Two Roads (1/1)
Title: Two Roads
Author: jlrpuck
Rating: MA
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose
Word Count: 4,345
Summary: “"Time's in flux. It's changing every second. Your cozy little world could be rewritten like that." What if the Doctor had made a different decision at the end of “Rose”?
Spoilers: Only for “Rose”.
Authors Notes: Written for the Time in Flux ficathon at
doctor_rose_fic. I signed up and promptly got the episode that most terrified me, given the following parameter: The premise of this fic-a-thon is to get the Doctor and Rose together as a couple in every episode of the series After all-how do you get the Ninth Doctor and Rose together when they’ve only just met...and do it so that the rest of the episodes can still happen, as-written?
Many-infinite-thanks to
ginamak for the help with the story idea, and to Ms. Mak,
earlgreytea68, and
chicklet73 for their betaing and encouragement.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
- Robert Frost
It’s when he’s sleeping-or trying to-that controlling his visions of the timelines becomes the hardest. What is, was, will never be-they all flood through his mind, appearing as sequential or sometimes conflicting scenes, the images saturated in color and dripping with hyper-realism. It’s part of why he tries not to sleep; part of why when he does sleep, it’s for as short a period of time as possible. It’s part of why he was mocked, mercilessly, as a student-for the lack of self-control which would keep those images from running rampant when he let his guard down for the rest his body desperately needed.
But it’s been a long few days-a long few months, really, since he finally got himself together after the destruction of Gallifrey. It’s the first time he’s been back to Earth since the Time War; the first time he’s committed genocide, too, since the day he pushed the button that sent his tormenters, his friends, his family into screaming oblivion.
It’s the first time since he’s regenerated that someone’s taken his hand, holding it without judging him, and it’s the first time in what feels like centuries that he’s found himself curious and intrigued by a human. A young human, at that: too young to recognize what it was he was offering her when he invited her along, too immature to grasp it, and far, far too loyal to her cowering boyfriend to accept his offer even if she had been tempted.
He makes sure the TARDIS is stable in the Vortex, having just left the intriguing human and her sniveling mate behind. Mate-he suspects that while Mickey Smith might have ideas of marrying the woman he’s dating, Rose Tyler already knows that there are other, bigger things out in the world and that she’s even contemplating moving on.
One last look at the monitor, showing the colourful, swirling script of a world that no longer exists-a constant, damning reminder of what he’s done-and then he wearily turns away from the comforting glow and motion of the time rotor. It’s time for rest; time to let his body relax, even if his mind will stubbornly run amok. An hour, at most: he can bear an hour of competing timelines dancing with abandon across his mind, especially if it means the muscles which were so recently abused by the Autons can mend.
Determined, now, he stalks to his room, carelessly tossing his jacket aside, reaching down to pull off the Doc Martens he’s become so fond of. He takes a tentative sniff of his jumper, winces as he realizes it reeks of burnt plastic, and hastily shucks it before throwing it into the corner. His jeans follow, and he is soon sprawled across the cool comfort of his bed, his eyes already drooping as he idly considers sliding under the bed covering.
He’s fully asleep before he reaches a decision.
~ - ~
She is the first thing he sees, when he dreams. It takes him a moment to realize he’s not gone back in time, isn’t actually in with the Nestene Consciousness but is instead viewing a timeline-what could have been, instead of what was. He’s being held by Autons, his arms pinned back; powerless, he watches as the Autons are activated-and then as Rose Tyler does something utterly and completely remarkable. She swings out, setting him free, coming back to his embrace. But instead of smiling at her, as he knows he did-earning a smile in return-he kisses her. It’s the most natural act in the world, leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers; and yet he’s still surprised to see that she doesn’t protest, doesn’t shove him away. She instead relaxes against him, her hands sliding up under his jacket as she returns the kiss.
It’s enough to wake him, briefly; the shock of dreaming of kissing the young human, the rightness of the feeling of it, causing him to open his eyes with a gasp. The room is dark and the comforting hum of the TARDIS surrounds him, but he runs his hands across the bed just to be sure, to ground himself in the present reality instead of past possibilities. It’s an odd timeline to have stumbled across, as well; while he can concede that Rose Tyler most likely will grow into a beautiful representative of her species, the simple fact is that she’s too young-far, far too young-especially for an old alien like him. Her face and body still bear the slight roundness of youth; she still relies too heavily on makeup, an indication of her insecurity. She’s clever and surprisingly brash-but she’s not truly confident, not all of the time. In her current state, she’s nothing but a hint of what she might become; and in her current state, he wouldn’t dare dream of doing anything with her beyond-well, beyond holding her hand as they run across Westminster Bridge.
Further, the idea that she’d have returned his kiss is almost ludicrous. He’s not an attractive man, this incarnation; he’s not a patch on the previous version of himself, with bedroom eyes and hair that women couldn’t get enough of. It’s as though the Universe, discovering that it had to regenerate him, found a box of spare parts (human version) lying about and tossed them together in order to make a whole. His ears stick out like satellites; his nose would be more at home on a Roman sculpture. So the idea that him kissing Rose Tyler, and being kissed in return, appeared as even a possibility is almost laughable.
