Author's note: Hello, all! This is my first fanfiction in years, and my very first Doctor Who fic, so if you have ANY feedback, please share! I'm always open to constructive criticism!
Special thanks to CoriOreo, my fantastic beta reader :)
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and everything related to it belongs to the BBC. I'm merely borrowing the characters for creative purposes. Katherine and Miranda Tyler-Smith, however, belong to me.
It was incredibly quiet. Almost too quiet, but the Doctor wouldn't allow that thought to cross his mind. To say "it was too quiet" was akin to saying "nothing could possibly go wrong" or "no turning back now." Those days were, for the most part, long gone, or at least they would be until he could get the TARDIS to grow. As much as he missed the traveling, he certainly didn't want any of that to come back on tonight of all nights.
He had just spent the last forty-five minutes trying to get two children, both under the age of four, to sleep for the night. If any intergalactic creature decided to wreak havoc on London tonight, the kids would undoubtedly wake up. And if they did, well, said intergalactic creature would be at the mercy of the Bad Wolf and the Oncoming Storm: two extraordinarily tired parents who would not allow anything to stand between them and a good night's sleep for once.
The Doctor closed the bedroom door as quietly as he could, cringing as the door clicked shut. Even the tiniest noise could wake up the baby. He supposed that all infants were difficult around bedtime, but Miranda was an exceptionally light sleeper. At two months old, she seemed genuinely incapable of sleeping through the night. Surely that wasn't normal. After nearly six years of being half-human, the Doctor knew how much sleep the human body demanded. He didn't need as much as the average human (four, maybe five hours a night usually did the trick), but he had lived amongst them long enough to know that this was considered abnormal on his part. Maybe Miranda had inherited more of his Gallifreyan physiology than they had originally thought—it would explain a lot.
He stood perfectly still outside the nursery door, his forehead lightly resting on the cool wood. Please, please, please, please, don't wake up, he thought, closing his eyes in anticipation for the usual cry of protest. But fifteen seconds of silence passed, and the Doctor slowly exhaled in disbelief. Good. Maybe for once he could go straight to bed without having to spend another twenty minutes rocking her back to sleep…
Still, he tiptoed down the hall, taking care to avoid the creaky floorboard in front of the second bedroom. Rose had put their older daughter to bed a little while earlier, and apparently it had taken several picture books to put her to sleep tonight. Stories were one of the very, very few things that three-year-old Katherine would sit still for. If not for the picture books, Katherine would still be bouncing up the wall and endlessly begging for "two more minutes" of playtime.
It was quiet. Miranda wasn't crying, and Katherine wasn't calling out for attention. So far, so good, but one could never be too safe. Though he never believed in superstitions, the Doctor gently rapped his knuckles on the wooden door of a nearby closet. He was too bloody tired to take any chances tonight.
He quietly turned the knob to his own bedroom door and slipped inside. Holding his breath, he gently closed the door behind him, and paused. Nothing but beautiful, wonderful silence. "Rose," he called in a stage whisper, "Rose, I've done it! Miranda's sleeping! They both are!"
Rose emerged from their private bathroom, clad in pink cotton pants and a souvenir t-shirt from Barcelona (the city, not the planet). She leaned on the doorframe, mouth coated in green foam as she brushed her teeth. "Both of them?" she asked, voice muffled by the toothpaste.
"Both of them!" The Doctor said, a grin splitting across his face. He knew that he was irrationally happy about this, but he didn't care. He'd beaten Daleks, Cybermen, Gelth, Slitheen, Weeping Angels—but getting his daughters to bed at a reasonable hour? Now that was what he called a victory.
Rose disappeared into the bathroom, and the Doctor heard her turn on the water and spit out the toothpaste. "Here's to a decent sleep," she said.
The Doctor began unbuttoning his work shirt, noting a small spot of ketchup on the sleeve as he shrugged it off. He crumpled it into a ball before tossing it into the hamper like a basketball, but the shirt missed its target and fell to the floor. He frowned and crossed the room to retrieve it.
"Sorry," he murmured, nearly bumping into Rose as she emerged from the bathroom.
"S' fine," she replied, her voice dripping with exhaustion as she wound her hair into a ponytail. It was darker now, almost honey-colored. After Katherine was born, Rose had given up on maintaining her roots and allowed her hair to revert to its natural color. With two small children and a job with Torchwood, the color of her hair had simply fallen off her list of priorities.
