from her eyes, cups her face in his hands, gentle. As uncertain yet loving as she remembers him being in her dream. “You're my Rose grown up.”

Then his arms wrap around her and she’s clutching him back, half-burying her face in his suit. “Dad,” breaks free of her on a sob she can’t contain anymore. 

It takes everything within her to hold back her tears as he keeps her close, hesitant still but here all around her. Solid, warm and real in a way she never got to have. The sharp bitterness of his cologne fills her nose, with a slight hint of metal and something sugary sweet. Maybe the tonics, she doesn’t know. But it’s all him. 

It’s like she’s a little girl again on those nights she imagined him there, reading to her at bedtime, holding her when everything got a little too lonely. 

And maybe it’s wrong. But in this moment, this very second, she’s glad she has him back. 

Because it’s everything she never got to experience.

Chapter Text

Ambulance sirens wail in the distance as the Doctor clasps her hand in his. 

Rose walks along beside him, quiet. Unable to look back for fear that she’ll want to stay. To cling tight to her father's body and never let him go.

“I don’t blame you,” the Doctor says, as the TARDIS doors creak shut behind them. He stays near, still holding her hand. And for once, he doesn’t chastise, doesn’t bring up how she’s ‘just human’.

On a shuddering breath, she leans against him. He lets her, breaking contact only to wrap his arm around her shoulder, bring her in close. 

It’s cold, being near him. Cool to the touch, his skin, but as he rests his chin against the crown of her head—odd spice and the tang of ozone clinging to him—she feels safe. Calm in a way she’s not been since this morning.

In a heartbeat, he’d been torn apart by those bat creatures.

And now he’s returned to her, after everything.

“Not just another ape,” he says, quiet. “Corrected your mistakes, how many try and do that?”

“Wasn’t me, though,” she murmurs against his jumper, fingers curling into the soft material. 

“You let him go.”

Sniffing, she shifts, resting her forehead against his chest. “I wanna go home.”

He goes tense, like a statue wrapped around her. 

“Just to see Mum,” she hurries to add, realising how it’d sounded. Even now, with this hollow hole inside of her where her heart should be, she won’t give this life up. “Still wanna stay.”

The Doctor’d tried everything he could for her sake, to protect her dad. Keep him alive. Despite how much of a mess she’d almost made of the entire world. 

For an instant they stay as they are, then he pulls back, studying her face. “After all that, and you wanna go see her?”

Impossibly, that pulls a small laugh out of her. 

She wipes her eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I do. Just to check in, y’know.” God, right now she really wants one of her cups of tea, get to sit down with her and talk things out.

“We’ll do that, then,” he affirms, stepping away. “Best get yourself sorted. I’ll be here when you’re ready.” 

Before he can withdraw completely, she grasps at his arm. “Thanks,” she says, but it’s not just for now, it’s for…

“I know.” Resting a calloused hand over hers, he squeezes it. “… Take your time, Rose.”

Letting out a breath, she watches as he heads over to the central console, the cyan lights curving over his sharp features. Then she turns to make for her room.

She’s fed up of wearing all this. Better strip herself of it all, get new stuff on. 

On her trip back to her room, the TARDIS adjusts the lights. She flashes a grateful glance to the ceiling then rolls her shoulders. Letting out what little tension she can from them.

It’ll be good to be back home for a bit.  

Chapter Text

“What trouble’s himself got you into then?” Handing over one of the mugs, Jackie settles herself down beside her on the couch. “Usually don’t just pop on by to visit.”

“Do sometimes,” Rose mumbles, taking a much needed sip of tea, enjoying the warmth it brings. Bit weaker to how the Doctor prepares it—when he actually bothers to. But it’s how she likes it, brilliant, and entirely Mum’s. … She always knows how to make it. 

“Only rarely ever since those Slikeen things,” Jackie replies, taking a sip from her own mug. But she’s regarding her in that narrow-eyed manner she does when she’s trying to see past her words to the truth of it. 

It has Rose shifting a bit in her seat. Everything that she wants to say but can’t forming like a lump in her throat. “Jus’… wanted to come by and see you. That’s all.” 

There’s a moment, where all her mum does is consider her further. Then, she sighs, reaching over to tuck one of Rose’s blonde curls behind her ear. It’s a gesture so familiar it makes her heart ache, fingers curling tighter around the mug’s handle. 