He lays back down, slipping under the fine linen of the bedcover, running his hand over his close-cropped hair (even his hair is unruly this incarnation, which is why he finally shaved it off in a fit of pique not three weeks earlier), then rubbing his fingers over his eyes. Forcing himself to relax, he sternly tells himself he will not be dabbling with the past this time round; that he’s happy to dream about the future instead, just so long as his body can get some much-needed time to heal.
~ - ~
His mind, for once, pays attention to his desires, and as he falls back into sleep he’s whisked along one of the many timelines stretching before him. He’s travelling in the Vortex, going to heaven-knows-where; and with him in the TARDIS is Rose Tyler, settled comfortably on his beloved chair in the console room. It’s always odd to see his own timelines-like watching himself in a mirror, or caught on film-and he watches awkwardly as time unspools before him. He and Rose, laughing, then kissing. The timeline skips, jumping him ahead an indeterminate amount of time; Rose Tyler is still there, with him. But this time, when she stands from the chair she is sporting a swollen belly, evidence of a growing child. She moves to him with the familiarity of a long-time lover; he responds with a smile and a kiss; and then the timeline jumps entirely away to a different track.
This time he’s gone elsewhere, alone, single-handedly taking down a regime built on enslaving another of the planet’s inhabitants (so many differences in the universe-yet so many similarities, too). He’s running, stumbles, falls; he’s certain he’s about to witness the death of him-the regeneration into another, newer version-when he’s suddenly in the moment and very aware that he’s alive and unscathed. Rolling over, blinking up into the sunlight, he sees Rose Tyler, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her expression grim. She’s older-at least a few years, by his guess-and she spares him only a grudging glance before stalking away.
He has to know why she’s there-how she’s there, centuries and light-years away from Earth. When he catches up to her, grabbing her arm, she turns around and hits him with a hearty, stinging slap, agony evident in her eyes. He’s even more startled when she then leans forward, kissing him, her body pressing against his desperately as she whispers his name over and over again. His name-the name he was given, the name no living soul knows at that point in time.
Another shift in timelines, back to observing, and this time it’s not his life he’s seeing but Rose’s. How she follows Mickey back to the block of flats where he first found her; how her life slowly shifts back into the rut it had been trapped in before he told her to run. How she keeps struggling to break free of it, angering her mother, her boyfriend, her friends. How she finds another job-the kind so many people keep telling her she’s meant to have, a chav like her with no schooling and nothing to recommend her but brass; and then how she stumbles across another alien invasion, this time earning the notice of UNIT. Watching her take to UNIT’s work so readily, he can’t help but beam with pride…until she is nearly killed during a field operation which never should have happened in the first place. He’s not entirely surprised-why should he be, by this point-when he sees himself appearing to save the doomed UNIT group. But he is a bit shocked when he sees himself inviting her along for a ride.
He never goes back and asks twice. Never.
His mind continues to follow timelines. His timeline, Rose Tyler’s timeline-even, at one point, Mickey Smith’s timeline. Mickey the idiot’s timeline is surpassingly odd in and of itself: images of Mickey dressed all in black, wielding a gun and a bad attitude. He’s not entirely sure it’s not a dream by the time his body has healed itself and his mind has decided to wake him up, two hours later. It’s the longest he’s slept since he got past his regeneration sickness, and he feels lethargic as he gets out of bed.
Rose Tyler haunts him; he can practically feel her presence in the TARDIS as he showers, then dresses himself. He makes his tea, pouring liberal amounts of milk and sugar into the cup-and he finds himself wondering how Rose Tyler would take her tea. He goes for a stroll in the gardens, after, trying to clear his mind and the last of his fatigue-and he finds himself wondering what Rose Tyler would make of the serpent-tailed hexdrallion he picked up from Lurant back in his sixth regeneration. He swears he can hear the echo of her laughter as he later walks the halls of the TARDIS, listlessness filling him, the loneliness pressing on him.
He moves to the console room, lazily tweaks the dials, knobs and levers; and then he settles onto the captain’s chair, leaning back and shutting his eyes.
Even there, in his sacred spot on the TARDIS, Rose Tyler haunts him. Not just the image of her, pregnant, bearing what would seem to have been his child based on how the two of them had interacted in that particular timeline; but the fact that the timelines his mind explored whilst he was asleep all involved her to some degree or other.
He crosses his arms, his head resting now against the top of the chair. Relaxing, he focuses inward, finding the sheaf of strands that indicate potential futures. Sorting through them as carefully as a merchant would silk, he finds one without Rose Tyler in it, and slowly begins to run along its length.
He sees himself travelling-visiting planets, getting arrested, saving lives, getting injured. All normal things, certainly-all part of what he views to be his job, his life. It’s not a bad life he sees (and he pauses a moment to marvel at being able to see the timeline at all-he normally can’t see too many of his own), and he’s sure that he’d be quite content living it.
And then the strand hiccups, the film skipping off the reel for a moment before being righted. And suddenly there’s Rose Tyler, her hand in his, her smile directed up at him as her eyes sparkle with excitement.
He sits upright, panting; he truly can’t seem to escape her, at least when dealing with probabilities. Which means, perhaps, that it’s time to deal a bit with the here and now-to set the TARDIS to random and see where and when he fetches up.