Not that the Doctor minded. He always thought that Rose was lovely, whether she was blonde or brunette or somewhere in between. But he would be lying if he said he didn't appreciate the darker color. Somehow, this new shade suited Rose, and he never once complained about it. She was certainly happier in knowing that she didn't have to watch her roots anymore, and if Rose was happy, then the Doctor was happy.
He took a moment to study Rose as he changed into flannel pajama bottoms. She was undressing the bed, pushing off piles of laundry and folding back the duvet. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, her hair was a mess, and her pajama pants were too short after going through the dryer one too many times. She never looked as lovely as she did at this time of night. With nobody to impress, no image to project, Rose Tyler-Smith was at her most beautiful.
Rose climbed onto the mattress and slid under the covers. She looked up at him as she switched on the baby monitor. "What?" she said.
The Doctor blinked and realized that he had stared at Rose for a moment too long to remain inconspicuous. He cleared his throat and pulled a gray t-shirt over his head. "Just thinking," he said innocently. He yawned into his elbow and walked to his side of the bed.
"What about?" Rose asked, smiling while she stretched her arms over her head. "Not thinking about modifying our appliances, I hope?"
"Oi! I promised I wouldn't touch anything else, didn't I?" The Doctor pulled back the sheets and crawled into bed.
"I saw you eyeing the toaster this morning," Rose's tongue was just starting to poke between her teeth. "I know you think about it."
"I'm telling you, Rose, there is something wrong with that contraption. It is incapable of making an edible piece of toast—it's either burnt or not cooked at all…did I tell you, just this morning, I bit into a raw piece of bread? Fresh out of the toaster, and it was just…warm, floppy bread. It's not natural. Nothing a little sonic screwdriver couldn't fix…."
"After the incident with the coffee pot, I think not."
"It was five years ago!"
"Shh," Rose exclaimed, pressing a finger to his lips. She glanced over her shoulder towards the bedroom door. "Let's make sure the girls stay asleep tonight, yeah?"
The Doctor exhaled and listened, wishing that the metacrisis hasn't wiped out his telepathic nature. Things would be so much easier if he could simply project relaxing, sleep-inducing thoughts into the children's minds. But no, he was almost completely devoid of telepathy. It was one of the things he genuinely missed about being a full Time Lord, if only because it never occurred to him how wonderfully convenient such abilities would be when it came to fussy babies. Apparently that wasn't an uncommon trait when it came to the Tyler children—Tony had been almost as bad as Miranda when he was small.
The house remained silent. Once satisfied that the girls were asleep, the Doctor reached to his right and turned off his lamp. Rose did the same and the room was plunged into darkness, with only the faintest traces of moonlight peaking through the drawn curtains across the room.
They assumed their usual sleeping position: Rose rolled onto her right side, and the Doctor curled up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Although she'd managed to shed most of the weight from her last pregnancy, a few pounds stubbornly remained around her stomach. It was something that Rose had been very touchy about as of late, but the Doctor didn't mind. If anything, he liked the way her post-pregnancy body felt against his. It was a reminder of the life that he led with her, a reminder of the two children that she had carried. Despite their maddening sleeping patterns, Katherine and Miranda were perfect. The Doctor couldn't imagine existing without them. They were so very young, so fragile and so human, but in their short lives they had managed to work their way into his single heart in ways he couldn't explain. It had been so long since he lost his children that he'd nearly forgotten what it was like to truly be a father—or rather, he'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be a dad.
Sometimes he regretted Rose's decision not to have any more children, but he didn't blame her in the least, not after the disaster that was her last pregnancy. It was bad enough to watch, and the Doctor couldn't even begin to think about how awful it must have been to go through it firsthand. She was sick as a dog from the get-go, unable to keep an ounce food down. During the worst of it, she wasn't even able to drink water without vomiting, and had to be hospitalized three times for dehydration. In all his nine hundred years, the Doctor had never felt so helpless. The whole nine months were nothing short of hellish, and as soon as Miranda was born, Rose insisted on getting her tubes tied.
The Doctor couldn't argue with her. He'd felt guilty enough for putting her through the last pregnancy to begin with and never wanted to see her that miserable again. But they still had two daughters, and that was enough for them, even though it meant the Doctor was doomed to a lifetime of being outnumbered by Tyler women.
