#no bc everyday i just said. that's all so petty and stupid. girlie we are almost TWENTY YEARS OLD. GET OVER IT. OUR SISTERS ARD 13?????????

[megabadbunny]

For the DxR fic meme: Nine x Rose; 01 G ☯

(Nine x Rose, Jackie’s flat, midnight, Rose’s diary; from @doctorroseprompts )

***

He knows he shouldn’t, and yet, here he is.

(But it’s not exactly his fault, is it? If she didn’t wanthim to see it, maybe she shouldn’t have left it lying around all public in theopen, conspicuous and winking at him and daring him to take a little peek,wriggling its (figurative) hips like a minx in red throwing a perfumed kissover one shoulder. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t lying around in public somuch as it was in her room, that it wasn’t in the open so much as it was tuckedunder her mattress.)

The Doctor glances around furtively, even though he knows noone will catch him in the act; the flat is empty of any other living thing,save for him and the dust motes colonizing the space beneath the rug. Rose andher oddity of a mum have whisked off somewhere or other (“a proper girls’night”, Jackie might’ve said, or might not have, as the Doctor might not havebeen listening) and Jack is goodness-knows-where with goodness-knows-whom, sothe Doctor figures he’s got a good few hours to himself before anyone returns.And he’s got to find some way to occupy himself, hasn’t he?

(Besides, it isn’t as if he went snooping specifically for it.More like, he snooped, and there it conveniently was. Also, he’s bored.)

Plunking himself down on her bed—not nearly as soft or plushas her TARDIS bed, he thinks with a smirk—the Doctor opens the book to thefirst page.

Dear dairy readsthe first line.

The Doctor chuckles. There is no date scrawled anywhere onthe page, but the scribbles and misspellings amidst very careful and deliberatestrokes tell the Doctor these words were written by someone who had only recentlylearned penmanship, and was determined to do it well.

Dear dairy

Hello how are you? Myname is Rose Marion Tyler. It is my brithday today I am 6 years old.

It’s almost impossible to imagine Rose ever being so young;far easier to picture her emerging fully-grown and stubborn-willed and jeopardy-friendlystraight from inception. But the Doctor tries, and in his mind’s eye he canalmost see her sitting on the bed—no, lying on it, stomach-down, her sock-cladfeet kicking idly in the air. Her hair, unbleached and light brown, would be pulledback into a ponytail, held in place by one of those what d’you-call-it’s. A scrunchie. Her head would bend down inconcentration over the diary as she clutched her pen tightly in her small fist.The Doctor imagines the pen to be pink, glittery, one of those gel-things, hopelesslyand wonderfully childish and girly, and his grin broadens.

Mummy and me had aparty in the park and Lottie and Fred cud not come but Shireen was there andMickey to and his gran and my grandad Prentis. Grandad brung cake from thestore it has had a heart drawed on and my name and there were candels.We had ice cream to. And I had prezents there was a barby and shoes and a newbell for my bike…

The list continues and the Doctor rolls his eyes fondly.Clearly, six-year-old Rose had decided to commit only the most pertinent ofdetails to memory. He flips through perhaps the first quarter of the diary, pausingat a mention of Mickey here, a drawing of a flower there, and watches as Rose’shandwriting grows more confident, her entries more substantial. Her diary is amicrocosm of her adventures with mates, days at school, developing crushes, thelikeability of some of Jackie’s boyfriends and the caddishness of others. Atrandom, the Doctor slips a finger between the pages and opens the diarymid-entry, perhaps a year or two along its timeline.

and it felt awful butI didnt say anything bc he was right I dont have a dad but Keisha got angry andtold him to butt out and mind his own business. So then Nick laughed and madefun of Keisha bout her mum and I thot Keisha might cry so I punched Nick in thenose and it bled and the head teacher says I cant come back to school for aweek. Mum says Im in trouble but she didnt stop granddad from buying me a 99 onthe way home and she said next time do a slap its easier on the nuckles.

The Doctor can just picture Rose, eight years old, eyesflashing and stance wide as she bloodies some little twerp’s nose with herfist. Now that—that is a Rose he has no trouble imagining. Laughing, the Doctorshakes his head and flips to a later entry.

8 Nov 1996

Dear diary,

We went to go see Dad yesterday.

The Doctor pauses, hesitates. He knows what the words mean—they’refigurative, not literal, because it would be another eleven years before Rose sawany more of Pete Tyler than old photos and a grave—but the memory of the daynine years earlier still sends a shiver down his spine, clenches something inhis gut in a guilty-sick feeling he can’t quite explain.

Mum told me the storyagain. She seemed all right definitely better than the last time. I think thephotos help. Granddad came to and I don’t think he rly liked Dad very much buthe was nice about him today nicer than on other days. Afterwards Mum went todrop me off with Mickey but he said she needed me so I went on home and she seemeda little happier but she still cried a bit.

