I do not own Doctor Who
Rose watched with shock as the large alien spun around and its – she thought – tail flew through the air towards her at an impossible speed. A horrible sense of dread washed through her and she looked up at the man standing not thirty feet from her, his sonic screwdriver in hand while he pointed it at the beast. But his attention wasn't on the alien anymore – it was on her. His face seemed to contort into a mask that showed both fear and a burning rage. She didn't have time to call for him, nor did she had any time to brace herself as the thing hit her with the force of what felt like a cement truck. She was knocked off her feet, and as she rushed through the air – the wind it made making her feel cold and her skin gooseflesh – she felt fright bloom in her chest. Her eyes were thrown about in her head, not having time to register their surroundings at the speed they were going.
More concern arose when she didn't feel herself hit the ground. She should have landed in a painful heap at the moment, yet the air kept speeding past her, never ending. She opened her eyes, she hadn't even realised they had closed, and adrenaline focussed her senses as her eyes locked on one thing. The Doctor.
His brown eyes were wild as her stood still – not even trying to reach her. Yet she didn't feel hurt because of that, he was much too far away. It was the pain and sheer lack of control he projected that made her feel hurt. He was so scared, as he watched her disappear over the edge. She reached out her arms against the wind pressure in a futile attempt to grab him – a foolish thought. She could in no way reach him.
"Rose!" A voice screamed, its tone desperate.
Then, he vanished. The alien they had been fighting vanished. And all she could see was the darkness tinged with small pinpricks of light that was this planet. All she could feel was the icy whips that caressed her skin as she fell, her blonde hair flying behind her. All she could hear was the roaring of the wind as the gravity on this planet pulled her downwards with its invisible grasping fingers.
She couldn't see the ground from her currently declining position, yet she feared it. There was no doubt when it came that she would not survive, as she wasn't stupid. She had never been a particularly intellectual person, yet being and living with the Doctor had pushed her IQ up by quite a few points, no doubt. But this was deeply ingrained knowledge – instinct, it may be called – that screamed at her that this was extremely dangerous. It was a lifetime filled with accidental falls and scrapes and a whole school life of being a gymnast – it took practice, so said all of her no longer present injuries – that told her that gravity was both her best friend and her worst enemy. She could rely on it to protect her; she could rely on it to move, to breathe, to speak – everything. But she could also rely on it to pull her down when she was tired, and to attack her when she wasn't expecting it. She could depend on it to exert a steady power over her body, and this was no different. She knew that gravity would not let up on her; it was not a forgiving thing. It lessened its grip for no one, especially not for blonde human women who were out of their element and galaxy.
She was twisted and flipped by the minutely varying wind resistance, thrown about like a child's rag doll. She tried to regain control of herself, yet it refused to let her, holding her in place and moving her according to its whims.
She tumbled down, down, down.
When the world didn't change, and she seemed no closer to the ground than she had earlier, she slowly relaxed her muscles and her body, allowing herself to move without opposition as small droplets of water trickled out of the corner of her eyes. It was the one thing she couldn't stop, and they continued to appear, being pushed out of her eyes and into the atmosphere almost as soon as they were made. She knew without thought that they weren't caused by the whistling and vicious wind, but by the same source as the ripping in her chest was.
It was so painful, and when she finally relaxed all of herself, she felt tired. Exhausted, even. It took so much effort to keep her eyes open, yet she held them open in a vain hope.
The TARDIS. It was a time machine, was it not?
Her watering eyes flicked to the side, and she absently noticed the lights were very slightly bigger, and she knew that the ground was coming up, yet knew it was long to go. Not for the first time, yet with no fire, she cursed this planet. It had been a simple visit, 'there'll barely be time for a coffee' the Doctor had said, yet it had turned into one of her worst alien experiences yet. They had been attacked almost immediately, and had been forced away from the TARDIS, their escape route. Rose had been separated from the Doctor and caught by those blasted aliens – the Rine. They had taken her to the inhabited part of the planet – high above the true surface which was very scarce, giant chasms shaping the land. They were said to be bottomless, and the small lights were clusters of a luminous rock that originated on the surfaces, absorbing what light they could then projecting it brighter than before.
She had had no idea that they had been that close to the edge of the fake surface the Rine had created to be closer to the suns, and the hit that had sent her over the edge had been unexpected.
About two minutes later of no thought, and her hopes had all but died out. They had been smothered by her overwhelming depression. She was going to die. This time for real. Over all her journeys with the Doctor, throughout his ninth and tenth regenerations, she had come close to death many times, yet this was the closest she was ever going to get. This time, death had caught up with her, and it wasn't intending to let go.
