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It should have felt like victory.
One last chance to blot out his greatest enemy, and they had succeeded. Escaped. With a hanger on, which he was a little less than keen about, but that runt would give up soon. The Doctor had a nose for who had what it took to travel with him, and Adam did not make the cut.
But no, today did not feel like a victory. More like mockery.
The cloud that surrounded his hearts was darker than it had been in years.
“Doctor? Is this your room?”
Rose's voice sent a cold shock down his spine. He hadn't meant to leave the door open. He rushed to don his jumper again as the sliver of light from the hallway widened and fell on his back.
“... Oh my god.”
Her words stopped his scramble, and he dropped his arms before managing to pull the garment over his head. Damage was done. He felt her approaching, and wondered what her face looked like at that moment. If he turned, would he see pity? Disgust?
“... What happened to you?”
Before he could put words together, a small, warm hand had found a place to rest between his shoulder blades, over a particularly vicious knot of red and white scars. He flinched, more from surprise than anything else, and Rose pulled her hand away again. After a moment he finally spoke.
“Time war.” The Doctor turned to her slowly, forcing himself to meet her face, trying to stand tall despite a wish to crawl under his bed and out of her sight. Her eyes traveled down his chest, taking in the criss-cross of burns that started at his collarbone and spread across the left side of his chest, his bicep, peppered here and there with deep gashes from long healed wounds. She stared at him until it wasn't uncomfortable anymore. His shoulders relaxed. He dropped his jumper to the floor and leaned against the wall. Let her do whatever she wanted.
“Does it hurt?”
Always.
“Not anymore.”
Rose lifted a hand. She glanced at him quickly, asking for permission she already had, then laid her palm on his chest. They were silent a while, no movement between them but the slow tracing of her thumb up and down over a thin white line.
“That thing today… the Dalek. They did this to you?”
No. He did this to him.
“... In a way.”
“I had no idea you'd been… so badly hurt.”
Hurt? This? This was nothing.
He shouldn't have survived the Time War. He hadn't. He'd let his final act eviscerate him and wanted that to be the end of it. When that body had breathed its last, it was sweet relief. Peace. And when this body had taken its place he'd known why.
Peace was for the worthy.
Still he'd lain in that shelter surrounded by flames until his body wouldn't heal anymore, hoping to be consumed, but he was all too aware that wasn't in his stars.
It had taken months to heal the natural way. Months alone in a ship that still hadn't fully forgiven him for trying to leave her. She really shouldn't.
Rose didn't know any of that. She probably saw a war hero. A victim, not a criminal. The way she looked at him made him feel like he deserved her comfort. How could anyone refuse a warm bath when they've been left out in the cold for so long? He should burst the illusion. She deserved to know who she traveled with. What she traveled with. To make her choices with open eyes. He took a breath, ready to confess—
“You wear a brace, don't you?”
“... What?”
“On your leg? My grandad wore one, he had a bum knee.”
Of course. There had been a moment today, after the creature had executed itself, when all the Doctor could feel was relief. Not victory, not triumph, only relief. Relief that Rose was safe. Somehow, she'd been spared. This remarkable human being. The only human in history to tame a Dalek.
He had turned to her and grabbed her, wrapped her in his arms, wanted to shield her from anything and everything else that might come for her. She'd held him with just as much relief, but she had buckled slightly at the force of his body slamming into hers. It didn't occur to him until now that he must have hit her knee with his.
“Grandad’s hurt him a lot though, was always digging into his thigh. Doesn't yours hurt?”
“... Better technology than Earth. I barely notice it anymore.”
“You're so mobile… self sufficient. I wouldn't have guessed.”
“A rogue Time Lord needs to be able to run,” he tried for levity, but she didn't buy it. Both of her hands were on his chest now, she had closed the distance between them. She still wore her white tank top from today, and the scent of her sweat was both a reminder and a comfort. She was real. They were still here together. She had survived.
“You don't have to tell me,” Rose said quietly, running one hand gently over his chest, “anything you don't wanna. But you can, if you want.” It seemed to him she acted without thinking, without considering. Instinct. She'd leaned in and pressed a kiss into his neck, just above where the scars began. Then she pulled back a little, warm breath on his skin. “I'm not gonna leave you. No matter what.”
Rose's lips moved a little lower, a brush of incongruously soft skin against the tough leather armor he'd grown himself. She moved lower, brushing her cheek against his shoulder like a cat. The Doctor closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her back, and let her comfort him. He felt her kisses move down his chest, felt her fingers brush the gash at his waist. She didn't shy away. If she felt disgust, she didn't show it. She wanted him to feel comfort. She wanted him to feel love. A part of him wanted to fight her off, push her away. To protect her from the monster before it hurt her, too. He squashed the instinct.
He might not deserve peace, safety, comfort. Love. But she did. He'd give her anything.
Rose's hands turned him to face the wall and he put up no resistance, but pressed his forehead to it while her hands smoothed down either side of his spine. His mind drifted away from his body, sensation taking its place. Under her mouth, under her hands, muscles unknitted that he'd barely been aware had been tense. They'd been held that way so long he believed that was just his natural state.
At last Rose pulled away and turned him back around to face her. She didn't say a word, but after watching him for a moment, she wrapped him in her arms, warm limbs and warm chest surrounding him like a blanket. He held her back, pulling her in so tightly he might be trying to fuse her body to his own.
When she finally let him go, they looked at each other for a long moment. He couldn't help reading her, then, just a little. It felt like she was screaming for him to hear, it was hard not to listen. The empathy he saw wasn't just for his pain. It was for his guilt, too. How was it that she could be so young, so innocent, but understand him so well?
She put a hand to his face, stroking his cheekbone, before leaning in to place one last kiss to the opposite cheek. Then she slipped from his arms and out of the room.
She took a little piece of the cloud with her.
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