Disclaimer: Doctor Who is mine, and the Doctor says hello. He also makes a very good cup of tea.
Sequel-ish to The Measure of Eternity, but fine as a standalone, though you may miss some references. Excerpt at the beginning from You are Tired (I Think) by E.E. Cummings, and other oblique references in the story include Robert Frost, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, as well as Haruki Murakami and assorted Greek mythology.
Followed by Bread Crumbs and Lasting Trails.
Reviews make me a happy clam!
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away –
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and –
Just tired.
So am I.
She knows him, sort of, and she thinks he knows her too (sort of). They are in a strange limbo of knowing and not-knowing, suspended in their state of acceptance and not-quite-understanding. He is wary of her, and she is wary of him, and they are both too tired. She is seven (hundred), and he is nine, and there are eternities between the two of them that they cannot hope to breach. But they each try, in their own ways, and the going is slow, but she is content. They have all the time in the world now.
1. There and Back Again
He stumbles upon her late one night, when the shadows run deep and sleep eludes him. He finds her in the console room, tinkering with the TARDIS mainframe. It is a strange not-quite-déjà vu, watching her bare feet stick out from underneath the console where his should have been, standing at the same spot he is sure she has stood countless times before while watching him work. He notices her tense up as she senses his approach, and she brushes her mind hesitantly with his. He accepts the telepathic link after a long moment, and watches as she edges out from under the console and stands. Her hands are grease-stained, and she is holding a metal contraption in one.
I couldn't sleep, she tells him, gesturing behind her to the pile of tools and scrap that litter her recently vacated workspace. The TARDIS hums soothingly in his mind, and he feels her appreciation at what Rose has been doing. Ah, he replies, nodding slightly, and his eyes are unreadable.
She stands awkwardly, and he feels a dozen thoughts and emotions flit through her mind. He tries not to feel bewildered and betrayed by this not-Rose, standing before him in all her glory with the wisdom of eternity in her eyes. He turns towards the console.
What's the problem with the TARDIS this time? He queries, attempting to steer their conversation into more familiar waters for him. Tinkering with the TARDIS was always his domain, and it makes him feel comfortable to retreat to it. She lifts the metal contraption in her hands a little, and she raises his gaze to his for a fleeting moment before breaking it and setting the machine down on the console, tweaking parts of it. It's the chrono-temporal sub-atomic diffuser, she replies at length. There was vortex residue gummed up in it, that's all. I fixed it with a quark infuser.
Quark infuser? I don't have – he breaks off, staring at the metal contraption she had placed on the console. You built one, he says, and it is more a statement of fact that it is a question. He looks at her, taking in the same face and features, trying to imprint this woman-he-once-knew onto his understanding, because he knows her, he is sure, but she is a stranger to him.
She holds his gaze. Yes, I did. She falters, unsure. I'm sorry – should I have left it to you? She bites her lip, and his hearts clench at the familiar gesture.
He takes her hand in his, rubbing the pads of his fingers along the ridges and curves of hers, and he realizes, properly realizes, that this is not the Rose Tyler he knew, but she is Rose Tyler nonetheless.
No, no. You have every right to the TARDIS. It is as much your home as it is mine. His eyes are dark when the meet hers again, and she feels like they have taken another small step forward. Home, he had said, and her heart had skipped a beat at that word.
The key nestled between her breasts is warm, and she thinks that this is a fitting beginning for both of them. The hand in his is familiar and foreign, and he accepts that this is the end of the Rose Tyler he knew.
People change, as they both are aware of better than others. Nothing stays the same.
When Martha walks into the console room in the morning, she finds two pairs of feet under the TARDIS console and several toolboxes scattered around them.
2. The Road Less Travelled
This is me, leaving, Martha tells the Doctor. Rose hears it, hears the words and the emotions behind them, and feels the Doctor's pain and regret as if it were her own.
