Disclaimer Haiku –

The BBC owns

The copyright. I'm poor

And can't compete. Poo.

A/N – First attempt at any type of Dr. Who fanfic. That'll teach me to say people can request anything they like in fic-a-thons. For Nemain.

Continuity – After the end of the 2005 series. Some big spoilers for the last few episodes, minor spoilers for earlier in the series. Obviously this will be contradicted by the Christmas Special, but I can have fun with 'what-ifs' until then.

Faster Than a Speeding Dream Sequence

© Scribbler, November 2005.

"Up and at 'em."

"Mrrf. Five more minutes."

"No way. Get up, you lazy sod. I made breakfast."

Rose cracked open an eye and then shut it again. It was entirely too bright to think about getting up. She pulled the covers tighter and scrunched up small when someone tried to tug them off. "Go 'way."

"I don't think so. C'mon, you know I hate cooking. At least try to look impressed."

Sighing, Rose let go of the quilt and pulled herself upright. She was rewarded with a metal tray in her lap, covered in a floral print and a very sorry-looking breakfast. The toast was burnt, the egg looked like the fallout from a nuclear explosion, and it was obvious Mickey had forgotten to shake the packet of orange juice before cutting it open with a pair of nail-scissors. The glass was full of pale liquid, meaning whoever had the last bit would have to drink bitty sludge.

"It's … nice," she tried. "Very thoughtful."

"Thanks." Mickey sat beside her on the bed, full clothed. He was wearing a black leather jacket that looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn't think why. Usually he hated leather. "So, all set for the big day?"

"What big day?"

"Duh. First day at college, remember?" He made a great show of knocking lightly on her head with his knuckles. "The thing you've been in a flid over since July? A-Levels, tutors, really big work schedule - ringing any bells, am I?"

"I …" He wasn't actually. College? But … she didn't have any A-Levels planned. Or many GCSEs, come to that. Surely not even enough to get into a sixth form college …

Except that Mickey was looking at her so openly, his face like a thick-paged book with big words like 'apple', 'cat' and 'this is a' in it. He could never lie using that face. He just wasn't good enough to lie using that face.

Which meant …

Oh, shit. College. Major stress! She had no clue what time she was meant to be there, and she needed to shower and use the hair straighteners first, or she'd look like some refuge from a commune where they just ate lentils, tilled fields and farted all day. She'd bought her straighteners cheap from Argos, sacrificing a couple of new Boots No. 7 mascara sticks for ceramic-plated no-more-kinks-here-I-come. Any big day meant she had to use them, if just to validate buying them.

Flinging back the covers, Rose bounded to her feet.

"Whoa, whoa!" said Mickey, catching the tray before it could spill anything. "Mind the carpet!"

"Can't talk – stressing." She ran to the dressing table, sorting through make-up and toiletries until she found what she wanted. Then she paused with the plug in her hand. "Wait a second – why are you here?"

Mickey looked puzzled. "Uh, because I live here?"

Rose looked around. This wasn't his flat. It wasn't her mum's place, either. It had beige walls and cream carpet and radiators with little wooden shelves nailed above them. The ceiling had cornices. She didn't recognise any of it.

But she'd known exactly where the straighteners were.

"Rose?" Mickey set the tray on the bedside table, next to a photograph of a woman in a peach wedding dress, and came towards her. "You okay? You've gone all pale."

"I'm…" The photograph. It looked kind of like Mum … only younger, with straighter hair and too much eyeliner. "I…"

"You're not going to be sick, are you? It's not that big a deal. Honest. You only have classes this morning, then we can go to the pub for lunch."

Scattered across time …

Rose pressed the heel of one hand against her left eye.

"Rose?" Mickey sounded really concerned. He made to touch her, but she pulled away.

This wasn't right. It wasn't –

My Doctor…

"This isn't real." The thought arrived in her head of its own volition, like an unwanted guest appearing from behind the settee the morning after a night of really intensive partying. "None of this is real."

"What are you talking about?" Mickey frowned, making that little vertical line between his eyes. She used to think that was so endearing and cute. She'd call him Mick the Dick when he went too far, though. He hated that, so she didn't use it very often. Mick the Dick and Rosy Posy Pudding and Pie. "Rose - "

You were great.

"He's gone…"

And you know what?

"Who's gone?"

So was I.

"Rose, what's going on? Don't you feel well? Do you need, like, a doctor or something?"

Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Tra la la la laaaa …

Rose closed her eyes.

And opened them again to stare up at one of the TARDIS's many ceilings. She blinked away the vestiges of sleep. Afterimages of the dream sat on her synapses, wagging their fingers at her. They hadn't wanted to go yet. She hadn't wanted them to go, either. It had been nice, seeing Mickey and not having to worry about explanations and hurt feelings and how much time had passed since she saw him last. Nice and … normal. Plus, waking up meant facing –

"Ah, so you've come around. Honestly, how I'm supposed to get any work done with you always going into a fugue state is beyond me."

Rose shifted position so she could see the speaker. He wasn't too tall, wasn't too scrawny, wasn't too handsome or shifty-looking, either. His hair was too long, too tousled, his nose the wrong shape, his forehead too narrow, his ears too far back, and his mouth … smiled a lot.

It'd always smiled a lot – except when it didn't.

He hunkered next to her. The leather jacket was gone, banished to some cupboard, or maybe to Dream Mickey. A pinstripe suit had taken its place. Her Doctor would never have been caught dead in a suit.

Rose blinked and tried hard not to cry. "You're not real," she tried. It had worked before…

"Actually, I am." He smiled. It had a hint of regret in it, but not as much as she would've liked. But then, he rarely did things as she might've liked.

She remembered the dancing and the scanning for alien tech; the sudden shortness and flares of temper when her lack of understanding reared its ugly head. Being locked in the TARDIS and sent away when she knew he and Jack were putting themselves in danger – they were risking their lives in a timeline where she was already long dead. Only she wasn't. She wasn't.

"Oh my - Jack!"

"Haud yer wheesht and bide a wee while. There's a few things you need to know. That is," another smile, this one mischievous, "if you can refrain from fainting long enough to hear them this time."

He talked funny. A faint Scottish brogue, emphasised by the words she understood more than those she didn't. The floor was cold and hard and uncomfortable against her back, but she couldn't bring herself to get up. Memories had battered down the front door and were now setting up a stereo system in the living room of her mind, and on top of them all was … the impossible sense that someone she knew was staring out at her through those unfamiliar eyes, and trying to talk to her using this strange new voice.

Lots of planets have a north.

"Doctor?"

The response was instantaneous. "Aye?"

She pulled herself upright. Her throat felt scratchy and raw. "Okay. Okay, I think I can manage that. But I've got a mountain of questions about what the hell happened back there, so these had better be some bloody good answers."

FINIS.