once upon a time, I
dreamt I was a butterfly
soon I awoke and there I was
myself again
now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly
or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man
- Zhuangzhi
She's often running, in her dreams and her waking life; in that sense, this moment is no different from many of the others that came before.
The maze, though—that's new. (She thinks.)
Rows upon rows of hedges and hedges greet her in the night, uniform and well-kempt and ending in sharp ninety-degree turns. Jasmine blooms amongst the greenery, moon-white petals unfurling in the darkness like stars. They scent the air sweetly, leaving her lightheaded in the wake of their perfume.
She, too, is named for a flower, she thinks; or she was, once upon a time. But it's hard to think when the air is so heavy around her.
A shadow flickers in the edge of her periphery, and she whirls in place, reaching out to the figure, whomever or whatever it may be. It doesn't stop, but she catches sight of her hand, dripping with jewels and glimmering gold in the moonlight. It's strange, she thinks, looking down; how peculiar that her raiment should remind her so much of the sun even at nighttime, but she supposes the moon has to get its glow from somewhere. It hasn't got a light of its own, after all.
(She wonders, if she found a mirror, if it would show sun-glimmers beaming from her hair as well, perhaps her skin, maybe her eyes. Oh, but isn't that a daft thought? She wonders where it came from.)
"Here," says a voice, smooth as velvet and curiously burred. Northern, she thinks, though she couldn't say why. Intrigued, she follows the sound of it. Footsteps, then, bruising the grass ahead of her, picking up in speed, but no matter how quickly she walks, she can't catch the shadow, can't even catch sight of it. She gathers her skirts to better give chase, heedless of the branches that emerge from the hedges to snag her by the cloak, the thorns that grow and snarl into a pretty green trap. She shrugs off her cloak—let the hedge-maze keep it, let it serve as her payment of passage—and sprints after the sound of footsteps, turning corner after corner after corner.
She stops only when she reaches a dead end. A wall of greenery greets her, jasmine twinkling cheekily between the leaves, but no shadows are anywhere to be seen—nor, indeed, is anyone who may be casting them. Her brow wrinkles in confusion as she turns in place, glancing all about. Did the shade cheat, somehow? It hardly seems sporting.
"Are there rules, then?" asks the voice, amused, from somewhere very close behind her, and she startles at the warmth of a hand snaking around her waist. "I thought this was just a chase. No rules to be broken, there."
"Everything has rules," she argues, heart hammering in her throat, "even if you choose to ignore them."
The voice laughs, but not unkindly. Still, she bristles; she may not know her own name, but she does know she doesn't like being laughed at, doesn't appreciate the sensation that she's part of a joke with an untold ending.
"Well," says the voice, and cool breath on the shell of her ear makes her shiver, "that'll just make things more interesting, won't it, Rose?"
She turns her head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the shadow, but it's gone. Vanished like it never was. In its place stands a door in the hedge, a rough-hewn wooden thing with a brass handle. It wouldn't look out of place in a crumbling old chateau. And strangely, it doesn't look out of place in the garden maze, either.
A door, she thinks, begs to be opened. It wants even more to be stepped-through. But it probably has little regard for what happens to its travelers on the other side.
(Rose, the shadow had said, and she didn't know why, but she liked the sound of it; liked how it filled the shadow's mouth and fit between its teeth. Rose. It's a nice name. She thinks she'll keep it.)
Rose takes hold of the handle and pushes the door open.
The doors slid open and Rose stumbled through them, half-supporting, half-dragging the Doctor into the medbay with her.
"Third cabinet to the left," gasped the Doctor through gritted teeth, eyes clenched with pain. "Grab one of the syringes—"
"Syringe?" Rose repeated faintly as she helped him onto the exam bed. It didn't matter that the needle wouldn't go anywhere near her own skin; she still felt herself pale with fear.
"You need to—ah—fill it with a potassium chloride solution." The Doctor punctured his words with a groan. "Got to get the muscle cramps under control—can deal with the—"
He hissed sharply. "—other stuff, after."
Darting over to the cabinets, Rose threw a glance over one shoulder to see the Doctor panting on the exam bed, face contorted with pain as sweat beaded on his forehead, swelling into tiny little pearls. She couldn't even remember the last time she saw him sweat properly. Had she ever really seen him sweat?
She could only imagine the pain he was in.
Stone walls, stone floors, a single bracket-mounted torch; if Rose didn't know any better, she'd think she were in a castle-tower.
"Where did you go?" she asks. When no one replies, she pulls the torch from the bracket and holds it aloft, inspecting the tower by firelight. The light is swallowed by darkness before her and darkness behind. No other faces rise from the shadows to greet her. "Why are you running away from me?"
