The Final Clock

by Diana Prallon

You do not allow yourself to feel too much, think too much, and yet you cannot deny she holds some part of you. [DoctorxRose]

900 years is enough to forget many things – especially tales of childhood and things you never used. You do not understand why the TARDIS bell chimes when you walk inside, but it has never enjoyed Autons, much less when they're in a murderous rage. There is too much to do to think too much of a stupid ape that can't wrap her pretty blond head around the concept of a space machine.

You do not worry about it. You do not wonder. You invite her to come just because she proves to be smart, to think quickly. It has nothing to do with the way her smile lights the whole world. You're an old man, not given to sentimentalities. You're a hardened man, a product of war, there's no space in your hearts for attachment.

You do not see the clock has stopped when you met her; you do not hear the TARDIS noises of acceptance and eagerness. You do not think to question why do you wish to show her the life you lead, the danger and the loneliness. You do not imagine she could turn away – because she couldn't. She never had a clock, she never heard the stories. She knows nothing of the tales of Gallifrey and the costumes of its children, she only knows her pulse quickens when you're around.

Even when she walks inside the small room with shelf after shelf filled with clocks, you do not tell her; you do not notice anything amiss. Rose finds it weird that you keep so many stopped clocks, and none of you would have noticed that in the highest shelve some are struggling to tick; to tick again; the sound of everything that was meant to be lost.

You do not allow yourself to feel too much, think too much, and yet you cannot deny she holds some part of you. You tell yourself is a small part, and when a Dalek claims you love her, you dismiss it as the ravings of a killing machine that will stop at nothing.

(You do wonder if some of this comes from the feelings she gave it when she touched it, but you silence your thoughts and burry your hopes when she asks if Adam can come along. Of course it is not like that).

You pretend not to care as you watch her flirt and show off to this green boy that has no space in your life. When you two drop him off, you do not even pretend to hide your glee; but still you won't admit to caring more than a bit. Certainly it is not love; you're too old for love; too tired; too hurt.

You are thankful that it is nothing much when you see her standing next to some dashing young man; a man completely out of his century, his smiles too charming, his eyes too inviting. He sweeps her out of her feet, and you only watch and pretend that it is nothing. You rage against him with the smallest excuse, you show off and act like some stupid ape yourself while she grins at both of you as if she was watching small boys.

Mayhap she makes you younger, more full of life, of wish to live. You will never admit it. It is for the best if someone else is with you, someone like Jack so full of charm and banter and life that claims all the eyes and hearts. It is not hard, not problematic to love Jack – how could you not? But it does not matter, because it is not that kind of love, the one that makes you rage at fate and at your own nature.

You cannot begrudge her loving him either, in every and any way she wants to. She deserves it – some happiness, all the happiness the universe can give her. You watch them without envy, without pain, with nothing but longing for days long past, days you'll never have. You walk away and let them be what they are: young, human and fiery.

That's when your steps take you to that room again, to the clocks and the loneliness, to the faint clocking of one last clock – but there's nothing but silence, and all the clocks have stopped. All your loves have been loved – but no. You can remember, after Gallifrey burned and you watched, after you died and was born, there was still one clock – one thing to wait for – and now it is gone. You look for it, trying to remember which one it was, and when you find, you want to curse your own stupidity.

It is beautiful, all in gold and white, the circle and numbers laying intertwined in vines and petals: roses in gold, shining in front of your eyes like the love you wanted to deny. It marks the hours, minutes and days since you've met her – the last love of your life, the last piece of your soul to be given away and cherished forever – she same piece you just sent in someone else's way.

You can finally admit that you love her, and love her enough not to change anything. You just delight in her smile and the sound of her voice, enjoying everything you have and not wishing for anything you might ruin. It is enough – to be like this – it's gotta be.

She's the first thing you miss when you wake up in a random house, locked in white, and seating in a red chair you wonder where she can be. You fight your way out to find her, you need to protect her – you cannot loose, not anymore than you already have. You are still friendly and charming, you look to the other side and give your attentions to someone else: you could not function if you did not pretend all was well.

Your name in is her lips when you find her, she's pleading for help, for your safety, she's running believing that you can stop anything – because you let her think so, you promised you'd make her safe and now you fail: in front of your eyes, she turns to dust and so does your hearts. It is as if they have both stopped, as if everything had stopped, nothing but the proof of your last chance and ultimate failure on the ground.

It awakes something within you: the rage and pain she had healed, back again with vengeance: they will pay for their crimes. You will not allow her life to be wasted like all those people – who were important but acted like cattle, not when she was yours to love and protect. Your words are few and to the point, your face is set in stone. If all you can do is giving her memory peace, to stop that which had killed her, that is what you do. If it leads you to once again drop your name, deny your promise, it is worth it.

And then, in Jack's lively voice, all is returned: she's safe, she is there, she is somewhere waiting for him, one final chance to redeem himself. Her voice is brave when he calls for her, and it gives you strength to be The Doctor like never before: no plans, no weapons, just faith and courage to do what needs to be done. Even the thousands of Daleks are small in comparison to the blessing of having her safe again, between your arms, alive and breathing and ready for more.

You fight for her, and when you believe all is lost, you save her too. She might hate you for it, but that does not matter: it is what you must do, for love. The clock of your life is ticking towards the end, but that means little when hers can continue on and on. You can be a coward, because this is also being brave and accepting you have done your best.

The sound of the TARDIS returning startles you – and every Dalek around – and out of it she comes, but not your Rose, the woman you learned to love: something else, something more, something not even Gallifrey tales would dream of. She's more golden than ever, your companion turned into goddess, the power of the universe in her so human hands as she ordered the universe into her liking – and it reminds you of something still half-forgotten, the bad wolf leading you towards the light, but you cannot really grasp it, not yet, not anymore – and finally prays for release and help and you could never deny her anything she wanted.

You walk towards her, The Doctor once again, holds her hand and kisses her lips for the first and last time – you lay her down at your feet, returning the power, feeling it burn each and every one of your cells, but it is a small price to pay. She's safe – the universe is safe – time is back in place. You hold her in your arms and walk inside the only home you still have, flying away and knowing it to be the end.

Soon, another man will come and take your place, and you might lose your beloved for being someone else while still being you – one of the many curses of Time Lords. You bid her goodbye and hello in almost one breath, and the fear and pain in her eyes almost kill you all over again. She does not trust you, she does not want you, not anymore.

As nature drives you away from control, you flip and drive her home, the pain gaging you as you pretend to be excited, speaking too fast and driving too carelessly. It drives you into failure, falling down in her feet as she had laid in yours; sleeping in her care as you had just cared for her. You wish to help, but you cannot: even when you try, you're not him anymore, you're no longer you, and you can't pretend to be.

You're someone else, someone new: rude and not ginger, who may not be worth of her love – if she ever loved you like this – and you do what you must, no second chances given since you are getting none from the last chance you had.

And then – then – her face lights up in a smile, accepting you in once again, taking you home and sharing food and gifts, before announcing she's staying with you. The way she smiles and takes your hand brighter than all fairy lights on Earth combined, choosing a star to restart, just you two this time around, all things said without words needed as you two walk inside and your lips meet again, the best Christmas present you ever had.