Title: Second Time Lucky
Author: Dendera
Character/Pairing: Doctor/Rose (post-Journey's End, compliant to canon)
Rating: PG-13 or "T" for very mild sexual content
Summary: When she allows herself to remember back to that second-worst day of her life, to really ponder it, Rose recognizes a single, simple truth; that gleaming moment of choosing, of destiny, sprang from one little question.
Disclaimer: I own only the words.
Author's Notes: After viewing the finale on Saturday, I promptly sat down and wrote this. Naturally, it contains colossal spoilers for "Journey's End."
I
It's the same creeping chill as the last time, the same stinging wind, thick with the smell of pungent brine. Except, somehow, this time is worse. Two years ago, when she stood on this length of sand, there had been a small flare of hope despite the near crippling heartbreak; a part of her had known that there was more to their unfinished tale. The Doctor and Rose Tyler; the stuff of legend. Now, there is only a terrible finality, the knowledge that he--the real him--will never try to find her again.
"Mum, what do I do?" She is huddling, arm in arm, with her mother on that same beach in Norway, the one that ever only seems to spell misery for her. Pete is on his way, but the wind is making it difficult for the helicopters, and with their lack of warning ("'An how was I supposed to know he'd be leaving us in bloody Norway again?" her mother had shrilled into the mobile), it would be a couple of hours at least.
The Doctor--the new, new Doctor--has observantly recognized Rose's cue for privacy and, for the moment, has left them to their hushed conversation, trailing off toward the low surf. He has removed his trainers, allowing his bare, human toes to sink into the cold, clinging sand, watching the process with great interest. She finds herself wondering, absently, how he plans to get his feet clean again.
Jackie Tyler turns to look at her, her expression a medley of motherly concern and exasperation. "What d'you mean, 'what do I do'?"
Rose flings an arm in his general direction, her coping skills beginning to fray and unravel the longer she looks at this man who both is her Doctor and isn't.
"About 'im, Mum!"
"What d'you mean about 'im?" Jackie parrots in reply, shaking her head. "He's still your Doctor, sweetheart. It's the other one you should be angry with, leaving us in bloody Norway for the second time…" she breaks off, muttering to herself about alien blockheads with no manners.
Rose barely hears her. "He's not my Doctor, though," she sniffs, her voice thick with tears. She knows it sounds childish, but it's true and she can't help it. It's him, that strange-yet-familiar man, barefoot and hurtling pieces of driftwood into the grey tide, all the while looking so heart-wrenchingly similar to the man she's in love with, that's wrong.
Her mum sighs. "Well, you certainly snogged 'im like he was," she points out, unhelpfully.
"Oh God," her voice breaks, words engulfed and swallowed up by the muffled sob she can no longer contain. "I know…I know…but it was a mistake. I shouldn't 've…it was a mistake."
Jackie takes both of her daughter's tear-stained cheeks into her hands. "Rose, love, you're in shock. You need to give it some time to settle in. It'll be all right soon, you'll see. Everything becomes clearer in the morning. All you need is a nice, hot cup of tea and a proper sleep, you'll see," she repeats, but as she takes Rose into her arms, even she sounds unsure of herself.
"There isn't time," Rose mumbles against her mother's shoulder, bereft and exhausted from the sudden, gaping loss. Even though it's not fair to him, to the lone man, watching them intently, painfully, from the water's edge.
"He's gone…"
II
He's still getting used to her flat. Well, their flat. The one they'll be sharing from now on.
She looks over at him, watches as he fingers the keepsakes on her mantel. Pictures of her family and Mickey, snapshots of her baby brother, bits of seashell washed ashore from a faraway beach; all such human trinkets, fragile shards of memory. It must seem odd to him, she thinks, the things humans cling to. Scraps of time, moments come and gone all too quickly. It'll be the same for him now.
He pauses in his roaming and stares at one item in particular, a small piece of luminous red stone, intricately carved. The Doctor picks it up and rubs it in between his thumb and forefinger, looking down at it thoughtfully.
"When did you get this?" he asks, glancing over to her. "It's not from Earth."
