Til Death Do Us Part
. part one .
a/n: This one gets pretty dark. PM me if you have any questions. (:
"there's a fine line between genius and insanity.
i have erased this line."
- oscar levant
"How did you get here again?"
She looks up him, brown eyes skating off the front of her crossword puzzle. He can see the word gallifrey written in her scribbled handwritten. It has been placed on six across; the g is hanging off the left edge of the page, but he decides not to point that out.
"That again," Rose says flatly, ruffling her blonde hair. "Hmm." She drops her gaze back to the crossword puzzle and runs her pointer finger down the spaces that make up two vertical. Her nail is painted red; the polish is chipped and underneath it he can see what looks like a web of blue veins running across the back of the nail.
"Were you going to answer the question?" he asks.
She presses her finger to two vertical again and then writes the letters that make up trenzalore. He can't remember hearing of such a place.
"Depends," she muses, "on whether you meant to ask."
"Is there such a thing as meaningless questions? If there is, I don't think I'd waste my time asking them." That earns a small smile from her, the first one he's seen in days.
"Do you remember anything?" Rose asks him, eyes focusing on his again.
"Weren't you stuck in a parallel universe?" Such a thing ought to be impossible, he thinks, but his brain is a bit too foggy to make a final decision on that matter.
She hands him the crossword puzzle, but doesn't answer the question. He takes the puzzle from her, folding it over in his hands. It seems like a compliment.
"Was I?"
"I think you were." It's hard to remember anything. He wades through the fog in his head, squinting, and her eyes soften for the briefest moment before hardening into something animalistic, primal. "Would you believe me if I told you-"
"My mum was expecting me for tea," Rose interrupts.
She gets to her feet, shoving the plush chair behind her as though it weighs nothing. As she leans over him to shove her chair away, something wet falls on his cheek, rolls down his chin and stains the corner of the book, Great Expectations, in his lap.
He thinks he hears her whisper something like "good choice," her fingers rippling over the edge of the book. But he can't be sure, and he can't ask. She's already left the library. He runs his own fingers over the letters that make up Charles Dickens and try desperately to raise up the memory in his mind. He only gets as far as big ears and a stage-coach.
In the first few days they live together, Rose insists on blindfolding him whenever they move through the corridors of his home. He doesn't understand why, although she seems to know the layout much more effectively than he does. He hasn't ventured from his bedroom at all, that he can remember.
He's already examined his body before, already stood in front of a full length mirror and ran his fingers along his cheeks, chin, shoulders, chest, thighs, toes. He already knows what he looks like. Therefore, there is no reason for the question that springs to mind one day when they are roaming the hallways, her elbow tucked into his like a wayward child's.
"Am I ginger?" he asks for no particular reason. He's not. His hair is beginning to grey as it thins, leaving room for the shine of his bare scalp.
Rose begins to inhale, stops, and appears to choke on it. His fingers wrap about hers without a thought. It seems natural, habitual.
After that, he's free to thread about his home without a blindfold.
He joins her for tea when he can. Rose always has two cups of tea (his prepared just the way he likes it, with extra cream and two sugars) on the table at precisely nine am; always the same two mugs: his with a blue swirled pattern and hers hand-painted with a bleeding gold sun. Every other day she makes them toast and spreads extra jam on his. Some days there isn't any toast, mainly days when she's upset with him and won't tell him why.
This morning - he can't physically tell that it is morning, not with the absence of windows, but his senses are tingling with awareness of the day - he lays in his bed and stares at the ceiling. There is a pinstriped jacket hanging from the ceiling fan; he doesn't remember putting it there. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear Rose bustling about in the kitchen, slamming drawers shutting and fetching jam from the fridge. He shouldn't be able to hear that, but he can.
Time passes. He doesn't move, pushes down the instinct to bound about, and eventually there comes the sound of the door.
Rose manages to look unconcerned and self-conscious at the same time as she hands him a napkin with toast on it and his cup of tea.
"It's banana-flavored," she says when he gives the jam on his toast a particularly intense stare.
