I'm getting that feel for one shots again. Bear with me on this one.
Disclaimer: I own nothing in Doctor Who. If I did, Rose Tyler would not be gone and we'd see a lot more Jack Harkness around. Oh, and I also don't own Charles Dickens.
Summary: "I love you." He would say, brushing the blonde hair out of her face, not hesitating to say those precious words. And oh, he knows that these are the dreams of a fool, but if the Doctor's not a fool -albeit, a brilliant one- then what is he?
Title: you and i (and her).
WARNING: This fic is set before the Wedding of River Song, but after Amy and Rory's wedding. The fic also includes a LOT of quotations from past episodes, listed in the following order: The Satan Pit, Let's Kill Hitler, School Reunion, Rose, Doomsday.
Alright, that's all. Enjoy!
you and i (and her).
("And I might burn off old love, but at least I burn." -J. Rey.)
by Everyone's a Mortal.
"Doctor?" Amy asks, swinging her long legs over the railings of the TARDIS and looking at him intently.
"Yes, Amy?" He asks, and she waits for him to turn towards her before voicing her question.
"Have you ever been in love?" The redhead asks, and the Doctor sees something different in her eyes. She's asked that question before, and others like it. But they're always in a joking manner, always making it clear to him that she knows he hasn't and he doesn't have to answer.
This time, though, there's a sense of seriousness in her demeanor and the Doctor gulps, running a hand through his hair and straining not to think of her.
Because it's always her, isn't it?
("If you see Rose, tell her... just tell her...")
He hasn't answered her and Amy's still staring, waiting, not willing to let him drop the subject. The Doctor thinks of lying; he's lied before ("Rule number one: The Doctor lies."), but Amy reads him like a book (all those redheads do) and he decides to be honest.
"Yes." He says, and feels slightly guilty when he thinks of only her, and not his past romances. Only her, always her. "Once."
("...Oh, she knows.")
"What was her name?" Amy asks, jumping off the railing and walking up to the Doctor. The ancient man sits on the couch, wearily.
He looks tired.
"I don't want to talk about it," he says. "I don't want to talk about her."
Amy stares at him for a moment, and the Doctor can see questions clouding her eyes.
"I'm going to take a nap." He states, and strides out.
...
He doesn't enter his room, because he knows what awaits him there (she was always messy, she was), and instead he walks towards the library, because it's quiet and it's ancient and there is peace.
Once he finds it, the Doctor collapses on the couch by the fireplace that roars in the center of the room, surrounded by piles and piles of books that don't contain vashta nerada. Just words. The Doctor swings his feet up and onto the couch, closing his eyes, straining to forget all those times he'd rest his head on her lap and she'd hold him til he slept (he barely ever slept; only with her).
The Doctor opens his eyes. Something's wrong with the cushions. It's slightly uneven. He busies himself, straining to find the culprit of the action. His hands feel against a hard surface, the cover of a book, it feels like, and he slides the book out, plopping back onto the couch to take a look at the book. It's worn and old, hundreds of years old, it seems, at least nine hundred years old; it has been lying under that couch a long time.
He reads the title of the book and both his hearts stop, lurch in his chest and he cannot breathe. It's a Charles Dickens book (A Christmas Carol) and he cracks it open to a random page, staring at the highlighted parts with awe.
"There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor." The Doctor reads, and when he blinks he sees her face close to his and then she pulls away, laughing. He supposes it is true, that laughter is contagious, that it can cheer you up.
But Dickens is also wrong: sometimes laughter is terribly sad.
He laughs one of those terribly sad laughs, bitter like the winds of a forgotten plateau. Here is he, two thousand and something years old, and there, a long time ago, is she, crying on some beach that screams nostalgia.
("You just leave us behind! Is that what you're goin' to do to me?"
"No. Not you.")
And oh, the Doctor wishes he could forget her. But she's etched into his hearts. She's his love, she's his consciousness, she's the anchor that keeps him loving and forgiving and she's the person that gives him hope.
But she is also his pain.
She is also the reason he cannot enter his room or hers, because all their things are scattered across the floor and the bed is a mess and undone and the bathroom probably still reeks of their mingled scent but it's them and it's love and it's untouched.
If he goes back in there, he'll see her bras and her jeans and her pyjamas tossed across the room along with his ties and hair gel. If he goes in there, he'll see all their photos and all their smiles and it'll be a fresh wound instead of a thousand year old scab that's refusing to heal because it wasn't exactly hurt in the first place (she only ever made him better, after all).
If he goes in there, the Doctor will be forced to realize it's a thousand years over and he's a thousand years late.
("But, Sarah Jane- you were that close to her once, and now... you never even mention her. Why not?"
"I don't age. I regenerate. But humans decay. You wither and you die.")
He'd promised her forever and she? She had promised him a hand to hold. They probably would've gone through with it, if it wasn't for the universe and curses and unfairness.
The Doctor holds that old Charles Dickens book up to his face and breathes it in, letting out a groan because damn it, it still smells like her.
Rose petals, that was her. Rose petals and an early 2000s smell. He loved that smell, still loves it, won't ever not love it.
("Imagine that happening to someone you...")