She retreats into the labyrinthine corridors of the TARDIS, caressing the walls of the hallways that she passes. She waits outside Martha's room, and ponders what she is about to offer. It is the least she can do, she surmises.
Martha is surprised. Rose can feel the thoughts and decisions fly through her mind as Martha finds words to speak to her.
"I hated you, you know," she begins, and Rose is intrigued. "You were always this phantom, lurking over me. You were the yardstick I was measured against, and I was always found wanting." She pauses, taking a deep breath.
"I found your room once, by accident. It was in this section of the TARDIS that he made me promise never to go into, but this one time I was so mad with him that I forgot." She exhales, and leans against the wall for support. "It was like you never left. There was this jacket, this little denim blazer-thing that had been discarded on the bed. I remember thinking that it was just like you went out for a bit, and that you'd be back any minute." Martha runs a tired hand over her face, and Rose's heart goes out to her.
"I didn't realize it was your room at first. There were no pictures, nothing to obviously identify it as yours. He took all the photographs down, you know. I could tell, from the markings on the walls. So I stayed in there for a while, trying to figure out whose room this was. Why it was like you never left. Where you were. And then – " She swallows hard, and Rose makes a soft sound at the back of her throat, rising from her position before Martha waves a hand. Rose settles back down and listens.
"And then, I saw it. I saw a tie; half-under your bed like someone had ripped it off and forgotten about it. It was the swirly one. That swirly tie. I just – and then, I knew. I knew it was you. The room was yours, and I had intruded where I had no right to. So I left as fast as I could. And here I am, leaving again." Martha stares at her for a long moment. "I have to pack," she concludes, and turns towards her bedroom door.
"Listen," Rose starts, and finds herself nearly at a loss for words. Her peace offering is a meager one, she knows, but she hopes that it will assuage what pain and hurt it can, and that Martha will feel better. She has hurt too many people in the eternities she has had. "You have travelled universes. Seen extraordinary sights. Done amazing things. Led a fantastic life. You can't return to who you were before. You will never find satisfaction in the life you once led." Rose's gaze is solemn and old as she speaks the truths Martha has been afraid to address. "Let me help you. Let me bring you to Torchwood. Let me give you a life that might not be as wonderful and amazing as this is, but one that is much, much more than ordinary. You deserve better, Martha Jones. You deserve to find somewhere that you can be happy."
Martha holds her gaze, and slowly nods. Take my hand, Rose whispers into her mind, and she leads Martha across worlds and universes until she finds the one she is looking for.
She leaves Martha with Mickey while she wanders over to her office, now buried under a thick layer of dust. It has been four months since she last came here. The photograph still sits on her desk, and her reflection is thrown back at her from the glass of the frame. The picture is of a girl-she-once-was and a man-she-once-knew, and she smiles a little as she traces his outline. She removes the photograph from its frame, and tucks the picture away in her pocket.
She looks out the window at the zeppelins that hover above, and closes her eyes as she slips away across dimensions to find him again.
She enters the TARDIS console room, and she finds him sitting on the jump seat, silent and unreadable in the dark. The shadows cast his face in harsh profile. She approaches, stopping next to him and perching herself on the arm of the seat. The silence is thick. His mind brushes hers, and she does not hesitate to accept the telepathic link.
You left, he says at length. I looked for you, and you were gone.
She leans into him, and feels him stiffen slightly at the contact before he gradually relaxes.
I did, she agrees. But I came back, and that has made all the difference.
3. The Beautiful and the Damned
They have no destination in mind, so he takes them to Polyphemus. Despite the eternities she has lived, she has yet to visit this planet, and she is grateful for the new adventure. The multitude of words that hang unsaid between them are too heavy and cloying for two not-strangers and not-friends in close confines. They speak less, both of them. The camaraderie and gentle ribbing they once shared is gone, replaced by an undefined, nebulous relationship that both lack the courage to yet explore.