She crosses the room to join him. "No, it's not."
He gives her one of those deeply curious looks, such a familiar sight, and she supplies an explanation.
"D'you remember that marketplace on the eighth moon of Zyrak? You were off muckin' about in one of those huge electronics kiosks and I found this outside at one of the alley stalls. A little granny sold it to me; said it would bring me good luck." She reminisces fondly, "I used to carry it around in my pocket. Figured I needed all the luck I could get when I was around you, yeah?"
She is cautious with her choice of words. Rose tries not to refer to the first Doctor, the original Doctor, as 'him'. It just seems cruel to treat them as separate people, even though, in reality, they most definitely are. Still, they have the same memories, the same wit, the same manic grins. The only difference is, that one is a billion light years off, forever alone, and this Doctor, sweet and vulnerable in his humanity, is an arm's length away.
He nods with interest and then raises a thick brow. "You know what this really is, don't you? What it means?"
She averts her eyes from his inquisitive ones, fidgeting a bit. It was a half truth she has just given him. Yes, the lovely carved stone was advertised to bring its owner good luck, but luck in something quite specific. Rose feels the warmth spread across her cheeks and knows that she has already admitted her own guilt. She knows it's silly for her to be embarrassed, but she's still getting used to all of this. Intimacy with this new, yet old, friend turned pseudo-boyfriend and the mutual understanding that time, for both of them, is limited.
When she meets his eye, she is smiling in spite of herself. "Yeah, I know what it means. S'why I bought it," she confesses.
The human Doctor tosses the love charm high into the air and catches it expertly in his fist.
"And did it work for you, Rose Tyler?" He flashes her that inane grin, but she can read the uncertainty behind it. He's painfully aware of the fact that he wasn't her first choice, and he's afraid he never will be.
"Are you lucky?"
Even she cannot stand the lingering silence. It takes real effort to keep the smile screwed on.
III
He's burned the toast again and stands, cursing at the toaster in various alien languages. She has just finished waving a dish cloth at the squealing fire alarm, trying to clear the clouds of smoke.
"Impossible, ridiculous device!" he shouts at it, whirling to face her, his face lined with irritation. "So like humans to take a good idea and stop just short of reaching its potential." He brandishes the scorched piece of bread, as if to prove his point. "Shoddy, lazy technology! Going to have to tear it apart and build it up again so that it actually works properly!"
Wearily, she takes the umpteenth piece of ruined bread from him and drops it in the waste bin. "You can't talk like that anymore, Doctor," she reminds him blandly, "'cos you're as human as they come now."
He crumples into a chair, sulky and pouting, his expression dark as a storm. So much like her very first Doctor; cagey and brimming with wiry, frustrated energy.
"I'm half-Time Lord," he tells her sullenly, as if she hasn't heard him repeat this mantra before.
She knows it's been difficult for him, having the real Doctor's mind. His brilliant mind with all of its complexities, the intuition and wisdom that stems from having lived so many lifetimes full of adventure. Rose has seen the longing in his eyes, the faraway, glassy look as he relives some memory that isn't really his. It distracts him from his new human existence, causing such uncharacteristic clumsiness. The man who once swept through time and space, piloting his beautiful, living ship with such expertise, can't even manage the simple task of beans on toast.
It breaks her heart. But though she feels genuine sympathy for him, underneath it is a colder, darker emotion that Rose can scarcely bring herself to admit. Sometimes she resents him, both of them. Even though she's worked the scenario over in her head hundreds of times, forced herself to see the realities and accept what can never be, in her loneliest moments, she realizes with horror that she's angry at them both. One for leaving her behind again and the other for trying to take his place.
She watches his expression ripple into one of contrite shame.
"I'm sorry, Rose, I'm so, so sorry." He shakes his head, his shoulders sagging, "I'm rubbish at this and you deserve more. You deserve someone who's complete and capable and who can give you the universe."
Rose drops the dish towel on the table and takes a chair opposite him. His hand finds hers, squeezing it in apology, in desperation, as if he's afraid to let go.
"It'll just take some getting used to, that's all," she says and knows that the statement is just as much for her benefit as it is for his.
