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Indistinct cries filtered through to her subconscious, until they had percolated into the nice dream she was having, slowly coating the featureless face with a mask of sheer terror. The pair of steely-blue eyes went wide, but the mouth, although just as wide-open, did not utter a sound. The very real sound bleeding into her dreams did that for her. She sighed, furrowed her brow, and shifted in an attempt to reach the man, the familiar but nameless man. He was, however, hopelessly out of reach, his cries growing more agonised by the minute. His anguish enveloped her, the fear and grief overpoweringly strong. Her heart clenched and she began to cry helplessly, struggling against the inescapable bonds into which the man’s feelings had turned. In her dream, she struggled for breath like a person being tugged under water.
With a start, Rose finally managed to shake off her tormentor and break through the layers of sleep. Her eyes flew open and she gasped softly for breath; she didn’t want to alarm the Doctor who was sleeping next to her. Still, she needed the reassurance of his warmth and the single beat of his heart. She reached out in the darkness to feel for him.
The space next to her was empty. Warm, but empty. She sat up.
The Doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, breathing hard. Still a little drowsy, she scooted towards him, touching his shoulder. “Doctor?”
The Doctor jumped at her touch, gasping.
“Calm down, love,” she said, shifting onto her knees beside him on the edge of the bed. In the dimness of the room she could make out the panic in his face. He was still breathing hard, and she knew at once that he had dreamed of the fire again. She reached for the inhaler that sat on his bedside table.
“I can’t breathe,” the Doctor wheezed.
Rose put her arm around him. “It’s okay, Doctor. There is no fire. Everything’s all right.” She pressed the inhaler into his palm. There was a soft hiss and the Doctor’s sharp intake of breath as he used the inhaler, once, twice. His shoulders relaxed beneath her touch, and so did his breathing.
“Thank you,” he whispered, closing his fingers around the small device. It had become his talisman since he’d been released from hospital. Rose rubbed his shoulders, ready to get up. As always after an episode like this, they moved to the kitchen for a drink of water in the ambient light of the moon and street lamps.
“Why don’t we go away for a while? Just you and me?” Rose suggested. She had been thinking this over for the last couple of days, hoping that a change of scenery would help him recover from the fire.
“I’m sorry I’m such a wreck,” the Doctor muttered, ducking his head.
“No, that’s okay. Anyone would have nightmares from a fire like that,” Rose said, framing his face with her hands to make him look at her. She wasn’t sure any more what fire they were talking about, the one at the Academy two weeks before, or the inferno that had consumed his home and his family. This was probably about both, the recent fire a catalyst for the memories of the earlier catastrophe. It also explained why his terror seeped into her dreams, why her first Doctor kept popping up in them. The Other’s words rang in her ears, “He needs you.”
The Doctor’s memories of the fire were hazy at best. He had been teaching longer than usual, enjoying the discussion with his students so much he didn’t want to stop. When they’d finally finished, they found the corridor outside their classroom filled with smoke. The only thing he remembered from that point forwards was that he and his students were trapped and needed to find another way out of the building. One of his students, Max, knew his way around very well and he suggested a safe route out. The Doctor had him lead the way, he brought up the rear with Sue Whiting, his student assistant. He’d had to carry her because she’d injured her knee and couldn’t move quickly enough. Just as they reached the small hall at the back of the building, with Max holding the doors open for them, they were thrown to the ground by falling beams. He didn’t remember exactly what happened next, but it was clear that somehow, they had made it outside just as the fire brigade and ambulance arrived.
They took them all to hospital for smoke inhalation and some minor injuries. Rose had rushed to hospital from her own evening class to see him, unwilling to leave his side even when the nurses insisted she go home and get some rest. The fact that they had put him on a monitor and were giving him oxygen through the nose had unsettled rather than reassured her, and so she’d stayed.