It’s a bumpy ride, but he fetches up on the fourth moon of a remote planet in a solar system thousands of light years from Earth. The perfect place, he thinks, for escaping Rose Tyler and getting back to his normal life. It’s a marketplace, teeming-as marketplaces always seem to do-with people of all species, from the blinding white of a Ripptuw to the ebony black of a Rylion and almost literally every hue in between. He marvels at how the noise of a crowd always sounds the same, regardless of language or planet or year; and he’s soon happily browsing the stalls, hunting for things that either don’t belong or which otherwise catch his eye.
He’s bartering with a Qriyut over a small piece of metal-he suspects it’ll come in handy when one of the more delicate pieces of the TARDIS finally gives way-when he’s suddenly distracted by a flash of blonde over the merchant’s red-skinned shoulder. He blinks, shaking his head; and then suddenly he sees ghosts and shadows in with the people truly surrounding him-an alternate, or possibly future, timeline overlaying the one he’s living. There she is, Rose Tyler; her hand is in his as he leads her down the stalls, and while she’s outright laughing his lips are pursed together, only his eyes giving away his amusement.
“Sir?” trills the vendor, and the shadows suddenly clear, the timelines brought under control as he focuses on the present. He accepts the offer the Qriyut quotes, knowing he’s paying too much but needing to leave, and he contemplates running back to the TARDIS as he pockets the bit of metal.
No. He’ll not run; he’ll stay on the planet, will enjoy himself if it’s the last thing he does. He needs a drink, possibly-not alcohol, but a good stiff glass of jilp ade, a concoction made from a local plant and one which has an almost sedative effect on Gallifreyans. He’ll get some, and he’ll nurse it, and then he will slowly make his way back to his beloved ship, take them off into the Vortex, and try to forget Rose bloody Tyler.
It’s a good plan, as far as it goes, but he fails to factor for a local organized crime syndicate deciding he’d make an easy mark after his drink. He’s sluggish, and ends up with a nasty cut to his shoulder; but he manages to make it out in the end and closes the door of the TARDIS behind him with a heavy sigh. He winces as he shrugs out of his jacket-the leather has a terrible gash running through it, and he hopes the TARDIS will be a dear and work a bit of magic on it-and then he slowly walks to the console, dematerializing into the Vortex just before he passes out on the floor.
The visions this time-for that’s truly the only way to describe them-are breathtaking. He’s focused on one timeline, now-a steady strand running from his past, through his present, to his future. It starts with the destruction of Gallifrey, with the agony of his death and the fever of his regeneration; with the slow reconstruction of the TARDIS as he gains strength, and then his travels as he slowly comes to grips with his continued existence. The strand shimmers as it passes before him-as he dons his leather jacket for the first time, as he then shaves his head, then lets the hair grow back, deciding he likes the close-cropped look. He turns up on Earth, in a large department store; and there’s a brief flash as the strand changes colour, the gold deepening even as it brightens. He watches himself with Rose Tyler, with Mickey Smith, with the Nestene Consciousness; and then he sees his past shift, watches as he goes back to ask Rose to travel with him immediately after he’d left her-and how she beams when she accepts, running into the TARDIS.
He can’t tell how long she’s with him, just knows she’s there for each of the adventures the timeline lets him see; he’s shifted from watcher to participant with the change, and watches as the places and people of the possible future skim by so fast they’re not recognizable.
Rose, though-he can always feel her hand in his, can hear her laughter. And as time continues to fly past them, he’s aware of her leaning up into him, kissing him; of him, leaning down to kiss her in return. Time continues to turn but the place suddenly crystallizes into sharp focus. They’re in his room, on the TARDIS, and he’s covering her-an older, wiser Rose-with his body, making love to her. She’s smiling up at him, whispering his name-again, his name, not his chosen title-and then she’s arching up into him, beautiful, entirely his.
His world explodes in a dazzle of gold and white as he climaxes-and he’s completely dazed as he opens his eyes and finds he’s both fully clothed and completely alone. He’s also, oddly, collapsed in a heap at the base of the console. His right shoulder is burning, the pain radiating in a throbbing pulse; and he groggily pulls himself up, noting idly the glint of blood on the grating of the TARDIS.
His beloved ship has put the infirmary just off the console room, and he drags himself to the clean space, forcing himself to take his clothes off, to see to getting the gash along his shoulder sealed up with the equipment available to him in the room. There’s a neat pink line across his skin when he’s done; it will fade to white, a reminder of why he was always cautioned not to drink jilp ade in the first place.
~ - ~
He puts up with months of this-of the visions and the dreams and the echoes of Rose Tyler, of the way she’s present simply by her looming absence-by bouncing between planets and eras, toppling governments with almost reckless abandon, righting the wrongs of a hundred worlds with the passion of a Fury. He takes on companions for a short while, needing their company to keep from going completely round the bend. He always brings them along for a few short adventures before returning them home once he realizes they’re not Rose Tyler, that they lack her potential, her spark.
He’s driving himself as hard as he can, trying to force the timelines into submission through sheer determination-and he thinks he’s succeeded when, finally, those timelines and images fade.