The next morning she is only half-surprised to find the toaster in shambles, in the process of being re-modified.
IV
The first time they make love, he appears at her bedside in the middle of the night. She wakes to find his lanky form hovering hesitantly, like a frightened child after a nightmare.
"S'everything all right?" she asks blearily, sitting up. It's a warm night; she's slept in only a t-shirt and knickers. He's clearly trying not to notice.
Even in the darkness, she can make out his nervous shuffling and it seems so absurd. All of it. The Doctor in her bedroom, childlike and uncertain of his role; not at all the way she imagined.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he tells her sheepishly. "I just couldn't sleep. It's weird sleeping for such a long time. Time Lords take three or four hours at most. Now it just seems like such a waste of time and I--well, we--have so little of it." He rambles on in his characteristic way, the long midnight shadows lending him courage. "And every moment I spend sleeping is another moment away from you, Rose Tyler."
It's been three months of this tentative arrangement. The Doctor sleeping in the smaller second bedroom down the hall, living and eating side by side every morning and evening, going off to Torchwood together during the day. There have been brief instances of affection; the way he looks at her, a mixture of adulation and guilt, brushes of fingertips, an occasional hug. But mostly he's afraid to touch her and, she supposes, she hasn't made an effort to encourage it.
Rose scoots over, pulling back the light comforter. "Sleep here, then. There's a good compromise, yeah?"
He climbs in beside her and draws the blanket up to his armpits. "Thank you."
For a moment, they're both holding their breath, collectively, as if they're about to cross a great divide. There is a strange finality about it; she knows that once the distance is traversed, there's really no point in going back. Only forward.
She makes her decision and finds his fidgeting hand beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers.
"Doctor," she says his name and hopes he won't mistake the note of lust in her tone
He rolls over to look at her and she gently touches his face; an unspoken invitation.
"Rose…are you sure?"
She cuts him off with a kiss, pressing her warm body to his to assure him of what she wants. She gives him the choice to respond, and he does, with a fervor that surprises her. His hands grasp her hips, moving up toward her torso, pushing her night shirt out of the way.
Then he breaks abruptly away, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stares helplessly down at her. "I'm not him, Rose."
Rose hooks a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulling his mouth back to hers. "I know."
He holds himself back, in check, as he searches her eyes for something he cannot seem to find. "Do you?"
She swallows and nods. He wants to believe her; so does she.
"Yes."
When he lowers himself to her, it's with an almost wistful reverence. He kisses her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead. The movements quicken, becoming more urgent, desperate, as if there's not a moment to lose, then slowing again near the end, languid; not a moment to waste. He is devoutly focused and dedicated to her pleasure, even as he discovers his. Rose has never felt so cherished. And when it's over, he's whispering into her hair that he's sorry, so sorry and that he loves her and he'll do whatever it takes to become the man she deserves.
He falls into his old habit of nervous babbling, wanting to reassure her that he can be better at all of this; that he'll learn how, he promises.
"You'll have to coach me. I'm not used to this kind of dancing. It's been, well, it's been a while. And never with a--" he halts just short of saying the word. "It's just...new, sort of."
She tenderly brushes back a damp lock of hair from his eyes. "I think you're pretty good at dancing."
The Doctor gives her a sly smile. "You know what the studious say, 'practice makes perfect'," he declares, yawning abruptly. He looks startled by his own weariness; these unexpected human limitations.
Rose watches as he blinks in rapid succession, trying to keep awake. Unwilling to lose sight of her for the sake of sleep.
"S'ok," she tells him, "You can go to sleep if you want."
"But I don't want to." Stubborn as a child, that one.
He takes her into his arms, touching his lips to her forehead. "It's just too human, to snore away after this. And this, Rose Tyler," he grins drunkenly, bleary-eyed, at her, "is brilliant."
She allows herself a small chuckle. "I know," she concedes, "but even we pathetic humans need our rest."
"Eh..." the Doctor murmurs in grudging acknowledgment, thick lashes fluttering over his freckled cheeks. Then he sighs and falls into reluctant sleep, his breath warm against her shoulder.