"Who says I'm running away?" asks the voice from before.
Frowning, Rose follows the sound of the voice, tentatively, holding the torch in front of her to light her steps. Stone, stone, and more stone greets her vision at every turn, glinting in the torch-light and bouncing the scuff of her shoes and rustle of her dress back to her in an endless loop of whispering echoes.
"If you're not running away from me, then what are you doing?" Rose asks. "I thought you said this was a chase."
"I did. But who's chasing whom?"
A shudder creeps up between her shoulderblades, unbidden, but Rose sets her jaw against it. She tightens her grip on the torch. "I'm chasing you," she says. "Of course."
"Of course," replies the voice, laughing again. "That's what wolves do, isn't it?"
Rose spins round at the sound of the voice, close to her ear once more, but there's nothing behind her but air. Air, and a staircase where there was nothing but corridor, before. Stone stairs, steep, jagged like teeth, descend into darkness thick as a pool of ink. If she follows the stairs, Rose thinks, she will be swallowed.
"What happens if you find me, I wonder?" asks the voice.
"Not if," Rose replies stubbornly, gathering her skirts in her free hand once more. She kicks off her shoes after, for good measure; she trusts her bare feet far more than these jeweled heels on those treacherous stairs. "When."
She ignores the laughter that rises around her as she descends.
Rose's hands shook as she pulled a syringe from the cabinet and rifled through the assorted vials on the shelf below. And either the TARDIS was helping her, or it was her lucky day, because a clear vial with just the right label presented itself in a matter of seconds. Silently, Rose thanked the TARDIS just in case, grabbing the vial and sprinting to the Doctor's side. She thrust the vial and syringe at him without even thinking.
The Doctor shook his head violently. "I'm sorry, I can't, I—I need your help, Rose, please."
"Oh my god, of course, I'm sorry," Rose rushed, and she was trembling all over, now, shaking almost as hard as the Doctor was. "Do I wash my hands first, or—?"
"No time. Just listen carefully…"
Straining her ears for any sound created by anything that isn't her, Rose startles at the sudden sensation of water lapping at her feet, cool and silken and black as pitch. She shines her torch over the water and sees nothing but her own reflection, marred and broken by ripples cascading over the glassy surface. But she can see well enough to make out that her gown is gold and glimmering, that its jewels capture the torchlight like a cloud of fireflies twinkling on a summer night.
For some reason, the thought emboldens her, and she steps further into the water, wading in until she is knee-deep. Soon the water will soak her gown, weighing her down like a gold-gilt anchor. But she doesn't stop. Instead, she drops her torch in the water, watching as it sputters and dies with an angry hiss. The cavern plunges into darkness around her; now invisible, she sheds her gown, stepping out of it, deeper into the black water.
"You won't wait for the ferryman?" asks the voice, surprised.
"No need," Rose replies. "I have wings."
Drinking in a deep lungful of air, she dives beneath the water surface, and swims.
Rose winced as she pushed in the needle and pressed the plunger, but the bite of the needle seemed to bother her far more than it did the Doctor; the moment the solution hit his system, his face started to relax, brow loosening and lips parting. His shoulders slowly fell, his breaths evening out little-by-little, and Rose realized just how tight-knit he'd been.
"I'm almost surprised you didn't just ask for a banana," Rose teased, mentally slapping herself the second the joke left her lips. Why would she joke at a time like this?
The Doctor gazed up at her with glassy eyes. "Sorry?"
"Y'know. So you wouldn't have to get a shot." God, why was she still talking? "Cos—cos shots are the worst, right? And bananas have got potassium in them, haven't they?"
A weak laugh escaped the Doctor and he winced after. "Quite right, they do."
Fiddling with the supplies in her hands, Rose bit her lip. "I'm sorry I took so long to help," she murmured, flushing with shame.
"Yes, how dare you set foot on my TARDIS without a complete and comprehensive set of medical skills. I'm appalled, Rose Tyler. Simply appalled."
At least he was speaking in full sentences again. Rose allowed herself a small smile. "So what's next? What do you need?"
The Doctor tried to push himself up from the exam bed, arms trembling with effort, but he quickly slumped back, grunting in frustration.
"Doctor—"
"I'm fine," he panted, though the pinched look of his face suggested otherwise. "Only got a few moments, got to head off the rest of the symptoms—I have to—there are steps—"
"Okay, so let me help. Tell me what to do."
"Rose—"
"Doctor, tell me what to do," she said firmly.
