#love tenrose i do but this is just the truth

[r0setyler]

the doctor regenerating into a younger "hotter" man "for rose" will never not be funny. it's written off by rtd, the doctor, and the fandom as being this big thing for rose when in reality it was because it was more societally acceptable for the doctor to look younger and hot when traveling with a blonde companion love interest. now if the doctor really wanted to turn into someone LOOKS WISE for rose, he would've regenerated into 8, and in this essay -

[quite-right-too]

I know I've posted about this before but I can't stop thinking about how Everyone But You by The Front Bottoms is ABSOLUTELY TenRose post Doomsday from Ten's POV.

Got into a bit of a state last night Deleted every contact in my life Built a fire in my mind, went back inside

The consequence is coming, I still have yet to learn That every little thing helps the fire burn

It doesn't get worse, it doesn't get better You just get old, it lasts forever

Can't get happy, can't get sad It's hard to do

When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you It's hard to do When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you

I fell in love 'Cause no one saw me the way you did And no one's seen me that way since But for a short time that's how I lived

Can't get happy, can't get sad It's hard to do

When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you It's hard to do When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you

I stay home Just to get locked in different rooms It's the presence that you feel I swear it holds some type of truth

Can't get happy, can't get sad It's hard to do

When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you It's hard to do When I hate everyone but you Everyone but you

[megabadbunny]

Minuet, Part IX

But then…she already is compromised, isn’t she? She already gave herself away—gave herself to him sometime between There’s me and On your own? No taking back that sort of thing, not now. And Rose doesn’t think she wants to, even if she could.

***

(ten/rose angsty post-gitf au/fixit; here there be lemons, but you can find the lemon-free version on ff.net!)

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part VIII

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Final

Thunder crashes violently overhead and lightning slashes an arc through the ink-dark sky as Rose struggles to keep up with the Doctor’s unyielding sprint, shielding her eyes from the battering rain and flashes of light (brighter than she’s ever seen, burning-white-hot light so brilliant it hurts). Rose ducks her head to protect her eyes from the worst of it, but there’s no avoiding the downpour hammering down like a million tiny bullets or the raw wind buffeting her from all sides, stinging her skin every place it hits. Half-blinded by the rain, half-deaf from the howl, Rose stumbles over the uneven ground, trudging through mud and splashing through shallow lakes swollen to overflowing, pushing against the tempest and gale and begging her legs to keep going, keep going, just a little further—

The stench of ozone floods the air and Rose cries out as a bolt of lightning strikes a tree nearby, splitting it neatly in half with a ground-shattering crash that throws Rose and the Doctor to their knees. Thunder screams above them and shakes the earth with a rattle that Rose can feel in her bones and for a moment all she can do is huddle in the mud, hands clasped over her ears in a futile effort to drown out the onslaught of rain and noise.

Presumably the Doctor was hoping to escape to the TARDIS, but they can’t keep going in this. They can’t. They can’t. They just can’t.

“Doctor,” Rose shouts over the howling winds, reaching out for him half-blindly. “Doctor, what do we do?”

If he replies, Rose doesn’t hear it. Pushing her sodden hair out of her eyes, she peers through a curtain of rain at the Doctor, or the shadow of him, only just visible through the deluge and hunched in the overflowing shallows of a lake. Crawling closer to him, Rose watches as the wind tears at his hair and his clothes, buffeting them about wildly; she can see that his eyes and his mouth are pinched tight, as if in pain. Rose’s first instinct is that he must be hurt—was he injured in the fall, did the lightning strike closer than she thought?—but she quickly realizes that he’s just concentrating, trying to scheme up a way out of this mess.

Trying—and failing. It doesn’t take Rose long to figure out that his senses, heightened as they are, must be totally overloaded right now, extra-sensitive auditory and visual capabilities pummeled from all sides by the violent tempest screaming all around them. He must be completely overwhelmed.

Rose swears loudly. What the fuck are they supposed to do now? But she supposes there’s only one thing to do.

“C’mon,” she shouts, grabbing the Doctor by the hand and pulling him upward, drawing him out of the lake with her. “We have to keep moving!”

He stands but doesn’t move, doesn’t respond; his feet are frozen in place as he glances all round, like maybe if he tries hard enough he can see a solution through the storm, or perhaps a magic pathway. Rose steps in front of him, gently framing his face in her hands, urging him to look down at her instead.

“Hey,” she says to him, over the roar of the rain, “I need you to concentrate, okay? I need you to think about any houses or—or buildings, or caves, or anything we might’ve passed on our way here, any place we can take shelter. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

Lightning floods the sky overhead and the Doctor flinches, glancing upward.

“Doctor, look at me,” Rose shouts, and he obeys, face pinched in discomfort as he watches her through the rain. “Think about our trip here, our walk from the TARDIS. Think about everything we saw along the way. Where can we take shelter?”

Eyelashes fluttering, the Doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he stammers. “I can’t—”

“Look, just—just don’t stress out about the storm, okay?” Rose tells him. “It’s just water, right? Water and wind and light. It’s just nature. Yeah?”

Wordlessly, the Doctor nods, squinting at her through the rain.

“I know it’s loud,” Rose continues, “and I know it’s a lot of cold, and a lot of things on your skin. And that’s all okay. Let it touch you, let yourself hear it, let yourself feel it, but don’t focus on it—don’t let it drown you. Just breathe, and think about where we can find shelter. Just breathe and think. Okay?”

The Doctor closes his eyes and thinks for a moment, his brow knit tight in concentration. “We came in from the south,” he says, slowly. “Passed several houses, nearest one’s a kilometer away, maybe more—I can’t tell—”

“Which way’s south?”

Bent against the wind, blinking the rain out of his eyes, the Doctor looks around. “Thereabouts?” he says, pointing somewhere ahead. “But Rose, this storm—the geomagnetics of it—it’s thrown off my sense of direction, I can’t quite calibrate—I can’t—”

“It’s okay, Doctor! Don’t think about that right now. Don’t think about anything right now except running, and holding my hand. Just focus on that, and try not to trip. That’s all. Okay?”

He doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of not-thinking-about-something, but he nods in agreement. Good enough.

“Just follow me,” Rose says, pulling him along through the howling gale.

 **

 Rose doesn’t know how much time has passed (minutes? hours? impossible to tell in this opaque and neverending mess), but it feels like it’s been weeks of following the Doctor’s vague directions as best she can, trudging along blindly in the storm. After an interminable amount of sloshing and slogging and slipping through mud and water up to her knees, the Doctor’s hand grasped firmly in hers, finally, Rose is rewarded with the sight of something vaguely house-shaped and house-sized up ahead, a dark silhouette that’s barely visible through the downpour.

Oh, thank god. Rose only just manages to suppress a mad laugh—she doesn’t fancy the idea of making it this far, only to choke on the rain. She was starting to think the Doctor’s internal compass had just completely quit on them.

“There it is!” she shouts excitedly, pointing, squeezing the Doctor’s hand as she tugs him onward. “We made it!”

“Wait!” the Doctor calls out. He slows to a stop, pulling Rose backward. Shielding his eyes from the rain and wind, he stares up ahead, frowning. “Something’s off.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t that the house you were talking about?”

“Yes, but what’s that light behind it?”

What the hell does it matter? Rose wants to ask, but she follows his line of sight and realizes he’s right—she can only just make it out through the downpour, but the house is silhouetted against some kind of bright light, glowing white at the edges and surrounded by an eerie pink haze. On further inspection, she sees that the light creates a kind of halo around the house, only it isn’t white at all, it’s almost like a rainbow. But she doesn’t remember seeing any streetlamps or other outdoor sources of light on their first trek through these parts. She didn’t see anything like that, except, of course, for the sun.

“Oh!” the Doctor calls out, his eyes wide despite the rain. “Oh, those crafty priests—of course!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

The Doctor sprints forward, holding out his hand, palm up. After a few paces he stops; whatever he feels, it’s causing his face to positively light up in delight, worries and concerns evaporating without a trace. “This is incredible!” he shouts, turning to Rose with a manic grin. “Come here!”

“Why? What is it?”

“Just trust me! C’mon, come here. Hand out!”

Eyes narrowed in apprehension (this wouldn’t be the first time the Doctor had said such a thing, only for Rose to be rewarded with a handful of something scaly and slimy), she obeys, joining him with her hand outstretched. She reaches out, out, out, until—

“Nothing,” she shouts. “I don’t feel anything.”

It takes a few seconds of the Doctor watching and waiting for Rose to realize what she just said.

In the middle of a thunderstorm worse than any she’s ever seen, rain beating down and wind lashing like a whip and thunder scream-roaring like an angry god, all of it jostling and hammering and pummeling her into frozen numbness, for one wonderful moment, her hand didn’t feel any of it. She didn’t feel anything because just an arms’-length away, there was nothing to feel; no rain, no wind, no hairs-standing-on-edge, no thunderous quivering tension—

No storm.

The Doctor laughs at the look of utter confusion on her face as he steps past, disappearing into a dim shapeless shadow behind the rain. Barely comprehending what this could all mean, Rose follows. She steps through the veil and on the other side, it’s completely calm. It’s like stepping out of the universe’s biggest, most violent shower into a calm, dry bath.

Rose’s mouth falls open in shock. She might have just found her way onto a totally different planet, somehow. There’s no rain over here, no wind, no roaring cacophony of relentless screaming sound; she doesn’t even spot any puddles to speak of, barely feels a light breeze, and her ears ring in the quiet. No clouds dot the sky overhead, and instead of an ominous deep crimson, it’s a friendly cheerful sunset pink, sprinkled about with vivid purples and blues like watercolor splashed carelessly across the page. Rose blinks the sun out of her eyes, because that’s what’s glowing behind the house, it’s the setting sun, because they can actually see the sun over here, even if it is close to dipping below the horizon—because over here, there is no storm.