But the feeling that triumphed over all was regret. She wished she had told him. Told him what he meant to her, how he had taken her small, pathetic, boring little life in London with expert hands and had turned it upside-down, shook it, and put it back on its side. He had transformed her from an ordinary, shop-assistant to a companion through time and space to the most amazing man she had ever had the pleasure to meet – and ever would. He was the one who had first saved her life in his ordinary leather bomber jacket, and had taken her aboard his extraordinary life.
Then, he had died to save her, turning into another man who she had at first rejected. Then, the strange yet obviously the same man who now wore a long brown trench coat, a pinstripe suit and tennis shoes and had a fetish for bananas had re-entered himself into her life – more like forcing – and made her accept him. She had come to love him more than before. The man that couldn't hide when he had slept, as his hair told the whole story, and the one who she could simply tell needed a hug, no matter how scrawny he seemed but wasn't. The man who gave a cheeky grin when they had uncovered an adventure, and could glare with the fire of a thousand suns when he was angry. The man who she could connect to so much more fully than before, his emotions ran rampant and met with hers almost against his will. The man who was the epitome and the base to her entire being, the man who had grafted himself to her so completely she felt that if they were separated they would wither away and die simply from being apart from the other.
The man she had fallen in love with.
She felt like she was being slowly, deliberately yanked apart, her body splitting with the pain of her impending death. The most, also weird thing was, she wasn't afraid of her death. It was her fear of being kept away from him that drove her to distraction. The possibility, no, the definite happening of her being permanently left alone could kill her in itself.
She closed her eyes when she noticed that the lights were much to close for comfort. In fact, she could see the shadows they cast on the land around them, and knew that the ground was coming up fast. Her death was behind her, and it was throwing its chains around her, ready to take her into oblivion.
She tightened her lids, and drew her arms into herself, wrapping them as tightly around her body as she could, and her knees pulled themselves up to her torso. She knew this would speed her descent, but she couldn't bear the wait any longer, and the meagre comfort they provided was enough.
Her chest was shaking, and it took a few seconds before she recognised the seemingly foreign action. She was crying. Her emotions were haywire, and she desperately wished for life, to live. She didn't want to die. She didn't want to leave him. She loved him so much, yet this would be leaving him, after she had promised not to. She had sworn not to leave him, she was breaking that. She would leave him to his long and lonely existence, saving civilisations, planets and various species without even so much as a thank you in return. He deserved so much better, and she couldn't do anything about it. He would go on saving worlds, go on without gratitude, and he would forget about her. Forget about the poor, fragile human woman who would happily and joyfully have given him her entire heart and soul. He would forget about her, because she had left him, had broken her promise. He would hate her.
The rational and logical part of her brain knew that the Doctor would never hate her, even if it wasn't sure if her would forget her or not – but it was such a small part in comparison to the emotional sphere of chaos that encompassed her that its voice was drowned out by the panic and the frustration. Frustration at herself for giving up, yet frustration at her situation, as there was no conceivable way she could get out of this herself.
She was dead, she would be forgotten. No one would remember Rose Tyler.
So when the air around her distorted and a wave of warmth hit her, she wasn't sure what to do. She vaguely heard something through her walls of depression and forced resignation. Her mind perked its cowered head, and then suddenly, a new substance surrounded her, a cloying thing that prevented her from taking the deep breaths before. She choked on it, and her eyes opened on reflex. Blue. The first thing that hit her mind was – water? She was in water? Her survival instincts kicked it, and she unclenched her limbs, and wearily used them to push herself up.
However, the surface seemed so far away, and after so much trying, her efforts became more and more lethargic. Soon, she all but stopped. Her chest burned, but it wasn't unwelcome. She was going to-
Then, something warm and solid and brown wrapped itself around her waist, and something grabbed her wrist, pulling her. She felt herself move, and then, air became apparent. She gasped and heaved, relishing the availability of breathable air and took in her fill, savouring each frantic gulp.
Something was still around her waist, and she looked down at it while the water ran out of her ducts automatically. Her hair was slapped against her head and shoulders, and she looked, puzzled, at the hand that was around her. It was peach, and each finger had short nails. The hand was familiar, as was the piece of blue sleeve that was visible. She coughed once more, and the hand that had been holding her own let go of it to pat her back, helping clear out the water in her lungs. She choked up a last few drops, and winced at the horrid feeling in her chest. It was raw and sore.
But her need to confirm who was holding her was too strong, and she looked up at the person. His normally wild hair was flat and wet against his head, and his eyes were locked on her, concern and something else was prominent in his brown eyes. He moved his hand from her back to hold it against her cheek. She leant into the heat slightly, and was surprised when it didn't go away like normal. It was still pressed there, and the thumb was moving, tracing her skin.
Her vision blurred, and she threw her arms up and around the man's neck. She began sobbing, and two arms wrapped around her, holding her to his chest. She buried herself within the warmth, and gasped in his aura.
He was here. He had saved her.
So... this is my first Doctor Who fic. Hope it is well received.