He studies her. "You've never brought me breakfast in bed before."
"I'm flexible," Rose answers, shrugging. "Now budge up." She makes a shooing motion with her right hand and he moves along the bed, making room for her. When he's far enough away for her standards, Rose slides in beside him, wrapping the covers comfortably about herself and propping her head up on the burgandy pillows.
"These are comfortable," she says after a moment. "The pillows, I mean."
"They don't feel like me," he admits, taking a bite of toast. He quite likes banana flavored jam. There's something oddly familiar about the taste, and he reminds himself to ask Rose if she's bought it for him before.
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He takes a sip of tea. She's put a little too much sugar in. Odd. She never puts too much. "It's all rather generic."
"Is there something else you'd prefer?" Rose wonders. The way that she says it makes him feel as though he could ask her for the stars and she'd do her damndest to tear them down for him.
"If I knew myself, I'd make you a list." He can't begin to explain the fog to her, but has a feeling that she already knows.
Rose reaches out and steals his tea, taking a sip and purring contentedly around the rim of the cup. He stares at her mouth, transfixed, for too long. She notices and promptly pulls the mug away from her face.
"Saves a little money," she counters, handing his cup back. It takes him a moment to realize that they're still talking about the pillows. "I was thinking about buying a second swimming pool."
"A swimming pool?" He thinks of her in a bikini and feels heat climb up his cheeks.
She gives him an odd look, her hands now busy trying to untangle the mop of hair she's tied up above her head. "Nothing wrong with spontaneity."
"Not in the slightest," he agrees. "Wait...second?"
Her fingers work deftly through tangled blonde hair and she ignores his question. "It must be quite frustrating not knowing yourself."
For a moment he's overwhelmed by it, hates that he is. The anger and frustration and complete inability to understand churns inside of him, building and building. "You have no idea," he manages through gritted teeth.
One of her hands loops about his, interlocking their fingers, and the burning inside of him subsides a little.
"I saved the world once," Rose says, her eyes going distant.
"Is that so?" he asks, somehow not surprised in the slightest.
She nods, grasping his hand more tightly. It's almost as though she needs the contact as much as him. "I did it to save this bloke, but I don't remember one second of it."
He envisions golden light emanating from a blue box and a blonde woman turning the universe to dust, then promptly laughs at himself for it.
"Must've been a pretty special bloke," he says, unable to keep the jealousy out of his tone.
She smiles faintly. "Yeah, he was."
It isn't until she's left the room that her words sink in. He wants to ask her why her use of was hurts so terribly.
He dreams of a burning citadel, hears the screams of his people as they burn. In the sky a fleet of Daleks turn to dust, consumed by flames. Smoke spreads across the skies. In the midst of it, fog streams in through the cracks in the distance, shrouding everything in its path. For one moment, he knows who he is: the Oncoming Storm, the man who calls himself Doctor, and in the next he is nothing, he is tiny. Lost in the mist.
When he awakens shivering, tears pouring down his cheeks, warm arms wrap around him. Rose presses against his back and presses a kiss to the back of his neck.
"I never wanted to kill them," he whispers, fingernails digging into her arms. She doesn't pull away. "I never wanted any of this."
"I know," Rose breathes, tightening her hold around him. "Shh. I know."
She is drinking her tea when he finds her, situated in what looks to be some kind of engine room. The walls are a dusty brown-gold and coral pieces frame the edges of the room. In the center is a circular console with a tube above it. Master Control Consule, his mind offers helpfully. He steps toward the main console, offering Rose a quick glance to make sure this is okay, even though the aesthetics don't feel like hers.
"You've never been able to find this room before," Rose says, face too blank. She doesn't quite meet his gaze, choosing instead to look up at the tube with the pumping blue lights. She mumbles something under her breath, eyes flashing with frustration.
"It had been hidden from me before," he surmises, taking in her hostile posture and lack of response as proof.