Polyphemus is a leisure planet, flourishing with nature and wildlife. Several resorts and villas are located a few miles northwest of their current location, he tells her, and she wonders why he has brought them to a place so devoid of his usual death-defying, adrenaline-pumping escapades.
He takes her hand as they leave the TARDIS parameter, and she realizes that he is as tired as she.
He is a tactile telepath, so their physical connection heightens their telepathic link. His emotions and thoughts are stronger in her mind now, rushing and flowing along like whitewater rivers, ebbing in fits and spurts. She finds herself drifting off in their gushing tide, enjoying the comforting presence of his consciousness. Her presence in his mind is soothing, and he magnifies their connection as he finds solace in the calm of her thoughts.
They continue their walk in silence, each reveling in the company of the other, grateful and quietly euphoric at having found each other despite the lifetimes that now exist between them. He loves her, and she loves him, but they have miles to go before they reach the stage of easy affection and openness that they once had.
The air is cool and light, and the flora and fauna surrounding them is abundantly luxurious. The deep purples and blues of the leaves around keep her captivated and thrilled, and he takes delight in watching her simple joy at the beauty of nature. They have all the time in the world now, and they are both learning to slow down, and maybe one day they will both learn to stop running.
He leads them to a clearing in the woods, where conical fronds sway lightly though there is no breeze. Go on, touch one, he urges her, and he feels her excitement through their link. She extends a tentative hand, and strokes the side of a young conical sapling. It unfurls with great aplomb, and her laughter rings out in the glade. He doesn't know her, not really, not now, but he does know her laugh, and it is still beautiful, even if it is a little broken.
The unfurling of the sapling startles a flight of butterfly-like creatures into motion, and they are soon surrounded by a brightly-coloured cloud. She flutters one hand about in an attempt to brush a few of these delicate animals, her other still firmly ensconced in his. He senses her thrill and joy, and is quietly pleased that she doesn't think to remove her hand from his even amidst this new adventure-of-sorts.
They're amazing, she tells him, and her voice in his mind is an almost-reverent whisper. That they are, he readily agrees, and startles when one softly alights atop his free hand. He raises his hand to their relative eye levels for a closer look, and her captivation is intense. She stares at him, and tries to sear this poignant tableau into her memory; the absolute beauty around them, this beautiful stranger-man-she-loves, and this fragile life he cradles in his hand.
She brings her eyes up to meet his gaze. How long do they live? She asks, and wonders where the question came from. A day, he answers after a long pause. She turns away, nodding.
His hand is still in hers.
4. Delphi and A Red String
She can't find him. They took him away, someplace beyond the reach of her mind, and she cannot sense him. It is as if he is dead, and her breath chokes in her throat. The lack of his presence in her mind leaves her feeling bereft and lost.
She doesn't know where they took him. She had been knocked unconscious after they had disembarked from the TARDIS, the attack so unexpected and sudden that neither of them, even with their inhuman speed and sense, could react in time. She sits up, and finds herself in the cavern where they had landed. The ground is damp beneath her, and the air is wet and dank. The TARDIS is gone, and so is he.
Panic wells up inside her, and she takes deep breaths. She has faced psychopathic mass-murderers, cold-blooded killers, innumerable Daleks and Sontarans and Cybermen and a whole pantheon of evil no one should ever have to face alone, but she doesn't recall ever feeling this terrified. The thought of losing him curdles her blood, and her life is a small thing in comparison.
She refuses to believe that he is dead. It is not an alternative she considers, as if by ignoring it the world would make it so. She pushes aside her hysteria and fear, and summons up her wrath at their assaulters. Getting to her feet, she takes shaky steps towards the mouth of the cavern, leaning against the wall for support. Her head is throbbing, and her hand comes away from it dripping with blood. She wipes the blood off on her shirt, and staggers onwards.
The cavern opens up into a plain, and she can see a city in the distance. Smog coats the air around her, and the arid smell of burnt-out tenements sears her senses. The city is composed of turrets and high stone walls, decidedly grey and harsh. It is a good place to start as any. Three miles, she estimates, and winces as her legs protest at the thought. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, and begins to run.