Most times, Rose can't open her eyes underwater, and she certainly can't breathe in it, either. But here, she finds she can do both, and she watches in fascination as light from some unseen source dances over her skin, dappling it silver-blue and starry-grey; she marvels at how the water fills her lungs as easily as air, warm and gentle and oxygen-rich.
"And where will you go now?" asks the voice.
"Wherever you are, I think," Rose says thoughtfully. "Don't suppose you can tell me where that is?"
"Don't suppose I can. I don't rightly know, myself."
A sigh. "I think I'm lost."
Sympathy makes Rose sigh in solidarity; resolution makes her propel herself forward in the water with a mighty kick. Doors want to be opened, she knows, and lost things want to be found.
"Then I'll just have to find you," she replies.
This was not how she had imagined getting the Doctor into bed. Rather, it was not how she would have imagined it, had she ever imagined it, which she most definitely had not. Ever. Not even a little bit. Nope. Saint Rose, that was her.
Rose drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. The sight of the IV station rigged up right next to the exam bed, cold and clinical and plugged directly into the Doctor's arm, helpfully reminded her of the situation: this was for strictly medical purposes, only. It didn't matter that the Doctor sat on a bed, jacketless and sans necktie and oxford collar splayed open, or that he would be nearly naked soon, or that she was expected to join him.
Any second now.
(Why couldn't she move?)
"Like I said, it's not—" the Doctor started to say, but Rose was already peeling off her jacket, toeing off her shoes after. Had to go through with it before she completely lost her nerve. Besides, what was a little almost-nudity between best mates?
"Rose," the Doctor tried again. His eyes slid shut, for her sake, she imagined; it was depressing, sometimes, what a gentleman he was. "You really don't have to—"
"But you need your sleep thing, right?" she asked, slipping her belt out of its loops. "And a naked snuggle will help?"
She wasn't sure she'd ever seen the Doctor's face flush so brilliantly before (or at all, for that matter). "It's a restorative coma," he said quickly, "as I mentioned earlier, and for a touch-telepath suffering from a cerebra-paraphysiologic virus or any other foreign element that causes such rapid misfiring in the amygdala, a surge in the brain's production of serotonin and oxytocin brought on by tactile contact is just the most practical way to induce—"
"You know," Rose interrupted, because otherwise there was no telling when his babbling would end, "there are easier ways to get a naked girl to cuddle you."
"Rose Tyler, I assure you, if there was a better pharmacological option onboard the TARDIS, I would pursue it. I only even offered this solution because you pressed for it!"
"Yeah, well." She stepped out of her trousers, pulled off her jacket next. So many layers—she might as well be turning into him. "If there's an easy cure, we might as well take it. Right? So naked, it is."
"Have you really got to say the word naked so much?"
"Prude," laughed Rose.
"Me? Never," said the Doctor, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth let Rose know his scandalized tone was all for show. "The word's just starting to sound funny, is all. Naked. Naked. Naked naked naked nakedy nake-naked-nakedness, St. Naked McNekkid of Nakedity. See?"
Stripped down to her vest and knickers, Rose stood before the Doctor, and god, this really was not how she had imagined this would go.
"This all right?" she asked.
"As bare as you're comfortable with, that's good."
"Okay, sure, but—is this good enough?"
One of his eyes slowly opened, followed by the other, and the Doctor looked her up and down. Rose told herself that it was all in her head, the idea that he was blinking just a little more than usual, that his Adam's apple bobbed so nervously.
"As bare as you're comfortable with," he repeated again, his tone carefully neutral.
The wet shift isn't doing her any favors in the cold night air, so Rose peels it off as she emerges from the water, wincing as the sodden fabric parts reluctantly with her skin. Gooseflesh forms on her arms and chest, a thousand tiny complaints that she needs warmth and she needs it now.
Naked and shivering, Rose climbs up the marble steps leading out of the pool, arms snug around her waist to trap in what little warmth she can. The stairs are hard beneath her feet, punishing her with their sharp, uncaring edges and flat freezing planes. But still she climbs, and climbs, and climbs—what else can she do?
After hours of climbing (and hours, and hours, and more hours on top of that), a dim light reaches her eyes. A step later, and the light brightens. Two steps later, and she can just make out the shape of a chamber, walls stretching up into an arched ceiling; ten steps after that, and she has arrived at a clearing, a giant cavernous king's-room fully bedecked with a fireplace, a food-littered table, a handsome bed, and rich drapery adorning the strange, rough golden walls. The drapery glitters in the firelight, gold circular patterns shimmering, and as odd as it sounds, Rose could almost swear she hears the walls hum.