Rose crosses her arms, and there's something she isn't telling him, but he knows better than to push. Instead, he moves forward, fingers stretching toward the surface of the console. He can feel Rose's eyes burning holes in his navy blue coat, but promptly forgets about her presence as his fingers touch the console.
A spark runs through him, burning like a live wire, and something golden flames into existance in the back of his mind. It stretches, turning in circles around his consciousness and he realizes that it hasn't just been born. It has been cooped up somehow and is now enjoying the lack of captivity. A sensation not his own rushes through him - tasting faintly of welcome - and nonexistant arms wrap around him, cocooning him in warmth. Laughter bubbles out of him and when he lifts a hand to his face it comes back wet.
"Hello, old girl," he murmers, petting the series of dematerialization switches midway up the console lightly.
The presence in his mind should be feeling uncomfortable by now, as it often is with humans, but it feels like he's just discovered a missing part of himself. It nudges him further into the golden light, unsubtle, and he giggles at it before obliging. The presence pushes a memory forward and he submerges in it, watches the clips fly by him faster than a human mind will ever be able to comprehend. He's watching an old man with a heavy cloak and cane rap on what appears to be an Aztec wall. It opens and the white-haired man disappears through it with several companions. More moments flash by, and he is the old man, he's facing a girl with dark hair and a sunny smile. She throws herself at him and he ignores the ache in his bones, hugging Susan back fiercely, because her name could be nothing else.
Just as quickly as the presence had entered, it skirts away into the edges of his consciousness. He reaches out with his mind, stretching until it hurts, and only manages to brush it. It offers him the clear feeling of dismissal and he returns to reality with a throbbing pain in his head. Rose is above him, hands braced on either side of his daft, old head. I'm on the ground, he realizes.
"...both knew it was too soon," Rose is growling. Speaking to the presence, as though it possibly cares about a little human girl. To his surprise, the presence rushes into his mind, through it, some of it disappearing into Rose. The rest retreats to where he can't reach. She tips her head back, blonde hair spilling about her like a halo, and hums softly.
"What was that?" he chokes out. He's trembling, and the front of his slacks are wet with urine. She doesn't seem to notice the stain, or doesn't care.
Rose hesitates, her eyes still focused on something else. Then she reaches forward and drags him into a sitting position.
"You'll find out when you're ready." That's all, and then Rose is systematically undressing him, shoving his trousers and pants down his legs without any hesitation. His shirt follows, her fingers brushing over the striped white material as she unbuttons it and shrugs it off over his shoulders. After a few seconds of shock, he finally catches on and flushes dark red. This is something they've never done, as much as he might've wanted - No, not him him. Once, he might've wanted her to rid him of a battered leather jacket or those pretty-boy pinstripes, but this is wrong, and the wrongness settles into his bones like-
The inner monologue grinds to a halt. She's helping him to his feet, pointedly not looking anywhere below his waist as she guides him out of the room. Several turns later - this is bigger than he remembers, unless the dimensional stablizers are acting up - and they reach a bathroom of sorts. The floor is fitted with a tile that appears to slither underneath his toes and it dips in the middle, leading to a silver drain at the base. On the left wall sits a marble sink with two sinks and two toothbrushes, two different kinds of toothpaste (one mint and one 'gumball' flavored.) On the right wall there is a huge tub with a showerhead hanging overhead, already spurting water and gathering steam.
"Thanks for that," Rose says, and he doesn't know how he knows, but he knows she isn't talking to him again.
"Rose?"
She helps him into the tub and then draws the pink and yellow curtain around him, shielding him from her view. He waits underneath the warm spray, half expecting her not to answer.
"Yes?" Her voice is soft, unraveling at the edges.
He opens his mouth to ask about the console and the presence in his mind, wants to demand that she answer his questions and fill the gaping chasm in his mind. Instead, what comes out is, "You act like you've done this a few too many times."
Rose takes a deep breath. "'S alright. You'd do the same for me. Better with two, yeah?"