“Barely get any texts,” Jackie says, exasperation seeping through her tone. “Not like I want you texting me twenty-four-seven, got enough going on without that, mind. But would it kill you to remember that phone of yours occasionally? Let me know you're still alive out there?"

Some of the tension leaks out of Rose’s shoulders, and she settles back into the cushions. “Lot that’s going on all the time, can’ just… drop it to text you. Not usually.” She fiddles a bit with her pink sleeve. “So no promises, but I’ll try.”

“Good. All I ask for, sweetheart. Little bit of news from you, so I know he’s not getting you into too much trouble.” Jackie drains the rest of her drink, then gets to her feet. “Come on, can help me make quiche. Been craving it since yesterday.”

“No burning the pastry this time. Had to cut loads off to make it anywhere near edible when you last gave it a go,” Rose says, finishing off her own tea before standing. 

“Oh go on, Missus Madame, moaning about it. Wasn’t my fault Ru rung up. Was concerned with all that noise from her next door neighbour, wasn’t she?” Heading off into the kitchen, there’s the clatter of cutlery, the muted whumpf of the fridge door opening. “Can sort out the veggies and grate the cheese while I sort out some pastry that won’t be going the way of the dinosaurs.”

Warmth blooms in Rose’s chest as she enters, catching sight of her mum bustling about like nothing’s ever been wrong at all. It’s like breathing in open air after being stifled too long indoors.

And as she gets the grater out, then accepts the block of cheese from her mum, it doesn’t take long for one strong thought to come bubbling up; god, she’s missed this.

Chapter Text

Rose scrabbles for a hold on the creaking branches. An offshoot slams into her chest, and her breath wheezes out of her. 

She loses her grip.

Shrieking, she plummets—meeting a bed of entangling moss. Spitting out bits of the earthy stuff, she flicks her hair out of her eyes and eases herself upright. Every muscle burns under the strain, and she presses her hands to her chest, wincing.

Twisted metal thuds a distance away—the remnants of a large drone, and their former choice of transport.

“So much for a nice day out in the woods,” she rasps. Glad of the save, even if it isn’t exactly comfortable.

It’s shifting beneath her. Green fronds reaching up with a sponge-like consistency, coiling about her fingers and legs. She clambers out of the mess with a yelp, bits and pieces of it clinging to her as she goes. 

She brushes herself down, then turns in a circle, trying to pinpoint her lost companion. “Doctor?”

“Over here,” comes the gruff reply. Which is immediately followed by muttered fluting curses in an incomprehensible language. His one, she’s guessing. She’s heard him doing it sometimes when he’s tinkering away.

Ducking a weaving branch, she hurries toward the source. Vines slither after her, snatching at the air so close to her legs, her arms. Sharp groans accompany the trees as they twist in an attempt to follow her.  

Then, trainers kicking through forest debris, she finds him. 

He’s tangled in a writhing nest of brambles and thick curling leaves. Half-swallowed up by the intertwining foliage, one arm’s gone already, vanished beneath it. Same as one of his legs. The other he’s using to kick out with, fumbling against a particularly clingy tendril currently trying to wrap itself around his neck.

She stops a short space away from the twitching mass. “You alright?”

He gives her a look. “Do I look alright?”

Truthfully, he looks like a jacketed scarecrow mid-way through being composted. Thorny creepers tighten across his chest with every breath, the bramble’s surface pulsing—like it’s breathing, too.

She pulls a face, caught between the urge to laugh and worry over his predicament. Then flicks her gaze over it, wondering how she’s gonna pull him free. 

“My screwdriver,” he says, flailing his only free hand out in an effort to yank creeping tendrils away from his face. “Dropped it when I fell into this mess. Should be around here somewhere.”

Nodding, she begins circling the brambles on a quick tread, checking around near her feet. "Remind me whose idea it was to take a detour through the ancient sentient woods by anti-grav?"

“Got us here, didn’t it?” he remarks, right before he has to spit out some leaves as they drape over his face. “You found it yet?”

“S’ like looking for a needle in a—” Something gleams in the dappled light and she hurries to it, scooping it up. “Got it!” 

“Good. Setting 2204C—aggressive flora repellent," he adds, as if that explains everything.