(So familiar, and yet she can't quite…)
"Are you here?" she asks, stepping further into the room, hugging herself against the chill. "Did I find you?"
Rose didn't know why her cheeks or chest blushed so badly as she peeled off her vest. It wasn't like he had never seen her this bare before—they had a swimming-pool in the TARDIS, didn't they, and he had seen her in a variety of scanty two-piece swimsuits before, hadn't he? So why did this feel so different?
It doesn't, she told herself with a scold. Medical purposes, she reminded herself, and she glanced back at the bag attached to the IV station, swollen and fat with fluids dripping into the Doctor's arm, formedical purposes. She had to get a grip. The Doctor was sick and he needed her help, and that was far more important than whatever stupid randy human fantasy might be pawing beneath the surface of her subconscious.
Besides, the Doctor was better than all of that. So she could be, too.
"Well?" she asked, scooping her clothes off the floor so she could fold them into a neat little pile. "What are you waiting for?"
"Right," said the Doctor, shaking himself. "Of course. Erm—"
His hands lifted toward his chest, fingers nearing his shirt-buttons, and he paused, suddenly uncertain. "Actually, Rose, I'm sure I'll be fine," the Doctor said, hands dropping to his thighs. "I can just try a sleep aid of some sort, it'll probably do the trick. No need to go through with this—this—"
"Situation contrived out of a cheap harlequin romance novel?" Rose teased gently, her tongue peeking out between her teeth.
"Oh, how dreadful. Now you've gone and made me sound like some sort of dirty old man."
Rose plunked down next to him on the bed. "Nonsense, Doctor. You're not dirty at all."
"Ah, but you think I'm old. Don't think I didn't notice your strategic omission there, young lady."
"You are old."
"Am not!" the Doctor huffed. "I'm in the very prime of my youth!"
"Only old fogies say stuff like that," Rose replied, laughing as she scooted closer on the bed, "and you did just call me young lady."
The Doctor scowled at her, and she grinned back with as much innocence and charm as she could muster. That was right, that was more like it; teasing and silliness and jokes, those would cut the tension nicely. They'd waded back into comfortable territory, familiar, like sitting in the same spot on the sofa over and over again.
"Now," Rose said, "are you going to undress yourself, or shall I do it for you?"
"Of course I'm here," the voice replies. "Where else would I be?"
Ignoring it for the moment, Rose walks the perimeter of the chamber, eyes traveling over the table, the bed, the walls. Approaching one wall, she presses a palm flat against it, shifts her hand downward, wondering at the sandpaper-rough texture beneath her skin. Something echoes at the back of her mind, sighing softly, a song. Something glowing and sweet.
"I know you," Rose murmurs.
"Do you remember?"
She doesn't, not really. But she does remember she's wet, and cold. Almost as if something heard her silent complaint—and for all she knows, something might have; she's fairly certain she's experienced stranger things—Rose turns to see that a robe has appeared on the bed, where there were only smooth-pressed bedclothes before.
"How did you do that?" she asks.
The voice laughs. "Your wish is my command."
"Yeah, but I should be careful what I wish for."
Slipping the robe around her shoulders, it takes Rose a few seconds to realize what just happened.
"I'm still not completely certain—" the Doctor started to say, but, emboldened by impatience, Rose cut him off by leaning forward and slipping his top shirt-button free. Funny how quickly that shut him up.
She looked up afterward and oh god, that was a mistake, because her face hovered quite close to his, and she could almost take that look in his eyes to mean something entirely different (bedroom eyes in a sort-of bed in an almost-bedroom and goodness, it was quite warm in the room now, wasn't it?).
"Rose," said the Doctor, his voice quiet. "I…"
For a moment, Rose could almost let herself believe he meant it, the way her name left his lips like a prayer, but then his hands gently wrapped around hers, pulling them away from his shirt.
"I think it would be best if I tried something else after all," he said, his eyes unable to meet hers.
Images spark behind her eyelids like impressions left by light; patches of sound filter in and out like the audio on degrading film. Memories flicker by, fireflies on a summer night.
"You were there the day my father died," Rose says, quietly, even though the words don't make sense; her father died when she was so, so young, and he was alone, except for—
"Death," she whispers, and her breath catches in her throat. Scanning the room for any hint of her shadow, she clutches the robe to her chest, hands shaking. "Is—is that what you are?"
The voice is silent, but Rose doesn't need to hear it to know the reply—I could be.
"Why are you here, Rose Tyler?" the voice asks, instead.