Whipping round, Rose watches the tempest behind them, angry and red, lightning blooming threateningly through scarlet clouds and hailing rain. But just inches away from her feet, everything stops, as if held in place by an invisible wall; the only water on this side of the perimeter is whatever rain dripped off Rose and the Doctor on their way out, and no wind or lightning follows them. The scream of the storm is distant, now, muffled by whatever unseen force dams everything in place.

“It’s like a storm in a bottle,” says Rose, marveling at the sight (as well as the fact that she can hear her own voice without shouting). Reaching out a tentative hand, she touches the wall of rain; it’s like sticking her fingers into a waterfall. “How…?”

“Mirrors, argon, and silver iodide!” replies the Doctor, grinning like a madman.

Rose stares at him blankly through her dripping hair.

“Oh, come on. Mirrors, argon, and silver iodide. Mickey and Naami mentioned them earlier. You remember!”

Mentally retracing their steps past the storm, back into the Temple, Rose recalls Mickey’s display of marvelously bad timing, before she and the Doctor went on the run from a cluster of trigger-happy Temple guards. “You said something about a laser.”

“Exactly! A giant laser,” says the Doctor excitedly. “A giant laser, lopsided barometric pressure, massively inappropriate seasonal conditions, and geomagnetic forces gone totally wonky, all of it adding up to…?”

Rose shrugs. “Nerds gone wild?”

“No! Well, yes, actually, in a manner of speaking. Simply put, that storm,” says the Doctor, gesturing to the wall of rain behind him, “isn’t a naturally occurring phenomenon at all.”

“Oh?” asks Rose; she supposes this should all be terribly fascinating, but now that the threat of imminent danger has passed, she’s really starting to notice how wet and heavy her clothes are, completely soaked through and clinging to her like a second, and very cold, skin. It’s quite chilly and really rather distracting.

“Rose, don’t you realize what this means?” asks the Doctor, growing more eager by the second. “We’re looking at the engineered product of some absolutely massive geomagnetic atmospheric manipulation!”

“So, like…” says Rose slowly, thinking. She shivers, willing herself to ignore the cold. “Like someone controlling the weather?”

“Exactly like,” the Doctor agrees, beaming down at her.

“Think it’s the High Chancey bloke?”

“I do.”

“And that’s why they didn’t like us poking around, back at the Temple,” Rose realizes out loud. “They were afraid we would dig too deep and find out the truth!”

“Precisely!” says the Doctor, nodding emphatically and scattering water droplets everywhere.

“But why? I mean, this planet’s got loads of natural storms anyway, doesn’t it? Why would you want to whip up your own—and why would you lock a bunch of people in your church over it?”

“Good questions, very good questions, all,” the Doctor replies, pushing his soaked hair out of his face so he can better survey the area around them. “Each of which I’d love to find the answer to, but first things first: we still need shelter.”

“Well, since we’re not walking through the storm anymore, I guess we can probably make it back to the TARDIS?” Rose asks, internally crossing her fingers that the Doctor will disagree with her, whilst utterly expecting him to bound off into the twilight with her in tow. She’s surprised to see him hesitate.

“No,” he says, and is he looking her over before he shakes his head? “We’re here; we might as well knock,” he continues, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the house behind him. “No sense in being damp any longer than we have to be. Besides, storm or no storm, Therran nights get a little brisk.”

Rose doesn’t remember anyone saying anything about cold Therran nights, but she’s too relieved (not to mention chilly and damp) to argue. She takes the Doctor’s hand when he offers it (and silently, she’s very glad that he’s found his bearings and is back to his old self again, very glad indeed) and the two of them set off for the house, their shoes squelching in the mud. Now that they’re out of the rain, Rose can see the house much more clearly, even in the failing light, though she might not have labeled it a “house” if the Doctor hadn’t already described it as such; like many of the other structures they passed on their way to the Temple, the building is tall, almost towerlike, sitting on the banks of one of those perfectly round lakes and held aloft by stilts twined into an intricate root system. A series of steps rises out of the water and carries them up to the front of the house, which bears a smooth, rainbow-metallic surface like all of the other Therran buildings they’ve encountered.

“So what now?” Rose asks, shivering as she drips on the steps.

“Well, I would imagine we knock.”

“I know that,” says Rose, rolling her eyes. “But what are we gonna say? Hey, we just survived your planet’s famous killer storm, which actually isn’t your planet’s at all but rather something some nerd cooked up in a lab for some reason, and hopefully you’ve got nothing to do with all that nasty business and you won’t call the authorities on us, but anyway could we borrow some towels and maybe a room for the night?”

“Something like that,” the Doctor says cheerfully, extracting the (completely dry, somehow) psychic paper from his trouser-pocket, “though this should help things considerably.”

“What’s it gonna say, that we’re official storm inspectors?” Rose mutters under her breath as the Doctor raps his knuckles against the wall. He leans back on his heels, waiting with patient enthusiasm. Seconds later, a hole opens up in the wall, framing the round, friendly face of a Therran woman, about middle-aged if the laughter-lines and ornamental dots on her face are anything to go by.

“Good evening!” says the Doctor, flashing her the psychic paper along with his most charming grin. “We—”

“Sir Doctor and Dame Tyler, is it?”

“…we, erm,” the Doctor trails off with a stutter, frowning. “We. Erm. I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re Sir Doctor and Dame Tyler, aren’t you?”

Rose and the Doctor exchange glances. The Doctor flips around and checks the psychic paper. He eyes the woman suspiciously. “Could be,” he says, slowly. “But how do you—”

“Oh, thank the rain!” the woman gushes, and after another series of raps on the other side of the wall, the hole springs open wider so the woman can step through. Broad-shouldered and impressively tall, she has to stoop to get through the doorway, but once she does, she meets Rose and the Doctor with the warmest of smiles. “Uruud said you might be coming this way, but we were starting to worry you’d got lost in the storm, or worse!”

“Uruud contacted you?” asks Rose.

The woman nods. “They were worried, what with everything that happened at the Temple. Sent out a comm blast, told everyone in the area to keep an eye out for you two on account of you running out into the Allstorm like a couple of mad buggers.” She laughs, shaking her head. “What in the world did you go and do that for, anyway?”

Confused, Rose and the Doctor look at each other again, like maybe one of them is in on the joke. “Seemed like a prudent alternative to being shot,” the Doctor replies warily.

“Oh, never you mind that. No one at the Temple would harm a waterfly—not that you heard anything about it from me, mind,” says the woman, with an exaggerated wink to follow. “Therran’s best-kept secret, you know!”

“A secret?” asks Rose, properly intrigued now.

“Oh yes, one of many,” the woman replies with a conspiratorial grin. But then, upon noticing their sodden clothes (not to mention Rose’s very persistent shivering), she tuts, a distinctively Jackielike sound. “But here I am, wittering about while the two of you stand there in the wet and the cold. Come in, come in! Let’s get you some dry things, shall we?”

 **

 “You two must have made quite the impression on young Uruud,” the woman laughs, later, once Rose and the Doctor are settled in the parlor room. The Doctor, as usual, is letting his gaze wander all around the room, touching everything in it; normally, Rose might join him, or at least glance about, take this opportunity to absorb some of the sights and smells and textures and sounds of a brand-new place on a brand-new world, but right now she’s too busy appreciating the thick warm blankets wrapped about her and the Doctor and the expectantly empty teacups pushed into their hands.

“Imagine our surprise,” the woman continues, “getting a call from them about runaways in the middle of the Allstorm!”

“Thank you so much for taking us in,” Rose says earnestly, drawing the blanket closer round her shoulders. “We really appreciate it!”

The woman waves dismissively. “Oh, but of course, dears, of course. Think nothing of it. Any friend of Uruud’s is a friend of ours! You’re welcome to stay here for the night, and longer if you need, whilst you sort things out. And I’ve already let Uruud know you’re here, so no worries there.”

“What about the Temple guards?” asks the Doctor as he curiously inspects a hanging on the wall. “If Uruud knows we’re here, does the Temple know, as well?”

“Even if they do, not much they can do about it, is there? Not with the Storm going like that.”

“Yeah, except they’ve got ways of managing that, don’t they?” Rose probes, her words laden with meaning.

The woman nodded. “Well, yes, but—”

At the sounds of someone clearing their throat from the adjoining room, the woman shakes herself. “Anyway! Like I was saying: we knew straightaway when we got the call that it must be something important,” she says, stepping forward with her kettle to pour Rose and the Doctor a piping-hot cup of tea (or something that looks and smells enough like tea, anyway; at any rate, it’s nice and hot). “We don’t hear from any of the Votaries much during Storm season, though it’s only to be expected, not like you can plan on a consistent signal through the Storm, can you? And of course we don’t expect Uruud to keep in touch with their aunties all the time, though I imagine they do their best to keep in touch with their parents, at least. Oh, and naturally our Thiio comms us every now and again, lets us know what’s the latest gossip in the Temple—who flew in from where, who’s getting up to whatever forbidden romance with whoever, what the numbers are like this quarter—”

“Numbers?” Rose pipes up. “What numbers?”

“Well, attendance rates, naturally.”

“And you said this quarter. S’that like, to do with finances and things?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, love,” calls out another woman’s voice before their hostess can answer. “Did you already get into the Veriment this evening? You don’t have to tell them everything!”

Chuckling, the woman nods. “She’s right, of course. Oh, but I haven’t even told you my name yet! Where are my manners? I’m Ruumfred. Ruumfred Dooning. Uruud’s my brother’s-child. And back in the back is my sweet wife, Viima.”

“Cheers,” calls Viima from her room.

“It’s lovely to meet you two,” Ruumfred continues, beaming.

“Lovely to meet you too, Ruumfred!” replies Rose with a shiver.