He’s surprised to realize how much he misses her-misses seeing her, even if it is in alternate timelines or simple possibilities, or the way he can almost feel her even after he wakes from his naps. Instead of sleeping (relatively) peacefully, he’s now even more restless when he takes a kip; and as he reaches the second month of being without any hint of Rose Tyler, he finally breaks.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters, his hands dancing over the console. “I’ll go back for her.” He’s not sure who he’s telling this to-the TARDIS is, after all, empty but for him, and while his frankly magnificent ship certainly has a mental link to him it’s not like she’ll reply. Yet he feels the overwhelming need to state his intentions aloud, to tell the Universe of his plans.
It’s going to be tricky, making sure to land so precisely; and he takes a step back after setting the coordinates to give the console a steady, stern gaze, idly nibbling his thumb as he thinks. He’s fairly sure he’s got the coordinates correct; he’s also fairly sure that he’s got the timing down. But it’s terribly important to get this right; to make sure he lands just after he’s left, to do what, apparently, he was meant to do all along. To have Rose Tyler travel with him.
He’s not entirely sure that they’re meant to be lovers-and if they are, it’s certainly not now, when she’s still so very young. It’s a bit strange, though, thinking in terms like that; thinking of going to pick her up with the sole purpose of taking her to his bed when she’s old enough. It smacks of stalking, or making her a concubine, and he forces himself to step back from the console, to turn away from pushing the button which will take him to her.
If he does this-if he goes back for her-he needs to be sure it’s not because of the visions he’s had of them making love, or of her bearing his child (an image he’s now seen multiple times). He needs to be sure, unequivocally, that he’s going back because she has something to contribute to the Universe, that she will make it a better place-that she’ll make him a better person, and that she’ll grow, too. Anything that comes out of that-be it love, be it friendship-has to be organic. It can’t be an expectation of his; it can’t be a demand.
He has to go back to her, ask her to travel with him. He has to always be cognizant of not forcing her to make choices simply to fulfill timelines he’s seen-timelines which are only possibilities.
He takes another step away, then another; he’ll just go catch a quick nap then change into the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d first met her. And then he’ll go back and, for an unprecedented second time, he’ll ask her to travel with him.
~ - ~
“I didn’t think you’d come back, you know.” Rose is in bed next to him, her hand languidly tracing lines up and down his sternum after they’ve made love.
“Why’s that?” he asks, lazily, his hand capturing hers and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.
“It’s not like you gave the impression of being the sort of bloke who’d make a second offer.” She’s smiling fondly at him, and laces her fingers through his.
“What if I told you that you tormented me into coming back for you?”
She raises her eyebrows, briefly, before a wolfish smile curves her lips. “And how’d I do that?” She presses against him, her skin flush with his, her leg now hitching over his.
“Not like that,” he says, his voice low. He turns his head to her, gently rubs his cheek against her hair as he closes his eyes. “Couldn’t stop seeing you, ahead, behind; you were always in my timeline. Twisted up in it. Inescapable.” He places a kiss over her hair now, then leans forward as she look up to him. “Inevitable,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against hers.
~ - ~
He can still feel the effects of the dream when he wakes. He thinks it was a dream, at any rate; it had a completely different feel about it from seeing possibilities. A bit like watching something in film versus seeing it on video-a difference in clarity and sharpness.
He takes his time showering once he’s awake; forces himself to push the dream aside, burying it deep in his mind, almost to the point of getting rid of the memory altogether. He could, of course-could trick himself into forgetting all of the months since he left Rose Tyler behind in that London alley, Mickey Smith clinging to her leg. Instincts tell him not to, though; his time sense, oddly, is one of those instincts, the timelines going a bit wobbly whenever he considers getting rid of the memories.
So no, he’ll not rid himself of them. What he will do is exert an iron self-control around Rose Tyler (for he is certain, now, she’ll come along if asked again), and wait to see how the timeline unfurls before them once they’re travelling together.
He pulls on his jumper, his jeans, his jacket; deftly tightens the laces on his boots before tying them and standing. The coordinates are still set from before he slept, and he slaps the command home with the flat of his palm. It’s mere seconds from then until his ship materializes; he realizes, with a quirk of his lips, that the TARDIS approves of this return trip. And then he has time for one deep breath before he crosses over to the doors and pulls one open.
Rose Tyler is just where he’d left her, a year before; she’s staring, gobsmacked, at the TARDIS, while Mickey Smith continues to be wrapped around her leg.
He realizes he’s got no idea how to ask her along again. A year spent debating whether or not to bring her along, and then he returns for her and hasn’t a clue what to say.
“By the way - did I mention, it also travels in time?” he asks, the words spilling from his lips. It’s a ridiculous, silly thing to say, and he slinks back through the door, hopeful that she’ll consider it a brilliant line and come running.
He doesn’t know what she says to her boyfriend in that alley, just knows that it takes long enough that he’s actively worried she’s turning him down again; but she soon runs, elated, through the doors, a grin on her face. He can’t help himself-he catches her in a hug, spins her round with a delighted smile, brushing a stolen kiss against her hair before he sets her down to close the doors.
She’s accepted his offer. And, suddenly, he feels the best he’s felt in over a year.