Shrugging, Rose shivers violently, for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. "I thought—there was something I needed to do. I needed to save—I had to find—"
"—your destiny?"
"The Doctor," Rose says, more to herself than the shadow. She doesn't recall much besides the name, or the feeling that accompanies it, warm and golden and bright. But she can feel the importance of it, the weight in her hands, like a set of brass scales. Impossible to quantify, and yet…
Her heart gallops in her chest. Whatever the Doctor is, he's far more substantial than a shadow.
"Where is he?" she asks quietly.
"I shouldn't be out for more than two days," said the Doctor, popping the tablet into his mouth and downing a cup of water after. "Three, tops."
"Got it," replied Rose, eyes fixed to the floor as she shimmied back into her jeans.
"Maybe four. Possibly five."
"Sure," Rose laughed weakly.
The Doctor glanced up at her, his face pinched in worry. "You'll be all right, won't you?"
"What are you worried about me for? I'm not the one who's sick."
"True, but…"
He trailed off, shaking his head after. "At any rate, the TARDIS is safely parked, the larder is well-stocked, and you've got the entirety of the library, garden, and swimming pool at your disposal. Call it a nice bit of R-and-R, yeah? Sort of unintentional and forced R-and-R, but still…"
Already his eyelids were fluttering, fighting to stay open, and Rose smiled despite herself. Something in her chest tightened and twisted for reasons she couldn't quite explain, but she reached out to clasp the Doctor's hand, and that helped a little.
"Is there anything I should keep an eye out for?" she asked.
"Hmm-mm," the Doctor hummed. "The restorative sleep will…"
He yawned, blinking heavily after. "…take care of everything. Suppress symptoms. Kill the…fear response. Eliminate contagion. Flush everything out."
His head lolled back on the bed, eyes shuttering closed. "Defensive mechanism. Potent stuff. Rose Tyler…"
"Yeah, Doctor?"
His hand squeezed hers, his grip far weaker than usual. "Thanks, for…all your help. Everything."
Rose nodded. "Of course, Doctor. Anytime."
But he was already asleep.
"Where are you?" Rose demands, louder, when the voice doesn't reply.
"Wake up," Rose said, loudly but not too loudly. She didn't want to startle him, after all, even if the Doctor had been asleep for twice as long as he'd promised, even if he could almost pass for a corpse, as still as he was on the medbay bed. His eyes were trapped, unmoving beneath their lids; his mouth, closed, could have been stitched that way, his hands, perfect plaster casts, and Rose bet they would be cold to the touch, even more so than usual. Only the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket betrayed any sign of life.
Shifting her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Rose tried again. "Doctor, wake up," she said, and her voice only wavered a little.
Again, nothing.
Rose crossed the medbay and reached out, shaking the Doctor's shoulder once, twice, three times. "Doctor, please," she said. "You said five days, tops. It's been ten days now. Ten whole days, and…"
And I miss you, is what she wanted to say, but this wasn't about her. It had nothing to do with her going out of her mind with worry, gnawing her fingernails down to the quick as she checked on him in the medbay every three hours. It certainly had nothing to do with how she had flipped through half of the medical literature in the TARDIS library, or how she could barely make herself eat, or how she hadn't had a good night's sleep since—
"I'm worried," she said instead, but her cheeks flushed anyway. "Please. I don't know what to do."
Still, he didn't respond. Rose bit her lip in concern.
She had an idea. Honestly, it was sort of stupid. But it was her only idea, so that technically made it her best, right?
(She didn't think about how that also made it her worst.)
Her face hot with shame, Rose sliced a pair of medical scissors through the Doctor's oxford and tee shirt. It felt horribly invasive, tearing his clothes open like this when he couldn't give her permission. But she wasn't certain how else she would manage the skin-on-skin contact, not without disrupting the IV plugged into his arm. At least she didn't have to worry about replenishing that; she said another silent word of thanks to the TARDIS for all of her help. The responding shift in the TARDIS's background hum did little to settle Rose's nerves, but she appreciated the reply, nonetheless, especially after the last ten days of depressingly solid isolation.
Pulling off her clothes, and slipping under the blanket next to the Doctor, she averted her eyes from the Doctor's face, just in case he woke up. Just in case.
"Okay," she said, expelling a deep sigh. "I'm gonna come find you."
"I'm here," says the voice. "You found me."
"Then show yourself," Rose demands.
Hushed footsteps sound behind her, and she whirls round, heart racing. But if anyone or anything was there, it's gone now.