The worst, however, had seemed to be the media coverage of the fire, which failed to report on what had caused the fire (a short circuit) and focused on brave Professor Noble’s heroics. The Doctor was mortified, and Pete’s PR gang rushed in to save him from the worst. The only “thank you” he would accept was that of his students. He was released two days later and had returned to work the next day.
The nightmares had started that night.
-:-
Despite school they went away the following week. The Head, Daniel Pearce, was very helpful, glad even, that the Doctor finally decided to take some time off. Pearce had urged him to stay at home for a while to recover. But the Doctor, in his best I’m-always-all-right mode, had refused and taught as usual – albeit in the undamaged wing of the Academy; his office was unaffected because it was in an entirely different building that the fire hadn’t reached.
There was a bit of grumbling at Torchwood, however, because she’d taken quite a lot of leave that summer already, but Pete told her not to worry. She’d never taken a day off before Dålig Ulv Stranden; people were simply not used to her being unavailable. They’d manage without her.
Rose had rented a small seaside cottage, a two hours’ journey north-east of London. So that Friday after lunch she bundled him into the car and steered them confidently through the early weekend traffic. He had been less than enthusiastic about being abducted, but he quickly relaxed in the seat beside her. “Thank you, Rose,” he murmured as they left the M25 for the M11.
She smiled, reaching out for him over the gear stick to give his fingers a little squeeze before returning her hand to the steering wheel. When she sneaked a glance at him from time to time, she found him either gazing at her or watching the landscape flit past.
-:-
He was doing it again. He was running. This, however, wasn’t about Rose bundling him into their car and sweeping him away to the seaside.
He ducked his head and squared his jaw.
“Stop,” he said softly.
“What?” Rose said, glancing quickly at him before returning her attention to the traffic.
“Please, stop,” he said a little more clearly. “Stop!”
“I can’t,” Rose said. “Are you feeling sick?”
He nodded. “A little.”
“There’s a lay-by ahead,” she said, worry seeping into her voice. He hated himself for scaring her so. He took a deep breath.
“I’m all right,” he said despite himself, trying to keep his breathing steady. He pulled the inhaler out of his pinstriped jacket and closed his fingers around it, running his thumb over the smooth plastic casing. It was ridiculous how much he’d come to depend on the small device.
Rose pulled over anyway. As soon as she’d stopped and engaged the handbrake, he opened the door and clambered out of the car, stumbling onto the grass beside the tarmac. He gulped in the fresh air in big lungfuls, reminding himself to take it slowly but failing. He doubled over, his hands on his knees with a growl of frustration. He hated this.
He jumped a little when he felt Rose’s hands on his shoulders. “Doctor?” she asked anxiously.
“I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m so so sorry.” He didn’t dare look up at her, squeezing his eyes shut for good measure.
“Come, c’mon,” she said gently, guiding him to sit on the grass, kneeling beside him with her arms around him. At first he wanted to shake her off to get some space, but her touch was so very reassuring he wouldn’t be able to bear it if she moved away. He was so afraid of scaring her off, of causing irreparable damage to their relationship. But he also knew that he needed her, that she would be able to make him better.
“I can’t,” he began. “I can’t talk about this now.” He looked up at her. She did look worried, but she was trying to hide behind a smile. Oh Rose, he thought.
“You don’t have to,” Rose said, giving him a bottle of water and taking the inhaler from him. “Whenever you’re ready, yeah?” She cupped his cheek with her palm and pressed a kiss to his lips.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Rose, I... thank you.”
Rose sighed but smiled, shifting to sit with her legs tucked beneath her. “It’s not very far now,” she said. “I can smell the sea.”
He took a deep breath through his nose, and found that she was right. The air had that fresh, salty tang that only the wind blowing in from the sea carried. He closed his eyes. When she had suggested they go away for a while he had been doubtful that a change of scenery would help because it wasn’t the memories of the fire at St Rupert’s that upset him so. It was the memories that the fire had triggered that had reduced him to this shivering, miserable bundle dependent on her embrace and an inhaler to keep him rooted in the present.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling.