~ fin ~
Author: jlrpuck
Rating: MA
Characters: Ninth Doctor, Rose
Word Count: 4,345
Summary: “"Time's in flux. It's changing every second. Your cozy little world could be rewritten like that." What if the Doctor had made a different decision at the end of “Rose”?
Spoilers: Only for “Rose”.
Authors Notes: Written for the Time in Flux ficathon at
doctor_rose_fic. I signed up and promptly got the episode that most terrified me, given the following parameter: The premise of this fic-a-thon is to get the Doctor and Rose together as a couple in every episode of the series After all-how do you get the Ninth Doctor and Rose together when they’ve only just met...and do it so that the rest of the episodes can still happen, as-written?
Many-infinite-thanks to
ginamak for the help with the story idea, and to Ms. Mak,
earlgreytea68, and
chicklet73 for their betaing and encouragement.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
- Robert Frost
It’s when he’s sleeping-or trying to-that controlling his visions of the timelines becomes the hardest. What is, was, will never be-they all flood through his mind, appearing as sequential or sometimes conflicting scenes, the images saturated in color and dripping with hyper-realism. It’s part of why he tries not to sleep; part of why when he does sleep, it’s for as short a period of time as possible. It’s part of why he was mocked, mercilessly, as a student-for the lack of self-control which would keep those images from running rampant when he let his guard down for the rest his body desperately needed.
But it’s been a long few days-a long few months, really, since he finally got himself together after the destruction of Gallifrey. It’s the first time he’s been back to Earth since the Time War; the first time he’s committed genocide, too, since the day he pushed the button that sent his tormenters, his friends, his family into screaming oblivion.
It’s the first time since he’s regenerated that someone’s taken his hand, holding it without judging him, and it’s the first time in what feels like centuries that he’s found himself curious and intrigued by a human. A young human, at that: too young to recognize what it was he was offering her when he invited her along, too immature to grasp it, and far, far too loyal to her cowering boyfriend to accept his offer even if she had been tempted.
He makes sure the TARDIS is stable in the Vortex, having just left the intriguing human and her sniveling mate behind. Mate-he suspects that while Mickey Smith might have ideas of marrying the woman he’s dating, Rose Tyler already knows that there are other, bigger things out in the world and that she’s even contemplating moving on.
One last look at the monitor, showing the colourful, swirling script of a world that no longer exists-a constant, damning reminder of what he’s done-and then he wearily turns away from the comforting glow and motion of the time rotor. It’s time for rest; time to let his body relax, even if his mind will stubbornly run amok. An hour, at most: he can bear an hour of competing timelines dancing with abandon across his mind, especially if it means the muscles which were so recently abused by the Autons can mend.
Determined, now, he stalks to his room, carelessly tossing his jacket aside, reaching down to pull off the Doc Martens he’s become so fond of. He takes a tentative sniff of his jumper, winces as he realizes it reeks of burnt plastic, and hastily shucks it before throwing it into the corner. His jeans follow, and he is soon sprawled across the cool comfort of his bed, his eyes already drooping as he idly considers sliding under the bed covering.
He’s fully asleep before he reaches a decision.
~ - ~
She is the first thing he sees, when he dreams. It takes him a moment to realize he’s not gone back in time, isn’t actually in with the Nestene Consciousness but is instead viewing a timeline-what could have been, instead of what was. He’s being held by Autons, his arms pinned back; powerless, he watches as the Autons are activated-and then as Rose Tyler does something utterly and completely remarkable. She swings out, setting him free, coming back to his embrace. But instead of smiling at her, as he knows he did-earning a smile in return-he kisses her. It’s the most natural act in the world, leaning forward, pressing his lips to hers; and yet he’s still surprised to see that she doesn’t protest, doesn’t shove him away. She instead relaxes against him, her hands sliding up under his jacket as she returns the kiss.
It’s enough to wake him, briefly; the shock of dreaming of kissing the young human, the rightness of the feeling of it, causing him to open his eyes with a gasp. The room is dark and the comforting hum of the TARDIS surrounds him, but he runs his hands across the bed just to be sure, to ground himself in the present reality instead of past possibilities. It’s an odd timeline to have stumbled across, as well; while he can concede that Rose Tyler most likely will grow into a beautiful representative of her species, the simple fact is that she’s too young-far, far too young-especially for an old alien like him. Her face and body still bear the slight roundness of youth; she still relies too heavily on makeup, an indication of her insecurity. She’s clever and surprisingly brash-but she’s not truly confident, not all of the time. In her current state, she’s nothing but a hint of what she might become; and in her current state, he wouldn’t dare dream of doing anything with her beyond-well, beyond holding her hand as they run across Westminster Bridge.
Further, the idea that she’d have returned his kiss is almost ludicrous. He’s not an attractive man, this incarnation; he’s not a patch on the previous version of himself, with bedroom eyes and hair that women couldn’t get enough of. It’s as though the Universe, discovering that it had to regenerate him, found a box of spare parts (human version) lying about and tossed them together in order to make a whole. His ears stick out like satellites; his nose would be more at home on a Roman sculpture. So the idea that him kissing Rose Tyler, and being kissed in return, appeared as even a possibility is almost laughable.