Lips pursed and brow knit tight, Rose slowly turns to look about the room once again, eyes scouring any surface that might serve as a hiding-spot for whomever (or whatever) she's dealing with. "Enough puzzles," she snaps. "I haven't got the brains for it, and I'm sick of them, besides. Just show me the Doctor!"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Remember your precious rules?"
"Sod the rules," Rose shoots back. "You never concerned yourself with them before."
A gentle laugh. "Didn't I? Oh, Rose Tyler. If only you knew."
Crossing her arms over herself protectively, Rose waits.
"You should leave this place," the voice says, but not unkindly.
"Not until I get what I came for," Rose replies stubbornly.
"You did, though. You completed your objective. You found me."
"Prove it. Show me your face. Show me the Doctor."
"You should go, Rose Tyler. You really, really should."
"I really, really won't."
The voice sighs in frustration. "I'm trying to help you!"
"Then maybe try giving me what I asked for!"
Silence falls, a quiet but unmistakable refusal, and Rose grows restless. She's still cold, she's still a little damp, she's hungry, she's tired, and more importantly, she's tired of waiting.
"Fine," she huffs, stalking over to the food-covered table. Rose cannot remember the last time she ate; only that it has been so, so long. And she doesn't recognize any of the fruits that lie there, but she can tell by their tantalizing scent, unctuous and sugary-sweet, that any one of them will taste delicious. Her stomach growls in anticipation as she reaches toward one of the fruits, a dark round thing split open to reveal hundreds of tiny red jewel-like membranes inside, each of them fat and plump, a handful of perfect red-shining rubies. Mouth watering, she plucks the fruit off the table and brings it toward her lips.
"No! Stop!" the voice rings out.
"Why?"
"You just can't," the voice pleads. "Rules. Remember?"
"So, what?" Rose says impatiently. "I'm just supposed to stand here and starve while I'm waiting for the Doctor to show up, or the not-Doctor, or the annoyingly-invisible-and-astonishingly-unhelpful grim visage of Death, or whatever the hell you are?"
"No," the voice bites back, suddenly impatient, "you're supposed to leave. And everyone knows you can't leave if you eat. It's a rule."
Rose glances at the fruit in her hand, glances back at the stairs she spent so long climbing, earlier. They seem impossibly dark and far-away, now. Is she really just supposed to go back empty-handed? Is she really supposed to climb back down those stairs alone?
"You'll find a way," she replies, voice quiet. "You always do."
She bites into the fruit.
Blood pulsing thunderously in her ears, Rose almost doesn't hear the Doctor crying out for her to stop; sweet-crisp-sugar bursts past her lips and now she's tearing into the fruit like some kind of wild animal, a wolf, razor-sharp teeth rending tender membranes to nothingness as juice fills her mouth and drips down her throat and flows over her hands. Ichor drips down her arms and stains her robe in crimson blots, bloody raindrops that blossom in the silk fibers.
"Stop!" shouts the voice, returning to full-stereo sound in her ears, and a hand clamps down on her arm, spinning her round. The Doctor stands before her, wide-eyed and terrified as she's ever seen him. Funny. He sounds different now, looks different, too; he's young, wild-haired, slender, no trace of the close-cropped hair or blue eyes or black leather she'd imagined earlier. Rose wonders why.
The Doctor rips the fruit out of her grasp and casts it to the floor. "Spit it out," he begs, clasping her by the chin so he can frantically wipe away the juices with his thumbs. "Please, get rid of it, maybe it's not too late, Rose, I—"
"That's not how it works," Rose says, caught in something of a daze. "Rules. Remember?"
Anger flashes in the Doctor's eyes and his hands snap away from her face. "And you know them, too—I told you, Rose, I told you what would happen! Why didn't you just listen?"
"I did. And now if you want me to leave, you've got to find a way for us to get out. Both of us."
Stunned, the Doctor doesn't reply, just searches Rose's eyes with his, like he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
"Why do you want to stay so badly?" Rose asks. "Aren't you lonely in here?"
The Doctor doesn't answer; he doesn't need to.
"Are you bound here by someone else's rules—or did you write them, yourself?"
Again, nothing; he just stares, and almost imperceptibly, he trembles.
Swallowing hard, Rose steps forward, bridging the distance between them, her gaze fixed on his.
"I want you safe," she says, slowly. "My Doctor."
Something in him seems to crumble at that.
Wordlessly, the Doctor draws Rose into a tight embrace, arms cinched snugly around her as he buries his face in her hair. Their chests pressed together, Rose can feel the frantic hammering of his hearts as if they're beating in her own ribcage, and she winds her arms around him, pressing harder, relishing the solid thump-thump thump-thump of his double-pulse once again. She doesn't remember how, or why, but she knows it has been a long time since she last felt his heartsbeat against hers. Too long.