V
She studies him like a new language. Many of the traits are the same, the way he shoves his hands into his pockets when he's getting ready to shut down, retreating further still inside of himself; the lunatic way he grabs and yanks at his hair, achieving that impossible three-inch lift, when he's just seized upon a brilliant idea (or when he hasn't quite found it yet); how he bounces slightly on his heels when he's feeling particularly pleased with himself. All of these are achingly familiar, the quirks of her second Doctor. And then there are the new signals and habits, mysterious in all of their subtleties. She's still learning to read them, memorizing the tiniest gestures, the flicker in his eyes; trying to decipher which nature they stem from, human or Time Lord.
Rose wakes one golden morning to find him measuring the spatulas.
She knows her hair is matted in clumps of bedhead curl, knotted in the places where he threaded his fingers through it, breathing impassioned sentiments against her temple, from the night before. In fact, she is the picture of dishevelment with her stale morning breath and mismatched socks, but when he hears the sound of her tread on the linoleum behind him and turns to her, the bright look on his face tells her that she is the most radiant being in creation. For having been co-habitants, colleagues, and lovers for months now, he is ridiculously happy to see her. And, strangely, she is ridiculously happy to be seen.
"Hi," she smiles tenderly at the sight of him, barefoot in their kitchen and still in his striped jim-jams.
"Good morning," he tells her merrily, looking more chipper at the prospect of being awake at 8:00 am on a Sunday morning than any human has a right to. He takes a moment to inspect her lovingly, so thoroughly that she nearly blushes, before returning to his task.
"What're you up to there?" she asks, bewildered but amused nonetheless.
He shoots her a disbelieving look. "What does it look like?" His straight-forward reply to a perfectly legitimate question, especially considering the bizarre nature of his current activity, makes the whole situation all the more laughable.
Rose peers over his shoulder to get a better look. "You're measuring kitchen utensils? What for?"
"I'm measuring spatulas," he corrects her loftily, "in order to see which one is the optimum length for flap-jack flipping." The Doctor pauses, mid-explanation, and smiles widely, "Great word, by the way, flap jack. Flap jack, flap jack, flippy-floppy flap jack!" Then he brandishes the winning spatula with a triumphant grin, "HA! This one!"
It's at that exact moment, watching him as he tears through their small kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for pancake mix, cinnamon, and bruised bananas, all the while humming lightly under his breath, that she recognizes the blooming in her chest.
She's quite sure she's madly in love with him.
VI
She's just told him that she loves him. Of course he's said it to her dozens of times, and though he never expects a reply, she can tell her lack of one hurts him. Today, she's offered it to him with no prompting and no notice. Just out of the blue, out of pure instinct, and she finds that she truly means it.
Rose has discovered him and little Tony, their heads bent close together, as if in serious conference, over a pile of nursery toys. The Doctor hears her footsteps and his head comes up like a whip to greet her with a ridiculous grin. It's very apparent that he is supremely pleased with himself.
"Rose!" he welcomes her animatedly. "Come and see Tony--brilliant little tyke, I'll tell you--and I's project!"
She comes closer to scrutinize the bits and bobs lying about in a scattered pile at her feet. They've torn something to pieces, that much is certain, and rebuilt the mess into one of the amazing, haphazard devices she has come to associate with the Doctor.
"Mum's gonna be furious with you two," she scolds them, albeit very half-heartedly. "Dad just bought that toy for 'im last week."
The Doctor's face falls momentarily and then goes alight once more with the knowledge that he is a genius at tinkering. "No, no, just wait! I re-worked the circuitry, added a few of those microglaphatic chips from that failed experiment at the hub--"
"You stole technology from Torchwood?" she laughs out right at his audacity.
"Weeeelllll," he rephrases, "borrowed, really. It was a failed project, if you recall."
"I take it back; Pete's the one who's gonna be furious…"
She finds it hard to maintain her reprimanding tone when both of them, her brother and lover, are directing their 100-watt grins at her. "Well, go on then, what've you done to improve it?"