“And you’re still wet and cold! My poor dears. Looks like I’ve misplaced my manners and my head,” Ruumfred laughs. “We can talk about all of this more in the morning. In the meantime, let’s get you and your blankets and drinks upstairs for the night, shall we?”

“That sounds wonderful, actually. But before we go up, would it be all right if we asked you a couple more—”

“Come on, Dame Tyler. You heard the good woman,” chimes in the Doctor. “We’re headed upstairs now. It’s bedtime.”

Rose frowns. “It’s still light out,” she says, peering through the windows at the sky—though admittedly, the sun is dipping even lower than before, and the light is fading with it.

“Yes, because the days are longer here,” the Doctor explains, and he guides Rose toward the stairway with a gentle hand to the small of her back. “Rather, the sun sets much later than what you’re accustomed to. But it’s still evening—quite late in the evening, in fact. Not that you can be faulted for being ignorant of that, considering that our nights thus far have been blanketed in stormclouds and lightning, no way for you to see or appreciate the sunset before now. (Although it is quite lovely and you should certainly see it in full someday, but another time, perhaps. Maybe in another century or two.) But for now, I’m sure our lovely hostesses would like to get to bed.”

Quirking an eyebrow in suspicion, Rose follows his lead, shifting toward the stairs. “All right.”

The Doctor smiles at Ruumfred. “Please. Lead on!”

“I’m afraid it’s just the one room,” Ruumfred explains as she guides them up the stairs, opening the door to a cozy little chamber at the top. “But it’s got two beds and an en suite, and there are some spare night-things in the wardrobe, as well as a folding-screen,” she says, pointing to said screen where it leans against the far wall, “so as you can both have your privacy for the night. How does that sound, loves?”

“Eh,” says the Doctor, glancing about the room. “Little snug, but I suppose it’ll do.”

“It’s wonderful, Ruumfred, thanks so much,” Rose quickly interjects, elbowing the Doctor in the ribs.

Ruumfred smiles at them. “You’re very welcome! Oh, I’m so glad you’re both out of the Storm, and here with us, and safe. Let me know if you need anything else, absolutely anything at all. And you’re more than welcome to join us for Holy Verimentary in the morning, if you like!”

“Oh, absolutely not,” the Doctor replies cheerfully.

“He means we’ll think about it,” Rose adds, elbowing the Doctor again, harder this time. “And thank you very much for the invitation.”

“Of course, of course. Now go ahead and get dry and comfy—there’s a tub in the en suite, and a heater for your things, so you can wash up and hang your clothes to dry out, if you like—and be sure to get yourselves a good night’s sleep!”

With that, and a little wave, Ruumfred leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

“Wow. She sure is friendly, huh?” says Rose. She turns to the Doctor to find him gazing out the window—at what, she can’t tell; she can only make out the dimmest splashes of light from the Storm, made soft and quiet by the distance. “What’s that Holy Vegemite thing she was talking about?” Rose asks.

The Doctor chuckles. “That would be the Holy Verimentary. Translated directly, it means something akin to ‘Sacramental Gospel-Waters’. Holy wine for a Therran religious ritual,” he explains in response to Rose’s confused expression. “Early in the Allstorm, each family takes place in a private service of sorts, sort of like Catholic confession. But in place of anything like wafers or communion wine, your truly devout adherents will imbibe holy ‘waters of truth’, in order to cleanse themselves of falsehoods and sin. In short, the stuff compels you to tell the truth—it’s quite literally in vino veritas.”

Now Rose knows precisely why the Doctor turned down Ruumfred’s invitation to join them; he can babble on until Rose’s ears fall off when it comes to science or history or any number of other things, but she imagines he’d rather eat his own shoes than be honest when it comes to the most important things. She struggles not to roll her eyes. “What’s the point of all that?” she asks instead.

“Oh, it’s just your standard self-abasement and self-flagellation before your chosen deity. You know, all about humility, openness, forgiveness, purification, blah-blah-blah, the works.”

“Mmm. Sounds like a riot.”

“Not a fan of religious traditions, then?”

“No, ta,” Rose replies, and privately feels very glad that Jackie didn’t inject very much church into her upbringing.

Sipping at her tea (except it’s a little too sweet to be proper tea, tastes more like something they might make in America), Rose tours the bedchambers, surveying the art on the walls (simple, but pretty) and fingering the duvets on the beds (plush and warm) and inspecting the stools and furniture (sturdy, well-crafted) and running her fingers along the walls (no rainbow to be seen here, just an expanse of smooth black surface). She idly raps her knuckles against the walls, half-expecting a magic doorway to spring open.

“Do you think we can trust them?” she asks. “Ruumfred and Viima.”

“No idea,” the Doctor replies cheerfully, pulling away from the window. “How does Uruud strike us?”

“I don’t know. I mean, they seemed pretty trustworthy. But I guess anyone can seem that way.”

“True enough.” The Doctor plunks down on a bed, bouncing up and down a bit, ostensibly to test how soft the mattress is—the wrinkle in his nose afterward suggests that the answer is not soft enough. (Why he cares about such things when he probably won’t even sleep on the bloody thing is beyond Rose—not to mention, how on earth did he manage to bounce so much without spilling so much as a single drop of tea? Stupid perfect Time Lord equilibrium.)

“At least we’re out of the storm, I guess,” says Rose, with a shrug. But the Doctor seems far more concerned with mattress-softness (and mattress-materials, if the sudden appearance of the sonic is anything to go by), so Rose decides that maybe she shouldn’t worry too much, either. She returns to her snoop around the room, and after nosing about in the wardrobe for a moment, she finds something that looks like a nightshift, or close enough, anyway. The garment is dreadfully thin (it won’t trap in heat at all; she wonders if she could talk the Doctor into a nice cuddle for warmth? She’ll have to gauge his caginess here in a bit, she thinks) and it’s far too large for her (probably Ruumfred’s, unless Viima is also a gentle giantess), but that’s far better than being far too small, Rose supposes. She shrugs out of her blanket, dropping it to the floor so she can go wash and change in the en suite.

“Oh, come on,” the Doctor protests, and he crosses the room, stooping to swipe the wet blanket off the floor. “At least drape it over something so it doesn’t start to—”

For just the briefest of moments, something stops the Doctor from speaking or standing, his gaze fixed on Rose’s shirt. Rose glances down to see that the white tuxedo shirt, still quite cold and wet, is clinging to her like a semi-transparent second skin, and leaving very little to the imagination. Particularly where her breasts are concerned. (Not to mention how very cold they are.)

“—erm, you know. Molder and such,” the Doctor rushes, the moment ending as soon as it began, and he darts off to the en suite with the blanket—and are his ears turning just the tiniest bit pink at the tips? Not that Rose would judge him, if they were; she’s fairly certain her cheeks are blushing to match.

“Are you totally sure you want to stay the night here?” she calls after him, more for something to break the awkward silence than anything else. “With the storm out of the way, it’ll be a lot easier to make it back to the TARDIS.”

“No, I want to get you out of those clothes.”

Amidst the sounds of the Doctor hanging their damp blankets, Rose can practically hear him kicking himself. “I mean, I want to get us both out of our clothes.”

Rose hides a smile.

The Doctor sighs, heavily. “I mean, I’d like to get us both dry and warm,” he says. “And still clothed. In dry things. Very much clothed.”

“Spoilsport,” Rose mutters under her breath.

“I heard that.”

“So we’re just supposed to wash off the mud, throw on some borrowed nightgowns, and go right back to sleep, then?” Rose asks quickly. “Leave everything to be sorted out in the morning?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes,” says the Doctor, leaning in the doorway to the en suite. Without the blanket draped around him, Rose can see now that his clothes are clinging to him as well, though that mostly serves to highlight just how very skinny he is. “Although right back to sleep is relative and only applies to those of us who slept the entire day away.”

“Do you know, I think I detect just a soupçon of judgment, there.”

“As you should,” the Doctor teases. “Humans spend far too much time sleeping.”

“Says you.”

“Far too much time!” the Doctor continues as if he didn’t hear her. “Time that could be spent doing so many better things. Exciting, impressive, important things!”

“Excuse me, but I do plenty that’s exciting, impressive, and/or important,” Rose retorts. “Saved your arse in the storm back there, didn’t I?”

“Wellll, I don’t know if saved is the precise word I’d—”

“And I’ve gone to all sorts of planets and done all sorts of things in all sorts of different time periods.”

“Only because I take you there. And sometimes I have to drag you out of bed to do so!”

“Whatever,” Rose laughs. “I think my time in France proved I’m more than capable of doing things without you, thanks.”

A shadow flickers over the Doctor’s face at that. But it’s gone so quickly Rose almost could have imagined it.

(Almost.)

“All righty, then,” says the Doctor, his voice suddenly just the slightest bit too tight. “What was it you said? Time to wash up, dress down, and go right back to sleep? Capital idea. Absolutely top-notch,” he continues, stepping aside so the doorway is empty. “Why don’t you go first?”

“Sure, but,” Rose starts to ask, and hesitates. She’s wet and achy and tired and she doesn’t want to start another row; really she doesn’t. But it seems like something is wrong—like she said something, or maybe he heard something she didn’t say at all—and the discomfort of it is crawling around beneath her skin trying to escape, so…

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

The Doctor’s face is infuriatingly blank. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just seems like things got a little weird all of a sudden, is all.”

“Did they?”

Rose frowns. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” the Doctor replies. “Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”

“Right,” Rose breathes, anger flaring dully in her chest. Don’t be absurd. Don’t be stupid. Don’t read too much into anything, don’t think about anything too hard or you’ll give your silly little human brain a headache from the strain.

Fuck, she’s tired. In more ways than one.

“Fine,” says Rose, her voice quiet as she pushes past him into the en suite. “We don’t have to talk about it. But you could at least not lie to me.”