He wants to ask how Rose knows so much about him when he doesn't even know if he's the kind of man to help her in return. All he's got is the shape of his body, blurry in the steam, and he's afraid that he has forgotten something terrible. He must have, if it was so bad that he had to lose his identity over it. And yet, there she stands, holding all the knowledge that he doesn't and staying put all the same. Rose reminds him what fascinated him about human beings in the first place.
When he peers out behind the curtain a few minutes later, Rose is sitting in the hallway outside the bathroom with shaking hands held in front of her.
"Yeah," he answers loudly enough for her to hear.
She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look at him, but a soft smile breaks out across her face. He realizes that he's grinning back at her, unable to keep himself from it.
They're on their sixth game of chess. He has won three times and Rose twice, although he thinks she might be letting him win.
Staring at the white queen pinched between Rose's fingers, he remembers a name. "Who was the Impossible Girl?"
Her fingers tighten around the queen and then release it. She knocks out one of his pawns.
He coughs harshly and reaches for the spare tissue Rose encourages him to keep in a pocket. After gagging for a moment, he coughs up a wad of spit that's a little too red. His mouth tastes of iron.
Rose raises an eyebrow. Are you okay?
He nods slightly. I'm always okay.
Her eyes narrow. "I'm finding the 'impossible' part a little ironic, aren't you?"
"The universe has a sense of humor," he reminds her.
"Don't I know it." She reaches for her lemonade, looks at the stained tissue in his hand, and thinks better of it. The lemonade is drawn behind her back and he's never been so thankful for her. His taste buds are already pleading with him.
He studies her closely. His vision flutters and for a moment Rose's face is covered in specks of blood, her mouth open in a silent scream. Then he blinks and she's normal again.
"I think she might've saved me."
"Is that so?" Rose moves her piece with more force than necessary and a smirk blossoms on her face. "Checkmate."
"What do I owe you, m'lady?" He already owes her a trip to Barcelona and six quid. She owes him a back-rub, and he's going to capitalize on that as soon as possible.
Rose tilts her head to the side, still smirking in that adorable way of hers. Abruptly, something shifts in her eyes, making them hard. He can practically feel her retract from him, leaning back and crossing her arms in front like a shield. Dread settles in his stomach and he tries to make himself accept that everyone leaves him in the end. She's just one more in an endless line.
"I think I'd like the afternoon to myself," she tells him.
In a last cruel trick, she leaves the lemonade sitting there.
Rose slumps to the floor and he barely catches her. Her fingertips skim his pinstriped suit as she smiles shyly upward.
"Hello," she says, breathless.
Her lips look full and pouty. Normally he'd only reserve them a quick glance, but after their kiss earlier his lips are tingling and he can't stop thinking about snogging her senseless. It suddenly seems like a viable option.
But even that doesn't matter, because Rose is here and safe, wrapped in his arms and smelling faintly of the vanilla lotion she bought in the last little shop they visited. All he needs is this, her, for as long as she can give him. Because while he can't have forever with her, he'll get as close to it as possible.
He grins down at her. "Hello."
He awakens to voices. Somehow he knows that they're coming from the main console room.
"Thanks for coming." That's Rose. She doesn't sound nearly as warm as in his memories and there's an edge to her voice that sounds almost...possessive.
"Could never resist a call from the TARDIS," another woman says, chuckling. "Though I did find it a bit odd. He's never been one for calling. I once had to leave a message for him on the oldest cliff face in the universe."
Rose hmms. "He was probably doing repairs. You know how the TARDIS gets."
"If he'd only use the breaks properly, then she wouldn't get so cross," the other woman says. Her voice is eerily familiar. "Speaking of...I was most impressed to see you piloting her. The Doctor doesn't train many-"
"He didn't," Rose says over the other woman. Her voice is sharp. "I taught myself."
Silence reigns for a moment. He strains to hear them and then realizes that they aren't speaking.
"You are something," the other woman murmers with something close to awe. "I can see why he likes you."
"Liked," mutters Rose. There is the sound of levers being pulled. "He's not the one you knew."