They sat in silence for a while. Eventually, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders to let her know that he was all right, for the moment at least. He kissed her forehead. “Shall we?” He climbed to his feet and pulled Rose up.
-:-
The cottage ducked from the wind behind the dunes. The wind was brushing through the marram grass, making it ripple like the sea. It did the same to his hair when he got out of the car. The tangy, salty smell had intensified and he took deep breaths. He closed his eyes, turning his face up towards the sky and smiled. He was indulging the Donna part of him, and he liked it.
Rose closed the car door and dropped the key into the pocket of her jacket. “’s nice,” she said.
He took in the scene around him. The roof of the cottage was thatched, overhanging the whitewashed walls. The front door was so low he’d have to stoop when he entered or he would hit his head on the lintel. It was a small cottage with just room enough for two in a small bedroom. There was a tiny bathroom, a kitchen and a comparatively large lounge. When they unlocked and entered the cottage, they found that everything was even nicer than the website had advertised.
His face, however, fell when he saw that the only source of heat in the lounge was an open fireplace. All the other rooms were equipped with central heating – and he knew that the lounge was too – but he couldn’t tear his eyes off the gaping blackness that greeted him from beyond the sofa.
“Help me unpack?” Rose asked, slipping her hand into his.
-:-
They went for long walks on the beach. There were only a few people out, most of them walking their dogs. It was off-season, so only the year-round residents remained. The beach was nearly deserted, the ruins of sandcastles had long since been flattened by the sea and wind. Garlands of seaweed and other debris had washed up on the shore in their place. While Rose was bundled up in her weatherproof parka, a hat and scarf, he preferred a thick woollen jumper. Rose’s hand was warm in his as they walked, screeching seagulls playing with the wind their only company.
They hadn’t mentioned the fire or his nightmares since they had arrived two days earlier. The weather had been good and they had spent most of their days out exploring. But now the weather was changing. It had started to cloud over, and when they left the small café in the nearby village the sky had darkened so much that the lights had to come on.
The Doctor looked at the sky and sighed.
“I guess we’d better hurry,” Rose said. “I’m looking forward to a nice cuddle on the sofa. In front of the... fireplace.” She added that last word reluctantly.
“Yeah,” he said, looked down at her, and took her hand. Rose gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
The torrential rain soaked them to the bone before they had gotten even halfway back to the cottage. Rose had worn her weatherproof coat so a shower was enough for her to warm up. The Doctor, however, ran himself a bath in which he stayed long after his fingers pruned up and the water had turned tepid. Rose brought him a cup of tea and she lingered a while, sitting on the edge of the claw-footed tub. She grabbed the sponge and began to wash his chest, but he took it from her and squeezed it between both hands. Walking with her was fine, holding her hand and hugging her. But this was... too much. He ducked his head, staring at his fingers as they dug into the sponge.
Rose left, closing the door behind her. He didn’t join her in the lounge but put on his armour of pyjamas and socks and went straight to bed. Although he knew that he wouldn’t read a single line, at least not consciously, he slipped on his glasses and opened the book. The bookmark hadn’t moved since the night before the fire. If Rose had noticed – and she had, of that he was sure – she hadn’t said anything. She was always there, quiet, calm, supportive, quick to take him in her arms and hand him the inhaler. But underneath all this she sensed his rejection, and slowly she had started to withdraw. It was unlike her to admit defeat.
He couldn’t blame her. It was his fault, really. He wasn’t at peace with himself; how, then, could he love her? They hadn’t made love since before the fire, had barely even kissed since then. He was pushing her away to protect her. Her comfort, while welcome, was also unbearable. He didn’t deserve her love, not for the things he had done. He had learned to forget – how could he forget? – and to love her, but it was all wrong and now she was paying the price.