The Doctor flinches at that. “Rose—”

“Sorry,” she interrupts, scrubbing a weary hand over her eyes. “I know you don’t mean to. I know it’s just like, some kind of defensive thing, or whatever. But it’s just…it would be nice to have a conversation where I could ask you a question and get an actual answer. That’s all. Cos otherwise it’s like, you’re pulling me close with one hand, and pushing me away with the other. Which is a great way to break someone into pieces, from the strain.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply, not that Rose expected him to.

She sighs. “Look, just—forget I said anything, okay?” she says, her hand on the door, ready and waiting to close off the room and this stupid conversation. “I’ll stop asking you so many questions. We’ll go back to business as usual. Get things back to the status quo. Okay?”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, the Doctor silently nods, unable to meet her gaze. Typical, Rose thinks wearily, shutting the door between them. No cuddles for them tonight, it looks like.

“You did, by the way,” pipes up the Doctor’s voice on the other side.

Rose pulls the door open to see the Doctor scratching the back of his neck, staring uncomfortably at the floor. “Back there,” he clarifies. “Like you said earlier. You saved me.”

Her fingers tighten on the doorknob and Rose feels very silly for bringing that up. She didn’t mean anything by it. Because of course she would help him, when he needed it. Of course she would. And she knows he appreciates it. That isn’t the sort of thing she has any questions about. It’s all just a given.

“You’re welcome,” she says quietly, closing the door behind her.

 **

 Rose awakens at the sensation of someone shaking her gently by the shoulder.

Groggy, she sits up, blinking blearily. “Wha’s that?” she slurs, casting about the pitch-dark room to see who else might be in it. “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me,” says the Doctor’s voice from somewhere in the black.

Her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, Rose can just barely make out the silhouette of the Doctor standing next to her bed. It takes her a second to figure out why the silhouette looks a little fuller than usual—he must be wearing one of those nightshifts as well. Only makes sense, given how wet all their clothes were. Still, it’s unusual to see the Doctor in anything besides his suit, even if Rose can only half-see him. But you’d think he’d know that night-things are meant for sleeping, which, coincidentally, is exactly what Rose wants to be doing right now.

Huffing in frustration, Rose flops back down into her pillows, grinding the heels of her palms into her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“What?” asks Rose exasperatedly. “At fuckall-o’-clock in the morning?”

“It’s just past four, comparatively.”

“Oh my god,” Rose groans. “Why on earth d’you want to talk now?”

Something hits the mattress near her hand and after a second of groping around half-blindly, she finds it, plucking it up; between the smooth curves beneath her fingers, and what little light glints off it in the darkness, she can tell it’s a small glass bottle, perhaps a half the size of a soda-bottle, stoppered at the top even though it’s empty.

“Because I just drank a bottle of Veriment,” the Doctor says, “and I need to talk to you before the effects wear off.”

It takes a moment for the words to make their way into Rose’s brain, but once they do, the sleepiness blinks away like the flipping of a light-switch. She is fully, startlingly lucid, now.

“You did what?” Rose demands.

“I drank a bottle of Veriment. The holy wine I was telling you about earlier.”

“What, like the waters-of-truth stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but that’s not literal, though. Right? It’s not, like, something that literally makes you tell the truth, is it?”

“Yes.”

“And you just drank a bunch of it?”

“Yes.”

Rose blinks up at him. “Why?”

She hears him fidgeting more than she sees it. “Because you deserve honesty,” the Doctor says quietly. “And I’m too much of a coward to give it to you otherwise.”

Rose gapes up at him, speechless. She can’t quite make out the look on the Doctor’s face right now; dimly, she wonders if he can see her mouth hanging open in this watery non-light, if he’s holding back on some rude remark that she’s goggling at him like some kind of fish. More presently, she wonders what on earth all of this information means, and what the hell she’s supposed to do with it.

“Ask me a question,” says the Doctor, as if he’s reading her mind—and he better not be, Rose thinks, even if he’s more or less offering the same in reverse. Rose watches the shadowy form of him as he sits on the stool next to her bed, hands knit together, elbows resting on his thighs, face just about level with hers. “Any question you like. Any answer I give, it’ll be true. Or it’ll be what I consider to be true, anyway. I won’t have a choice.”

“No,” Rose says, shaking her head. “No. I don’t like this. It feels wrong.”

“Why?”

“Cos,” she replies stubbornly, “it’s like you’re drugged or something.”

“Well, that’s because I am,” the Doctor tells her, and Rose can hear a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “But in a decidedly intentional and self-prescribed way.”

“It feels like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. You would, in a non-negatively-connotative sense of the phrase, be ‘taking advantage’ of my current state, and my offer as pertains to it.”

Lips pursed in discomfort, Rose draws her knees to her chest, hugging them protectively.

“It’s a win-win situation for you, Rose. Little-to-no risk for you. Only mild risk of discomfort or embarrassment to me.” The Doctor tilts his head, considering. “Well, perhaps more than a mild risk for me. But it’s one I’m willing to take.”

Rose hugs her knees harder, her heart thudding so loudly she’s surprised the Doctor can’t hear it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, her voice small.

She watches the Doctor’s silhouette as he drags a hand through his hair. “And I’m tired of hurting you,” he replies, in a tone to match.

Rose’s mind races, considering the Doctor beside her, the options laid before her. She’s not half-tempted to remain silent, wait this thing out until the Veriment wears off, out of pure obstinacy as much as anything. After all, sketchy ethics aside, it isn’t as if the Doctor is the only one with something to lose, here; the questions she really wants to ask could be every bit as revealing as the answers he gives for them. It isn’t no-risk for her at all, despite what he said. The very nature of her questions could compromise her, totally giving her away.

But then…she already is compromised, isn’t she? She already gave herself away—gave herself to him sometime between There’s me and On your own? No taking back that sort of thing, not now. And Rose doesn’t think she wants to, even if she could.

Besides. He’s trying, isn’t he? He’s trying hard. This is a big step for him, initiating any kind of meaningful conversation, pharmaceutical assistance or not. So maybe, Rose thinks…maybe she should accept this for the gift that it is.

(Maybe she should recognize what, exactly, it means.)

“Okay,” she says, and she wills her voice not to shake as she uncurls her legs, turning to face him. “So, erm.”

Her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. The silence between them is thick. Heavy with suspense.

(What can she ask, that won’t hurt either of them?)

“How long have you been doing this?” Rose asks, surprising herself. “Traveling everywhere in time and space.”

“Approximately 665 years,” the Doctor replies. Rose thinks she can hear a smile creeping back into his voice. “Starting with a softball question, are we?”

“Just to warm up.”

“Well, that’s very considerate of you. Perhaps not the most prudent use of these circumstances, though; I would have told you that, anyway.”

“All right, then,” says Rose, summoning the last pieces of her courage. “What’s going through your mind right now?”

“Well. Let’s see. First and foremost, I’m thinking about this conversation, and my answer to this question, which is, this conversation. And now I’m trapped in a bit of a cycle thinking about thinking about those things, over and over and over, sort of like an infinity mirror, but significantly less interesting to look at. Now I’m thinking about infinity mirrors. Now I’m thinking about the exhibit of infinity mirrors featuring Yayoi Kusama’s work at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, George. Now I’m thinking about Georgia peaches. Now I’m thinking about peach pie, specifically the kind with a little lattice on top. Love a good lattice on a pie. Now I’m reciting the first seven-hundred digits of the mathematical constant of pi, being 3.14159265—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Rose laughs.

Then, quieting, she asks, “What were you thinking earlier? When I asked if you were angry with me.”

“I was thinking, No, Of course not, and Don’t be absurd.”

“Wow,” says Rose wryly. “This game is so insightful, can’t imagine why we haven’t played it before.”

“It’s not a game, Rose,” the Doctor insists. “It’s an approximation of an ancient religious ritual. I’m playing the part of a devoted supplicant, genuflecting in the presence of the divine, humbling myself and divesting myself of sin in pursuit of worthiness. Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to go. It’s not my fault you’re asking rubbish questions.”

Rose glares at him, or his outline, anyway. “Why’d you get all weird earlier?”

“You implied that you don’t need me, and that hit me harder than I thought it would. And then I felt very silly. Next question.”

“Why’d you go running off after Reinette? Why, really?”

“Because she is, quite frankly, an incredible person, and I’ve always found myself drawn to the incredible, whether you’re talking about people, things, or events, and sometimes I’m very, very stupid about it,” the Doctor replies. “Next question.”

“Did you do it to put distance between us? Cos we were getting too close?”

“Not intentionally, no. But subconsciously? It’s entirely plausible. Next question.”

Plucking at the cuff of her nightshirt, playing for time, Rose bites her lip. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

Rose’s heart pounds in her throat so hard it hurts. “Why did you choose me? To travel with, I mean.”

“Like I said,” the Doctor replies. “I’ve always found myself drawn to the incredible.”

Her cheeks warming, Rose huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s not me, though. That’s not me at all.”

“Rose Tyler,” says the Doctor, his voice low in a way that makes her stomach flutter. “I can’t lie right now. Remember?”

Rose licks her lips nervously. “Okay. Then…”

She braces herself. “How do you feel about me?”

A pause. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Sometimes,” Rose admits. “But sometimes I need to hear it.”

(You’ve already heard it from me, she thinks, and wills him to understand.)

The Doctor hums in consideration. “Fair point.”

He falls quiet, then. Probably trying to parse out a response that’s technically honest, even if it doesn’t actually answer anything, Rose supposes. Oh well. Once again. Typical.

“Look, it’s all right, Doctor,” Rose says on a sigh. “We don’t have to keep doing this—”

“I don’t know if there are words sufficient to describe how I feel,” the Doctor blurts out. “But if actions speak louder than words—and I believe they do, truly—then the two of us might as well be shouting at each other from rivaling mountaintops. But I’ll try to put it into words. I’ll really try. For you. All right?”

