Title: Sundays
A/N: I held onto this idea for ages. I'm trying to force myself to actually write stuff down instead of letting it get lost in my head. Based off the quote from The Silence in the Library: "I never land on Sundays. Sundays are boring." I wrote this in one night after midnight, so it's not awesome, but I am no good at editing – if I don't publish right away, I'll never get around to it.
Sometimes the memory of the life he used to lead hits so hard he is honestly surprised it doesn't knock him flat. And Rose, too; he can see it in the faraway look she gets every now and then. In that first week they were together, the hours they spent in a Torchwood lab, connecting wires and adjusting power supplies, they had the same conversation over and over. "Don't worry; I'm sure it will work." They traded off saying it, reassuring each other and themselves.
It makes him laugh, now, to think of it – he was terrified that the TARDIS wouldn't grow, or wouldn't grow fast enough, and that he would grow old and she would realize that he was nothing special anymore, and that she would leave him. The fear of it kept him up at night, which was no small thing now that he actually needed to sleep. He wanted to be the best (boyfriend? husband? God forbid, friend?) that he could be to her, while have no clue how to do that. He warned her that it might not work, that their travel might be limited by planes and other people's schedules and achingly long hours in a flimsy metal tube just to get a change of scenery. She promised him that that was okay, and that the TARDIS would just be a bonus, and that either way they would carve out a life for themselves here in this foreign, alien universe.
And Rose – she was terrified that the TARDIS wouldn't grow, or wouldn't grow fast enough, and that she would grow old and he would realize that she was still just a shopgirl from the Estates, no matter how much she played adventurer, and that he would leave. She couldn't imagine what could compel a man with a millennium of life under his belt (or a week, depending on how you looked at it) to stay with her. He would drift to restless sleep and Rose would start awake, staring blankly at the ceiling, certain that if she reached out she would find cold and empty sheets, every day more sure that he would ditch this domestic life in the slow lane she was threatening him with. And then he would shift or press closer, and she could breathe again, for a few hours.
Perhaps they had both had some trust issues in the beginning, then. It had taken them a few weeks to get their footing in this new life, and to realize that each was just as afraid of the other leaving. Once it had clicked for them, they fell together even more perfectly than they'd ever been, because all of the reasons why not weren't spread chasm-wide between them anymore.
And day to day, they lived, and they were happy. The Doctor grumbled warily about Torchwood but let them draw up fake ID papers for him, a permanent alias that he could give freely (of course, Rose still called him Doctor). Once he saw the toys there, though, he agreed to stick around on a regular, semi-scheduled basis (because the idea of actually having a job was still too weird for him). But, yes, okay, they went to work together five-ish days a week, and stayed for eight-ish hours, and they came home and grocery shopped and cooked dinner and cleaned the house and took walks. They had tea with Jackie at least once a week, and babysat Tony (who the Doctor was absolutely smitten with; the feeling was mutual).
The TARDIS grew, the world went on around them, and every day the Doctor and Rose fell more in love, if that was even possible. For all of their fears and anxieties and wanderlust, five years in, they were happy. Okay, yes, partly that's because the TARDIS did grow, and there was a whole new universe out there to explore together, but now they come home after adventures. Sometimes they even land on Sundays on purpose. In fact, recently, Sundays have become his favorite day of the week.
"Mmmpff."
"Rose."
"Mmm?"
A kiss. "Wake up."
"Mm-mm."
"It's late."
"S'Sunday."
A gentle tug at her hair. "Yeah. One last day to have fun before Torchwood wants us back."
A deep, long-suffering sigh as she pries her eyes open. "Doctor."
"What?"
"Welcome to being human. Sunday mornings are for sleeping. It's part of the deal. Lay back down."
"We've already done the sleeping part. It's nearly ten, let's do the do-whatever-we-want part."
She rolls her eyes. "I am doing that part – I'm sleeping."
"Not anymore," he points out mischievously. He's pushing his luck and he knows it, and she wonders if it's worth it to give him a good smack for it. It's Sunday. She's not unfamiliar with him waking her up because he's bored, but it's been a while since it's happened; and now she wants to be annoyed, but it's so familiar and him that she has to go pretty far down the list of what she's feeling to get to annoyed.
"Okay, fine, I'm awake, now what?" He gets the feeling he's being baited, but he can't quite figure out where this is leading.
"Whatever we want!" She raises an eyebrow at him.
Ooooh. He's worked it out too late – she's caught him and he's as good as admitted it. A rule established long ago: Don't wake Rose up unless there's a good reason (addendum: "I'm bored" is not a good reason.) She can't help but smile indulgently at his guilty look. She palms his scruffy cheek and tugs him down close. "You don't have anything planned at all, do you?"
Sheepishly, he has to reply in the negative. She slips her fingers into his hair. "Well, luckily for you, I do. Sunday mornings are for sleeping, and a few other things."
"Doctor?"
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
"M'sleeping."
"Exactly. It's ten on a Sunday and I'm awake before you are."
"M'learning. C'mere."
Soft cries woke them early, their ears carefully attuned to the slightest distress. Rose pressed her hand to his chest. "I'll go," she murmured quietly, and was back in bed before he could drift off again. He wants to take advantage of this free pass at more sleep, but he has to debate his reluctance to open his eyes versus the opportunity to enjoy one of his favorite moments. He rolls over and cracks his eyes to the dim light creeping through the window, just beginning to light up two blonde heads. Giving in to wakefulness for the moment, he sits up and sidles closer, leaning sleepily against Rose and peering over her shoulder. She drops her head against his chest, equally tired, and the sun is rising spectacularly outside, but both are quietly captivated by this far more stunning sight. And then, because it is still early, they curve their bodies towards each other to create a space just big enough, and soon all three sleepy humans have fallen asleep once more. It's been a long month.
It really shouldn't be surprising that the Doctor's favorite person in the world is one he can talk nonstop at without worry about being told to shut it. Rose is away for the day with Jackie, and the Doctor misses her, but he finds it hard to be blue when he has a warm baby in his lap, giggling at everything he says and does. He is wrapped so tightly around that tiny little finger that circulation ought to be cut off. Nothing makes him happier than hearing that laugh and seeing that toothless baby smile. They've spent the whole day together, perfectly content in each other's company. They ate breakfast, took a walk (casually fending off women with man-with-baby-dar), read books on the rug, and passed much of the afternoon making faces and giggling at each other. And now it's naptime. Stretched out on the couch, his baby daughter sleeping on his chest nestled safely under the span of his hand, the Doctor drifts off with a smile and doesn't wake until Rose comes home. He makes room for her on the couch and hands over the baby once she is cuddled comfortably against his chest. Rose tells him the little details of her day and complains good-naturedly about Jackie; he tells her about their quiet day in which nothing of consequence happened. They make dinner with practiced ease give their daughter a bath and put her to bed. Leaning against the edge of the crib, watching his wife sing his daughter to sleep on a quite Sunday night, he considers quitting Torchwood and spending every day just like this.