The words on the page before him started to hop and whirl and blur, as they usually did, in their danse macabre. He snapped the book shut and dropped it onto the duvet. Rose hadn’t joined him.
He picked up his watch from the bedside table. It was long past midnight. Either he’d lain staring at the pages before him for that long or he had nodded off with the book in his hand. His timey-wimey sense was gone almost completely, but then again, when he was brooding like this he never was aware of the things going on around him.
Replacing the book on the bedside table beneath his inhaler, he got up and crossed the chilly hall to the lounge. The lamp on the end table was still on, bathing Rose’s sleeping form in its light. The fire in the grate was dying down, the screen securely in place in front of the fireplace (still, a quick check couldn’t hurt).
Her face was relaxed in sleep, the book open in front of her. He took it from her, marking her place, and put it on the table. She had spent the evening by herself, living her life without him, around him. There was an empty plate on the coffee table, along with a wine glass. For a few moments he debated carrying her to the bedroom where she’d be more comfortable in the bed. But she had stayed away from him, so draping a blanket over her certainly was the better option. He switched off the light and picked up the plate and glass on his way out.
-:-
He was exhausted but sleep was elusive. Taking another blanket out of the wardrobe he joined Rose in the lounge, curled up in the love seat and awkwardly tugged the blanket around himself. He fell asleep in the matter of a few heartbeats.
His inhaler remained, unused that night, on the bedside table.
-:-
Rose’s heart constricted in her sleep and a tear escaped from beneath her closed eyelid. How could he be so cruel and tell her that she mustn’t love him? As if she’d ever listened to him. He should have known her better. But there he was, all cool leather and cropped hair, towering over her, his blue eyes hard and cold. “You cannot love me,” he repeated. “Not ever.”
Unable to speak Rose sobbed and, hiding her face in the cushion, curled up and made herself even smaller. Another sob escaped her, but breathing became difficult. What did it matter, though? He refused her, forbade her to love him. She might as well stop breathing.
Her body betrayed her and she uncurled, rolling to lie on her side again, drawing in the cool air. For a moment she had no idea where she was, where the Doctor was. The hurt of his rejection was still a physical pain in her chest, and the skin on her cheeks was taut in the wake of her tears.
It hadn’t all been a dream. Her first Doctor had, but his words weren’t.
Rose took in a shuddering breath. She was still on the sofa in the lounge. But he had come in at some point, cleaned up and spread a blanket over her. He hadn’t even woken her to bring her back to bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips firmly together to hold back fresh tears. She was losing him, and this time he was running so fast she had no way of stopping him.
Rose got up, shivering in the cool room, and hurried through the empty bedroom to the en suite. The rain had turned into a gale overnight, pelting the window panes and rattling the shutters. The storm was tearing at the marram grass, hurling more rain against the window as she went through her morning routine. When she returned to the bedroom, she found the bed neatly made and the inhaler in its customary place on the Doctor’s side of the bed. She frowned. He never went anywhere without it. Where was he?
She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen, the only place he could be. But it, too, was empty and cold.
Rose hurried back to the other rooms and, finding them all empty, returned to the kitchen. It was only when she looked outside into the storm that she noticed the car was gone. Icy fingers wrapped around her heart and squeezed, hard, leaving her breathless. She grabbed the edge of the sink for support and ducked her head as tears of anger, frustration and fear overwhelmed her.
Rose sobbed as the hollowness of loss replaced all the other feelings. A few tears fell onto the white porcelain of the sink before she pulled herself together. She let go of the sink and put the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea. It was out in the open now. He had left her. The tiptoeing around each other was finally over, and Rose almost felt ashamed for the feeling of relief that made the numbness more bearable.
When she went to the lounge to light the fire she saw something yellow beside her wellies where his pair had been. It was a sticky note, the sticky bit of it covered in dust and not sticky any more. She suddenly realised that he must have stuck it somewhere, probably on the kitchen door. As he’d opened the front door a gust of wind must have torn it off the bare wood.