"He's always the same in the end, though, isn't he?" He wonders who the man is they're speaking of and tries to believe that it isn't him that's made Rose's voice go so cold.
"Not this time. That's why I've called you here. I - I need help." He slumps back onto the bed at Rose's words. "We can't speak here anymore. He has a bad habit of eavesdropping."
The other woman chuckles, the sound sinfully delicious. "Oh yes." Her voice seems very close, clawing at the air around him. "Hello sweetie."
He's hard, painfully so. Doesn't want to be, but is all the same.
"That'll earn us a few moments," the other woman says. Then whatever they might be saying is blotted out behind the blood roaring in his ears and the heat of his fingers.
When he emerges from his quarters twenty minutes later, Rose is alone in the main room, playing listlessly with a wheel on the console. For a moment, the light makes her hand glimmer with a gold mist.
"That could kill us," he points out without knowing what he's saying.
Rose glances up at him, eyes filled with shadows. "No, it won't. I rerouted the circuits." Glancing down at the fork between his legs, she adds, "She still gets to you after all these years."
"I'm sorry," he says, feeling it appropriate.
"Don't be," Rose spits, turning away from him.
He stares dejectedly at her hunched shoulders, not knowing what else to say, knowing that her anger doesn't stem purely from this. There's something much bigger that Rose isn't sharing with him, whether it hurts too much or because his brain will overload if she does, he doesn't know. But it manifests itself in moments like these and drags Rose further away from him. He doesn't want her far away. He wants her here.
"I'm mad at you," Rose says, guessing the direction of his thoughts.
"I know." He shifts closer. "I just wish you'd tell me why."
He doesn't hear it the first time; it is just a muttered mess that disappears from her mouth before he can make sense of it. Then Rose rises from the chair and turns to him. Her fingers curl into fists and she launches herself at him, beating at his chest, hitting and kicking and screaming. He raises his hands to block Rose from hurting him too badly, but allows the assault, staring at her with blatant horror. His hearts beat madly in his chest and when he sees her tear-stained face again he almost doesn't recognize Rose. Her outline glimmers with the same gold mist as she shoves at him and then he's flying across the room. There is a sharp pain in his back as it connects with one of the coral barriers and then he sinks to the floor, dazed.
Rose stumbles across the room toward him, looking equally horrified.
"Oh, God," she whispers, kneeling in front of him. He holds out one hand weakly and after a moment Rose takes it, laying across his chest. They sit there together for an indefinable amount of time, listening to their three hearts beat in tandem, and then he hears choking sounds. Rose begins shaking in his arms and he curls his arms about her waist, holding her close as she sobs.
"How could you?" Rose breathes through her tears. She clutches him too tightly and he doesn't care. "How could you?"
"Hello," she says, breathless. Her fingernails dig into his skin.
He's aching. Aching for her, for the world, for the could-have-beens, and could-be's. He has saved Rose from Cassandra, but this is only the beginning. Eventually she'll spin away from him and leave him all alone.
"Hello," he says, grinning down at her.
They stare at each other for a long moment and then she pulls away, backing away from him, eyes wide and accusatory. Right in front of him, she ages, wrinkles taking possession of her face, hair lengthening and turning honey blonde. She is who she is now, who he has created her to be.
"I get that you ache," Rose murmers, "and I get that you're tired of being all alone, but that didn't give you the right to take the choice away from me." She shoves at him like before, and he takes it. Her voice raises. She's screaming now. "You took everything from me! And you didn't think twice!"
She's right. He didn't.
He always thinks twice when it comes to Rose Tyler.
A leather jacket materializes in his hand and he puts it on. Her face shifts to shock.
"Do you think that will change anything?" she whispers.
He lifts the leather, revealing the pinstripes beneath. Rose crushes herself against him, pressing kisses along his jawline.
"This isn't fair," she objects through her tears, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He tastes blood and sweat and something like ash.