He drinks in a deep breath. “The plain truth of the matter is, I trust you. I have faith in you. And I am truly humbled and grateful for the amount of faith and trust that you have invested in me, even if I know I haven’t earned it, not really. You, though—you look at me, and you see me and you know me, more than anyone has for a good long while, and quite frankly it’s distressing, sometimes, being known. It’s uncomfortable. So I try to regain some distance, or even just a fraction of my composure, which results in me doing some spectacularly stupid of selfish things in a half-baked effort to protect myself. And I—I punish you, sometimes, I think. Because you should know better, you should know better than to love me. You really should.”

“But—”

“But despite all that, you still haven’t given up on me. You stay and you make me feel so much better than I really am. I feel like you do that for just about anyone you come into contact with. But especially for me. You make me better. You make me want to be better. Even though I don’t deserve it.”

Rose opens her mouth to argue, but can’t think of anything to say that she hasn’t said already. You’re wrong, she wants to tell him. You’re wonderful, she tries to say. But he’s already moved on.

“Here’s where you want to tell me I’m being too hard on myself,” the Doctor continues. “And—and that sort of thing means a lot to me, that you think that way. You seem to have just this bountiful well of empathy and optimism and compassion, that simply astounds me with its apparent endlessness. It’s one of the things that I love about humans; it’s one of the many things I love about you.”

He swallows, hard. “You saved me, Rose,” he tells her, his voice raw. “Not just today. Not just from the Storm. Not just from Autons or Daleks or gas mask zombies or any other number of silly dangerous things. As saccharine and overwrought as it may sound, you saved me from myself. You do all the time, every day. Just by being with me. Just by being you. And to thank you for that, I endanger you on a regular basis, and I get angry when you endanger yourself to help others, and I allow myself to get distracted and I make foolish mistakes and I worry and I become furious with myself and I take it out on you, often without even thinking about it until everything’s said and done. But that’s no excuse. And I’m sorry for it. It’s dreadfully unfair of me. You deserve so much better.”

Rose blinks, surprised to find tears welling fatly in the corners of her eyes. “It’s all right, Doctor. You already apologized once. You don’t need to do it again. Not like I’ve been a saint, either.”

“I’m rather glad you haven’t,” the Doctor laughs softly. “That would just make it even harder to keep up with you.”

Something tender swells almost uncomfortably in Rose’s chest. “You’ve got to know I’m not really as good as all that,” she sniffs, thumbing away her tears only for more to replace them.

“You give me hope,” the Doctor tells her. “You, and other people like you—but especially you. You make me hopeful, you inspire me. You make it easy to keep going. You were right, the other day—it’s refreshing to see the universe through a new pair of eyes, to experience so many wonderful things all over again. But with you—I look at you and I’m with you and it’s like the same feeling I get when I step onto a new world for the very first time. And it’s quite easy to be selfish, and to want to keep you all to myself, and to wish that you would never leave, no matter what, even if it would be better for you in the long run, never ever.”

“I won’t.”

He chuckles, a mirthless sound. “There’s that optimism again.”

“It’s not optimism. It’s stubbornness, plain and simple,” Rose insists, fiercely brushing off more tears in the hopes that the Doctor won’t notice them. “I want to stay with you, so I will, and there’s nothing you or anything else in the universe can do about it.”

“It’s very tempting to believe you,” the Doctor murmurs.

“You should. Cos if I’m really as incredible as you say, and I love you as much as I do, then that should count for something. That should count for a lot. All right?”

“All right,” the Doctor replies breathlessly before pulling her in for a kiss.

It’s softer than the kisses they’ve shared before, slow and undemanding, and Rose melts into the Doctor immediately, instinct telling her to shutter her eyes even in the dark. The kiss is a thank you, Rose thinks, or a yes, please or maybe even a me, too; actions don’t always speak louder than words, after all, but they certainly can speak more sweetly.

His hands cupping her by the face, his thumbs drift upward over her cheeks, only for the Doctor to pull back when he brushes over the moisture drying there. But before he can withdraw too far or ask her what’s wrong or why she’s crying or if she’s all right Rose grabs him by the collar and brings his mouth crashing back into hers. Her lips part, tongue darting out for a taste, and the Doctor hums deep in his chest as he responds in kind, a hand sliding into her hair as his tongue glides over hers and now the kiss is something heated and wet, slick and full of promise.

Rose breaks the kiss with a gasp, hands fisting in the Doctor’s nightshirt, but he barely gives her a chance to catch her breath before he dives back in, urging her mouth open with his and god, it’s a good thing Rose is already sitting because the sheer fucking need in his kiss would be enough to turn her legs to jelly otherwise. The Doctor slides off the stool, knees hitting the floor as he pulls Rose into him, scooting her bum to the edge of the bed and guiding her legs beneath his arm, around his waist. It’s a little awkward now, kissing like that, as she has to bend over and he has to crane his neck up to reach her, but then one of his hands is skating up the inside of her thigh and he’s going to realize very soon that she hasn’t got anything on under her shift and suddenly Rose has room in her mind for very little else.

“Erm, Doctor,” she says anyway, because he’s still drugged, isn’t he? “You’re going to get my hopes up, touching me like this.”

“Good,” he says, kissing her again on the mouth, moving to her cheek, her jaw, her throat as his fingers slip beneath the hem of her shift, between her legs.

Rose laughs shakily, her toes curling when he grazes her throat with her teeth and her slit with his thumb. “We shouldn’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

“Rose,” he says, and the way his voice brands her name into her skin makes her shudder. “Ask me what I want.”

“What—what do you want?”

“I want to offer worship and beg forgiveness,” he tells her, “by fucking you senseless.”

Rose can’t think of anything to say to that, but she’s fairly certain her whimper and the flood of moisture between her legs says it all for her. It’s almost embarrassing, how wet she already is for him.

“Do you want me to stop?” the Doctor asks.

“No,” she says, arching into his touch. “God, no.”

“Good,” he says again, and presses a bruising kiss to her lips as he pushes a finger inside her. Rose cries out against his mouth and clutches at his shoulders while he pumps in and out, yanking down the neckline of her shift so he can palm one of the breasts sharply begging for his attention. When Rose sneaks a hand between them, to stroke him like he’s torturing her, the Doctor wrenches her hand away.

“No,” he growls. “Not until I’m finished here.”

Before Rose has a chance to protest, he’s let go of her hand and dipped his head to plant a kiss along her collarbone and the swell of her breast before closing his mouth around her nipple, teasing it with his lips and his tongue and his teeth until it’s almost painfully swollen, sending tendrils of liquid golden heat straight between Rose’s legs. His tongue swirls round and round and pleasure pulses inside her and Rose has to bite her tongue to hold back a moan, her hips pumping as he thrusts another finger inside.

With one of the Doctor’s hands between her legs, the other on her breast, his mouth closed and flicking around her nipple, Rose doesn’t know how long she’ll last; it’s only been moments and already she can feel the telltale tension coiling low in her belly, winding tighter and tighter and tighter. It only gets worse when the Doctor twists his wrist just so, so his palm rubs her clit as he fucks her with his fingers. The friction and the heat and the wet both above and below are all so glorious, so utterly fucking perfect for what she needs, that Rose can only cling to the Doctor, rutting against his hand in desperate search of relief. He adds a third finger and Rose gasps at the delicious stretch of it, panting with the effort of holding herself up while her hips pump and thrust and clench slickly around his digits, sucking them in, just a little more, just a little bit closer, just a little bit—

“I am going to make you come just like this,” breathes the Doctor, kissing a line along her throat, up to her ear, “Rose Tyler.”

“Fuck,” she cries out and the coil deep inside snaps, shattering her along with it. She pants as pleasure floods her in waves, her muscles fluttering and contracting tightly around the Doctor’s fingers. He draws out her climax mercilessly, coaxing it to the final high-strung note until Rose’s hips stutter and stop, her chest heaving with exertion, every nerve alight and singing from head to toe.

“Oh, god,” Rose says, weakly, and the Doctor chuckles as he withdraws his hand.

“No god here,” he tells her, and Rose can just make out that he’s winking. “Just me.”

Groaning, Rose rolls her eyes, smacking him halfheartedly on the shoulder. “Doesn’t your ego ever take a rest?”

“Is there any reason it should?”

“Git,” Rose laughs, and pulls him up for another kiss. He hums into her mouth, pleased; the sound devolves into something of a groan as Rose’s hand ventures south to palm him through his nightshirt, tracing the warm stiffness of him through soft linen. The Doctor doesn’t break the kiss, but his fingers do close gently around her wrist, pulling her away.

“You don’t want me to?” Rose asks, surprised.

“I certainly wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” the Doctor laughs, his fingers twining with hers. His hand is still damp from her and Rose blushes in the dark, arousal flaring back to life deep in her belly. “But you may recall that I explicitly said, Not until I’m finished here. And I am certainly not finished with you yet.”

Rose laughs even as want flares between her legs. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

“Nope!” the Doctor says cheerfully. “It’s my sacrifice, my offering, and that makes it dealer’s choice. So outside any issues of consent you’d like to discuss, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to lie back and—”

“Think of England?” Rose teases.

“If you like,” the Doctor replies as he urges her down onto the mattress, “but I was hoping for something a little filthier, myself.”

Rose pants, legs tensing as he plants an openmouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh, giving a good suck after. “I think I can manage that,” she says, humming when he soothes the bruise with his tongue.

“Mmm, I’d hoped you would.”

She’s just buried her hands in the Doctor’s hair and arched her hips needfully upward when the sharp sound of insistent knocking slices through the air, startling them both. Rose sits up and the Doctor pulls back, exchanging glances with her; she can’t quite see the details of his face, still, as dark as it is, but she can only imagine he’s wearing an expression that matches her own. The Doctor pushes off the floor and darts over to the window, peering out into the dark night world below. Whatever he sees down there causes him to turn on his heel, sprinting straight past Rose into the en suite. He pops out just long enough to toss a pile of something soft and slightly damp her way.