“Right.” It’s a bit of a fiddle around to find it, but she thinks it’s right when she aims it at the offending brambles. A high-pitched whirr, and the branches, ivy, everything, flails about before slithering away from the Doctor’s form.

Landing in a rather undignified heap with an ‘oof’, he rights himself, brushing down his jumper. “Must be getting close to the disturbance. Terraforming like this doesn’t go haywire on its own.”

“So you think, what, someone’s messing around with an entire forest?” she asks as she hands over the sonic.

“Entire planet,” he corrects, adjusting the settings. “But no one’s tampering with it. Engineered from orbit," he gestures vaguely upward. "Big terraforming ships hover just outside the atmosphere, fire down these modules. Set them up, program them, leave them to do their work. No need to risk landing if you've got good aim."

“So’s these machines they’ve dumped…” She prods at the brambles, watches as it curls further into itself. “They’re what’s making this place think we’d make a great takeaway dinner?”

“Essentially? Yes.” The Doctor wafts the sonic screwdriver around, its buzz snagging at the air. “Literally? No.”

“Well, that’s cleared that up,” she retorts, flicking her hair back from her face. Even now, the plant-life’s leaning in, as if at any moment it’s gonna lash out and grab at them. But she’s keeping an eye—not going to let it try and hurt the Doctor a second time.

Twirling around on the spot—the whirr wavering in pitch with the motion—the Doctor halts, squints at the device, then looks ahead. “This way,” he says, striding off. 

And she hurries to do so, soon marching in step alongside him. 

Vines and branches snap at their heels, even the flowers now trying to entangle themselves around their ankles. And all the while, the faint blue glow of the sonic remains, casting here and there across their faces under the flickering shade.   

It’s beneath a series of looming trees that they find: a rising dome of writhing plant-matter. It’s like a living mound, undulating as they approach it. 

“What’s with this?” Rose asks, frowning at it. The sonic’s going nuts over it, so she’s assuming there’s some kinda signal it’s picking up from… whatever’s going on with this.

“It’s like it’s protecting something inside of it,” the Doctor muses. With a flick of his wrist, the blue glow dies and he slips the sonic away in his pocket. 

Scooping up a large branch—which wiggles about in his hold—he prods at the mound. The greenery lashes out at it, coils around the end, and the Doctor yanks it back. Fronds stretch, then snap away, and a flash of silver reveals itself beneath the mass.

Peering in at it, right before the plant-life folds back over the gap, Rose mutters, “Looks like metal. Take it that’s what’s causing the signal?”

“Kinda yeah.” The Doctor steps back, itching at his cheek. The branch is trying to escape from his hold. “Just need to figure out how to get to it.”

“Your sonic screwdriver?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Chance it could set off a chain reaction with whatever’s underneath this lot.” Make things worse, is implied, but not spoken aloud.

But it doesn’t stop Rose from folding her arms and frowning at the mound.  Since it’d clung to that branch, maybe… “I’ll dive in and get it,” she states. “You keep this thing distracted while I do.” 

The Doctor quirks an eyebrow. “And you’ll be pulling yourself out, will you?”

“Got a better idea?” Rose challenges, already shrugging off her jacket. Throwing it aside, she flexes her fingers, shifting her weight in preparation. 

“Several, actually,” he retorts, wrestling a bit with the branch as it tries to poke him in the eye. “None that wouldn’t take more time than we’ve got.”

Rose flashes him a grin. “Then we’re doing it my way.”

With a huff, the Doctor trudges around the side of the mound. “Ready when you are. But Rose—“ His blue eyes lock with hers. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Any longer and I’m pulling you out myself.”

“Thirty seconds,” she nods. “Do it.”

In one sure motion, the Doctor plunges the branch into the mass, dragging it sideways. The plants writhe, rushing toward the intrusion, snapping around it like a nest of hissing snakes. “Now!” he shouts. 

And she dives, shoving her shoulders through the foliage as it slithers past her. Leaves slap against her face, vines brushing across her wrists before attempting to wrap around them as she forces her way deeper.  

“Twenty seconds!” the Doctor calls, his voice muffled by the rustling vegetation surrounding her. 

A smooth, cold surface glances past her fingertips. She stretches out further on a sucked in breath, ignoring the creepers now winding around her ankles. 

