David Versus Goliath
Author's Note: Like a lot of the fans, I choose to believe Doomsday never happened. Forget that episode as you start this fic.
It's only because the love of his life has asked of him, that the Doctor is in the predicament he is.
He's removed his coat because he's rather fond of it. It's his coat, a nice brown color that he thinks genuinely brings out his eyes, and it's a soft yet durable wool material. He's had it for four and a half years, since his latest regeneration and he's not taking any chances with it. The evil creature will tear it to pieces just to spite him.
His glasses are handed off to Rose who gives him the kind of look he's grown fearful of over the years. She's not afraid to gut him if he backs out, or at the very least seems to be considering the idea. It's her most piercing look and she appears smolderingly beautiful, but he shakes his head ridding his mind of those thoughts. He has a job to do and he can ravage Rose later.
So he's left standing rather awkward, and despite the fact that he's a Timelord and isn't nearly as affected by the elements as Rose, he's chilled by the breeze. He makes to inch toward his coat that's tucked in Rose's arms and her claws flash. He reconsiders rather quickly.
"Go on now," Rose says.
The Doctor rolls up his cuffs and glances down to his shoes. The TARDIS is too far away to grab a change of shoes and make it back before dusk so he's left with apparel not meant for what he's about to do.
"Hold your horses, I'm going."
He's lived eleven times, regenerated ten times, and he's never climbed a tree at any point in time—at least that he can remember, because he's too old and he's lived too long to remember everything.
He's a practical man with practical approaches. There is a low branch that he curls his fingers around and with shoes slipping and scraping at the base of the tree, he starts his journey upward.
He comes down pretty fast.
"You might attempt to laugh quieter," the Doctor announces, rubbing a hip sorely. "Or come try it yourself."
It's so cold Rose is turning rosy, and it only makes her that much prettier which is a distraction the Doctor does not need, especially as he attempts to convey a very serious suggestion.
"I'm not the one who left the TARDIS door open," she defends smugly.
He murmurs mockingly under his breath.
His second attempt goes slightly better. He gets up to his elbows in the lowest branch, lithe body curling up to hook onto the limb at the ankles. Now he's managed to get off the grassy ground, but he's stuck. He drops back down to the ground, hands on his hips, head tilted to the side. It's a blasted tree, not an impenetrable fortress.
"You want I should help you up?" Rose taunts.
It's a fairly lengthy process of elimination in which the Doctor comes to the conclusion that the branch is more of a hindrance than a help. Instead he's got to brace himself at the base of the tree, thoroughly wreck his leather shoes and sort of shimmy up the side. He isn't sure at first that it's the right word to use, but as he wiggles and writhes, and Rose calls highly inappropriate things up in regard to his rear area, he makes progress. His hard work pays off and in only a few short moments he's managed to seat himself on the low branch that was of no help earlier on.
He flashes a triumphant smile to Rose who blows him a kiss back.
"Hurry it up," she says laughing, rocking on her feet. "We've got places to be, don't you know?" She loves him, he can tell from the way her eyes sparkle and her mouth is set slightly to the right. That's the look she only gives a handful of people, and it always pleases him to know he's one of those few.
Of course he knows right from the start that getting up the tree is the easy part.
He makes no sudden movements, knowing his adversary is evil, devious and well within the limits of ripping him to pieces. They meet eye-to-eye, certain dislike echoing around them like electricity. He shifts to his feet, arm braced against the midsection of the tree, his enemy squats low, poised to attack.
Rose shouts words of encouragement, "You can do it, Doctor!"
Yes, it's only for the person he loves most that he's up a tree in seventeenth century Ireland, attempting to cajole a demon like creature into returning to the TARDIS—Rose calls it a cat.
They get the cat three years earlier, but not for themselves, or at least that's what Rose tells him, even as she cuddles the thing to death and names him Mr. Tickles. The Doctor supposes it's better than Fluffy or Snuggles, but not by much.
It's a mangy looking thing, and half the time it appears the cat isn't getting enough to eat, despite Rose's habit of overfeeding Tickles. It's gray with splotches of white in all the right places and relatively small for its breed and age, and were it not possessed by a fiend hell-bent on tripping him down one of the TARDIS's endless staircases, the Doctor believes he might have gotten along well with it.
The fact of the matter is that from the moment Rose brings Tickles home war is declared. The cat, being far too intelligent to be just that, stalks him at first. The cat watches him—observes, and does nothing but thoroughly creep him out. It sleeps in his and Rose's bedroom and its beady little eyes make it impossible for the Doctor to do anything more than kiss Rose on the forehead. It's the bane of his sexuality.