The Doctor pulled Rose towards him until her back was pressed to his front. They'd always curled up in bed like this. He supposed that they were equally afraid of waking up the next morning to find that this was all a mad, impossible dream. Their fears were unfounded, of course, but every so often, one of them would wake up from a too-vivid nightmare, desperate for physical contact to prove that everything was real.
Rose nudged the pillows until she had carved a small chasm to fit her head, and the Doctor laced his fingers with her own. He inhaled the scent of strawberry shampoo, laundry detergent, and something else that was uniquely Rose. He never tired of it.
"Your hands are freezing," Rose complained.
"Sorry." The Doctor moved to withdraw his hands, but Rose held them tightly. With a small smile, he kissed the dip between her neck and shoulder.
This was why he wanted the kids to go to sleep without a fuss. As much as he positively adored his children, there have been many occasions when he wanted to drop them off at daycare indefinitely to have Rose's undivided attention. Before children, it was just the two of them in a comfortable one-bedroom flat. They could watch whatever movies they wanted, they could get Chinese takeaway four times a week if they wanted, and they could shag on the kitchen counter whenever it struck their fancy.
After having children, it was the four of them in a big, cluttered house. The telly was always tuned into an educational children's show, balanced meals were of utmost importance, and it was impossible to even kiss for a full minute without the telltale chime of Rose's mobile that would inevitably summon her to the Torchwood headquarters. Or, worse yet, the ever-present cry of "Mummy! Daddy! Come here, look at me!"
The Doctor loved his children. But he also loved Rose, and their lack of intimacy wasn't doing them any favors. They would try to make plans, though they seldom worked out. Just last week, the Doctor was in the middle of cooking spaghetti when Rose walked into the kitchen. She had stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist and her chin resting in the dip of his shoulder. "Meet me in the bedroom after they're asleep," she had whispered in his ear, far too softly for anyone else to notice. Then she reached into a nearby cabinet, withdrew the dishes, and shot him a cheeky smile before leaving to set the table for dinner.
One of the weaknesses (or strengths, depending on how he looked at it) of this human body was just how incredibly hormonal it was, and the Doctor had learned very quickly that even a mildly suggestive smile from Rose could set him off. After that particular incident, the Doctor had been caught off guard and nearly dropped the strainer. Quite a juvenile response, really, but the Doctor couldn't bring himself to care. For the rest of the evening he kept watching the clock, wishing fervently that he had the TARDIS at his disposal.
Of course, later on Katherine had woken up with a stomach virus. They had spent most of the night in the bathroom, mopping up Katherine's tears and holding her hair as she vomited into the toilet. Needless to say, Rose's plans never came to fruition.
To their relief, it turned out to be a twenty-four-hour bug, and Katherine slept peacefully the next night. But Miranda had woken up three times, wailing her tiny lungs out, demanding to be fed. Rose had ultimately brought Miranda into their bed, simultaneously sleeping and breastfeeding. The Doctor had been exhausted from work that day, and the baby's constant crying only made him grumpy. By the end of the week, both were too tired to cash in on their nightly one-on-one time. They had passed out upon contact with the mattress. It was one of the only times that the entire Tyler-Smith family slept a full eight hours uninterrupted.
That was another thing that the Doctor had learned about human parenting: sleep had become invaluable. He was still part Time Lord, and as such required less rest than the rest of his family. All the same, fatherhood was quite grueling. The girls were, for the most part, wonderfully well behaved, but they could certainly be a handful. Miranda was a colicky baby and a mama's girl to boot; nine times out of ten, the Doctor was forced to hand her off to Rose in desperation.
Katherine, though, was another story entirely. Considering that he was living on the slow path now (or at least he would be, until the TARDIS was done growing in their modified attic), the Doctor couldn't believe how quickly she'd grown up. She was three years old now and had an insatiable sense of curiosity. Everywhere they went, Katherine would spout an endless stream of questions: "Daddy, why do birdies fly? Why's that flower yellow? How come 'Randa has no hair like us? Why do I have two feets, not four like cats? Why, Daddy? Why?"
Perhaps her curiosity streak came with being one-quarter Gallifreyan. She certainly inherited the bulk of her physical appearance from the Doctor. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to say that she inherited her personality from him as well.