Her cheeks felt very hot as she read his quickly scrawled note. Gone for coffee and breakfast. He’d signed the note with a heart and a kiss.
Rose leaned heavily against the door frame and tried to steady her breathing. She reread the note several times.
That was how the Doctor found her when he returned, juggling a paper bag, the morning paper and tray with two paper cups of coffee in one hand as he unlocked the door. His hair was a damp mess and he brought in the smell of rain, wet wool and fresh coffee.
“Rose!” he breathed as he pushed the door shut by leaning against it. “Are you all right?”
She looked up from the note. “I... just found this. It must have blown off... wherever you put it. I was worried sick!” Her voice sounded panicked at the end and she realised that she had been terrified above anything else.
He put breakfast down on the floor, kicked off his wellies and took her in his arms. “I’m here now,” he said softly, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
Rose held him fast, inhaling his scent. “Yeah, you are.”
He realised. “You thought I’d left you.” He withdrew a bit to look at her.
Rose nodded reluctantly.
“I’d never leave you.” His voice sounded thick.
“You keep pushing me away,” Rose said. “Ever since the fire.”
“Rose.”
She let go of him and looked at him hard. He wouldn’t leave her. But he wouldn’t be with her either. He’d be there, share her life like a friend, but he wouldn’t be her lover any more. It would be even less than what they’d had on the TARDIS. The Doctor sighed and ruffled his wet hair. “Go and put on something dry,” she said, feeling numb again.
Rose turned away and picked up their breakfast to take it to the kitchen. She switched off the kettle and put the pastry he’d bought on a plate. Sitting down she drew up her knees, curling herself around the hot cup of coffee. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed something warm in her. The coffee was perfect and still hot, so she sipped it carefully, even though she wanted to feel something else but the numbness that had taken hold of her.
The Doctor joined her a couple of minutes later, wearing a hoodie and faded pair of jeans. He’d given his hair a thorough towelling and had succeeded in taming it. It was only then that she noticed that he hadn’t shaved.
“I feel ashamed,” he said without preamble, sitting down.
“What?” Rose looked up from where she’d studied the white landscape of the lid covering her coffee cup.
“More than ashamed. Distraught. Detestable,” he continued, running a long finger around the lid of his own cup. “For what I did.”
Although he had never mentioned it before in so many words Rose knew what he was talking about. She also knew better than to interrupt him. Her heart, which had hardened a little in self-protection since the bathroom incident the previous night, softened again and went out to him.
“I killed my people, my family and friends. I saw them burn, the whole planet. I know, in here,” he tapped his temple, “that it was the right decision, well, the only decision, but it hurts in here.” He touched his chest. “I can’t even begin to describe how much it hurts, Rose. I... changed, but the pain remained. And then you came along and you’ve made me better.”
Rose swallowed to keep her tears at bay. She held his gaze evenly but didn’t say anything or encourage him.
“You’ve made me happy.”
She smiled.
“That fire... it reminded me of what I have lost, and what I have to lose,” the Doctor continued. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Rose sighed. “Still, you pushed me away. It hurt.”
“I’m... can I... Will you let me...” he ran a hand through his hair and looked like himself again. It suited him much better than the calm, tidy hair. He sighed in frustration, and in the end opted for the hardest words. “I’m so sorry, Rose.”
“You’re not hateful,” she said. “Not to me, you aren’t.”
“But...”
“Just... let me be there for you, yeah?”
“I slept with you last night. In the lounge,” he said, sipping his coffee. “And I don’t... I want to be there for you, Rose. Like I should be.”
Rose smiled, then she stood and held out her hand for him. He looked at her askance but took her hand. “Tell me about Gallifrey,” she said, leading him to the lounge. She cleaned the grate and built a new fire, then they snuggled up on the sofa and the Doctor began to tell her of his people and his past.