“Got it!” she yells, fingers closing around something cylindrical. When she tugs at it, though, it doesn’t budge. “Hang on, it’s stuck on somethin’!” 

“Ten seconds, Rose!” 

With a desperate wrench, something clicks and gives way. The plant life around her shudders with the same intensity as the TARDIS does under turbulence. Thorns cutting into her cheeks as thin branches lash out at her. And she kicks backward. Vines snap out, trying to curl around her prize, but she clutches it to her chest.

They curl instead around her arms, and she yanks herself to the side, scrambling as far away from it all as she can get. “Little help?” she cries as they tighten, cutting into her circulation.

A hand loops beneath her armpit, yanking her from the mound with enough force she’s sent tumbling backward. Her breath gusts out of her as she lands on something cool, a bit stocky and very much alive. 

“Should’ve counted down from twenty,” the Doctor grumbles, his arms dropping away from her.

And she rolls off him, flicking clinging bits of greenery off of her ankles with a wince. “Got what we came for, didn’t I?” She holds the device up—it’s just around the size of a water bottle. Blinking lights scatter the surface, lines of what she is taking as circuitry circling each one.

“Ah,” the Doctor says, as he brushes off his jeans, “maybe someone has been planet-tampering.”

“What is it, then?” Rose asks, scrutinising the device. “Some sorta… signal jammer?” Not that it’s making any kind of noise.

The Doctor quirks an eyebrow at her. “Good guess.” There’s a hint of a smile that follows, pride in his tone. “Must’ve been seeded here shortly after terraforming work began.” 

She hands it over to him, and he turns it over, regarding the bronze lining of the circuits. “Bit haphazard, this. Rusted over in patches. Like it’s been left out for some time.”

“Forgotten about?” Rose frowns at it, folds her arms across her chest.

“Might’ve been,” the Doctor hums, fiddling with it. 

There’s a click, then the lights on it die one by one. 

A rumbling hiss resounds about them, and the mass of tendrils—snaking across the earth for what they’d once protected—curl inward, retreating like fingers closing into a fist. The snap of branches settling into tranquil rustling, trees straightening over looming about them. 

It’s like the forest is breathing properly for the first time in a long while. Least to Rose, considering the weight she didn’t even know had been pressing in on her spine’s now gone.

Chapter Text

S’funny really, she didn’t think there’d be anyone like them about—that travel through space, through time. Human, like her. Makes sense for aliens, she supposes, not for regular people. 

But here’s this guy, pouring her champagne, settling his warm hand across the top of her own as he does it. Cheeky, he is. Gorgeous too. 

Though that doesn’t always say everything.

Jimmy Stone had been that, and look what he’d turned out to be.

But still, doesn’t stop her from some harmless flirting. Just a bit. As she adjusts. Still light-headed from the whole… fainting thing, embarrassing as that was—but it’s alright.

Sitting, he’s sitting down, so she goes to join him.

“Nice view, isn’t it?” he announces, raising his glass toward the shriek of falling bombs in the distance, the flare of flames and smoke that go up. Stark against the night sky, those once solid buildings. 

“Could be better,” she tells him, trying not to think about it too much. Hard enough as is having been dangling over it all minutes ago.

“Shame I don’t have the marshmallows for it, but then again,” he flashes her a grin before taking a sip of champagne, “wouldn’t go down so well with the alcohol.”

That has her making a face, not just at the idea but… well. She glances down at all that gloom, the carnage. … Nope, that’s enough of that. She takes a sip for herself. It’s bubbly, a bit sharp, not quite the type her mum likes. Makes her feel out-of-place even more-so than she already does. “Woulda thought you’d be reserving something like this for a swanky party over having it out here.”

“Nothing quite beats a good bottle of champagne after saving someone’s life.” He flashes her an award-winning grin.

And somehow, it has her smiling back at him. Just a small thing. But it’s like she can’t keep it off her face. God, stop it. Not quite harmless a reaction. You’ve just met the bloke. Bad enough with the psychic paper picking up things it shouldn’t have. 

Must be the drink. No, she’s just had a sip.

The coming around thing still, then.

“Careful,” she says, “swell that head of yours any bigger and you'll be floating like those balloons.”

He laughs. “Can’t be having that, can we?” 