Every day, without fail, she would greet him in the foyer after work with a hug, a detailed account of her afternoon, and a request for playtime. Regardless of what sort of day it had been, the Doctor could never turn her down. According to Jackie Tyler, it was only a matter of time before Katherine turned into a teenager and wanted nothing to do with him; he ought to enjoy her affection and youthful exuberance before it was too late.
But no matter how much he loved her, in spite of the fact that Katherine was the center of his universe (alongside her mother and baby sister, of course), she could certainly try his patience at bedtime. All she wanted to do was play, and as she had pointed out numerous times, you can't play while you're sleeping. Unless Rose was in charge, most nights were spent negotiating with her: she could stay up for two more minutes only if she spent them reading a book. Two pictures books later, she insisted that he complete the "two-hugs-two-kisses-check-under-the-bed-for-monst ers" routine. The Doctor knew perfectly well that Katherine didn't believe in monsters, but he indulged her if it meant she would go to sleep without too much trouble.
The Doctor was roused from his thoughts by a small creak outside their door.
He squeezed his eyes closed and buried his face in the pillow. Not now, not tonight, I just got you to sleep, he thought. If he had heard correctly—and he was quite sure he did, seeing as he did have superior Time Lord physiology, albeit a diluted version of it—then Katherine was awake and puttering about, no doubt ready to sheepishly call for them while standing in the hallway.
Well, at least it was Katherine who was awake, and not Miranda. He stood a chance at getting his elder daughter back to sleep if she chose to wake up. Miranda was difficult—a right little princess she was, operating on her own schedule regardless of what everybody else said. If she decided to wake up, then by God she would stay awake. The Doctor positively adored her, especially now that she looked like a miniature version of her mother, but he had to admit that Miranda had an impressive set of lungs. Sleeping through her cries was never an option.
The Doctor listened for another creak that would indicate the presence of a small child. "Did you hear that?" he said into Rose's hair, his words heavily garbled by fatigue.
"Hmm," Rose moaned, shifting slightly, "'S the house settlin.'"
The Doctor reluctantly lifted his head, listening intently. He waited for the inevitable plea for permission to snuggle with them in bed, but instead he heard nothing. Strange.
"I heard something," the Doctor whispered incredulously.
Rose shifted again to look at him. "It's the house," she said. "She's asleep, Doctor, she'd have said something by now."
The Doctor sighed and put his head down. "Quite right," he murmured. He breathed deeply and adjusted his arm. He knew he should be getting some sleep, and even this human-Time Lord body was begging for some rest, but his mind was alert now. Katherine might be in bed, but that could easily change.
He kept shifting his position, trying to quell his restless mind, but it was useless. As tired as he was, his thoughts were working at a mile a minute: he thought of Katherine and how they had to sign her up for preschool soon, which drifted into thoughts of how they would manage to get her to preschool with their work schedules, which led to thoughts of the papers he needed to grade and hand back to his students by next week, which led to thoughts of the lab practical he had to outline, which led to thoughts of more papers to grade, and so on and so forth.
"What are you doing?" Rose grumbled, untangling herself from his arms. "You're keeping me up."
The Doctor opened his eyes and frowned. "Sorry," he apologized quietly, reaching for her again. He hated falling asleep without her in his arms; even after six years in this universe, a small part of him needed to know that she was still here.
Rose flopped onto her back, rubbing her hands over her face. She turned her head to face him, blinking expectantly. "Can't sleep again?" she asked.
The Doctor managed a halfhearted shrug despite his awkward position. "Thought I heard something. Woke me up, I suppose."
Rose closed her eyes. "Hearing things now? You'd better not go barmy on me."
"And why would I do a thing like that?"
"Because there's a fine line between brilliance and madness, and you treat it like a tightrope."
"For your information, I am fantastically brilliant, Rose Tyler. There is, in fact, a method to my madness."
"Like the method you used when you decided to sonic the coffee pot?"
The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Again with the coffee pot! Are you ever going to let that go? How was I to know that coffee pots are calibrated differently in this universe?"
Rose's grin was vibrant even in the dark. "Absentminded professor, you are. I wonder what your students must think of you."
"They also think that I'm fantastically brilliant. Look at me."