Her speed is hindered by her injuries and flagging stamina, the result of blood loss and general fatigue. She has been getting too little sleep lately, kept awake by phantoms and ghosts long gone but still very much alive. She stumbles once, landing hard on her right in a small stone quarry, and she sustains numerous scratches and bruises on her arm. A long gash runs up the length of her inner right arm, and she tears a strip off her shirt to staunch the bleeding. Her body may heal faster than most, but she knows her fatigue has slowed this process down. The dizziness in her head intensifies.
One mile. The distance seems to extend on, and her legs are burning. The tempting darkness of a healing coma beckons her, but she pushes it away. She needs to find him, and that is more important than herself or her life or healing or stopping. A wave of nausea engulfs her, and she falters before resuming her run, focusing on her surroundings.
This world is unnaturally still. There is no wind, and she has yet to encounter signs of life. There are no birds in the sky, or trees she can see. There is nothing living.
The city gates loom ahead of her, and she finds herself confronted by the monolithic double doors that lead inside. There are no guards, or any sentry posts, and she is faintly puzzled. She places a palm flat against the surface of the doors, attempting to feel for any telepathic controls. There is a muted buzzing in the back of her mind; a disquieting sound both unsettling and disturbing, and she traces this back to its source.
Her world explodes in pain and fire. She sees decapitated bodies and arms and limbs strewn about and heads on pikes and children nailed to walls and blood, so much blood, and god it hurts so much, why does it hurt?, and someone stop this, stop this please, and why isn't anyone listening, can't anyone hear me?, and –
She vaguely registers a blow to the back of her head, and she knows nothing.
When she comes to, she is hit by a sense of déjà vu. The floor beneath her is damp, and the air is dank and wet, but this is not a cave. She sits up, and she realizes that she has been chained to a wall, the skin on her wrists raw and bruised. The gash on her right arm is festering and has become infected, and the pain when she attempts to move is searing. She bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
The room around her is vast and spartan. Stone walls extend into the darkness of a passageway beyond, and she cannot see where it leads. Her sharpened hearing picks up on water dripping, and moss and mould grow between the cracks on the floor. She concludes that she is underground. The sole light source is a skylight a hundred feet above, casting a pale glow on a stone altar that has been hewn into a raised platform in the middle of the room. There are murals on the walls, strange and disturbing images of death and destruction, and she hurriedly casts her eyes away from the grotesque artwork. She wonders what sort of civilization this is to delight in such horrifying events.
"So, there she is," comes a viscous, dripping voice from the depths of the dark passageway. "Thanatos's woman, in the flesh." Her heart leaps to her throat.
"How nice of you to bring her along, Doctor." The voice is one of gleeful madness, the kind that she has come to associate with killers and murderers and torturers over the centuries. She tugs at her chains, fearful for the Doctor, furious at their captors, and desperate for an escape. "Oh, how delightful! She's such a fighter too," it continues, and the dread gripping her heart grows as a hulking figure gradually emerges from the shadows.
A massive, vaguely humanoid figure steps out from the dark, and though she is aware of his serpentine features and distinctly inhuman slits for eyes, her gaze is drawn to the man he drags in behind him. She gasps in horror as she takes in the Doctor's battered features and bloodied frame, and her heart breaks for him as he moans and struggles to stand.
"Rose?" He manages to get out. She can hear the blood bubbling in his throat, and she knows he is suffering from massive internal haemorrhaging. They have to get out fast and now. His mind brushes hers, and she grabs the telepathic link between them like a lifeline.
I'm here, she assures him, and his pain is acute through their connection. Are you all right? He sends back in a rush, and she pauses before answering. I'm here now, she tells him, and she feels his displeasure at her half-truth.
"How sweet," their captor hisses, and she turns her attention to him. "A permanent telepathic connection, how adorable," he continues, and she senses the Doctor tense. Their captor is scaly and spiked, and more lethal than both of them combined. They stand no chance against him in their current state, she knows.
