Summary: He sees her again on a street in Paris. Older, wiser, but still Rose. Nine/Rose.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.
Same Old Skies
I don't believe in anything but myself; but then you opened up a door, you opened up a door. Now I start to believe in something else. [Soldier, Ingrid Michaelson)
"What do you think? You could stay here, fill your life with work and food and sleep, or you could go… anywhere."
"Is it always this dangerous?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, I can't. I've got to go and find my mum… and someone's got to look after this stupid lump, so…"
"Okay. See you around."
He sets the TARDIS coordinates at random at finds himself in on a Parisian street in 1924. It's well past midnight when he materializes, the streetlamps and the waxing moon the only visible sources of light.
The TARDIS hums comfortingly as he makes for the doors—she knows how he's feeling. She'd liked that girl, too. Spunky and resourceful and just a little psychic, pink-and-yellow lights illuminating the darkness and when he'd held her hand—the Doctor closes his eyes once he's outside and leans back against the chipped blue paint of his magnificent timeship.
Oh, when he'd held her hand, there had been this terrific golden glow in the back of his mind, chasing all the cold loneliness away, filling him with a warmth he hadn't been privy to since Gallifrey's destruction.
Holding her hand, it had been like coming home. She'd been the strangest human he'd ever met, and in the best way possible. So warm and compassionate—a bit jeopardy-friendly, perhaps, but weren't they all?
"Doctor?"
Oh, and now he's hearing her voice. Lovely. Barely five combined hours with that tiny slip of a human being and he's already hearing her voice. Maybe he's finally losing his mind. Pity, he's worked so hard to keep it, too.
"Doctor!" Rose Tyler's voice says again, and he looks up. No, no, that hadn't been his imagination—he really was hearing her voice.
He hears the slap of shoes against cobblestones, and then a blond head is flying towards the TARDIS doors, nimble fingers tracing the key around her neck. "Doctor?" she calls again, before turning her head and finally—finally—seeing him.
They both suck in a breath, because what they see is definitely not what they're expecting. She's expecting big hair and pinstripes and a goofy, devil-may-care grin. Not her first Doctor with his icy blue eyes and his old leather jacket.
She's not exactly what he expects, either. He hadn't even expected Rose Tyler in the first place. Certainly not this version of her, either—older, wiser, clad in blue leather and tight jeans with a gun strapped to her back and the weight of the universe hidden behind brown eyes. It's not a look he's accustomed to seeing on humans—certainly not a look he's accustomed to seeing on the bubbly pink-and-yellow shop girl back in a London alleyway in 2005.
Suddenly, her arms are wrapping around him and he's sucking in a breath because suddenly—oh—she's there. In his head, shining as bright as a lighthouse in a stormy sea. He sighs a little in her embrace and hugs her back, a little awkwardly, trying to avoid the monstrous weapon she's got strapped to herself.
"I came too early," she mumbles, her hot human breath tickling his neck.
He bites back a shiver and turns his head slightly, trying to get a better look at her. "Wha'?" She giggles slightly, at how daft he sounds, before pulling away and giving him a watery smile. She doesn't answer him right away, straightening the collar of his jacket and smoothing it out fondly, as if she's looking for an excuse to keep touching him. Really, he's not complaining, not with her golden presence so firmly planted in the back of his head.
"I'm lookin' for you, but not this you—future you," she says softly, reluctantly removing her hands and breaking the connection. Instinctively, he scrambles for that warmth, that touch, her bright human-y-ness, craving what he'd once thought was weak and laughable, in his big, superior Time Lord eyes.
"Future me?" he echoes, in confusion. Future him? "But how—how do you—you said no." He looks at her, blinking stupidly at the pink-and-yellow girl before him.
She looks up at him and blinks, before a smile splits her face and realization dawns in her eyes. "Oh. No, I didn't." She begins prodding at something strapped to her wrist—it looks a bit like a vortex manipulator, the ones those bloody Time Agents are so keen on using. He frowns at the device.