The Doctor wrinkles his nose. Something about Mickey theIdiot doing a good turn makes him grumpy. Who does that idiot think he is,anyway?

We had tea and fellasleep in front of the telly. I wanted to make her dinner but there was nothingin and I couldnt find anything in her purse so I went down to Ms Nodd’s bc she’sout seeing her grandson and I got the spare key from under her flower pot and Ilooked in her bedroom and found a few pounds and took them. I bought Mum aChinese from her favourite place and she didnt ask where I got the money so I didnttell her. I dont think Ms Nodd would know it was me that took it but I stillfeel bad I just didnt know what else to do. Ill pay her back when I get somemoney for my bday.

Nice old bird, that Ms Nodd. Much nicer than some of theother tenants on the Estate, with her blue-tinged hair and cheerful smile andwithered old hands that freely distribute home-baked biscuits to errant TimeLords who just happen to be handy with a squeaky front door. The Doctor makes amental note to liberate an ATM of a couple hundred-pound-notes at his earliestopportunity and slip them into her flat.

He reads a few more pages—comfortably silly stuff, all ofit, more crushes and rants about school and discussions of celebrities andfashion and Rose’s favorite things on telly—until his fingers land on an oddlybrittle page, warped in places, buckling. Several of the words are nearlyimpossible to discern, smudged as they are, and it takes the Doctorapproximately .003 seconds to identify the water marks as tears.

(There’s no dear diaryhere, no date. The words simply begin, as if writing anything more than theabsolutely necessary would take too much energy. Like it would hurt too much.)

Granddad’s gone.

The Doctor sighs, and his hearts each break a little foryoung Rose, curled up in her bed and crying bitter tears into her pillow. Tenyears old is far too young to experience the cruelty of such a loss. But it isn’tas if it gets any easier at any other age. The Doctor knows that to be painfullytrue.

Had a heart attack.Doctors said he went in his sleep and didn’t feel anything. I hope that’s true.Mum said he’s with the angels now but that’s stupid. The angels don’t need him wedo. I already miss him.

Mum can’t stop crying.I wish Dad was here.

And there’s that feeling again in the Doctor’s gut, thesquirmy-sicky one. Almost as if his stomach knows he shouldn’t be doing this,like his body is punishing him. It was all well and good reading about the funfrivolities of a carefree primary-schooler, but this sort of thing—this issomething else. Something deep and personal, a compound fracture of emptinessand hurt. The Doctor knows should stop reading now. He really should.

(He doesn’t.)

It takes a few weeks for the mentions of Granddad Prentice tostart fading, but eventually, they do, fading away to be gradually replaced bythe normality of everyday life. Sometimes months pass between diary-entries;other times, years. The Doctor smiles as he glances over recountings of schooldays and formals and skipping classes, of Jackie’s eccentric cluster of boyfriends,of fights with friends and happy makings-up after, of holidays and gossip andhopes for the future. The day Rose and Shireen fall out over a boy is marked byan obscene amount of swearing and words crossed-out and pencil-punctures dugdeep into the page; the day Mickey asks Rose to be his girlfriend is noted withexclamation points and a lipgloss-kiss.

The day Rose meets Jimmy Stone is noted with a single heartthat simply reads Mrs Rose Stone.

Grimacing at the words, the Doctor forces himself to presson.

OMG met this bloke Jimmyyesterday n he was soooo fit reads the next entry. Shireen and Keisha and me went down the pub and he was playing in theband and I thot he fancied Keisha at first but after he asked for my number ♡ ♡ ♡I kno it doesn’t mean nothing so I didn’ttell Mickey cos no point in him worrying and he gets so jealous anyway lol

Awww, poor jealous ickle Mickey, thinks the Doctor. He snortsderisively. Human beings—so quick to such petty reactions. He’s very glad hedoesn’t have to worry about silly things like that.

Still, it’s a little surprising when, just a few pages later,things have already progressed by leaps and bounds. Jimmy kissed me! leaps out from the page, followed by things like Mickey and me had a fight and Snuck out to hear Jimmy play downtownand Went to the cinema with Jimmy and he puthis hand up my sk

Hearts hammering, the Doctor flips past that page before hiskeen eyes have a chance to read any further. For some reason, the thought ofJimmy putting his hand up anything of Rose’s—indeed, of Jimmy or some otherfool even thinking about touching her, anywhere, with anything—makes him burn abit under the collar. Unpleasant, that. Maybe he’d better take a look at Jackie’sthermostat, make sure it’s doing its job, because it certainly doesn’t feellike it.