Time Agents, he’d said before. Wonder what it’s really about? 

Must be others like him. Humans that can get around in spaceships like this one. Ones that actually match up to what she’s seen on TV. Not like the TARDIS, old blue box and all. Sleek, silver and shiny. And cold, actually, against her palm. 

The TARDIS.

She straightens. Doctor. 

Must be wondering where the heck she is. 

“You know, it's getting a bit late.” She rises, and Jack’s eyebrows quirk upwards. “I should really be getting back.”

“We’re discussing business,” he tells her, still lounging across the top of the ship.

Compared to her having to find her balance on it. 
 
“This isn’t business,” she replies, “this is champagne.” 

He raises his glass with a small smirk. “I never discuss business with a clear head.” Then downs the rest of his champagne. 

She doesn’t know whether to roll her eyes or laugh at just how casual he is about this, about pretty much everything it seems like. But she’s distracted by the faint rumble of something far away in the distance, something she can’t see. 

“Are you travelling alone?” Jack’s gotten to his feet, hands in his pockets, looking suave, focused. Has her attention falling back on him, catching his pretty eyes. 

Shoving her hands in her hoodie pockets, she asks, “An’ what would we be negotiating?”

Just like that, it’s like someone’s switched him to business mode, that flirtatious side of his dissolving away before her eyes as he says, “I have something for the Time Agency. Something they'd like to buy. Are you in power to make payment?”

In power? Just what are these agents about? “Well, I… I should talk to my companion about this.”

“Companion?” Pretty obvious that’s thrown him.

God, the Doctor probably really is getting worried by now. How long’s it been since this guy rescued her? Since she… well, had her fainting do? “Yeah, I should be getting back to him.”

And that throws Jack more so, apparently. “Him?” 

“Do you have the time?” It’s on a quiet huff of laughter she can’t quite help. Nerves, maybe, she’s not sure.

Clearing his throat, Jack pulls something small and potentially sonic out of his pocket, and the immense clock face of Big Ben lights up, striking nine-thirty.

Ah. Well. “Okay, that was flash.” Surprise draws an full on laugh out of her now as she fiddles with her sleeves. “That was on the flash side.”

“So,” he closes the gap before she can properly process it, rests his hands just below her ribs, “when you say your companion, just how disappointed should I be?” 

It’s warmer being this close to him, and she’s settled her own hands on his arms before she knows it. There’s a brush of cologne, with a strong, woody tang to it. Lingers on the tongue.

The heat’s no doubt going to her cheeks, but she stays steady, “Okay,” it’s quick, a little sharp, “we’re standing in midair. On a spaceship, during a German air raid.” 

On a chuckle, he raises her hand toward his lips. And she pulls back, even as her heart flutters away in her chest. “D’you really think now’s a good time to be coming on to me?” Her focus flits from her knuckles to his face, trying to ignore how little space there is now between them.

And Jack, eyes her a moment before, “Perhaps not.” He pats the back of her hand a couple of times and breaks away from her. Taking that warmth with him.

Regret curdles as quick as relief does, thickening inside of her. “Well, i-it was just a suggestion.” Twisting her hands together, she follows after him. 

He twirls around to face her. “Do you like Glenn Miller?” And just like that, he’s wielding that little sonic remote again. Compact and sleek—way different to the screwdriver.

He presses it. 

Moonlight Serenade rolls out, so clear about her that she looks around on automatic. Must be coming from hidden speakers on this thing, somewhere. 

There’s a degree of awkwardness to how she accepts his hold this time around, his left hand clasping her right. Drawn into his proximity like the moon around the Earth.
 
Then he’s pressing in close, gentle. Moves her along with him. A slow dance, their footsteps not making a sound across the metal surface of his ship. 

“It's 1941, the height of the London Blitz,” there’s the thrum of distant planes, a bomb going off, but she finds herself locked into this dance with him, “the height of the German bombing campaign, and something else has fallen on London.” He leans in closer, even though he’s already pressed flush against her. Hard to keep up, her heart going from fluttering away to pounding at her ribcage. 

“A fully equipped Chula warship,” he continues. “The last one in existence, armed to the teeth. And I know where it is, because I parked it.” That stays, in her head, piques her interest. Just a bit. More for the emphasis of that, if anything. Gets a short chuckle out of her. “If the Agency can name the right price, I can get it for you. But in two hours, a German bomb is going to fall on it and destroy it forever.”