He lays back down, slipping under the fine linen of the bedcover, running his hand over his close-cropped hair (even his hair is unruly this incarnation, which is why he finally shaved it off in a fit of pique not three weeks earlier), then rubbing his fingers over his eyes. Forcing himself to relax, he sternly tells himself he will not be dabbling with the past this time round; that he’s happy to dream about the future instead, just so long as his body can get some much-needed time to heal.
~ - ~
His mind, for once, pays attention to his desires, and as he falls back into sleep he’s whisked along one of the many timelines stretching before him. He’s travelling in the Vortex, going to heaven-knows-where; and with him in the TARDIS is Rose Tyler, settled comfortably on his beloved chair in the console room. It’s always odd to see his own timelines-like watching himself in a mirror, or caught on film-and he watches awkwardly as time unspools before him. He and Rose, laughing, then kissing. The timeline skips, jumping him ahead an indeterminate amount of time; Rose Tyler is still there, with him. But this time, when she stands from the chair she is sporting a swollen belly, evidence of a growing child. She moves to him with the familiarity of a long-time lover; he responds with a smile and a kiss; and then the timeline jumps entirely away to a different track.
This time he’s gone elsewhere, alone, single-handedly taking down a regime built on enslaving another of the planet’s inhabitants (so many differences in the universe-yet so many similarities, too). He’s running, stumbles, falls; he’s certain he’s about to witness the death of him-the regeneration into another, newer version-when he’s suddenly in the moment and very aware that he’s alive and unscathed. Rolling over, blinking up into the sunlight, he sees Rose Tyler, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her expression grim. She’s older-at least a few years, by his guess-and she spares him only a grudging glance before stalking away.
He has to know why she’s there-how she’s there, centuries and light-years away from Earth. When he catches up to her, grabbing her arm, she turns around and hits him with a hearty, stinging slap, agony evident in her eyes. He’s even more startled when she then leans forward, kissing him, her body pressing against his desperately as she whispers his name over and over again. His name-the name he was given, the name no living soul knows at that point in time.
Another shift in timelines, back to observing, and this time it’s not his life he’s seeing but Rose’s. How she follows Mickey back to the block of flats where he first found her; how her life slowly shifts back into the rut it had been trapped in before he told her to run. How she keeps struggling to break free of it, angering her mother, her boyfriend, her friends. How she finds another job-the kind so many people keep telling her she’s meant to have, a chav like her with no schooling and nothing to recommend her but brass; and then how she stumbles across another alien invasion, this time earning the notice of UNIT. Watching her take to UNIT’s work so readily, he can’t help but beam with pride…until she is nearly killed during a field operation which never should have happened in the first place. He’s not entirely surprised-why should he be, by this point-when he sees himself appearing to save the doomed UNIT group. But he is a bit shocked when he sees himself inviting her along for a ride.
He never goes back and asks twice. Never.
His mind continues to follow timelines. His timeline, Rose Tyler’s timeline-even, at one point, Mickey Smith’s timeline. Mickey the idiot’s timeline is surpassingly odd in and of itself: images of Mickey dressed all in black, wielding a gun and a bad attitude. He’s not entirely sure it’s not a dream by the time his body has healed itself and his mind has decided to wake him up, two hours later. It’s the longest he’s slept since he got past his regeneration sickness, and he feels lethargic as he gets out of bed.
Rose Tyler haunts him; he can practically feel her presence in the TARDIS as he showers, then dresses himself. He makes his tea, pouring liberal amounts of milk and sugar into the cup-and he finds himself wondering how Rose Tyler would take her tea. He goes for a stroll in the gardens, after, trying to clear his mind and the last of his fatigue-and he finds himself wondering what Rose Tyler would make of the serpent-tailed hexdrallion he picked up from Lurant back in his sixth regeneration. He swears he can hear the echo of her laughter as he later walks the halls of the TARDIS, listlessness filling him, the loneliness pressing on him.
He moves to the console room, lazily tweaks the dials, knobs and levers; and then he settles onto the captain’s chair, leaning back and shutting his eyes.
Even there, in his sacred spot on the TARDIS, Rose Tyler haunts him. Not just the image of her, pregnant, bearing what would seem to have been his child based on how the two of them had interacted in that particular timeline; but the fact that the timelines his mind explored whilst he was asleep all involved her to some degree or other.
He crosses his arms, his head resting now against the top of the chair. Relaxing, he focuses inward, finding the sheaf of strands that indicate potential futures. Sorting through them as carefully as a merchant would silk, he finds one without Rose Tyler in it, and slowly begins to run along its length.
He sees himself travelling-visiting planets, getting arrested, saving lives, getting injured. All normal things, certainly-all part of what he views to be his job, his life. It’s not a bad life he sees (and he pauses a moment to marvel at being able to see the timeline at all-he normally can’t see too many of his own), and he’s sure that he’d be quite content living it.
And then the strand hiccups, the film skipping off the reel for a moment before being righted. And suddenly there’s Rose Tyler, her hand in his, her smile directed up at him as her eyes sparkle with excitement.
He sits upright, panting; he truly can’t seem to escape her, at least when dealing with probabilities. Which means, perhaps, that it’s time to deal a bit with the here and now-to set the TARDIS to random and see where and when he fetches up.
