War Not Easily Won
Summary: AU in which Eleven comes back to Pete's World to put flowers on Rose's grave. He finds a better adventure instead.
Ship: Rose x Eleven.
A/N: Title based off of the poem "Nobody But You" by Charles Bukowski.
( part one; the anomaly and the man who loves her )
First of all, he thinks, the universe is entirely for him today, because there is a wormhole between the realities and wormholes mean that he can jump universes. The TARDIS immediately takes him to Pete's World without a second thought and he reckons its because she missed her too. He should have known from the start; he was doomed the second he decided to ask Rose to join him aboard to travel the universe. So of course four hundred years wouldn't put a wedge between him and that human of his.
But of course he doesn't think anything through these days, and his impulsive attitude will bite him in the ass eventually; of course, as in all nature of his luck, today is the day his impulsiveness comes around to kick him in the face.
He forgot about the metacrisis.
Well, since four hundred years later in his universe probably means that it is four hundred years later in Rose's, he thinks they're both dead. And visiting a grave is better than being forced to be next to Rose Tyler and not being able to kiss her, touch her, or tell her that he loves her because of her husband in the room. Or rather, because he knows that the metacrisis has done all of those things already.
He'll put flowers on her headstone. That he'd do for sure. And probably talk to her grave about his recent companion, Toby, and how he stayed behind in another timeline to ensure the safety of said timeline and to eventually fall in love with a girl named Josie, too.
But the TARDIS brings him to the inside of a building, and it looks like Torchwood One, but he can't remember. Damn thing won't let him leave, either, without circling back to the same spot. So naturally, he explores.
The building is eerie and dark and silent. The Doctor lurks around, his sonic screwdriver a lantern in the dark. It is night, it looks like the building is closed, and he just bumped into a desk.
Ah. Office building. So probably not Torchwood One.
When he turns around, the lights turn on (lagging motion sensor, it seems) and he sees that it is a cross between an office building and an armory instead.
What kind of place is this? He shuffles back to the TARDIS, slightly on edge due to the complete militaristic spin on a common workplace. It looks like warfare, but he hopes it isn't.
Just as he's about to go back in the TARDIS, he spots a name on a golden plaque and he's very sure that it could be her. Rose Smith. He smiles— his metacrisis probably took on his human name from way back when he traveled with Martha. And on a whim, he goes up to the door that the plaque lays on and reaches for the handle. The only thing that stops him is the nagging question of whether or not he is right about this. What if it's not Rose, but instead some woman trying to work peacefully? Then again. What does he have left to lose?
There's a gun in her hands and she's aiming it at the Doctor.
For what it's worth, there isn't much time to say anything. No, Rose Tyler? No, please put down the gun, it's me, it's the Doctor, please don't shoot, it's not like you. Rather, there is time to inhale, and exhale, and wait for the bullet to pierce through his skin, into his heart, and signal the start of the regeneration process like so many times before. It's been a couple hundred years in his eleventh regeneration, after all. He would fancy another look, another Doctor. Maybe he'd be ginger, next.
But he doesn't hear the click of the trigger; he only hears the ticks of the clock overhead. He opens his eyes and he sees her shaking; her breathing is labored and her nose is sniffling and the overall uneasiness sifting through the room makes him unbelievably uncomfortable. The Doctor lowers his hands that were previously raised above his head.
He inhales. Then he takes a step closer.
She cocks the gun in response. "Who are you? How the hell did you get into my office?"
The Doctor guffaws, nervously of course, but laughs all the same. He edges back and looks all over the room. It definitely doesn't look like an office - steel walls, barred windows, a rather beat-up desk and an array of rifles adorning the farthest walls screamed war rather than a homey workplace. Especially concerning his Rose Tyler. He'd have thought an office of hers would be more pink and yellow, not dank and dreary.
"Doesn't look like much of an office to me," he says, his tone a bit nonchalant for either of their liking. He spins around on the balls of his feet and smiles cheekily at her. "Seems a bit too dark for you."
"You don't know me," she bites, pointing the gun closer to him. "It's a bit unwise to piss around with a woman who could very well be the difference between you dying right now or you living another day."
The Doctor clicks his tongue. "Touchy. Go on, shoot. I'm unimportant. Anything I say probably would not make a difference in my fate."
"I'd still like to know exactly who managed to hack their way through the most secured building in London to the most secured room in said building." Rose swallows, eyeing him carefully. "Tell me who you are and I won't kill you. I swear."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"It wouldn't hurt to trust me, mate."
He stares at her, square in the eye. "I'm the Doctor."
There is a minute change in her emotions - from that he can see in her eyes, as plain as day - as she blinks a bit too quickly. But he can feel the sorrow and the hopefulness and the nostalgia all meshed into one big cluster of unraveling sadness when her breathing hitches and her gun falters slightly. Then she is back to the tough Rose Tyler, as metal and cold as her office is and no more the familiar pink-and-yellow human he remembers. Her grip on the gun tightens.