The room begins to spin, the walls peeling away to reveal the remnants of Gallifrey. Rose has pulled away from him without him noticing and is now picking her way through the corpses. As she walks, the flesh peels from her bones, leaving her as much a skeleton as the rest.
"Tell me, Doctor," Rose says.
"Anything," he promises. "Anything for you."
She smiles. Half of her teeth have been knocked out and the rest are smeared with blood.
"When you asked me to come with you, did you know what I would become?" Rose bends over and picks up a skull, rolling it between her hands like a bouncy ball.
"Of course not," he says, feeling sick.
"But you could have seen it," Rose purrs, chucking the skull across the empty space. It hits the ground but makes no sound. The ground around it begins to bubble and froth; blood spills over the edges, coating the ground and staining his Chucks.
He shakes his head, transfixed by the blood. "No, I looked at your time-stream and never saw this."
"That was before you unlocked her," Rose says.
She smiles at him, lips blood-stained, and laughs and laughs and laughs.
He awakens to the sound of screams. His own.
Scrambling for something - anything - to keep him anchored, he barely recognizes the fingers clamped around his.
"I'm sorry," she breathes against his skin, so softly he barely makes it out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Hey," he answers just as quietly, unconsciousness closing in on him, "that's my line."
"We're going on a field-trip," she tells him a few days later, marching into the console room with jeans, knee-high boots and a familiar purple jacket.
He lifts his hand from the console and wonders why he can't feel the presence in his mind. He should be able to feel it, has always felt it. "Why's that?"
"Because I'm going stir-crazy and you're about ten times worse than me," Rose points out, slumping down onto the only set of chairs in the room. It creaks beneath her, in obvious need of repair.
"Where are we going, then?" he asks, retracing his steps back down the hall. Depending on how long they're planning on driving, he'll need to pack a few days worth of clothes and nourishment. It seems tedious and unnecessary, and to be honest he isn't sure what's left in the cupboards in the kitchen, but the anticipation of a journey makes it worth it.
"You don't need to bother with that," Rose says to his disappearing back.
He turns around and cocks an eyebrow at her. She's staring at him with an unreadable look and suddenly he has to make her smile.
"You're just gonna magic us there, then?" His tone is cocky, self-assured. He thinks that the pinstripes would have gone well with it.
A brilliant smile crosses her face, then, a hint of teeth and tongue poking through them.
"I'm just that good," she answers. "Door's over there."
He can't argue with that, especially when, as he heads for the door, Rose wiggles her fingers at him.
"It's like Christmas all over again," he says, taking her hand. He thinks he might've held her hand once on Christmas - watching the remnants of the Sycorax ship float through the sky, ash turning to snow and snow to ash. He remembers her fingers stroking his wrist through the fabric of those god-awful pinstripes.
Her tongue retreats behind her lips, smile becoming frozen.
"That was a good Christmas," Rose says cautiously, after a pause.
In a sudden burst of courage, he answers, "Only because you were there."
Her eyes dart down to his lips, only for a second. If he hadn't been paying attention then he would've missed it.
"Where are we going again?" he asks, bailing her out.
She offers him a grateful look, and normally he's the one doing that, hiding behind manic grins and new places to explore. Maybe this is why he's still here, to fix this, even if he can barely remember himself. Because he never wanted Rose to end up like this, like him.
"You might know it as Neverland," Rose murmers, a smile playing at her lips again.
"You're taking me to see Peter Pan?" God, he loves her. He probably shouldn't be getting this excited, but she doesn't seem to mind the fact that he's bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Rose rolls her eyes. "Urban legend."
"Oh," he mutters, enthusiasm deflating a little. She shoots him a sideways glance.
"Well," she adds, whistling faintly, "Peter Pan might be a legend, but yo- I hypothesized that a particular member of the Dodrogan family had gotten a little out of hand and tried to make himself famous. The Xypothlyx have always been greedy bastards."
His head is spinning. It's a rather disconcerting feeling to understand everything and nothing about what is being said at the same time.
"Can't say I've met a Xypothl before," he decides on saying, trying to dispel the burning ache in his head. "They look similar to humans, then?"