Her clothes, Rose realizes.

“Get dressed. We’ve got to move,” the Doctor hisses.

“Why? What’s down there?”

“It’s the Temple guard,” the Doctor whispers back, pulling on his trousers. “They’ve found us.”

 ***

Final Chapter (forthcoming)

[sherl-grey]

sherlgrey’s fic masterpost (as of 6.28.22)

hello! as predicted i completely forgot to post this on time, haha. it’s been just over a year since i joined AO3 and six months since I last updated this list, so i figured it’s time for a new one. i unfortunately do not know how to edit hyperlinks via html and am far too lazy to learn how to add that many stories in so alas, i am just making an entire new post. here's to hoping next time i can add thirteenrose to the color list :) 

color key:  fiverose || eightrose || ninerose || tenrose || tentoorose || elevenrose || twelverose

in progress:

the rose-pond swap || my mind turns your life into folklore || the weight of words

timepetals playlist series:

fingers and thumbs, baby || your light it follows me in darkness || gravity like a lunar landing || an island in the flood || the music's for the sad man

prompts and requests series:

but it's all coming back now, like the feeling isn't over || you can have the best of me || an island in the flood || the music's for the sad man

September Fic Marathon series (for DoctorRose Fic Marathon):

Wolves and Thieves || reflections and resolutions || if you're holdin' onto me, you're holdin' onto nothing || one rose in the forest || mirror, mirror || this christmas i'll give you a star; next christmas i'll give you them all || The 5 Love Languages: How to Communicate with Your Boyfriend || all because of you || into the who-niverse || if i am to fall, i'll land at your feet || you made your bed (now lie in it) || The Siren Call || when the best is yet to come || enamoured || Barcelona: Where No Doctor Has Gone Before! || truth be told

the collector’s shelves series:

a more literal method of compartmentalization || a more literal transformation of liminal spaces

other competed standalones:

Meeting in the Middle || and the journey never ends || long-forgotten futures and unexpected pasts || forever, out of order || love don't roam, but occasionally it wanders off || want to give you something better than i've been || stuck in a moment || the less time that I spend with you, the less you need to heal || Seeds of Forever

[nicollekidman]

abby can you talk on how deancas and tenrose are the same?

okay so i need to preface this with the usual…. cannot believe i am enlightened enough to be seriously discussing this in the year 2020, but i’m happy for my teen self. also there is about to be a lot of unhinged earnestness to follow, so if you’re easily succebtable to cringe… don’t read on. ALSO RIP I WROTE 1800 WORDS about just the most general and nonspecific concepts…… brb k wording myself 

first off i think it’s so funny that i just went back and looked and i typed cas/ten as a one and dean/rose as a six completely independently so… that’s where my head is at. 

i think the meat of the issue is the way that tenrose and deancas function both in relation to the overall narrative and each other. there are many differences of course, but at the end of the day, both relationships are positioned as the ultimate working example of what their shows are trying to be About. 

i could write an entirely separate essay on the intersections between cas and the doctor, but essentially…… these are figures introduced to the audience as Beyond Human Understanding. they exist as celestial beings unconstrained by the rules of space and time, more closely connected to god than humanity. we meet the doctor farther along in his journey than castiel, but both of their character arcs are rooted in a Godlike Creature observing humanity and becoming enamored with it/driven to protect and care for it. by the time the doctor meets rose, it is well established that he has a soft spot for humanity, she’s not the one who teaches him that. but she is the one he reaches out to and leans on for support and healing post-time war, and she is the one who influences ten’s regeneration so deeply that he is made in her image/for her. castiel rebuilds dean atom by atom is hell, and upon rescuing him from the pit, finds himself similarly irrevocably altered. it is revealed to us that castiel also has had a long affection for humanity, but nothing swayed him from his ultimate duty before he met dean. and just as the doctor finds himself with a family for the first time after gallifrey with rose and her mother on the estate, castiel finds himself cut off from his family/realm, but with a new family, team free will. they lose everything, their attachment to the heavens, and find a new family and a new reason to continue, in these humans. 

dean and rose also are the ultimate Human Credentials. we all know this term to be indicative of someone who confers humanity onto the other, someone who, by mere accompaniment, allows their beloved to more safely/easily navigate life. and it’s true in this sense. rose is constantly reminding ten how to Be Human (”am i being rude?”) in both big and small ways, just as dean more or less badgers castiel in the same way ( “dude. we talked about this”). neither cas nor ten would be as intimately connected with their “human sides” with their partners. but dean and rose are also Human Credentials in a broader sense, in that….. they act as character references for the rest of humanity, and by virtue of their own selves/their partner’s attachment to them, guarantee investment in the rest of the human race. castiel is more-or-less content to watch from heaven and take orders until he rescues dean and becomes involved with his life (”the moment castiel laid a hand on you in hell he was lost”). his love and affection for dean and his willingness to bend everything to keep him safe means that castiel learns to defy heaven for the good of humanity. ten has always loved humans, but he loves rose a little differently. The Doctor Needs Someone, and we see rose’s power as his human credential most strongly when she’s gone. Without rose, ten is more willing to put himself/others in danger, to make choices that will result in death, to be callous and reckless and thoughtless. rose’s presence is a constant reminder that humanity is Worth the Trouble, that he’s never met anyone who wasn’t important. 

for rose and dean…. these are two, completely Normal, Average People. or so they think anyways. the burdens they carry and their inner lives are very different, but in very simple ways, they both would’ve continued their lives believing there was nothing special about them, getting up to Do Their Duty, never asking for anything special. both view themselves are caretakers, although this manifests differently bc rose is a bratty 19 year old and dean never got the opportunity to be a teenager. but both Feel Deeply in ways/levels that others don’t. each has an extremely open heart and a need to protect/provide for the little people. what ten and cas give them is an entirely new perspective, whereupon it starts to be possible to believe that even the smallest person can affect the world for better, and that they, specifically Deserve More. 

THEN we have the ideas of religion/free will/fate that intertwine both shows. rtd’s doctor who was explicitly and obviously written with the intent to show an atheist universe where the human spirit and mind are enough on their own to be holy, to determine right and wrong, and to decide the events of the universe. obviously ten is often situated in christ-like positions, but he learns from humanity as much as they teach him. supernatural is a little more complicated, with an alternate vision of accepted figures of christianity, but both shows heavily emphasize the power of human kindness, passion, empathy, and individual choice. ten may not live within the confines of space and time, but apocalypses in doctor who often hinge on one small person doing The Next Right Thing, just as supernatural’s base credo is We’re Writing a New Chapter. castiel bursts onto the scene and is literally taught the importance of free will by dean, and perhaps even the importance of his own desires/needs by dean. both core relationships exemplify what it means to make choices outside the realm of fate (even whilst allowing for the existence of soulmates). yes, castiel was ordered to raise dean from perdition, but their human connection is what allows the winchesters to subvert God and move outside the printed narrative - love for a human is what makes an angel CHOOSE to fall from heaven. and ten…. well ten knows that rose is going to die. ten understands from the moment he allows himself to care for her above all others, that he is dooming himself to pain and regret and loss. but he decides to do it anyways, because isn’t the best thing an otherwordly being in love with humanity can do is to eperience love and loss on a human level? both cas and ten understand that there is no love without pain, that they will be the ones to watch their beloveds leave them, but that the Choice to love out of free will is worth it. 

there’s also the element of Expression/Repression. here is where the underlying emotion remains similar but the freedom of how exactly to illustrate these feelings could not be more different. tenrose is a heterosexual relationship at the end of the day, and their storylines require them to be alone in each other’s presence nearly 100% of the time. thus, we get LOTS of familiar touching, lots of body language and casual intimacy and teasing. dean and cas…. lol. not so much. instead of physicality, we get looks, both because of dean’s own upbringing/sexuality and because they exist on the show that they do. deancas deals in the unspoken - the acts of service, the grace healings, the tense moments of battle, the lack of personal space. the expression is different, but the emotion is the same. ten and dean hold themselves back from the more Obvious open-book partners, for their own personal reasons. the end effect being that everyone on screen understands/insinuates what’s happening, and their relationship is so thick with subtext its a wonder no one suffocates. Words are seen as the ultimate step, once which cannot be overcome in normal life. both pairs use death/separation as the final step towards full transparency, but even then we are never granted the ultimate catharsis of an I Love You. castiel couches his confessions in generalizations towards groups, and dean swallows his truth even in prayer. rose says the words through a veil of uncrossable distance, but she doesn’t get to hear them back. they can Know, and we can Understand, but we cannot hear it. 

lastly (for now)…. and perhaps as an ultimate summation…….. death and parallel universes and fate cannot stop them, those who are drawn to each other through heaven and hell, through time and realities. it is to be understood that will all four individuals fight to ensure that each human being is safe, protected, and able to make their own choices they are soulmates. they are soulmates who are bound to each other to be sure, but they’re not Fated in a way that takes away their free will. they’re fated by the series of choices they make, over and over again, to prioritize each other, to traverse time and space and dimension and hell to get back to one another. god cannot see castiel in his plans for the world, and yet castiel has evaded death again and again, to give dean a win. nothing could tear rose away from her doctor, and even while trapped in another dimmension, she hears his voice, she runs to him, and she finds a way to get back to him. each and every choice they make brings them back to one another, regardless of the ultimate ending. we don’t know yet if we will ever hear castiel and dean get their doomsday moment, but we do know that in order for castiel to leave dean’s side, an entirely new dimmension (the empty) will have to be in play to keep them apart. 

ultimately, castiel and ten are both celestial beings with self-worth issues but a burning and true desire to see humanity thrive, directly and indirectly because of their attachment to dean and rose. dean and rose make castiel and ten more human, all while exemplifying why human is a good thing to be. dean and rose become more themselves under cas and ten’s influence, both are given more opportunity to bloom into who they are meant to be. all four become More in the presence of each other, and save the world while doing it. ultimately there is a heavy dose of tragedy in both - whether or not dean and cas get their moment is yet to be seen, but these are still Soulmates with differing relationships to mortality. but is there anything sweeter than defying god’s and fate and our own doubts to grab love with both hands, even when we know there will be pain? 