He pulls away some, that charming grin of his dissolving. Business mode creeping back in. “That's your deadline,” he tells her. “That's the deal. Now, shall we discuss payment?”

“D’you know what I think?” she says.

“What?”

“I think you were talkin’ just then,” there’s a hint of breathlessness, leaning into playful as she tries. Embarrassing. But it does seem a little… convenient, doesn’t it?

“Two hours, the bomb falls. There'll be nothing left but dust and a crater.”

She shakes her head at that—short motions. “Promises, promises.”

“Are you listening to any of this?”

Drawing a step back, she lets out a breath, tries to break herself out of the spell he’s been holding over her. “You used to be a Time Agent,” she tells him, confident, less quiet, “but now you’re some kind of freelancer.”

“It’s a little harsh,” he replies. “I like to think of myself as a criminal.” And he pulls her in once more.

It’s enough to have her blurting out, “Oh, I bet you do.” Because it’s one thing having her place of work blown up by someone attempting to save the world, another meeting someone who makes being a criminal sound like the most attractive thing in the universe.

“So this companion of yours, does he,” there’s emphasis there on that bit, she notes, “handle the business?”

“Well,” she says, leaning into playfulness, “I delegate a lot of that, yeah.”

“Well,” he replies, closer to serious now, “maybe we should go find him.”

She searches his face, frowns a bit. “An’ how you gonna do that?”

“Easy,” finally, he’s putting full distance between them, “I’ll do a scan for alien tech.” Gives her room to breathe, and to watch as he rolls his sleeve back, focusing on something wrapped about his wrist.

It rings out at a consistent pitch. And she’s so swiftly reminded of the Doctor’s charge into just… asking around. Doing things the old fashioned way. 

There’s something so much more polished and ready about this guy. Confident in what he’s doing with his tech compared to all those times the Doctor’s resorted to his sonic screwdriver. Or just making things up as he goes along.

She’s used to it, it’s the usual, but for once…

She grins to herself. “Finally, a professional.”

Doesn’t take him long to pick up something. “Got it,” he says, raising his arm in indication. She catches sight of something brown, gleaming… maybe leather? Before he’s heading for the inside of the ship. “Bring the glasses and the bottle, don’t want to waste the rest of that champagne to the elements.” 

Picking her way over the rooftop, she grabs them with a tinkle of glass. “An’ how comes you’re not doing it?” 

“I’ll be doing the piloting.” 

With a beep, the music fades, leaving the rush of planes and the occasional explosion to overtake the air again. 

Then she’s ducking back inside the ship, warmth rolling over her, breaking up the brisk bite from outside.  

“So, what’s the name of this companion of yours?” Jack asks, flicking a couple of levers from his plush driver’s seat. 

Well, can’t really go out and call him by that name of his, can she? Bad enough with her going around in a German air-raid wearing the Union Jack. “Spock,” she settles on. Hopes to god he hasn’t heard of Star Trek. “Gone to talk with the locals, last I saw of him.”

“Well, he’s certainly not hanging around the regulars now.” The ship’s engine lets out a quiet purr, and her stomach’s tugged forward as it flows into motion. “If my readings are correct—which,” he glances back at her with a grin, “they’re never wrong—he’s at the Albion Hospital.”

Huh, that’s strange… She steadies herself, clutching at the wall. What could he be doing over at a hospital? Doesn’t match up with this Chula warship they’d been chasing. “He’s pretty serious when he’s on the job,” she tells him. “Must’ve followed some leads there.” 

“Won’t take us a moment, and we’ll be there.” Jack reaches up, adjusts some kind of dial, and the spaceship hums, causes her insides to feel like they’re swooping down with it.

Its motions are smooth in every way the TARDIS isn’t in flight. 

Doesn’t stop her from keeping hold, though. Just in case.

Still not sure if she’s fully recovered from that light beam. 

Getting on solid ground, walking about again, that should probably help. It’ll be a relief to see how the Doctor’s doing too, wandering about by himself again.   

Chapter Text

The TARDIS is warm, the Doctor’s hands cool in hers as they dance around the central console.