She opened her mouth to respond, but a faint murmur from the baby monitor interrupted her. Her body stiffened as she closed her eyes. "Please, please, not tonight, Miranda…"
The Doctor shared the sentiment, but he kept quiet about it. Instead, his lips drew into a fine line as he raised his head to look at the baby monitor. Another murmur, louder this time. He groaned and collapsed onto the bed, half of his face pressed into the pillow. You've got to be kidding me, he thought. She'd only been asleep for—the Doctor quickly calculated the time, a skill that had thankfully not disappeared with the metacrisis—twenty-five minutes and fourty-eight seconds, for goodness' sake.
He wouldn't get up. Babies had to learn that crying didn't automatically equate to attention. Right? It would spoil them. Miranda was, evidently, demanding by nature; it wouldn't do to spoil her. Still, just to be on the safe side, he quickly went through his memories to make sure that her needs were covered for the night. Rose had fed and burped her earlier in the evening. The Doctor had changed her nappy and put her in clean jimjams. He'd left the window open and the ceiling fan on to combat the hot summer air. He'd rocked her for fifteen minutes like they did every night. Right, then. There was absolutely no reason why she should be crying. She just wanted attention.
He wouldn't get up. He needed to sleep.
The whimpering from the baby monitor was steadily increasing. Rose stared at it with a conflicted expression, one hand pressed to her forehead. Together they focused on the monitor, silently willing the baby to go to sleep just this once.
A few minutes had passed before the whimpers began to morph into full-fledged cries (the "I'm-bored-pay-attention-to-me" sort, rather than the "I'm-starving-feed-me" or "I'm-in-pain-fix-it-now" sort. The Doctor had learned the difference with great difficulty when Katherine was a newborn). He closed his eyes against his daughter's impressive wailing and exhaled in frustration. Honestly, they'd kept her naps exceptionally short this afternoon in order to prevent this. He made a mental note to run further analysis on Miranda's genetic makeup. Surely this was the Gallifreyan DNA acting up, it was the only logical explanation for her chronic insomnia.
But that was a matter to attend to tomorrow. He would leave her be for now. He would not spoil her.
He opened one eye to look at Rose. She was intently studying the ceiling, lips pursed. Somehow the darkened room brought out the circles under her eyes. Oh, Rose, he thought, a familiar rush of guilt working its way through his system. Here he was, not even a proper human and complaining about a lack of sleep. And then there was Rose, a Torchwood field agent who returned home to a colicky newborn and a three-year-old whose energy knew no bounds. Still, she took it in stride, squaring her shoulders and rarely verbalizing her complaints. She not only did her job, but she did it well. Extraordinarily so, in fact.
If anyone deserved a break, it was her. And a crying baby wouldn't do anything to remedy the situation at hand.
"I've got her," the Doctor murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Rose's temple before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He reached for his glasses and slid them on. Farsightedness was another unfortunate side effect of being part human, apparently.
"Doctor," Rose began sternly. Her brow furrowed as she propped herself up on her elbows. "You've got work in the morning."
He wrinkled his nose, more a reflex than anything else. He didn't mind having a job, per say, but a person could teach physics to a lecture hall of halfway-interested students only so many times before it got old. Could've been worse, but still. He pushed away all thoughts of lectures and lab practicals in order to focus on the matter at hand. Shaking his head, reached for the dressing gown thrown haphazardly over a chair and shrugged it on. "Rose," he said, no longer bothering with the whispering, "It's fine. Honestly, it's fine. Get some sleep. Please?"
He probably laid it on a little thick with the pleading, but he knew that Rose would protest. Better try to minimize the problem before it started. But Rose was already throwing back the duvet. "Nope," she said. "I'm already up, anyway, might as well."
"You've got work too, you know."
"So? Hasn't stopped me before."
"Rose."
"Doctor, I've got her. It's fine."
The Doctor was opening his mouth to object, but a miniscule movement in the corner of his eye distracted him. Nine centuries of instinct kicked in, and he immediately whirled around to face the bedroom door. His hand impulsively twitched towards his pocket, where he normally kept his sonic. But when the threat revealed itself, he groaned at his own stupidity and glared at the ceiling. Dear god, he really needed to get some sleep.
"Mummy?" A decidedly non-threatening voice drifted into the bedroom. The door creaked open as Katherine stepped into the room, sleepily rubbing her eyes. Her dark hair was sticking up in several directions and she was missing a sock.
"Well, that solves that problem," Rose murmured under her breath. She scooped the toddler into her arms. "What're you doing up? You should be asleep."