[gender-snatched]

Can I have a masterpost of your Dr Who fics?

Sure!

Kidnapped - https://archiveofourown.org/works/28014645/chapters/68624493

T - QPR NineRose - Casual NineJack - Hurt/Comfort

Rose has been kidnapped! What will be revealed when The Doctor and Jack go to find her?

-

Injury - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27979728

G - QPR TenRose - Very Mild Hurt/Comfort

The Doctor and Rose are trying to catch a mouse when The Doctor gets hurt

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Misunderstandings - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941645

G - QPR TenRose - Relationship Reveal

It turns out Jackie doesn't know what Rose and The Doctor's relationship is

-

Realizations - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940994

G - QPR NineRose - Coming Out

Rose had never had a good relationship. She liked the good parts of it, like holding hands and going on dates and even sometimes kissing but very rarely. But she hated the whole “romance” part.

For a while she had thought that she was a lesbian, but it didn’t differ between boys and girls. No matter who it was, Mickey or Shareen, she just… didn’t like it.

The Doctor was better. She thought, and maybe even knew, that if she ever found someone she was comfortable doing the whole “romance” thing with, she’d still choose The Doctor before them.

Everyone seemed to think she was in love with The Doctor. She could say for certain she wasn’t.

-

Cooking Lessons - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27940385

G - QPR TenRose or NineRose - Fluff

Rose learns that The Doctor doesn't know how to cook

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Wardrobe - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924964

G - QPR TenRose - Fluff

The Doctor walks in on Rose changing

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Kittens - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920452

G - QPR TenRose - Fluff

Rose finds a kitten. Can she convince The Doctor to let her keep it?

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Soulmates - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27900838

T - QPR NineRose and TenRose - Unhappy Ending - Fluff and Angst

Everyone was born with a red string tied to their left ring finger. The string led to your soulmate, and only you, and the people you loved the most, could see the string.

Rose wasn’t born with a red string. Hers was black.

Black strings weren’t uncommon, but they were uncommon on alloromantics, which Rose undeniably was. She had been having crushes for as long as she could remember, on boys and girls and anything in between, from real people to fictional characters to celebrities. So there was no reason that she shouldn’t have a red string.

And then she met The Doctor. She could see it, the string stretching from her finger tied to his. He apparently couldn’t. Or something like that. Because he never acknowledged it. Normally people with attaching strings mentioned it within seconds of meeting, even people with black strings. But he didn’t.

-

5 Times Rose and The Doctor Kissed and It Didn't Mean Anything, and 1 Time They Kissed and It Did (But Not in the Way You Think) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27803557

T - QPR NineRose - NineJack kiss - Getting Together

The Doctor keeps kissing Rose and saying it doesn't mean anything. Is that the truth?

[shkspr]

i was thinking about the similarities between tenrose (+ninerose) and a/c and i had a thought - rtd would’ve done a really great job with a/c. i feel like he would actually portray what neil retroactively claims he was trying to portray aka non-conventional romance.

i dont think these two asks were from the same person but every time i tried to answer them, there was a lot of overlap in my responses, so i’m putting em together

it’s interesting bc i feel like there’s no real consensus as to whether or not it’s baiting? like ive seen a lot of twitter folks for example say that it’s really clear they’re in love and they don’t need to kiss or anything to affirm that. idk i feel really conflicted bc im seront valid arguments on both sides of the debates. it’s definitely not like other baity ships i’ve come across before, that i can say.

this got reeeeeaaaally long so tl;dr: i don’t hate neil, i love the book and the show beyond human comprehension, but i do think it’s baiting and i am a bit upset about it. authorial intent should not stop anybody from interpreting or responding to it in whatever way they prefer, but it is important in the discussion of baiting and representation. i’m not waving a pitchfork, i’m just a gay person critically enjoying a piece of media. 

okay so… for me, what’s on the screen is not the issue, you know. a/c is very like tenrose, in a lot of ways. ten & rose never properly kissed, they never properly said “i love you,” there was never anything explicit in the show that said they were in what we would consider a romantic relationship, except for quips that could be written off as jokes (like “that was our first date”). 

and it does help that it’s a het ship, so there’s less…conscious denial of it, i think. but also. rtd and julie and david and billie and everybody involved has said time and time again that they were in love. bc that’s what was written. and it was obvious. it was clear, on the screen, that they were in love, even if they never explicitly said it. and it was never a question, it was just the truth. 

and with the exception of a few qualms (like the fact that they like… never touch), i think a/c is the same. it is obvious, from what was written and how it was acted, that they are in love. the issue, for me, is firstly, that neil fully knows how important this relationship is to a great number of his fans, and chose to ramp up those aspects of the relationship in the show to a ridiculous level, knowing that people would see it like that, took it right up to the precipice without allowing one toe over the line, and still says it isn’t a romance.

and secondly, that he’s patting himself on the back for writing it, for appealing to the audience like that, for the support of the relationship, not realizing that people support that relationship in spite of him. the other day he retweeted a tweet calling it a “slow burn love story” and it’s just like… you can’t write a fantastic romance, claim it isn’t a romance, and then congratulate yourself for writing a fantastic romance. it’s not fair.

it’s kind of like. some months ago, i saw a post made by someone saying that they saw themself in a&c because they were asexual, and they appreciated that a&c have a clearly profound connection without it being overtly sexual. and that is valid, absolutely, that fan: valid. but then i saw neil had either liked or reblogged it, i don’t remember, and that made me uneasy, because… he didn’t write a loving asexual relationship. he wrote a relationship that he knew would be interpreted by many as a romance, and included several jokes at their expense, and then chose to no-homo it basically by saying they don’t have sex. that’s not… that’s not representation of any kind.

neil’s favorite line is that what’s on the page/screen is canon, and he supports fans having headcanons and whatnot, but canon is canon. and that’s. true, obviously. but it’s not a coincidence that the show is so much more out there with the romantic aspects, and it’s not a coincidence that it still just barely manages to not be “canon.” and while i’m at it, i’d be remiss not to mention that it’s not a coincidence that it’s only the gay relationship that gets this treatment.

like, i’ve spoken about this before just as an issue that i have with the book in general, but it gets even more upsetting when considered alongside aziraphale and crowley’s relationship. newt and anathema have no chemistry whatsoever. the narration from his pov mentions several times that she’s hot, and that’s it. she shows no signs of liking him, at all, and he shows no signs of liking her beyond a superficial physical attraction, and he has zero qualities that would make it worth her even considering him as a romantic option. but we’re supposed to accept that relationship, because it’s canon.

shadwell and tracy also have literally no chemistry. he’s useless and mean and racist and treats her like garbage, and one of her only defining character traits is that she… likes that about him? like literally their entire relationship is him being awful to her, and her doing things for him because he’s a grown man who can’t feed himself, for some reason. and we’re supposed to accept that as a relationship, too, because it’s canon.

crowley and aziraphale have a 6000-year-long relationship full of trust and understanding, overcoming obstacles, bonding over their love of humanity, choosing each other over their loyalties to their respective sides, saving each other, helping each other, knowing each other’s interests and quirks, showing each other, over and over again, that they love each other. that’s the story that was written. so you’ll have to forgive me for being a bit put out when the writer tries to simultaneously insist that he didn’t write it like that and that he did write it like that, somehow. 

listen. i’m not saying i’d prefer it if the relationship was toned down. i’m not saying i’d prefer it if neil was going full rowling and claiming that they’re both canonically straight, or some shit. i’m not saying the relationship is worthless if they’re not making out. i’m just saying… i guess the bottom line of what i’m saying is: purposely dialing up the gay subtext in order to appeal to fans of the relationship without making it canon is literally the definition of queerbaiting. even if you repeatedly state that it won’t be canon, it’s still baiting. you’re using the relationship to reel in viewers who will be grateful for those table scraps because we’re in no position to complain, right?

and it is different from other baity ships, in my opinion, because it is a genuinely very well-written love story. like the only example of baiting i really have expertise on is probably bbc sherlock, and that is different. it’s different because neil knows how to write a love story, and he knew he was doing it, whereas moffat does not know how to write a love story, and he wasn’t trying to. he was just trying to write a weird friendship with a wacky homophobic remark thrown in once an episode, to appeal to fans who would gnaw at that bone because we were starving. 

neil, on the other hand, has dangled a picture of a feast in front of our eyes and it’s like… it’s good art, it’s just not good food. it’s good writing, it’s just not good representation. and i, a gay fan, feel alienated and invalidated by the fact that he knew that was exactly what he was doing. it’s just a bit of a cop-out, is all, and i’m a little disappointed in how he’s handling it in his interactions with the fandom, but that’s not new. 

[backstreets]

rose tyler......!

yes making the most of the night is on all my doctor who playlists....... companion anthem! also you can listen to my tenrose playlist here

Bad Wolf. listen here

Making The Most Of The Night / Carly Rae Jepsen / Baby I'm speeding and red lights are run / What I got you need it, and I'll run to your side / When your heart is bleeding, I'm coming to get you

Royals / Lorde / And we'll never be royals / It don't run in our blood / That kind of lux just ain't for us / We crave a different kind of buzz

Drive / Carly Rae Jepsen / Chasing the sun, don't wanna miss it / I just wanna drive you to love, love, love

Common People / Pulp / You are amazed that they exist / And they burn so bright, / Whilst you can only wonder why.