There'd been that small window of time when they had this in the storeroom, the Doctor going all sciencey before taking the lead. But here? With the thrum of their ship all around them? It's a blanket and hot chocolate on a freezing evening. 

Even with the clunk of their feet against the metal grating. 

“Still too stiff,” she tells him. “Have to loosen up a little, get all light on your feet.”

“I am being light on my feet,” he retorts, spinning her around. 

She laughs. “S’ like you’ve borrowed a rhino’s.”

He huffs, his lips twitching upward. There’s still that bright warmth to his eyes, like before when he’d lit up like a firework as everyone pulled off those gas masks, stumbled to their feet and breathed for the first time in a long time.

She hopes it stays, that look. 

Even the TARDIS seems brighter for it, its lights pulsing in a gentle amber-cyan rhythm around them.

Minutes pass, and she continues trying to guide him through everything. He’s alright, but it’s the chance to just have a quiet moment like this—to breathe just the same as everyone they saved got to—that’s making it.

Still doesn’t stop her from ordering him about a bit. Polish his apparent many centuries’ worth of dancing experience.

Then the doors creak open, a dim-lit space gaping open beyond it, blurring at the edges as she directs him through the steps. And as she tells him off for his continued awkwardness during the swing, Jack steps in. 

The Doctor shuffles where he stands, stuffs his hands in his pockets and mumbles, “Sure I used to know this stuff.” Spinning around, he points at Jack. “Close the door, will you? Your ship’s about to blow up. There’s going to be a draught.” 

Doing as he’s told, Jack heads up the small slope as the Doctor presses a button on the console. “Welcome to the TARDIS,” he tells him.

And Rose pulls away from where she’d been leaning against a coral strut, watching as Jack regards the immense space, the ceiling that stretches so far above them. “Much bigger on the inside.” 

“It better be,” the Doctor retorts, curt. Before focusing on the controls.

“I think what the Doctor’s trying to say is,” Rose approaches Jack, offering him a hand, “you may cut in.” 

He beams, accepting her offer, and she grins back at him.

Clunky this ship might be, but to return to it after everything? With Jack here as their new passenger over his old Chula ship? Yeah, she'd prefer this one any day over any other.

It’s her home, after all.

Chapter Text

It’s a strange change in routine, having someone else with them on the ship. A funny shift in the norm. 

Especially during downtime. 

She’s got into a habit of exploring the depths of the ship, when they’re not off exploring some other time or planet. Lot of gardens she’s been through, since she’d first noseyed at as many of them as she could find. The swimming pool once—though it’s since vanished somewhere else in the depths of this daft ship—some kind of odd gallery and even a small gym. 

But it’s what she has to scrabble into as the copper walls groan and shift to one side that has her pause on the threshold; monitors. A whole wall of them, scattered across its scuffed surface.

As she steps inside, the door slams shut behind her.

Jumping, she turns, tries the handle. It rattles. And beyond it, something rumbles. Vibrates enough, she can feel it through the soles of her feet.

“‘Course you’d lock me in,” she mutters to herself, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes. 

Might as well work out what’s going on with this place. Find a key or something, if she’s lucky.
 
The room’s cast all in silver, dull—like it’s straining to be something more futuristic than it actually is. ‘Cause the set-up just beneath those screens looks anything but: they’re a clunky mess of switches, buttons and levers. There’s even a chunky old keyboard that reminds her a lot of the one set into the central console. All covered in dust. 

Curious, she taps a couple of keys on it, then presses enter.

There’s a purring hum, and two monitors flicker on.

She blinks, stares at the sight of a long corridor on one screen, spiralling off into the distance, and a cosy space on the other that screams miniature library, complete with a fireplace and small bookshelves. 

“Been spying on us, have you?” she mutters. The lights flicker, and she snorts. Glances up at the ceiling. “How long’s this been here for? Looks like it’s straight out of the 80s.” She taps another key. And she’s not sure if it’s her or the TARDIS that makes another couple of screens flick to life.

This time, cream and silver fill one of them—a living room she’d lounged in once. Then that’d gone walkabout somewhere when she’d next tried to locate it. The other is just… plain.

No furniture, nothing. Just an empty white room. Not even any corners to it, it’s just… round.

“Weird,” she mutters, leaning in to study it further. “What's anyone s'posed to do in there?”

Something slams against the door.