"'Randa," Katherine said, nose wrinkled in distain.
"Miranda woke you up?" Rose said. She was using the "mum voice" again, the voice she used when she was dealing with unhappy children. When Katherine nodded in reply, Rose gave her a quick squeeze. "All right. I'm going to get her now, and Daddy will put you to bed, yeah?"
Katherine nodded again and wordlessly reached for the Doctor. He stepped forward and gathered his daughter into his arms. She latched onto him like a small octopus, her head dropping into the crook of his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you back to sleep, Kit-Kat," he said into her hair, waiting for Rose to pass before making his way down the hall.
By the time he reached Katherine's bedroom, she was gripping the fabric of his t-shirt and her eyes were flickering in all directions. The Doctor raised an eyebrow and did a quick survey of the room. Aside from the perpetual mess of books in the corner, everything was in its place. "Everything all right?" he asked, pausing at the foot of the bed. Moonlight poured over the Disney-themed duvet from the open window.
Katherine looked at him, brown eyes wide and questioning, with a hint of something that the Doctor couldn't quite place. Less than fear, but more than simple unease. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked. He knew that he probably sounded a touch less sympathetic than he should have, but bloody hell he needed to go to bed.
Her gaze flickered towards the window above the bed. "Mummy stops bad aliens, right?" she asked. Ah, that was better—her tone was far more lighthearted than the Doctor had expected.
"That she does," he said. There was far more to it, obviously, but a three-year-old could only comprehend so much about Torchwood. Katherine nodded once but kept glancing towards the window. Well, at least there was more curiosity than anxiety in her eyes now, but the Doctor knew better than to let this slide. "What's this about, eh?" He gently bounced her, partly to adjust his grip on her but primarily to chase away the thoughts that bothered her.
Katherine's face split into a fleeting grin. Mission accomplished. "I dreamed—I dreamed about aliens," she announced, turning in the Doctor's arms to face him. "They were bad 'cause they got in from the windows an' took everyone away!"
"Everyone?" the Doctor repeated, raising his eyebrows to indulge her. "What happened, then?"
"Mummy an' you stopped them," Katherine said nonchalantly. "'Cause—'cause the bad aliens got 'Randa and me an' kept us in jail. But 'Randa was bigger than me. She was a lady like Mummy."
The Doctor smiled at her account of the dream. He bent down to put her back into bed, and as soon as she was settled, he pulled the blanket loosely around her waist and tucked her in. "Well," he said, dragging out the vowel, "That's a bit silly, don't you think?"
"I dunno."
He paused, frowning as he looked at his daughter. 'I dunno?' She didn't honestly think that the dream was a possibility, did she? To be fair, she was only three, but still…He sat on the edge of the bed. "What do you mean, 'you don't know?'" he said, keeping his tone light. "I think it's very silly. Extremely silly, in fact, probably the silliest thing I've ever heard in my life. Do you know why?"
Katherine shook her head eagerly.
"Because Mummy and I are never going to let that happen." The Doctor reached for Beau, a plush lamb and relic from Katherine's infancy, and tucked it under her arm. Katherine clutched the toy to her chest and smiled.
"It's a dream, right?" Katherine said as she buried half of her face into the lamb's faded wool.
"Just a dream." The Doctor kissed her forehead and stood up. "See you in the morning, Kit-Kat."
After redoing the "two-hugs-two-kisses-check-for-monsters-under-the- bed" routine for good measure, the Doctor closed the bedroom door behind him and continued down the hallway. Now that Katherine was (presumably) asleep for good, his next goal was to try and do the same. The baby had long since stopped crying, so Rose must be in bed too. Sure enough, she was curled up under the sheets, out like a light.
With a brief sigh, the Doctor tossed his dressing gown back onto the chair and removed his glasses before climbing back into bed. Immediately, the prospect of sleep called to him, and the mattress felt far more comfortable than usual.
Blimey, this evening was particularly domestic. He almost wished that Torchwood would call him in as a consultant to break up the normality of it all. With that thought lingering in his mind, the Doctor rolled onto his side, wrapped his arms around Rose, and was asleep within seconds.
And on the other side of the city, deep within the storage facility of the Torchwood headquarters, the dimension cannon sparked to life for the first time in six years.
Author's note: And thus ends chapter one. Feel free to leave a review! :)