"Prove it."
"Or what?" the Doctor tests her. The water is troubled, but she does believe him. Just a little. And the Doctor can play on just a little.
"Or I'll shoot," Rose spits out. Her eyes narrow when he doesn't speak. And how could he? A woman he's never seen raise a gun to a human is now wielding one and threatening him with it. He's not human, yes, but he damn right looks like one. She raises her voice when she adds, "I'll shoot you, I've shot many before."
No she hasn't. The Doctor doesn't remember her killing anyone - maybe a Dalek or two, but not without reason. Rose doesn't kill. That's not his Rose. This is not his Rose.
"You would have shot me already if you wanted to. You jest," the Doctor shouts back. How could he believe her? She still looks so young, and she's too young, in fact, to see the horrors the word murder has to offer. He's about to cross to her when a rippling pain sears up his leg and throughout his body. The whistle of a bullet breaking the barriers of sound rips through his ears as he collapses to the ground, his hands making way to his fresh wound and his lips struggling to keep shut. He makes a noise of pain, barely whimpering, "You.. you shot me."
"And I didn't bat an eye, did I, pretty boy? Prove to me you're the Doctor or I'll - I'll kill you," Rose snaps, clicking the gun again and aiming it at his left heart.
Where a human's would be, the Doctor thought to himself.
"You don't believe me?" he gasps out, adding more pressure to his gaping wound. The pain is unbelievable, but it isn't just the gunshot wound. His Rose Tyler, who had told him all those years ago that she would travel to the end of the universe and back with him, and would never question him when she shouldn't, now doubts him.
He feels like God, then, but he isn't benevolent.
"Give me a reason to believe anyone anymore," she says bitterly. She spits out the words, and there is rage and anger in her eyes.
He wouldn't be surprised if he looks just as cross as she does.
"Because I asked you to come with me, twice," he fumes. He shuts his eyes closed as he feels another bout of agony shoot up his leg. He clenches his teeth, bringing his knees closer to his chest. "And you should trust me above everyone else because I know you, Rose Tyler, and you love me, and God, I love you too, and that's why I've been waiting for a gap between the universes to get back to you one last time. You don't have to come along - you've got the metacrisis - but... how many humans can do this?"
And in the midst of his anger, he lightens. It shaves off years of his life, but if this doesn't convince her, there's nothing left to do. His leg glows gold, and the blood and pain disappears. That's enough for her to know that it's really him and not some impostor like she may have believed. He looks back up when he wiggles his leg a bit to shake the feeling of quasi-regeneration off of him. She didn't look happy. Not what he expected, but she looks like she believes him, and that's good for him.
He jumps back up — on the way, a snide "Christ, Rose, took ten years off my life to prove that its me" falls from his lips — and smiles. But then she staggers back and the gun falls to the floor. She covers her mouth with a shaking hand, and her eyes—hazel in its prime, the color of the clove of summer and autumn—widen like they've seen a ghost. She starts to cry, then, and with her back now against the wall, she slides to the floor. Her legs are sprawled and her hands are trying to make sense of things as they run over her face and her hair and her eyes; for the first time in quite a while, the Doctor does not know the right thing to say.
"Rose..."
His voice is shaky and it flutters and screams movement all around — and yet, he cannot will himself to move. He stands like a fool and his insides tear up and beat like hammers against his skin to make him move, goddamnit, because when a woman you care for cries you just don't stand there.
"You're dead," she screams, looking at him with eyes like fire. "You're fucking dead, you can't be alive, you just can't! I saw you die, I watched you die by River Song, and you're dead!" She gathers her head between her knees and wails like a mad woman. She whispers, and he barely catches it, "You're not real. Impossible."
And then he wonders who this Rose Tyler came out to be.
He steps closer — as close as he can without smothering her — and kneels, his hands resting on his knees as he chokes out, "I'm real, Rose. Please. Look at me."
"If I look at you, you'll disappear, and I can't have you disappear on me again," she says, her words caught in between rolling sobs.
"Rose," he says, her name sweet like a prayer on his tongue. He takes her cheek with one hand, and he chuckles when she leans into it, and smiles when she grips his wrist with light, delicate fingers. His other hand travels to her shoulder, his thumb running circles and patterns and Gallifreyan lullabies on her skin. He whispers (and wonders if his words make their way to her ears) softly, "Where's my metacrisis?"
"Dead," she says tersely. She sniffles, and her grip on his wrist tightens.
"For how long?"
She pulls on his wrist so he lets go of her cheek, and he watches her eyes revert back into a soldier-like expression. She looks right through him, but her voice still falters when she says, "How long have I been gone?"
"From our universe?" he asks, and she nods, her hands finding their way onto his knees. "Four hundred years, three months, twenty six days, and two minutes," he recites with a smile, a laugh hidden in his words. She smiles, nods and laughs and nods until she starts crying again.