It’s a bumpy ride, but he fetches up on the fourth moon of a remote planet in a solar system thousands of light years from Earth. The perfect place, he thinks, for escaping Rose Tyler and getting back to his normal life. It’s a marketplace, teeming-as marketplaces always seem to do-with people of all species, from the blinding white of a Ripptuw to the ebony black of a Rylion and almost literally every hue in between. He marvels at how the noise of a crowd always sounds the same, regardless of language or planet or year; and he’s soon happily browsing the stalls, hunting for things that either don’t belong or which otherwise catch his eye.
He’s bartering with a Qriyut over a small piece of metal-he suspects it’ll come in handy when one of the more delicate pieces of the TARDIS finally gives way-when he’s suddenly distracted by a flash of blonde over the merchant’s red-skinned shoulder. He blinks, shaking his head; and then suddenly he sees ghosts and shadows in with the people truly surrounding him-an alternate, or possibly future, timeline overlaying the one he’s living. There she is, Rose Tyler; her hand is in his as he leads her down the stalls, and while she’s outright laughing his lips are pursed together, only his eyes giving away his amusement.
“Sir?” trills the vendor, and the shadows suddenly clear, the timelines brought under control as he focuses on the present. He accepts the offer the Qriyut quotes, knowing he’s paying too much but needing to leave, and he contemplates running back to the TARDIS as he pockets the bit of metal.
No. He’ll not run; he’ll stay on the planet, will enjoy himself if it’s the last thing he does. He needs a drink, possibly-not alcohol, but a good stiff glass of jilp ade, a concoction made from a local plant and one which has an almost sedative effect on Gallifreyans. He’ll get some, and he’ll nurse it, and then he will slowly make his way back to his beloved ship, take them off into the Vortex, and try to forget Rose bloody Tyler.
It’s a good plan, as far as it goes, but he fails to factor for a local organized crime syndicate deciding he’d make an easy mark after his drink. He’s sluggish, and ends up with a nasty cut to his shoulder; but he manages to make it out in the end and closes the door of the TARDIS behind him with a heavy sigh. He winces as he shrugs out of his jacket-the leather has a terrible gash running through it, and he hopes the TARDIS will be a dear and work a bit of magic on it-and then he slowly walks to the console, dematerializing into the Vortex just before he passes out on the floor.
The visions this time-for that’s truly the only way to describe them-are breathtaking. He’s focused on one timeline, now-a steady strand running from his past, through his present, to his future. It starts with the destruction of Gallifrey, with the agony of his death and the fever of his regeneration; with the slow reconstruction of the TARDIS as he gains strength, and then his travels as he slowly comes to grips with his continued existence. The strand shimmers as it passes before him-as he dons his leather jacket for the first time, as he then shaves his head, then lets the hair grow back, deciding he likes the close-cropped look. He turns up on Earth, in a large department store; and there’s a brief flash as the strand changes colour, the gold deepening even as it brightens. He watches himself with Rose Tyler, with Mickey Smith, with the Nestene Consciousness; and then he sees his past shift, watches as he goes back to ask Rose to travel with him immediately after he’d left her-and how she beams when she accepts, running into the TARDIS.
He can’t tell how long she’s with him, just knows she’s there for each of the adventures the timeline lets him see; he’s shifted from watcher to participant with the change, and watches as the places and people of the possible future skim by so fast they’re not recognizable.
Rose, though-he can always feel her hand in his, can hear her laughter. And as time continues to fly past them, he’s aware of her leaning up into him, kissing him; of him, leaning down to kiss her in return. Time continues to turn but the place suddenly crystallizes into sharp focus. They’re in his room, on the TARDIS, and he’s covering her-an older, wiser Rose-with his body, making love to her. She’s smiling up at him, whispering his name-again, his name, not his chosen title-and then she’s arching up into him, beautiful, entirely his.
His world explodes in a dazzle of gold and white as he climaxes-and he’s completely dazed as he opens his eyes and finds he’s both fully clothed and completely alone. He’s also, oddly, collapsed in a heap at the base of the console. His right shoulder is burning, the pain radiating in a throbbing pulse; and he groggily pulls himself up, noting idly the glint of blood on the grating of the TARDIS.
His beloved ship has put the infirmary just off the console room, and he drags himself to the clean space, forcing himself to take his clothes off, to see to getting the gash along his shoulder sealed up with the equipment available to him in the room. There’s a neat pink line across his skin when he’s done; it will fade to white, a reminder of why he was always cautioned not to drink jilp ade in the first place.
~ - ~
He puts up with months of this-of the visions and the dreams and the echoes of Rose Tyler, of the way she’s present simply by her looming absence-by bouncing between planets and eras, toppling governments with almost reckless abandon, righting the wrongs of a hundred worlds with the passion of a Fury. He takes on companions for a short while, needing their company to keep from going completely round the bend. He always brings them along for a few short adventures before returning them home once he realizes they’re not Rose Tyler, that they lack her potential, her spark.
He’s driving himself as hard as he can, trying to force the timelines into submission through sheer determination-and he thinks he’s succeeded when, finally, those timelines and images fade.
