(no subject)
The Doctor, Ten/Rose, G
What if the Doctor went looking for Rose after Doomsday?
Then the little crease appears just above her nose. He wants to smooth it over with his thumb. It has no business being there. “It is you, isn’t it?”, 639 words
The Doctor
In one universe, Rose is an archaeologist.
He watches her from behind the antique column as she animatedly explains the hieroglyphs engraved in the wall of temple taking up the centre of the airy construction of steel and glass that is now its home. Rose Tyler is, in part, responsible for having the temple removed from the Egyptian sands where it would have been doomed to an eternity under water in a reservoir project.
She is as beautiful as ever, but she isn’t his. He turns to leave.
“Sir?”
She’s spotted him. Naturally.
“Doctor?” he asks, smiling.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, I… I’ve just been admiring the hieroglyphs,” he gestures feebly at the Egyptian writing. He hasn’t, of course, his desire to get Rose back making him blind to almost everything else. Who knew what this universe’s Egyptians had been up to. Well, Rose would find out. His brilliant Rose.
Not his, he reminds himself. He knows his eyes are darkening.
“They’re exceptionally beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, glowing with pride and enthusiasm. Then the little crease appears just above her nose. He wants to smooth it over with his thumb. It has no business being there.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
“What?” he squeaks. The crease was one of recognition. All the more reason for it to disappear.
“Come,” she says, her voice filled with the authority of a mother, that quality that does not invite protest. She takes him by the hand and leads him through the smaller galleries to a minuscule room that is overlooked by most visitors. It is painted blue, and the vaulted ceiling is painted with golden stars. Behind a protective pane of glass he sees it. It’s a painting of him, done in tempera on wood and intended to adorn his grave. He’s been looking for it. No wonder he hasn’t been able to find it, what with it being trapped here.
“This doesn’t belong here,” he says. No need to claim this isn’t him. Rose knows it too well, and the artist has done a brilliant job.
Rose opens the flap of her satchel and pulls out a well-used notebook. She holds it out for him.
He takes it, pushes the elastic aside that’s holding the bulging book together. It is filled with her handwriting, quick sketches and pictures of him. He as a Roman. He as a medieval nobleman. A Renaissance merchant. An engineer. A man in a dapper suit, pinstriped, but not at all like his brown and blue ones. Some of the written entries are dated. In times past and future.
Confused, he looks up.
“I made them.”
“I can see that.” She’s talented. “When?”
“When we were travelling.”
“But we haven’t met before.”
She purses her lips. It’s a gesture of hers he’s not familiar with. “It’s because I found this during the excavations in Egypt,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a bit… timey-wimey, but I’ve had a while to think things over.”
What she says does make sense. But. “I don’t belong here,” he repeats.
“So you’ve said. But you have the TARDIS. We travelled - will travel - together for a while.”
“I can’t, Rose,” he says. “You aren’t… mine. I don’t belong here.”
“For the time that we spent together, you will,” she says, getting the hang of tenses quickly.
Her words imply that he has to stay. But she also knows that they will have to part ways one day. His hearts know that he’s sick and tired of looking for her, of jumping from universe to universe in an attempt to find her. It can’t hurt to stay.
He’s already fallen in love with her.
What if the Doctor went looking for Rose after Doomsday?
Then the little crease appears just above her nose. He wants to smooth it over with his thumb. It has no business being there. “It is you, isn’t it?”, 639 words
The Doctor
In one universe, Rose is an archaeologist.
He watches her from behind the antique column as she animatedly explains the hieroglyphs engraved in the wall of temple taking up the centre of the airy construction of steel and glass that is now its home. Rose Tyler is, in part, responsible for having the temple removed from the Egyptian sands where it would have been doomed to an eternity under water in a reservoir project.
She is as beautiful as ever, but she isn’t his. He turns to leave.
“Sir?”
She’s spotted him. Naturally.
“Doctor?” he asks, smiling.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, I… I’ve just been admiring the hieroglyphs,” he gestures feebly at the Egyptian writing. He hasn’t, of course, his desire to get Rose back making him blind to almost everything else. Who knew what this universe’s Egyptians had been up to. Well, Rose would find out. His brilliant Rose.
Not his, he reminds himself. He knows his eyes are darkening.
“They’re exceptionally beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, glowing with pride and enthusiasm. Then the little crease appears just above her nose. He wants to smooth it over with his thumb. It has no business being there.
“It is you, isn’t it?”
“What?” he squeaks. The crease was one of recognition. All the more reason for it to disappear.
“Come,” she says, her voice filled with the authority of a mother, that quality that does not invite protest. She takes him by the hand and leads him through the smaller galleries to a minuscule room that is overlooked by most visitors. It is painted blue, and the vaulted ceiling is painted with golden stars. Behind a protective pane of glass he sees it. It’s a painting of him, done in tempera on wood and intended to adorn his grave. He’s been looking for it. No wonder he hasn’t been able to find it, what with it being trapped here.
“This doesn’t belong here,” he says. No need to claim this isn’t him. Rose knows it too well, and the artist has done a brilliant job.
Rose opens the flap of her satchel and pulls out a well-used notebook. She holds it out for him.
He takes it, pushes the elastic aside that’s holding the bulging book together. It is filled with her handwriting, quick sketches and pictures of him. He as a Roman. He as a medieval nobleman. A Renaissance merchant. An engineer. A man in a dapper suit, pinstriped, but not at all like his brown and blue ones. Some of the written entries are dated. In times past and future.
Confused, he looks up.
“I made them.”
“I can see that.” She’s talented. “When?”
“When we were travelling.”
“But we haven’t met before.”
She purses her lips. It’s a gesture of hers he’s not familiar with. “It’s because I found this during the excavations in Egypt,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a bit… timey-wimey, but I’ve had a while to think things over.”
What she says does make sense. But. “I don’t belong here,” he repeats.
“So you’ve said. But you have the TARDIS. We travelled - will travel - together for a while.”
“I can’t, Rose,” he says. “You aren’t… mine. I don’t belong here.”
“For the time that we spent together, you will,” she says, getting the hang of tenses quickly.
Her words imply that he has to stay. But she also knows that they will have to part ways one day. His hearts know that he’s sick and tired of looking for her, of jumping from universe to universe in an attempt to find her. It can’t hurt to stay.
He’s already fallen in love with her.