"Who are you? What do you want?" She asks-yells, frightened and bewildered and terrified.
"So feisty! I can see why he chose you." He all-too-easily pulls the Doctor to his feet and slams him against the wall, and she feels the Doctor's pain through their link, crying out as she falls to her knees. "You didn't tell her, did you?" He directs the question to him, holding him up in a choking grip.
"Ah, Thanatos," their captor sighs when no reply comes, and lashes a spiked tail out at her. Her reaction time is dulled, and though her mind processes the incoming danger, her body is unable to respond. Her left thigh sears in burning pain a moment later, and her cry of agony echoes throughout the cavernous room. "Stop it!" He shouts out, and she senses his anger and guilt and fury.
The wound in her thigh is bleeding profusely, and she is faintly aware that her blood is too runny, and that there must have been some sort of venom in the spikes that lacerated her. Her vision blurs. The conversation between the Doctor and their captor is muted in the background as she tries to focus, and she feels the sudden comforting brush of the TARDIS in her mind.
She grabs the link with the TARDIS in her mind, and attempts to call the TARDIS to them. The key around her neck is cold, and she registers that this means that the TARDIS is a long distance away. But she has a part of the Vortex within her, and though she is too weak to slip between dimensions and time, she will do all she can to bring them to safety. To bring the Doctor to safety, she amends.
She reaches deep into herself. No, Rose! The Doctor's voice in her mind is distant, but it is alarmed and desperate, and she pays scant attention to it. You can't do this, he pleads with her. Don't. You won't survive this. Let me work something out. She cuts him off as her vision fades, and she is cognizant of yelling and shouts so very far away. There is no other way, she sighs into his mind, and she continues her call. It is a song, haunting and sad and warm and beautiful, and it envelopes her in comfort.
"Amazing," she faintly hears their captor murmur, and distantly registers him approach her. The Oncoming Storm rumbles overhead, and rain pelts the skylight over them.
Her mind fills with a soft golden light, and she has flashes of life and death and time and eternity and rises and falls and dust and ashes. A thin golden line extends towards her, and she takes it in one hand. Her consciousness collapses into glowing dust, and her last thought is that they look like fireflies.
She wakes on the TARDIS an indefinite amount of time later, staring up at the ceiling of the infirmary. It is a regular occurrence for her, losing consciousness and regaining it someplace else, and the sterile white ceilings of infirmaries and hospitals and medical bays are no strangers to her. It is only the comforting hum of the TARDIS and his presence at the back of her mind that give her a clue as to her location.
She senses him at the infirmary doorway, and continues to stare at the ceiling for several long moments before sitting up and turning towards him. She cannot remember what transpired exactly, but she knows that the long pink puckered lines that run up her left thigh and inner right arm, a distant echo of a haunting song, and the fury that thunders in his eyes are all somehow related.
Her confusion and disorientation is apparent to him from their telepathic connection, and the intensity of his gaze relaxes slightly as he realizes that she cannot remember what happened. She looks vulnerable and delicate and fragile in the thin paper gown he had changed her into to allow better access to her injuries, and the quiet expression on her face makes him sigh.
They have tea in the kitchen much later on, and she looks down at the angry scar on her thigh and faintly recalls deep red gashes and golden lines. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear it, and he wanders over to the sink to wash his mug.
"Thanatos," she calls out. "Theta."
He drops his mug, and it shatters.
5. Lines in Sand and Other Permanent Fixtures
The signs of the Oncoming Storm are evident, and the TARDIS lights above them flicker several times in quick succession. He whirls on her, and he is furious. The anger reflected in his eyes is intense, and she finds herself taking a step back, bumping into the island counter.
Don't, he warns her, and his voice in her mind is cold and controlled, icy fury licking her consciousness with the force of his anger.