Born To Run / Bruce Springsteen / Will you walk with me out on the wire? / 'Cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rider / But I gotta know how it feels / I want to know if love is wild / Babe I want to know if love is real

The Louvre / Lorde / Blow all my friendships to sit in hell with you / But we're the greatest, they'll hang us in the Louvre / Down the back, but who cares, still the Louvre

Let’s Get Lost / Carly Rae Jepsen / Baby let's go get lost / I like that you're drivin' slow / Keeping my fingers crossed / That maybe you'll take the long way home

Dead Sea / The Lumineers / You told me you were good at running away / Domestic life, it never suited you like a suitcase

Sleep On The Floor / The Lumineers / 'Cause if we don't leave this town / We might never make it out / I was not born to drown / Baby come on

Landslide / Fleetwood Mac / I took my love, I took it down / Climbed a mountain and I turned around / And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills / 'Til the landslide brought me down

Cleopatra / The Lumineers / But I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life

This Love / Taylor Swift / This love is alive back from the dead / These hands had to let it go free / And this love came back to me

100 Years / Florence + The Machine / I believe in you and in our hearts we know the truth and / I believe in love and the darker it gets, the more I do

Wildest Dreams / Taylor Swift / Say you'll remember me / Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset babe / Red lips and rosy cheeks / Say you'll see me again even if it's just pretend

[megabadbunny]

speechless

TenRose; all ages/mild teen. fills @timepetalsprompts​ general “Tenth Doctor month” prompt

***

He knows the instant the TARDIS touches the tarmac that something is wrong. (There’s no grinding of the Time Rotor, no sickly shuddering or sharp-flashing warning lights; it’s just wrong, in his chest, something squeezing and clenching where it shouldn’t. Guilt, he’d label it if he didn’t know any better, but the feeling is hardly helpful when he hasn’t a clue what he’s done wrong.)

The sonic makes quick work of the door—normally he wouldn’t, not here, anyway, but rapping his knuckles and pounding his palm on it didn’t work, save to elicit nosy or dirty looks from curious passersby. He flashes the psychic paper and mutters something under his breath about maintenance and steps inside the flat before anyone has time to question him. The flat, of course, is empty. Well, that at least explains why no one answered the door. It isn’t because of...other reasons. Admonitions about nosiness and boundaries and sometimes people need privacy, Doctor all crowd to the forefront of his mind, only to be pushed to the back as he scopes out the flat for clues. But the flat seems insistent on shaking him at every turn, betraying nothing of its inhabitants’ whereabouts. The message-taking pad by the phone betrays nothing; it’s new, fresh, no ghosts of messages past pressed into its pages. There are no new notes tacked to the fridge or washing-machine, though the latter has a funny little rattle when the Doctor walks by it (and two-minutes’ worth of the Doctor’s tinkering puts an end to that). The calendar remains stubbornly unhelpful as well, showing nothing but distant family birthdays and friends’ anniversaries and a series of red x’s tapering off after— The Doctor’s lips purse together, a dam stoppering the flow of curses trying to leak out. He heaves a frustrated sigh. It’s no twelve months instead of twelve hours, but it might as well be. He really is a rubbish pilot. But eventually that excuse will run thin, if it isn’t already riddled with holes. One day, she’ll stop forgiving him, and he isn’t so sure he can blame her.

(He almost forgets to re-lock the door when he stalks out, but he only almost forgets.)

A quick scan of the rest of the Estate returns no notable results, and no familiar faces greet him from the inside of the local chippies, or pubs, or store-fronts. Searching the library is a fruitless endeavor, as is an examination of the bus-station. The Doctor wanders up and down the streets for what feels like years but is, in truth, only a few hours, peeking inside games shops and bookshops and sweet-shops and Tesco’s and tailor’s-places and any place that hasn’t got the windows shuttered because where is she, where the bloody hell is she? And then a thought strikes him, something unpleasant indeed—he checked the bus-station, but that would be pointless if she was already gone. And if she’s gone... He swallows. He can find her easily enough; he’s only doing this the hard way out of some kind of silly penance. Finding her isn’t the problem. The problem is if she doesn’t want to be found. (After the other universe, after the black hole, after everything at Canary Wharf—maybe she doesn’t want to do this anymore. Maybe that’s perfectly reasonable. But, rather selfishly perhaps, where does that leave him? What is he supposed to do then?) It’s in a hair salon that he finds Jackie, getting her nails manicured and laughing gaily with a circle of likeminded and like-aged friends, all thoughts of ghosts and Daleks and Cybermen completely erased like they never were. But the second Jackie’s gaze land on him, her smile disappears, her eyes gone cold. Her friends continue chattering around her but she doesn’t join in the fun, doesn’t tear her eyes away from the Doctor’s. She raises a sharp-plucked eyebrow and points a lacquered fingernail westward. Go fix it, you twat.

She doesn’t need to say it for him to hear it, and he doesn’t need a physical slap to feel the shame burning his cheeks. With a curt nod in thanks, the Doctor turns on his heels and heads westward. Once he’s out of Jackie’s sight, he runs.

***

He feels more than a little stupid when he finally finds her. But of course she’s here—with a busted-up machine, where else was she going to get her washing done? The Doctor just stands and watches her for a moment, taking her in amidst the unnaturally bright laundromat lights. She looks terribly bored from her lonely perch atop the yellowed old washing-machine, her eyes half-shuttered, her hands clasped in her lap. Previous experience tells the Doctor that she should be reading a trashy magazine right about now, or maybe a book pilfered from the TARDIS archives, or painting her nails or noshing on a treat if she’s not gone from the laundry room altogether, watching a film with him in the library or keeping him company while he tinkers under the console or lying atop the grass with him in the garden, making up new names for all of the constellations she doesn’t recognize, even some of the ones she does— Another customer pushes past the Doctor and he startles at the harsh clang of the doorbell. So sure he’s about to be discovered, he throws a glance at Rose that’s somewhere between nervous and hopeful, but she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t even twitch. She just...sits. Oh, no. She’s not bored. She’s numb. She’s good and properly numb. And it’s good and properly his fault. The guilty-feeling from earlier bubbles unpleasantly in his gut. He should go in there. He’s got to go in there and explain things, namely himself, as much as he can bear to. He can’t let her think he’s angry with her, even if he sort-of is, in a way that’s got nothing to do with her. He can’t let her think he just left her here, at least not for longer than he intended, which wasn’t really very long at all, not even by her standards. He can’t let her think she did anything wrong, nothing besides loving him, anyway. (She shouldn’t; she really, really shouldn’t. But that doesn’t appear to be stopping him, either.) It isn’t until after the newcomer dumps their washing into a machine and goes through the motions, the detergent and the coins and the buttons and the swearing and the top-of-the-machine-pounding and the pressing of buttons again and then the eye-rolling and the muttering and the leaving, that the Doctor manages to pull together the last remaining threads of his courage and pushes open the door to the laundromat. Slowly, Rose’s gaze sharpens, traveling from their stare into nothingness over to where the Doctor stands, taking him in from the floor up, battered Chucks and pinstriped suit and fists balled in pockets and coat settling around him as the door bangs loudly into place. Neither of them twitch, too fixed on each other as the washing-machines whirr and clang and generally make a ruckus. Opening his mouth to speak, the Doctor steps forward, but Rose turns away. He falters. That’s sort of a universal sign, isn’t it? The unmistakable broadcast of I don’t want to talk to you. Fists clench tighter in his pockets before loosening, relaxing. Fine. They don’t have to talk. It may be his typical modus operandi but he has other ways of doing things, too. A regular problem-solver, him. The Doctor crosses the laundromat in several long strides and before Rose has a chance to react, he envelops her in a tight, breath-squeezing hug, his hands wrapping around to either side of her ribcage. Surprised, she tenses beneath the embrace, but relaxes into it soon enough, her own arms coming up to limply encircle him. He tightens his hold on her and nudges her elbow with his—snugger, as if to say. A real hug. More. Rose complies and the Doctor imagines he can hear her slight little smile. Tension eases from his shoulders and he turns his face toward her, into her neck, at this height. He feels rather than hears her swallow, senses the uptick in her breathing, her heartrate. For all their hugging and hand-holding and waist-grabbing, it’s still a surprisingly intimate gesture, and a vulnerable one, whether she recognizes it as such. But fortunately, blessedly, she must, because soon she’s leaning into him, burrowing into his shoulder while one hand buries itself in his hair. He needed time, he thinks he should tell her. To clear his head, to sort his thoughts. To give her a bit of a break, room for her to visit her mum. To reconsider if this is what she really wants. He needed time to come to terms with the fact that— His eyes clench shut against the memory, against the hurt that blossoms with it. I almost lost you. He steps back with every intention of delivering the apologetic plea hovering on his lips, only for Rose to lean forward and press her mouth to his, swallowing any words that may emerge. (Thankfully, his hands only flail about uselessly for approximately 1.03 seconds before flying up to her face, holding her close when, flushing and suddenly uncertain, she tries to pull away. But surely his hands holding her close will let her know she has nothing to be ashamed or uncertain about; surely his trembling arms and desperate mouth give him away.) Both of them jump at the washing-machine buzzing impatiently beneath Rose, letting her know in no uncertain terms that it has completed its cycle, thank you very much. But Rose just laughs shakily and pulls the Doctor in for more, and it’s sort of funny, isn’t it, all of time and space at their disposal and their first proper snog takes place in a dingy old laundromat on unremarkable old planet Earth. It would have been much more romantic to take her somewhere exotic and new, somewhere with a triple-sunset or a glass ocean or rainbow-luminescent flowers unfurling their petals toward the inky midnight sky. But she’s kissing him, she’s kissing him, and it feels like a promise, one he’ll gladly take no matter how little he deserves it or where she gives it to him, romance be damned. (Later, he’ll tell her anything she wants; right now, this says everything they both need to know.)

***