"I re-wired and adapted the incoming signal, so instead of those rubbish pretend calls, little Tony here," the Doctor pats her brother, his partner in crime, on the head, "can dial up any planet this side of the milky way!"
She shakes her head, but finds herself grinning at their shared enthusiasm. "An' you think that's safe technology in the hands of a two-an-a-half-year-old?"
"I disabled the outgoing signal," he says a mite too innocently, "it's untraceable."
Rose cocks her head to the side and beckons him with a finger. "C'mere, you."
The Doctor rises obediently, eyebrows raised, and she takes the lapels of his jacket in both hands and kisses him firmly, just as she did on that beach so many months ago.
"You know what?"
His eyes are alert, his whole body at attention after her passionate embrace. "What?"
"I love you, Doctor."
And the slow, rapturous grin that blossoms at the creases of his mouth and spreads the length of his face, bringing out the crinkled laugh lines at his eyes, makes her entire day.
He rests his forehead against hers and holds her close, "Love you too, Rose Tyler. Always have."
She grins impishly up at him, "Quite right."
VII
He's determined to celebrate their life together in the most traditionally human of ways and he's determined to get it exactly right.
She spots him pouring over magazines and websites, his spectacles low on his nose as he bends to study the small print.
"What've you got there?" she asks him one night, from over the rim of her cup of tea.
"Nothing," he says a bit too quickly, snapping the magazine shut in a completely conspicuous manner.
Rose decides not to press him. The Doctor--both of them--have always kept secrets from her and she's trying to give this one his space. But when he goes off to the bathroom to sing very loudly in the shower, she takes a peek at his secret magazine stash. She doesn't know what she's expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Various titles about weddings, brides, and grooms.
It's odd, but not altogether unpleasing, and for the next several days, she walks around with a small, secret smile of her own.
One Saturday evening, he takes her to one of their favorite restaurants; a little hole in the wall that serves fantastic Greek food. This Doctor loves Greek food. It must be the words, she thinks, as he takes such pleasure in enunciating his order: spanakopita, kreatopita, kolokithikia vrasta! He eats with relish, using his fingers, and then tells her the story about how he was there at the Battle of Thermopylae and how the Persians had no sense of humor whatsoever.
She excuses herself to use the ladies' room and when she comes back, she finds him practicing his speech, his face screwed up in solemn concentration. He spots her and breaks out into a strange, manic grin of terror and excitement. She wonders if the two aren't the same for him sometimes.
"Rose," he takes her by the hands and drops to one knee. "I've been trying to work out the best way of doing this for months and if it's a teeny bit off, I hope you'll forgive m-- blimey, is it hot in here or is it just me?"
Rose nods and gives him a small, encouraging smile.
"Rose Tyler," and his expression is suddenly grave, "I know this isn't how you expected it to turn out and I want you to have your choice. I know I'm not him, and I know that he's what you wanted. Quite right, too. You're used to someone who could show you the stars-- take you anywhere and everywhere, to the gleaming, rainbow suns of Caildarus and back. And...I don't want you to feel like you're stuck with me. Some half human, half Time Lord bloke who hasn't a clue what he's doing, weeellll, sort of, anyway…"
"Oi," she interjects softly, "None of that. None of that 'him' and 'I' business, all right? We're sticking to you," she squeezes his hand for emphasis, "an' me, 'cos that's what matters, Doctor. You got it?"
He gives her a nod of affirmation and a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I can't give you the universe, Rose. And maybe I can't give you the sort of adventures you're used to, but I can give you my life, my future, and my love for the whole of my personal forever. However much time we have together on this earth, I'll live each day to love you the way he would want and the way you deserve. So…" he fumbles for a minute in his pocket and produces a little black box, "If that's enough for you--if I'm enough for you--then I want you to marry me."
She knew it was coming, but still the emotion that accompanies his proposal overwhelms her. Rose blinks away the tears that are welling, and smiles until her face aches from happiness.
"You're more than enough, Doctor."
He beams up at her and then falters. "Wait, is that a yes?"
She giggles at his boyishly puzzled face and drops down beside him. "Yes, it's a yes," and she leans over to kiss away his doubts.