The Doctor has given up fighting it now, that never ending love for her and all she's made him (good and good and good, that's what she's made him). He closes his eyes, letting her flood him, too tired and old and domestic to say he's never loved someone.
He can save that lie for another day.
In his mind he can see her, bright as the Gallifreyan sky and brighter still. Her hair might be dyed, but she is so authentic, so original, and he loves that. He can feel her hands envelope him in a hug (he remembers it like it was yesterday and not a thousand years ago). She is whispering sweet everythings into his ear, running a hand through his hair, undoing that old tie that hung around his neck back then and telling him they, Rose Tyler and the Doctor are brilliant.
And he believes it.
The Doctor would give anything to have her here to undo his bowtie, to have her tell him she loves it, because whilst everyone else hates it, he knows she would smile and straighten the fabric and peck him on the lips and say, "I love the bowtie."
"I love you." He would say, brushing the blonde hair out of her face, not hesitating to say those precious words.
And oh, he knows that these are the dreams of a fool, but if the Doctor's not a fool -albeit, a brilliant one- then what is he?
Suddenly his mind changes to that damn beach and he opens his eyes, snapping the memory in half.
("What, Doctor?")
Sometimes he forgets, just for a little bit. He forgets about her, he forgets when he's running for his life with Amy and Rory and sometimes River, but always, every evening when they laugh and have tea with cakes, he remembers her.
He loves her present tense, and he hates the fact that he is jealous over a dumb clone who doesn't even look like him anymore. He's angry because that halfling gets her and he doesn't when he needs her so much more. When he needs her to hold him and love him so much more than she already had.
("You can spend the rest of your life with me. But I can't spend the rest of mine with you. I have to live on, alone. That's the curse of the Timelords.")
He gave her so many warnings, so much advice to stay away because he was absolutely toxic. And yet, she had persisted. The Doctor tried, time and time again, but instead she got under his skin and persuaded him -seduced him is a better term- into loving her, into investing himself in her, into falling head over heels and burning up a sun to say goodbye, all and everything for her.
"How dare she," The Doctor says, aloud, because the nerve on that blonde is absolutely astonishing.
He loves it.
("I'm the Doctor, by the way. What's your name?"
"Rose."
"Nice to meet you, Rose. Run for your life!")
The Doctor gently closes the old book and places it on the table, walking around the library quietly, seeing scenarios that had happened a long time ago, like snogs and battles over which Narnia character was better.
He can't help think that he's so happy that she ignored his initial warnings and came with him to love him.
He can't help think that he's so angry that she loved him just to leave him.
("That's who I am. Now forget me, Rose Tyler. Go home.")
The Doctor walks out of the library, slowly progressing down the corridor, looking for the console room. The TARDIS hums and suddenly the Timelord finds himself in a completely different area of the TARDIS.
In front of him is a door. It's TARDIS blue with yellow flowers pressed into it, pink ribbons tied around it. A long time ago, before her, it was just blue, but she came along and decorated it. A long time ago, only one name was etched into the wood. Now there are two, now there are still two, even though she is gone, gone, gone.
The door reads "The Doctor and Rose Tyler" in loopy letters, all curves and smiles like they were so long ago, before he wore a mask of dancing giraffes and faux okayness. He glances up at his old girl, his constant companion, and yells out, "You're unfair!" As loud as he can.
She hums in response, as if reminding him that she shows him what he needs, not what he wants.
"You're stupid and she's stupid and I hate you both! I'll destroy this room, destroy it right now, I will! Watch me! I'll show you!" He shouts. The Doctor slips out his screwdriver, pointing it towards the door. He stares at it a long time. His hands are shaking.
Then his arm falls, limply, by his side, and he stares up towards the ceiling again. "I don't mean it." He says quietly, "I don't. You know I don't. I'm the Doctor and I lie, and I hate goodbyes, and I already left her on a beach. Don't make me pick up her things."
("I'm burning up a sun just to say goodbye.")
The TARDIS hums back something that sound suspiciously like we love you too.
Always had a soft spot for Rose Tyler, the old girl did.
...
The Doctor strides back into the console room with another brilliantly fake smile on his face, dashing towards the controls and grinning at Amy and Rory. "Why don't we go to the planet Snzi? They've got fantastic ice cream. Granted, it's ten credits, but still. Well then, sounds like a plan. You Ponds better dress warmly!" He is running around frantically, preparing the TARDIS for take off while Amy and Rory laugh behind them. Rory departs to get ready and Amy is behind him when the Doctor calls her back. "Amy?"
She stops. "Yes, Doctor?" The ginger asks, smiling at him.
"Her name was Rose." He says, and then sends a smile her way before flipping a switch and the TARDIS flies off, away from earth for the billionth time. "Rose Tyler."
Amy gives him a quiet smile and turns, running off.
The Doctor's smile dims slightly, but he looks up at his oldest girl and brightens again. "You and I remember her well, don't we, Old Girl? You and I and her."
The ship hums in agreement.
("I ... I love you."
"Quite right, too.
And, I suppose, if it's my last chance to say it...
Rose Tyler-")
So, what did you think? It's a bit messy, that's for sure, but overall I liked it.
Review please; constructive criticism is invited, or just complements :).
God bless,
Lyn.