"Rose, my sweet, sweet Rose Tyler," he says fervently, her face now in between his hands. His thumbs brush away tears as they fall hopelessly onto him, and onto her; his eyes search hers and oh, those beautiful hazel eyes that made him believe in god above everything else, were empty, and cold, and so, so sad. His voice is cracked, too, when he asks her, "Why are you crying?"
"Because," she says, "It's been so long..."
"Not as long as it has been for me."
"Oh, Doctor." And here, she laughs again. Bitterly, first, then sadly. "My Doctor, you've found your way back to me."
"I found you," he agrees, and presses his forehead against hers, his nose against the cool, tear slicked surface of her skin. She smells just like he remembers: like talcum, and almost like roses, too. He feels her lips this close to his, and he oh so desperately needs her, needs her contact like winter needs the cold, like summer needs the sun.
"Doctor."
His name slips against his breath, and her fingers skim over his gooseflesh on his neck and she laughs again. But this time it is real, and human, and it is Rose Tyler after all these years and she's so goddamn close to him. His hearts flutter as her tongue licks the bottom of her lip and he swears he can feel it too. He can taste it and it is a taste he's missed for hundreds of years. He whimpers, his voice stolen by the very woman who stole his hearts all those years ago.
"How was that sentence going to end?" And oh God, her voice is a tease. It is the sound of a million hushed curses and blessings all mixed into one stirring question.
"My metacrisis should have told you that," he manages to say as her hand that held his flush travels down his arms, his chest, and oh god his trousers, too and — he muffles a gasp when her fingers wrap around his waistband to tug him closer.
"I want to hear it."
There are tears again. He is unsure if it is his or hers or both, but in the grand scheme of things it is irrelevant, and he really, truly could not care less. In under any other circumstance, he would be crying, too.
"I love you," he says, and he means it. God, he means it, and her lips meets his and there's thunder and howling and it's the storm and the wolf dancing around each other once again. His hands find their way to the nape of her neck, his fingers dragging through her hair as she opens his hothothot mouth against his. He can taste her smile, his tongue sweeping over hers as she falls back against the wall. Her fingers wrap around his collar, pulling him towards her as she whispers tell me again against his skin.
He'll say it a million times but it will never be enough.
"I love you," he breathes and he dips into her kiss, relishing in the way she tastes like strawberries and whiskey. She's been drinking for awhile, and she's been lonely for awhile. He loves the way it feels on his tongue. How she feels. How she is. He trails kisses along her jawline, his tongue darting to sample herherher and he can't, oh he can't get enough of her. "I love you," he says, and she moans as he finds his way down her neck.
"Would you love me if I told you I've killed people?" she asks - barely, mind you, because he reckons she can't concentrate as he's busy sucking on her pulse, practically devouring her quickening heartbeat.
"I've killed more, my own," he says, his hands finding her jutting hip bones, his thumb pads smoothing the edges of her skin. There are a myriad of scars, he feels, and the way her skin folds over the jagged flesh nerves him. Then he feels fingers over his and she kisses his head, a murmur buried in her groans, "It's nothing, Doctor."
But it is something, and it is something that bothers him. So he leans up so that he's hovering over her, his forehead pushing against hers and her lips centimeters from his, and his hearts beat quicker when she brushes the back of her hand against his cheek. "What happened?" he asks, and his hands ghost up her shirt to count the steps to her heart, and there are too many bones he can feel under his tips for this to be healthy. "Tell me," he growls, and he wants to know more than anything, why the change? What happened?
"War," she tells him, her nails dragging through the curves where his neck becomes shoulder. "Life is messy," she says, her eyes fluttering closed as he presses his lips to her navel. Her words are shaky when she enunciates, "Very messy."
"How messy?" he asks.
"I'm an old woman, Doctor," she whispers as he slips her shirt over her head and throws it to the side. "I've killed people. I kill people. You don't want this."
He slides over her and unbuttons her jeans, not minding her words because he knows. She tastes ancient, but that is a conversation for another time. For now he wants her and only her, always her, and he smirks when her fingers work down his shirt.
He devours her. Mind, body, soul and her entirety are all taken apart and put back together by him, only him. Each part of her he tries to have, tries to love, but there are scars and there are bones and this Rose Tyler is both the same and different in almost every way. She is lovely, but he fears that she is not his to love anymore. It's reckless, what they're doing, what he's doing. And as he presses his hips into hers and listens to her whisper oaths and swears and words he knows are French, he thinks that there are more important things to mind than remembering which part of her body bends at his touch. But then her back arches and his nerves snap and synapses explode and he pants out her name and everything suddenly becomes minimal.
Yes, he thinks, there are far more critical things at hand. But right now, he is on the floor with Rose Tyler, and she is dressing up and he is catching his breath. There are smiles on both their faces, and that, he thinks, is a moment he's missed.