"They're vaguely humanoid," Rose conceeds, opening the door and shutting it behind them. "I'd assumed there were only six versions of shapeshifters in the universe until I met them."
"How were they the last time you met them?" His mind is busy conjuring up images of fuzzy purple aliens and dismissing it as insulting to the Xypothlyx all at once.
"Oh, you know," Rose says slowly. "They tried to burn me at the stake."
"What?" The image in his head contorts into fuzzy purple aliens brandishing torches and yelling in Gibberish. Which really isn't fair, because Gibberish is a lovely language used by twenty-six species he's had the pleasure of meeting.
"To their credit, their societal structure is about equivalent to Earth's Early Modern Period, so about...erm...1500?" Rose rambles.
"Right." His words feel like honey. He's too busy focusing on the pounding in his head, the contrast of the fog and the knowing. "Hold on five minutes, would you? I think I need to get some aspirin." The last word sends unease spiraling through him, though he isn't sure why.
"You can't!" Rose cries desperately. He looks at her, shocked by her vehemence, and then she's gripping his shoulders tightly. "You have an allergy to aspirin. If you try to take any..." She lets the sentence trail off, but it is obvious from her expression how it was going to end.
"Okay," he murmers. He believes her, can't not. "I might need to lay down then."
He goes to head back to his home, only to blink in surprise. In its place sits a blue police box. He swears he can hear it humming.
"Shit," Rose mumbles under her breath.
He ignores her in favor of pressing his hand to the exterior of the box. It pulses underneath him, and the presence sings sweetly in his ears before disappearing. "This is home, then?" he asks.
"That's home," Rose confirms, sounding as though she's waiting for his mental breakdown.
Ironic. He's already had that.
Something clicks into place inside him. He can feel the world begin to turn underneath his feet in all its terrifying glory.
"Fantastic," he breathes, the words settling, familiar, on his tongue.
When he turns to Rose, she's gazing at him with her mouth open. There are tears in her eyes, ones he can't resist brushing away with his thumbs.
"You like it when people say it's bigger on the inside," she tells him, softly, as though it's a secret.
"Did you say that?" Somehow, to him, that's infinitely important.
She nods, hesitantly and then fervently.
He watches the expressions play out across her face - wonder, joy, disbelief, sorrow, longing - before asking, "What did I do after that?"
Rose reaches out and takes his hand again, weaving their fingers together like she's done it a thousand times before. Maybe she has.
"Why don't you come and see?" she whispers, tugging him forward as her face opens up into a brilliant smile. "Run!"
"I thought they might've gotten rid of the torches by now," Rose remarks defensively as she approaches him, towel in hand.
He leans back on the examination table, wincing as the burn marks along his arms ache in protest. Rose pursues him, mouth set in a stubborn line, and before he can prepare himself she's lightly scrubbing at his arms.
"Ow," he whines, wobbling about on the table. "What the hell is that?"
He can't be sure, but he thinks she's just smiled at him. It seems like something she'd do.
"Antiseptic wash," Rose answers, dabbing at another burn with the towel. "Made in the fifty-first century. A bitch to get, so you'd better not waste it."
"Did you visit New New York?" he asks absentmindedly.
The towel pauses mid-sweep. "New New New," Rose responds cheekily. "The grass still smells like apples, though."
She freezes, as though realizing she's said something wrong. He doesn't think she has. Apple grass is lovely and brings up memories of them laying on his coat and staring out over the landscape, her giggling at his not-funny jokes.
"Sounds lovely," he says, playing along. He doesn't want to scare her away.
However, it appears that Rose is no longer concerned about the apple grass. She has dropped the towel and is now tracing the burns on his chest with feather-light touches. She's breathing, but only barely. In contrast, the pads of her fingers are sending heat flooding through him. His heart rate has increased to the point of suspicion, and it won't lower no matter how much he pleads with it.
"Do they hurt?" Rose asks, tracing a particularly nasty burn by his right nipple.