(Still, he skips the several pages that follow, just to besafe.)

said if Iwalked out that door I’d better not walk back in and you know what screw her.She’s wasted her whole life crying about Dad and never doing anything withherself and never doing anything for me. I hate her I would rather die then belike her

Eyes widening in surprise, the Doctor quickly scans over thenext few pages, his concern deepening by the second.

love Jimmy andno one can tell me any different and if Mum really knew what love was then she’dunderstand

Im so glad I’mwith him now he gets me like no one else ever has or ever will, ♡ him forever

didnt want totake my a-levels anyway not like it means anything out in the real world

moving into aflat together next week can’t wait ♡♡♡

and I love himbut I wish he’d get a job cos the gigs don’t make enough n I can’t covereverything on my own

came home drunkagain last night n wouldnt tell me where he’d been

told me I’dbetter cough up the rest of the rent by next weekend or else he would

And then, nothing.

The Doctor frowns. Whatever he would do is left unexplained, torn away along with a wholecluster of pages in the diary, leaving a ragged little scar behind where wordsand feelings used to sit. The Doctor runs a finger along the page-stumps leftin the spine, and wonders.

What could have happened that was so bad that even the memoryof it had to be ripped away?

The next entry picks up a few weeks later. It does notmention Jimmy. Instead, the page displays only a handful of lonely words:

He wasright. I’m so stupid.

It takes a moment for the Doctor to realize that the diaryis shaking in his hands. But that’s only because he’s gripping it so tightlyhis knuckles are glowing bright white in an attempt to jump out of his skin. Andsuddenly he’s glad, in quite a perverse way, that he has witnessed thedestruction of the Reapers firsthand, because otherwise the temptation to pilotthe TARDIS back in time to ensure that Jimmy Stone never hurt Rose—that henever so much as existed, never so much as blighted this planet with even asingle vile breath—would be so strong that he’s not entirely sure he’d be ableto stop himself.

Forcing himself to calm, the Doctor skips forward, hopefullyto an entry that won’t cause hisblood to boil angrily in his ears. Now phrases like moved back in with Mum today and applied at Henriks greet his eyes, and he feels the muscles in hisshoulders begin to relax.

and a sweet ginger boy’sstarted coming round, Mum named him Jonesy

but the new job’s notso bad

going out to the clubswith Shireen

Mickey stopped by withflowers today and it was like nothing had ever gone wrong

anyway we’re datingagain

nothing’ll come of itbut some blokes won in Bristol last week so who knows, maybe we’ll win a littlesomething n I could get Mum something nice

a little boring Iguess but prolly about the best I can expect for now

So my job blew uptoday???

Now a grin spreads across the Doctor’s face, lighting it upfrom ear-to-ear. Finally. Took longenough to get here. Now for the reallygood stuff.

Fingers tingling in anticipation, he turns the page.

Nothing.

The Doctor flips through the remaining pages, hunting forsomething, anything, but nothing buta sea of white greets his eyes, winking up at him obnoxiously without so muchas a single date or scribble or scrawl to capture his attention. The rest ofthe diary is completely, utterly blank.

Huffing in irritation, the Doctor sits back, flipping thebook closed with a scowl. It makes a certain sense, he supposes, but still.Really? She’ll write about ice cream and Barbies and school gossip and Mickeythe Idiot but no mention of the TARDIS, no asides about traveling through timeand space, no discussion of Dickens or Slitheen or bitchy trampolines or 900year-old Time Lords taking her by the hand to show her anything her littleheart could ever possibly—

CLANG.

“I just found it!” blurts out the Doctor without eventhinking, pushing off the bed and whirling round to face Rose’s open bedroomdoorway. But no one stands there; indeed, if his superior hearing is anythingto go by (and it usually is), there’s no one within several meters of him, certainlyno one in the flat. And the continuing ding-dang-dongbell’s sound, ringing at twelve lazy but significant intervals, informs himthat his nervousness was for naught—it’s just Jackie’s old grandfather clock,noisily (and unnecessarily, the Doctor thinks with a grump) proclaiming thetime.

It’s midnight. Probably Rose and Jackie will be home soon. Andprobably he shouldn’t let them know he was nosing through Rose’s diary.

(Even if it wasn’t his fault, seeing as they left him aloneand bored and unoccupied in the flat, and even if he didn’t find what he waslooking for—even if he’s not entirely certain what that was.)

As he slips the diary back into its hiding-place beneathRose’s mattress, it occurs to him that there are any number of reasons Rosemight not be writing things in a diary any more—she forgot it at home, or she’stoo tired after their adventures, or too distracted, or maybe she’s even got anew one aboard the TARDIS, hidden somewhere equally silly. But there’s anotheroption too, he realizes; that she’s simply too happy to see the need forwriting things down, that she is too busy living her memories to think of takingthe time to document them. The thought warms him, contentment blooming in hischest, and he leaves Rose’s room with a smile, closing the door behind him.

(He still checks her room on the TARDIS just in case.)

***

part ii