The cat progresses from psychological warfare to physical attacks shortly after. It's always in the wrong place at the wrong time, at least for the Doctor. When he steps down it's always there to trip him. When he lifts it up from the bed, because cats don't belong on his bed, it scratches him. He's bit, bruised and he's been violated in ways a cat should never be able to.
Despite the fact that the Doctor loves Rose, he decides fairly early that the cat has to go.
The cat has an accidental mishap down the garbage chute to the waste disposal processing area of the TARDIS. After Rose recovers Mr. Tickles, he sadly becomes lost somewhere in-between the Library and the fifty or so levels of the TARDIS separating it and the room Mickey had used during his brief stay. The Doctor still doesn't know what's growing in the closet.
Rose catches on fairly quickly and tells him on no vague terms that what happens to the cat happens to him.
Afterwards the cat and the Doctor simply circle around each other, mortal enemies forever locked in a duel for supremacy.
It's the reason the Doctor conveniently leaves the TARDIS door open while he waits for coats to be put on properly, knowing full well Mr. Tickles is up in the main control room. Chasing after the cat for a couple miles is hardly a small price to pay for his precious TARDIS finally being free of the destructive bugger.
"No time to be shy!" Rose says, hugging his coat close for warmth. The rose tint to her face is fading, replaced with a pale hue that he doesn't like at all.
The Doctor stabilizes himself on the thick branch he's perched on, and sends one arm out cautiously, reaching for the cat.
His effort is predictably rewarded with the cat hissing and resisting.
He supposes to the random spectator what follows his first attempt is all rather comical.
Years have taught him to be quick and precise, instead of slow and methodical. The cat is lightening fast and unforgiving, so he'll only have one more chance at capturing him at the very most.
He lunges forward and feels a swell of pride when his fingers fit snuggly around a small, furry body. Of course during his brief moment of glory Mr. Tickles launches a full out counterassault with such ferocity that the Doctor is caught off guard. His fingers are scraped up in mere seconds and he loses his balance. The ground is as hard as ever.
He's dazed and confused, wind blowing through his chair when two blond people bounce on him.
"I'm fine, I'm good, now off the lot of you, before you break me."
He rolls to the side, a fighting Tickles still in his bleeding hands.
"You alright?" Rose asks, forehead pinched with true worry.
"Fine as ever," he assures her. "Didn't you think I could do it?"
"Ah, yes, never had any doubts."
The Doctor gives a curt nod and squats down to the level of his favorite person, the love of his life, the only reasons he has gone toe to toe with a wicked cat in a tree.
"I believe," he says with mirth, "this is yours, young lady."
The transfer from Timelord to Timelady is smooth, the cat quieting down at once.
Honey warm eyes blink up at the Doctor as the owner squeaks out, "Oh, thank you, daddy. I knew you could do it." The small, very young girl clutches her cat to her chest and swings him around joyfully. The Doctor knows if anyone else were to do such a thing collateral damage would occur. His daughter simply has a way with animals, the possessed cat included.
"See," Rose says, handing him his coat back. She helps him slip it on and then links her arm through his and lays her head on his shoulder. "Everything's worked out just fine."
The Doctor barely hears Rose's words as he watches their daughter wander off with the cat, speaking animatedly to him. "Don't go too far, Anna," he calls, his nerves forever frayed since her conception nearly four years ago. "And be careful with that thing."
"He'd never hurt her," Rose tells him knowingly.
He knows that; the cat loves his Annabelle and has never hurt her, even by accident.
"I'm talking about having to chase after that thing again."
Anna trots back over to her parents and the Doctor takes one hand, Rose the other. Together they take the long journey back to the TARDIS, the sun beginning to set in the distance.
His life is one relegated to domesticity and often mindless repetition. He doesn't go on harebrained, dangerous mission anymore, and half the time he's more preoccupied with getting his daughter to eat her broccoli, rather than stopping the next great alien induced revolution on a planet hundreds of galaxies away. He's sometimes saddened by memories of past lives in which freedom is something engaged in easily, and he's not weighed down by endless responsibility and sleepless, worry filled nights.
Then the damn cat gets stuck in a tree and the Doctor's favorite person comes to him with wet eyes. Her hands bunch at the hem of her shirt, she sniffs softly and she asks him in a quiet but determined voice if he'll go save her Mr. Tickles, and that while she already loves him as much as one little girl can possibly love her daddy, she'll love him even more if he does.
He climbs the tree, saves the cat, kisses the girl and has his daughter's hand in his own when domesticity suddenly doesn't sound so bad.
Also, the average life expectancy of their cat, granted that it spends most of its time in the TARDIS terrorizing him, is a mere seventeen years, which in comparison to a Timelord is an incredibly short amount of time. The Doctor is furthermore sure his daughter will outgrow the idea of a pet as soon as she realizes she's only a short time away from her very own TARDIS, and in that the Doctor believes he's had the last laugh.