VIII
They're on their honeymoon. Everyone had insisted they take one, her new husband most of all. Seasoned traveler as he was, he was eager to visit the most mundane and bizarre of places, and he babbled with the expertise of a professional travel guide about each one. She let him pick their itinerary, demanding only one thing: that they enjoy several hours alone in their posh suite every day, giving the mattress a good work out. That last bit she had whispered in his ear and reveled in his delighted and devilish grin of acquiescence.
They get out of a long, luxurious shower together one afternoon, rosy-faced, clean, and satisfied, and from the pocket of her crumpled jeans he produces the crimson Zyrakian love charm.
The Doctor flashes her a knowing grin, holding it up for her to see. "Thought we needed a bit of divine luck on this trip, did you?" he wags his eyebrows at her.
She finishes toweling off and flings the length of wet cotton at him with a cheeky grin of her own. "Never can be too sure with you, can I?"
"Oi!" He ducks the towel and captures her in his arms.
Rose laughs, carefree as a teenager, and plants a feather-light kiss into his bare chest.
He cradles the back her head in one hand and gazes down at her adoringly, with the awe of a man who can't believe his good fortune.
"So what d'you reckon about that luck of yours now, Rose Tyler?" He repeats the question from so long ago, the one that hung in the air unanswered but never forgotten. "Lucky in love yet?"
They're man and wife now, two fragile human beings with big dreams and bright hopes of a life together, but there's still a twinge of uncertainty beneath his facade of blithe amusement.
More than three years ago, she had been parted irrevocably from him, trapped behind the impenetrable wall of another universe. Much later, she had willingly crossed parallel worlds, risked paradoxes, interminable danger and death to find him, only to be separated yet again. But this time, she understands, it must be her choice. She won't think of herself as trapped, stuck, against her will, with a consolation prize.
And on the rare occasions when she lies awake at night, anxious in her sleeplessness and missing her first Doctor, Rose reminds herself that this is best, that she could never have stayed with him forever. Time, if not their perilous travels, would have inevitably parted them. And her earth, her family needs her. Most of all, now her Doctor needs her.
When she allows herself to remember back to that second-worst day of her life, to really ponder it, Rose recognizes a single, simple truth; that gleaming moment of choosing, of destiny, sprang from one little question. A question that had throbbed within her chest for two agonizing years, leaving her yearning for the words that might have followed, "Rose Tyler..." She had needed a proper answer and only one of them could give it to her; it was her choice to accept the man who did. And now she finally grasps what he had been trying to offer her when he steeled himself on that beach, swallowing back the words he wanted to say, allowing someone else to whisper them instead. Though he would always have a prior claim to her heart, that lonely god who blazed through galaxies alone, she also knows who and what she has chosen. And he's standing in front of her now, the best chance at a happy ending she will ever get
She touches a hand to his cheek, incredibly grateful for this moment, the chance to be tender with him, to show some part of him how she feels. How she has always felt.
"I'm very lucky," she tells him, meaning it. "An' I think you know it."
His relieved smile grows absolutely gleeful, "Me too." He enfolds her in one of his enormous hugs. "Luckiest man in the universe, really. Weeellll, luckiest human Time Lord hybrid, anyway," he adds with a wink.
The Doctor cups her face in his hands and kisses her with such enthusiasm that she is, for a moment, somewhat caught off guard. Then she returns it, giving herself up to him unconditionally and without regret.
They're still getting used to this new existence. Dishes and bills and cars and trips to the grocery store. Visits to her mum and dad's and family trips and babysitting. He still has a lot to learn, but then, so does she. This is it; the one adventure he could never have and yet here they are, living it together. Happiness is tangible and warm beneath her fingertips; he holds her close at night in the bed they share, their sleepy limbs entwined. He wakes first in the mornings and watches her in wonder as she sleeps (she knows because she's caught him doing it), and when she stirs, the first thing she sees is his delighted smile.
Rose reckons they can be content together, ridiculously happy even. It's something she can't give to him, the Time Lord she misses, so she'll love his second self with every breath she has to offer. It's what he would want for them; it's his gift to her.
She doesn't plan on wasting it.