"I missed you," she confesses quietly to his chest.
His arms tighten around her a little more, but he still doesn't reply. Instead, he steps back just far enough that he can tilt her chin in one hand and draw her upward for a kiss.
Probably she should be surprised, but far from it; Rose melts into the kiss immediately, eyes fluttering shut as her hands fist in his suit-jacket. Rose's heart quickens in her throat, so hard she thinks she might choke from it, but fortunately the Doctor breaks the kiss quickly, pulling back with a soft sigh only to press his forehead against hers. His hand still rests on her face, thumb idly stroking her jaw. Drunken contentment fizzing happily in her chest, Rose nuzzles his palm, basking in the warmth that blooms everywhere his skin touches hers.
Before she knows it he's pulling her in for another kiss, harder this time, enough that Rose can feel her pulse bleating in her lips, her fingertips. She opens her mouth to deepen the kiss, her tongue darting out tentatively. Adrenaline and something like relief flood her skull as the Doctor responds in kind, tongue diving in, like perhaps he wants to taste the traces of fruit still lingering there, or he wants to taste her, and the kiss transmutes from chaste sweetness into pure urgent need.
"I should…" the Doctor starts to say, but his eyes trace the curve of her, bathed gold in the firelight, and whatever he should doesn't follow. "Erm. This would actually probably be a good time to wake up…"
He shakes his head. "Oh, sod it," he finishes in exasperation, pulling Rose bodily against him for a fierce kiss. There's nothing calm about their demeanor, now; now it's all hands tangled in hair, mouths slanted together in a mess of tongues and teeth, fingers frantically working to rip off his jacket and necktie. They tumble into the bed together, Rose pulling the Doctor over her.
"God," she manages to gasp out, "please tell me this isn't a dream."
"What if," says the Doctor, pressing a kiss to her neck, "in your dream, you went to Heaven, and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had that flower in your hand?" he continues, kissing the elegant line of her collarbone. "Ah, what then?"
Body trembling with desire, Rose drinks in a shuddering breath. "You gonna take me to Heaven, Doctor?" and she means for it to come out as a tease, she really does, but it sounds much more like a plea.
He seems more than happy to oblige.
After, they lie in the bed for a long while, unspeaking, wrapped lazily around each other while their breaths even out and their pulses hammer themselves back to normal. A dull sense of happiness suffuses Rose's being and she presses a kiss to the Doctor's chest.
"Thank you," says the Doctor. "For not, erm. Leaving me behind."
"Never will," Rose replies firmly, but the Doctor shakes his head, pulling back to look at her.
"Listen," he says, his voice plaintive, "I know that—there are things, and you should know them, and I should tell you—I should say—"
He sighs. "It's just going to happen someday, Rose. One way or the other. It's inevitable. I can't stop it, and—probably I shouldn't try. Not forever. Everything has its time, and everything ends. Even friendship, even—"
Swallowing, he averts his eyes. "Good grief, you'd think dreaming would make this sort of thing easier."
Rose's blood thunders in her veins, leaving her lightheaded. "I, erm," she starts to say, and hesitates. Then, because this is a dream, and never was anything else, so nothing here really means anything and the real Doctor will never need to know, Rose gathers the threads of her courage, steeling herself.
"I love you," she murmurs.
The Doctor's eyes widen in surprise. But before he can reply, light begins filling the room, slowly crawling up the walls. Rose turns to see if she can find the source of it, but the Doctor's hand on her cheek stops her, keeping her gaze focused on his face.
"I won't let you go without a fight," he says, desperately now as the darkness lifts around them, warm black giving way to cold white. "You know that, right? You said forever and I will do everything within my considerable power to hold you to it. Understand?"
Smiling, Rose nods. Dream-Doctor is rather a sweet fellow when he wants to be; she wonders if she'll ever see him again. Perhaps the next time she sleeps, if she's lucky. As the room grows brighter and brighter around them with the promise of morning sun, she leans down to press another kiss to his lips.
God, he feels so warm next to her. She could almost believe this was all real.
"See you on the other side," she tells him.
Not if I see you first is what she expects to hear, probably with a wink in accompaniment. But, strangely, the Doctor just looks sort of sad.
"Quite right, too," he says flatly.
And then she's awake.
Eyelashes flutter open to reveal white, bright white, nothing but blind-bleaching-white as far as Rose can see. But slowly, her eyes adjust, and her vision fills in like an old patchy TV screen with someone playing at the dials. Blinking the sleepiness away, Rose glances about to see that she is still on the medical bed, in the TARDIS medbay, and the Doctor is—
No longer in the bed with her.