She yelps, whirling around to stare at it, heart pounding. 

It bangs open and Jack stumbles through, flopping to the floor with a gasp.

There’s a flash of the corridor beyond, twisted to one side. The ceiling’s glaring at Rose. 

Then the door slams itself shut again.

She hurries over to help Jack up. “Shoulda warned you about the corridors. They keep moving. Gets mental just trying to find the bathroom some days.” Not often that happens, but god it’s a nightmare when it does. 

“Think it’s got a thing for me,” Jack grins as she pulls him upright. Smoothing down his shirt, he eyes the monitors. “What’s with them?”

“No idea.” She shrugs. “S’ old, though. All dusty. Looks like it hasn’t been used in a long while.”

Following her over to them, Jack hums, plants his hands on his hips. “Surveillance system. Early-eighties to look at.” He taps one of the thick screens, still dead. Below it, Rose can just make out faded lettering, now that she’s looking for it. 

“Panasonic?” she reads out, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup, retrofitted ones too. Pulled out old components and put something far more sophisticated into these old shells.”

“Wonder if he’s ever used this place?” Rose asks, stopping beside him, considering the empty, white room again.

“The Doctor? Doesn’t seem like his style.” Jack tilts his head, studying what she’s looking at. There’s a creasing about his eyes, a curious sharpness to them. Then he shifts his weight, and flashes her an impish smirk. “Shall we see what else these cameras have to offer?”

With a quiet laugh, she grins back. “We shall.” 

Together they flick through screens, their hands occasionally brushing as they tap through keys. Rooms in copper, brown, cream and silver flash into being, some clearly old, abandoned bedrooms, others presenting them with storage spaces, a laundry room, even some kind of observatory, complete with glittering constellations scattered across the walls.

Until, on the far upper-left… a brown-copper room pops up. Gadgets of all sorts litter scuffed wooden benches, wires splattered between them like leftover spaghetti. But it’s what’s in the middle of the mayhem that has Rose and Jack pause: a familiar leather jacket, a form hunched over one particularly scratched-up bench…

It’s the Doctor. Looks like he’s tinkering with something; a cobbled together device that reminds Rose somewhat of a mini-hoover, just… with loads of circuitry attached. 

“What’s that he’s got on his face?” Rose asks, squinting at the screen. It’s a bit grainy, even for something that’s supposed to be high tech with old-fashioned trimmings.

“Looks like a soldering mask,” Jack replies, amused.  

Drawing the thick mask up, the Doctor raises the device, turning it to and fro in the light. 

“Hang on,” Jack murmurs, reaching for the keys, “let me see if I can…” With a couple of clicks, white noise fizzes through the room. 

Rose snaps her head around to find the source. And catches it: a boxy little speaker, tucked away into one corner, near the ceiling.

Jack presses a button, leans forward and says, “Nice soldering work, Doc. You just don’t see that kind of rustic charm on a particle siphon these days.”

Giggling, Rose slaps a hand over her mouth. Then jabs him with her elbow. “Jack,” she warns.

This is punctuated by a sudden clatter from the speaker. On-screen, the Doctor’s fumbled the device, dropped it onto his workbench. “What?” he exclaims, scanning the workshop for a moment, before his gaze fixes on the ceiling. A frown creases his brow. “Jack, is that you?”

“The very same.” Jack winks at Rose with a grin. 

She snorts, leaning forward. Jack presses the button, activating the hidden microphone. “An’ he’s not the only one in here,” she says. “Looking good, Doctor.”

"Rose?" The Doctor's voice pitches higher than usual as he tugs the mask off, dumping it beside his makeshift machine. “What are you— Where are you?”

Jack sniggers and Rose shoves him in the side. "Some kinda surveillance room?" she replies. “Dunno, really. The TARDIS changed up the corridor on us. We’re kinda stuck in here.”

Shoving his chair back, the Doctor gets to his feet. “Right. Don’t,” he jabs an index finger towards the ceiling, “mess about with anything else. I’ll get you both out.”

“Who knows?” Jack drawls, his grin going crooked. “Might have found us both an exit by the time you turn up.”

Static hisses through the speakers, but it’s not enough to drown out the Doctor’s mumbling. Head ducked as he makes for the door. 

Even with all that interference going on though, it sounds fond to Rose’s ears.