He can't contain his shiver, can only bite down on his lower lip in a desperate attempt to cling to the edges of this moment. For once, her eyes aren't distant, aren't filled with hurt or distain. She almost looks fascinated, if he could think to hope for such a thing.
"Only a little," he lies, reaching up and grabbing her hands in his.
Rose doesn't look at him, keeps her eyes focused on the places their hands are touching.
"Rose," he says, voice infused with tentative hope.
She raises her face slowly, eyes meeting his. Her expression looks lost, as if the only thing tying her here is the grip of his hands. He thinks he should probably say something to reassure her, but Rose beats him to the talking part.
"I can still remember when you asked me to come with you," admits Rose, her thumb rubbing down the length of his. "I regretted it the moment I told you no. Didn't think you'd come back for me. Didn't even have my A levels."
"Doesn't matter," he says, because it feels right. "You're still brilliant."
"You're so different now." Her voice breaks, and she's back to staring at his lips.
"Am I?" he asks, leaning in ever so slightly.
He can feel her exhalation against his mouth. Her fingers are quivering in his.
Then, wrenching her hands back, Rose is gone, eyes going distant as she hurries for the safety of the door. He's left staring at his own hands and wishing bitterly that he could have too-big ears and a leather jacket again, for both of their sakes.
Something has broken between them, and he's become the stupid ape.
He thinks about what Jackie asked him.
"Can you keep my daughter safe?"
As shrill as her voice had been - and he would know, Rose having forced him to be domestic every time a holiday popped up; excuse him, but he was pretty sure that National Pie Day had been made up by the two scheming blondes - Jackie's words had held a ring of truth.
Standing there, he watches Rose hug her mother, sniffling. She's so young, so untarnished by the evil in this world, and he could get her killed at any moment. She trusts him - blindly, naively, fantastically - and he thinks that there isn't anything he could say or do that would change that. He doesn't want to change it. Rose is the only thing that stands between him and the hope that he'll rush into a situation he can't handle and promptly perish.
No, she isn't safe now. But she will be if the Doctor has anything to say about it.
Giving mother and daughter one last look, the Doctor disappears into the TARDIS and makes his way up to the console. Pressing a few buttons, he waits for the countdown before beginning. "This is Emergency Program One..."
...only to be interrupted as Rose stumbles into the TARDIS, covered in sweat and blood. Her hair is soaked in it and there is a large gash across her forehead. But apart from that she isn't bleeding all that badly.
"Doctor?" Rose whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. "Doctor, please tell me you didn't do this."
He stares at her, the numbness slowly seeping from him and leaving him terrified.
"Please..." Rose drops to the floor, curling into a ball. All around him, the walls of the TARDIS convulse and then shift until the outside of the ship is on the inside. The walls are covered in blood.
He can't move. Gravity forces him to remain still even as everything in him screams to be near Rose.
"I got you back," he hears himself say. "I did it, Rose!"
She reaches out, fingers shaking as she stretches toward the door.
"I trusted you," Rose whispers.
"What?" The Doctor can't be hearing right. He saved her even after all the odds suggested otherwise!
"You killed them." She curls tighter, arm retracting. Her body trembles and a wretched sound climbs out of her, chilling him to the bone. "You killed them all."
The edges of the TARDIS break open. The Vortex rips around them, tearing everything to shreds. Even through that, the Doctor can somehow peer past the Vortex and into a house at the corner of the block in Pete's World. The roof has been blown off of it, tiles scattered across the lawn, and the floor is covered in blood. In the midst of the blood there are bits and pieces, fingers and toes and one lone eyeball, staring bleakly up at him.
He wakes up thrashing underneath his covers, trying to muffle his screams into the pillow.
The Doctor, Rose had called him. The Doctor, he remembers, even through the sickening pulse of his eardrums. Trembling, he tries to control his breathing and only ends up hacking snot and blood onto the floor beside the bed.
He reaches behind him, hand searching blindly for Rose, but comes up empty.
She has left him alone.