"Wha' do ya mean, you didn't? I was just there, not even ten minutes ago. You said tha'—"
"I said I couldn't," she interrupts him with a small smile, "Not no."
His frown turns into a scowl, one that he'd perfected to intimidate, but it only seems to make her amused. "Yeah, well—you couldn't because you said tha' ya had to find your mum and take care of Rickey." He watches as she punches in new coordinates, twists a dial, as the wristband lights up in various colors.
"Mickey," she corrects, the exasperated tone of her voice accompanied by a fond eye-roll. She smiles at him—it's a tired, loving smile, one that makes his hearts stutter because how, just how can something that wonderful be directed at him? She reaches forward and takes his hand, and squeezes, and it feels so right, even after all these years or hours that they haven't seen each other.
"An' yeah, I said that. But, there's a way 'round it. A part you conveniently forgot to tell me."
He blinks at her. "An' wha's tha'?"
She grins wolfishly and tugs him down by the hand so his ear is level with her lips. "It also travels in time."
She pulls away, then, quite abruptly, finishing her work on her wristband-that's-not-a-vortex-manipulator-but-look s-like-it. "Now go on, I'm waitin' for ya. Where are we, anyway?" She's finished up with her odd device, but she looks around the place she's in with curious eyes, taking mental pictures before she has to go.
He smiles. Her eyes are so heavy, but they still hold enough room for that natural human curiosity. It was one of the things he loved about those silly little apes. "Paris, France. 1924." He points to the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and she turns to look at it. She smiles a little, but it's not the squealing, jumping, riotous laughter he usually gets when human women visit the City of Lights.
"Paris, huh?" she says, amusedly, before something in her eyes darkens and she huffs. "Had to be France, though, didn't it? 1924, though. It's a good year, I s'pose." Her wristwatch beeps suddenly and she smiles, before rounding wide, sad eyes on him. "I have to go."
He swallows and nods. He wonders if it's worth it—this brave, compassionate, slightly psychic shop girl, the one with dying stars in her eyes and a gun strapped to her back—he wonders if it's worth it to him, or for her. Time can be rewritten, and he wonders if he's being selfish for not wanting to rewrite the chapter she's in. Obviously something happens—something that separates them, as something always separates him and his companions. But somehow, some way, she is fighting her way back to him in the ways of a soldier.
Her eyes lock with his, one final time before she goes—and an understanding passes between them, a connection on a level he's never felt before, one that surpasses her small talent with telepathy and his protostar-sized Time Lord brain, entering an area that's on a whole other playing field. For one moment, just a fraction of a nanosecond, so small, yet so significant, he can see every inch of his possible futures splayed out before him. And it terrifies him. But it also exhilarates him, gives him hope—something he hasn't had since the end of the Time War, something this miraculous little girl had been so quick to rekindle.
Just as soon as it had come, the moment passes, and they are out of whatever la-di-da land they'd been thrown into and are back on a street in Paris.
"Time machine," she reminds him, softly, and he doesn't have time to reply before she's pressing the button in the middle of her wristband and he's left staring at empty space, bare cobblestones where a blond, starry-eyed girl-turned-woman-turned-warrior once stood.
He swallows and makes his way back to the TARDIS, reeling over what he'd just seen, the countless outcomes. Plenty of them ended in tragedy, but just as many of them ended in happiness. And it was those happy outcomes, coupled by the unbridled faith in that blond woman's eyes—in Rose's eyes—that made his decision for him.
The Doctor is terrified, yes—terrified of death, of separation, of that mysterious, mysterious girl who he thinks just stole his hearts. He is terrified, but he is—for the first time in a long, long time—willing to take the plunge. Because it is worth it.
She is worth it.
Urrrrrgh. I'm just awful at endings. Always have been. Anyway, I hope you liked it—again, forgive any mistakes I make regarding slang or something, I'm American.
This fic came into being after watching "Rose" for about the millionth time. I like to believe he'd met Rose on her bouts with the Dimension Cannon and that she was the one who convinced him to go back for her. Either she meets him or Eleven. I'd be fine with either x)
Anyway, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome, please tell me what you think!