Startled, Rose jolts into a sitting position, sweeping over the room, and—ah, there he is. Perched on the counter, freshly clad in a clean, intact oxford, sits the Doctor, a book in one hand and a half-eaten banana in the other. As if he can sense her watching him, the Doctor looks up; their eyes meet and his face brightens in a smile.
Already, Rose's dream has begun to slip through her fingers like grains of sand, but she knows that nothing in her imagination could ever rival the beauty of the real-life Doctor's stupidly gorgeous smile.
"Finally, she's awake!" the Doctor says cheerfully. Scarfing down the rest of the banana, he hops down from the counter, tossing the peel over his shoulder into the wastepaper-bin as he saunters over to Rose. "Did you have a nice rest?"
Half-forgotten snippets of her dream swim to the surface, gentle lips and bare skin and whispered confessions, and Rose silently begs her cheeks not to blush. "Nice enough, I guess," she says, nervously plucking at the blanket in her lap. "What about you, though, are you all sorted now?"
"Yep! Right as rain. Well, as right as rain can be. No reason rain can't be left, I suppose, or up or down or sideways, if the wind's just so."
With a great yawn, Rose stretches until her shoulders pop—good grief, but that feels delicious. "So what exactly happened? Did your healing whatchacallit just take longer than you thought, or what?"
"Ah, no, not as such," replies the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck. "To be fair, the restorative coma did help—actually, that was sort of the problem, over-helping. In an effort to avoid the stress-related cardiopulmonary complications caused by the virus overloading the amygdala with stress hormones, my immune system isolated my consciousness, hiding it deep within the neural network. Fortunately, I managed to neutralize the threat rather quickly—within the first day or so, by my reckoning, and impressive is what that is—but less fortunately, the enhanced neurotransmission of gamma-aminobutyric acid caused by the sleep aid ended up suppressing communications between synapses, and, well, you know how that goes."
"Sure I do," Rose laughs.
"Long story short, my body was unable to recognize that the threat had been dealt with, so the right connections never fired off to wake me up," the Doctor explains. "At least, not until you…"
Hand pinwheeling, the Doctor gives up. "…you know."
Rose grins, a cheeky thing that traps her tongue between her teeth. "Jumped in and saved your hide?"
"I was going to say Ruined a perfectly good set of shirts, but that'll do, too," the Doctor replies with a cheeky grin of his own.
"But I did the right thing, right? It wasn't—I didn't invade your privacy, or make things worse, or anything like that?"
"No, not at all. The skin-on-skin contact provided just the right tactile stimulation to assure my immune system it was safe to wake up again."
"So I was just what you needed?"
"As always," replies the Doctor with a wink.
Scooping Rose's clothes off the floor, he moves to hand them to her, but she cuts him off midgesture with a hug, pulling him in close.
"Sorry," Rose mutters, her voice muffled by his shirts. "I just—I'm really glad you're back."
His arms encircle her, and she loosens at his touch, relaxing for the first time in days. "Me, too," the Doctor says, with a little squeeze.
Stepping back, he presents her clothes with a flourish. "Now, if you'd care to get dressed, I think an adventure of the quiet sort is in order. What do you think—leisure planet, bioluminescent beach, pleasure garden, or mega-cinema?"
Rose tuts thoughtfully as she pulls on her shirt. "I dunno, a mega-cinema sounds sort of fun," she says, wriggling into her trousers, "but I think I'm in more of a garden mood, for some reason."
"Ah, yes," the Doctor chuckles, returning to the counter so he can retrieve his book. "You went to Heaven, and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower, eh?"
"And what if, when you awoke, you had that flower in your hand?" Rose finishes automatically.
Rose hears the book slip in the Doctor's hand. She looks up and he's gone rigid, the lines of his back turned to stone, as if something caught his breath. As if an electrical current just ran through him; like he's shocked.
"Fan of Coleridge, are you?" he asks over his shoulder.
Rose frowns. "Who?"
Turning, the Doctor regards her through narrowed eyes, brow knit in what looks an awful lot like suspicion.
Confused, Rose shrugs. "What? What's wrong?"
The Doctor studies her face for a moment, as if he's looking for something; Rose has no clue what it might be. But whatever it is, he must not find it, because soon enough, he's shaking himself.
"Nothing," he says. "Sorry. It's nothing."
a/n:(the title is taken from a line in william blake's memory, hither come; the doctor's recitation on dreams hails from a poem by samuel taylor coleridge)