Continuation Theory

Part One: Inertia

After they left her mum's house, she spent the next few days wandering the TARDIS, room to room to room; she wouldn't admit to him, not even to herself, who she was looking for.

He didn't press the point. It was something she would work out on her own, he supposed to himself, and there wasn't much he could do about anything, except grin and pretend nothing was different, except look the other way every now and then so she had a chance to examine him closely, except stand ineffectually outside her bedroom door and listen to her cry inside.

It galled him not to really do anything decisive; but how do you convince someone that you're the same? He concentrated on the solution, but knew that even any answers he might come to, any brainstorms that might make sense to him, were still, ultimately, subjective. They would be filtered through her eyes, sounded down by that complex mix of objections and leniencies that was Rose, and by the time they completed their circuitous route, they might not do him any good at all. So he focused instead on being himself, still balancing a fine line between nothingness and his emerging personality , still finding things out about himself that he was glad, or angry, or relieved, or upset, or thrilled to know. New traits got thrown at him out of the blue every day; he dodged them like a blindfolded man dodges a bullet, hopeless and ultimately resigned.

Things got normal.

"Will it open?"

He grunted. "Of course it'll open. What d'you think I'm trying for? Wouldn't try to open something if I knew it wasn't going to open in the end, don't you think? It'd be too frustrating."

She watched his hands. She liked his hands.

"You know, just once I'd like to see you blow someone's head off with that sonic screwdriver."

"Its been mentioned, Rose Tyler, that you are a very violent young woman."

"Does it have one?"

"One what?"

"A setting to blow someone's head off?"

"Amongst other things," he said, clamping his tongue between his teeth and half grinning as he heard the lock give way, "yes. Yes it does."

He wouldn't prove it, though, not even to show off to her.

"Are we going to live?" she asked him, and he knew she was feeling flippant, because when things got really dire she was interminably upbeat, not asking serious questions like the one she just had.

"For a bit longer, yeah," he told her, and saved the world again.

By a series of complex mathematical sums that in some languages of the universe would undoubtedly spell out a very rude word, they arrived back at the TARDIS in something of a state of undress. Rose took in herself, took in him, and declared her intentions of never travelling by transmat again if they were going to go all buggery on her just because they'd jimmied it with a pair of chopsticks and a balloon.

"I teleported home one night, with Ron and Syd and Meg," the Doctor recited with a wicked grin. "Ron stole Meggie's heart away, and I got Sydney's leg."

"And don't go all Douglas Adams at me. I like to keep my clothes on. Helps with my mental state."

He thought briefly of making some whimsical comment to the effect that, mentally, she was always undressed, but thought it wouldn't help much. The atmosphere in the control room was already rather thick, both of them breathing heavily from the journey, their clothes in tatters and revealing rather more than, by rights, they should have. Her shirt was nearly torn in two, right across the midriff, only a few obstinate threads holding on. Her jeans were in an equally disreputable state, and on the whole, he thought, sadly, she had come out somewhat better than he: trousers ripped strategically to show black boxers, coat rent in two down the back, jacket mere charred remains, half the buttons off his shirt, exposing pale skin. He'd also, at some point he couldn't quite identify, lost his shoes. He caught her looking. She caught him looking. They glanced away quickly and immediately looked back in the hopes that the other's attention had been distracted.

The Doctor clapped his hands together and rubbed briskly. "Right," he said. "No more transmats that have been jimmied. Or jury-rigged. Or tinkered with. Or messed about. Or cocked up in general. From now on, we walk."

She was laughing when he shooed her off to her room to change, and he stood alone in the control room for a moment, smoothing the buttons and wheels and switches and levers. He was glad to know that some things hadn't changed.

She walked in on him and stopped and stared and laughed.

"Your hair—"

He got up off his knees with a grunt, giving the console one last thump with his fist.

"You've ruffled it all—"

"Don't knock self-ruffling," he shot back, "its ruffling someone you love."

She blinked and shook her head. "Got everything fixed?"

"There wasn't anything wrong with it really— there never is— really— perfection, my ship. But, yeah. Fixed. Right, Rose, now that we've added silver bullets to our arsenal— and I don't think we're likely to find any more werewolves, I really don't, not after that one gets the word out—"

"Speaking of arsenals," she interrupted.

"Stop staring at my bum, Rose," he said without turning around.

"Speaking of arsenals," she carried on, blushing madly, "where's the library in this place? You've got to have one on here, right, big multipurpose ship like this. The TARDIS puts books in my room sometimes but they're all—"

"Pink-covered bodice rippers?"

"Well—"

"Very educational." He turned and gave her a grin at last.

"I'm looking for something else."

"Like what?"

"Regeneration for Dummies?" she suggested, rolling her eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again. Narrowing his eyes at her, he scrutinized her for a few seconds, brows drawn low over the bridge of his nose. It was the look he gave things when he had his spectacles on, she recognized it as such. The glasses were nowhere in evidence now, but she could feel him trying to make sure he was viewing her correctly.

"Ah," he said, "right—" and patted the TARDIS one more time before he moved towards the door, sweeping Rose along his path with him. It took him a few tries before he managed, mumbling about his beautiful ship's eccentric tendencies and how they were only to be expected in a work of genius, to find the right room. Instead of marching in and waving his arms and demanding her admiration, as she expected him to do, he stepped back and motioned her in with an obscure smile. She watched him closely, and went to the door. As she stepped past him she caught a faint smell of well-worn leather.

And he caught a flash of golden light.