He’s surprised to realize how much he misses her-misses seeing her, even if it is in alternate timelines or simple possibilities, or the way he can almost feel her even after he wakes from his naps. Instead of sleeping (relatively) peacefully, he’s now even more restless when he takes a kip; and as he reaches the second month of being without any hint of Rose Tyler, he finally breaks.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters, his hands dancing over the console. “I’ll go back for her.” He’s not sure who he’s telling this to-the TARDIS is, after all, empty but for him, and while his frankly magnificent ship certainly has a mental link to him it’s not like she’ll reply. Yet he feels the overwhelming need to state his intentions aloud, to tell the Universe of his plans.
It’s going to be tricky, making sure to land so precisely; and he takes a step back after setting the coordinates to give the console a steady, stern gaze, idly nibbling his thumb as he thinks. He’s fairly sure he’s got the coordinates correct; he’s also fairly sure that he’s got the timing down. But it’s terribly important to get this right; to make sure he lands just after he’s left, to do what, apparently, he was meant to do all along. To have Rose Tyler travel with him.
He’s not entirely sure that they’re meant to be lovers-and if they are, it’s certainly not now, when she’s still so very young. It’s a bit strange, though, thinking in terms like that; thinking of going to pick her up with the sole purpose of taking her to his bed when she’s old enough. It smacks of stalking, or making her a concubine, and he forces himself to step back from the console, to turn away from pushing the button which will take him to her.
If he does this-if he goes back for her-he needs to be sure it’s not because of the visions he’s had of them making love, or of her bearing his child (an image he’s now seen multiple times). He needs to be sure, unequivocally, that he’s going back because she has something to contribute to the Universe, that she will make it a better place-that she’ll make him a better person, and that she’ll grow, too. Anything that comes out of that-be it love, be it friendship-has to be organic. It can’t be an expectation of his; it can’t be a demand.
He has to go back to her, ask her to travel with him. He has to always be cognizant of not forcing her to make choices simply to fulfill timelines he’s seen-timelines which are only possibilities.
He takes another step away, then another; he’ll just go catch a quick nap then change into the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d first met her. And then he’ll go back and, for an unprecedented second time, he’ll ask her to travel with him.
~ - ~
“I didn’t think you’d come back, you know.” Rose is in bed next to him, her hand languidly tracing lines up and down his sternum after they’ve made love.
“Why’s that?” he asks, lazily, his hand capturing hers and bringing it to his lips for a kiss.
“It’s not like you gave the impression of being the sort of bloke who’d make a second offer.” She’s smiling fondly at him, and laces her fingers through his.
“What if I told you that you tormented me into coming back for you?”
She raises her eyebrows, briefly, before a wolfish smile curves her lips. “And how’d I do that?” She presses against him, her skin flush with his, her leg now hitching over his.
“Not like that,” he says, his voice low. He turns his head to her, gently rubs his cheek against her hair as he closes his eyes. “Couldn’t stop seeing you, ahead, behind; you were always in my timeline. Twisted up in it. Inescapable.” He places a kiss over her hair now, then leans forward as she look up to him. “Inevitable,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against hers.
~ - ~
He can still feel the effects of the dream when he wakes. He thinks it was a dream, at any rate; it had a completely different feel about it from seeing possibilities. A bit like watching something in film versus seeing it on video-a difference in clarity and sharpness.
He takes his time showering once he’s awake; forces himself to push the dream aside, burying it deep in his mind, almost to the point of getting rid of the memory altogether. He could, of course-could trick himself into forgetting all of the months since he left Rose Tyler behind in that London alley, Mickey Smith clinging to her leg. Instincts tell him not to, though; his time sense, oddly, is one of those instincts, the timelines going a bit wobbly whenever he considers getting rid of the memories.
So no, he’ll not rid himself of them. What he will do is exert an iron self-control around Rose Tyler (for he is certain, now, she’ll come along if asked again), and wait to see how the timeline unfurls before them once they’re travelling together.
He pulls on his jumper, his jeans, his jacket; deftly tightens the laces on his boots before tying them and standing. The coordinates are still set from before he slept, and he slaps the command home with the flat of his palm. It’s mere seconds from then until his ship materializes; he realizes, with a quirk of his lips, that the TARDIS approves of this return trip. And then he has time for one deep breath before he crosses over to the doors and pulls one open.
Rose Tyler is just where he’d left her, a year before; she’s staring, gobsmacked, at the TARDIS, while Mickey Smith continues to be wrapped around her leg.
He realizes he’s got no idea how to ask her along again. A year spent debating whether or not to bring her along, and then he returns for her and hasn’t a clue what to say.
“By the way - did I mention, it also travels in time?” he asks, the words spilling from his lips. It’s a ridiculous, silly thing to say, and he slinks back through the door, hopeful that she’ll consider it a brilliant line and come running.
He doesn’t know what she says to her boyfriend in that alley, just knows that it takes long enough that he’s actively worried she’s turning him down again; but she soon runs, elated, through the doors, a grin on her face. He can’t help himself-he catches her in a hug, spins her round with a delighted smile, brushing a stolen kiss against her hair before he sets her down to close the doors.
She’s accepted his offer. And, suddenly, he feels the best he’s felt in over a year.
~ fin ~