A/N: Extracts and title from the poem When You Are Old by Yeats, as published in The Rose in 1893.
WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep
::
It's funny, really, how it turns out. Well, funny and a little bit heart-breaking, by which he means that after the initial surprise and joy that they managed to make it this far, at least, has faded, it all seems awful and horrible and doubly-difficult to move on from.
Which is why, way back when, he made a choice, wasn't it? And in terms of how he feels now, well, maybe it was the wrong one.
(Ha. She would kill him for even thinking that.)
No, no. Out of the many paths that had spread out so enticingly before him in the form of different timelines and could-bes and never-woulds, he definitely made the right decision in wanting one particular future.
Never mind that now he's left, bereft, on his own and rattling around in this big old ship and his big old head. Never mind that he dropped her favourite mug the other day and ended up in a heap on the floor next to the shards of porcelain with leaking eyes and spilt tea everywhere. Never mind that he doesn't quite know how to gather up the bits of himself that have somewhat successfully crumbled away so that he can again face the universe, his children, their children, their friends.
She aged. But blimey, she aged well. And really, their decades together whizzed by so quickly that he barely even noticed the occasional new wrinkle, or a grey hair that she'd promptly dye over with blonde. It was only nearer the end that he started properly realising that she was, for want of a better word, old. And so is he, of course he is, and thank Rassilon he actually looks it these days; she would've hated it if he'd stayed young. Of course, theoretically, seeing as he's lasted so long in this foxy body of his, he could've gone on looking youthful for a bit longer. But though he may not be able to control his appearance when regenerating like Romana was prone to do, he could certainly control it during his lifetime. He wanted to age with Rose. So he did. Not to the extent that he'd have dodgy knees or a shoddy memory, but he certainly looked closer to, say, fifty-eight than thirty-eight these days. Which meant that Rose hadn't had to worry over mistakes of the are you his mother? variety.
Anyway, whatever their respective ages and looks, they'd still fancied each other rotten, even after all those years. And when the running slowed down, he slowed down with her. And when she wasn't really able to get out and into trouble, they slowed down further still. It wasn't a chore, or an annoyance; they'd done so much, filled their lives with such excitement and love and a ridiculous amount of stays in prison cells that when the time came to sit by the fire in the library, snuggled up reading together, or look after the grandkids, or plant some new flowers in the TARDIS garden, well, it was quite nice, really, to have a break, let the kids sort out the universe for a bit and actually act his age for once.
Of course, he knew that she missed the thrill of danger down to her bones, so once in a while they'd take a chance and create a nuisance of themselves. That mischievous glint in her eye hadn't faded, and though her physicality had withered slightly she certainly wasn't immobile, not by any stretch of the imagination. And talking of stretches and imaginations, well, it wasn't like either of them wanted to give up one particular activity, even if it did involve clicking hips and lots of laughter and less adventurous positions…
::
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face
::
Over the years, it was very clear that the Doctor wasn't the only one to notice her, adore her. They had friends who would do anything for her, children who idolised her, acquaintances who followed her into rebellions and world-saving without a second thought. She exuded a warmth that people wanted to be around, a warmth and compassion and joy that made people feel better, be better, live better. She could connect with people from all across the universe, no matter the species, no matter the cost, and wasn't the fact that she made a Dalek see the truths and love of humanity within her first few months travelling with him a very testament to that? Of course, she also had a fierce strength, a determination to save those most dear to her, and the dismantling of a Dalek empire with a wave of her hand and gold in her eyes was a testament to that, too.
There were those who admired her at parties, those who tried it on in pubs and clubs and oh, he'd just casually work his arm around her waist or shoulders and glare at those ones, because he didn't blame them for finding her beautiful but he certainly wasn't going to be happy that they flirted with her right under his nose.
And sometimes people said they loved her, and sometimes that love was real, genuine, and he'd hold his breath in those moments, because before they had children he was always inherently petrified that one day, one of these men who fell for her during the course of an adventure would sweep her away with promises of the things he thought he could not give. But then he found he could. And when they cuddled on their bed with their first son in her arms, he found peace, and reassurance, and so much happiness he swears he could have burst.
So there were many people, across the world and universe, who loved and fancied and adored Rose Tyler.
But he loved her better. He loved her to the very depths of her soul. He loved everything about her and had no wish to change anything. She was perfect, for him, and he was astounded that the universe had been so kind in fating them to meet each other, because out of all the infinite possibilities, all the people he could have met and forged a relationship with – on his world or hers or some other – Rose Tyler was the one he was certain to his bones that he was meant for, made for. Nine hundred years of loneliness stemmed by the odd love here or there and then bam, Rose Tyler enters his world and he forgets to breathe half the time. She was everything. She gave him everything. If he'd let her go decades ago in some feeble attempt to prevent the pain he now feels, well, he would've missed the best years of his life and that just wouldn't do.
::
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
::
It's been three weeks, now. He's still a mess. He knows he shouldn't keep ignoring the phone. He knows they need him, head of the family on his own now, to be strong. But what good is he as head of the family without his partner? She was always the strong one really. Propping him up, helping him cope with his past and what he'd done. Helping him grow into a fantastic dad and a, if he does say so himself, pretty cool granddad. But without her here, it's like he's forgotten all that, forgotten how to be the better man she made him be. He'll remember in a few months' time, he's sure, because after years of learning and her guidance he could hardly permanently forget, and he knows she would want him to carry on the way things were, but for now, he can't, he just can't. He's retreated, and he needs this isolation, just for a bit.
(She would tell him to shut up at that, because like he needs isolation really. But he can't help it.)
She filled him up. His life and his hearts and his very being. She filled him with delight, and happiness, and humour and courage. And thank goodness he has bits of her still here, in the form of their jeopardy-friendly tribe of children. But they have their own families, now, and though they are equally devastated at the loss of their mother, at least they still all have someone who loves them in the right kind of way to help them through their grief. And he doesn't resent them that, Rassilon no. No, he's glad they each have someone to unite with to combat the coming months. But for him, his other half has gone, and he's not quite sure what to do with himself. Everywhere he turns in the TARDIS – it's her, everywhere, like a particularly lovely ghost, haunting him as he replays the memories of her sitting in that chair, reaching up to that shelf, digging in the soil, sleeping in that bed, burning toast at the kitchen counter. He just misses her so bloody much, and he's not used to this, not anymore. She stopped the emptiness, put herself in its place, and he's forgotten how to cope with being lonely. Because he did cope, before, he must have done. He'd lost people before, he'd lost his entire species before, and he'd managed. Just.
He'll stop wandering the halls aimlessly eventually, he knows. And he'll work through the stages of grief like their eldest daughter has made him promise. And he'll stop thinking of himself with the collective we and our and us in about a decade, probably, once he's used to being without her.
But for now, he sits, on the edge of the TARDIS doorway, his legs dangling, and closes his eyes. They used to sit here together, watching nebulas form and stars burn up.
If he concentrates, he can imagine she's still here, standing behind him, looking out at the stars where she made her life with him. He can imagine that she's singing softly. An old song, maybe, one that reminds her of swing dancing with him during the Blitz.
He opens his eyes and watches the universe continue to move. He can't believe the audacity of it.
Doesn't the universe know it's lost something integral to its very motion? The very reason it still exists?
Doesn't it know?