That planet, she presses on, that was Sparta, wasn't it? The planet of warmongers. His jaw is clenched. She takes his silence as an affirmation.
She swallows. All – they – everyone died there, five hundred years ago. A vengeful god, the legends say. She looks up at him, and the inferno in his eyes gives her pause. She summons her courage. It was you, wasn't it? You – the deaths – everyone died. Everyone.
He doesn't answer, and her mind is reeling from her discovery. How could – I don't – Words elude her, and she struggles for coherence. She takes a deep breath before continuing, and hopes she doesn't sound as tremulous as she thinks she does.
I visited them, you know, fifty years before – before the end. There had been a small civil war, spots of infighting and warring as they were prone to do. She pauses, and looks down at her hands fisted on her lap, relaxing before curling them back into fists. I killed four hundred and twenty-one Spartans that day. She raises her eyes to meet his. They called me Thanatos's woman. He stiffens at the title.
They said Thanatos would have loved me. I was a killer, a murderer, a destroyer. And so I asked them, who is this Thanatos? They were bewildered that I didn't know who he was. He is, they told me – she holds his gaze – he is the God of Destruction. He flinches.
I never gave that episode much thought. But – she notices his knuckles are white, and his eyes are raging with the Oncoming Storm – Theta, your name. Thanatos. I can't believe I didn't see it sooner. She drops her head to her hands, and tries to regulate her breathing that now comes in spurts and puffs.
No one should know that name. His voice is biting in her mind, and she recoils in half-fear. You killed – she begins, and he cuts her off. And what about you? What about the two million you murdered on Reyvra-7? The hundreds on Yvardia? The man killed by your hand and mind on Oriate? Oh, you felt his agony and pain as much as I did in your mind, didn't you? How does it feel, knowing you sent him to his death so you could live? Can you remember the way it felt when his flesh –
Stop it! She cries in agony, and he is relentless in his assault. He sends her images she had showed him in faith, images of blood and torn limbs and death and murder, and tears run down unbidden. Her anger at him is fast and quick, and her rage boils over. Her anger at him for being so different, for being such a stranger, for leaving her behind bubbles to the surface, and she lashes out at him in return.
Oh, yes, I killed over four million people, and what do you want me to say? Maybe you'd like to hear that I delighted in their pain and loss and laughed at their misery and deaths. Or no, no, wait, I think you'd rather hear about how I was innately gleeful at the blood that soaked the battlefield red on Lirzon! Oh, it was wonderful, absolutely brilliant when I heard their screams of terror and pain! I was ecstatic!
He leans back on the kitchen counter opposite her, his thumbs hooked in his pockets and posture deliberately confrontational. His eyes blaze, and she knows he is being intentionally provocative. Yes, he bites back, that sounds like just the sort of thing you'd enjoy. I bet you must be falling apart inside with boredom now, since the Cybermen and Daleks and Sontarans have gone. But it's no matter, is it? There's still an entire universe for you to murder and pillage! You must be, and he pauses, as if deliberately savouring the word, and his eyes go cold, colder than she'd ever imagine they could. Overjoyed.
She straightens, and her hands are balled into fists at her sides. It's fantastic, she agrees angrily, positively brilliant, really. Now I know why you killed your entire race. It must have been such a rush. The line is crossed before she knows she has crossed it, and the furiously tossed words and exchanges grind to a halt.
The TARDIS lights go out, and she can make out his still form several feet away from her in the darkness. The storm outside has stilled, and she finds that that is more terrifying than raging thunder and lighting and rain. The telepathic link between them is forcefully severed, and she cries out softly at the pain of the sudden disseverance.
His voice is flat when he speaks, and the words are spat out, like he is disgusted with her, like he hates her. "Get. Out."
She slips away across dimensions and time, and ends up on Earth. It is 1942, and the world is at war.
It is fitting.
6. Hard-Boiled Wonderland
He is not human, but he is only a man.
There is so much anger and resentment between them, so many words unsaid, so much forgiving that needs to be done. Forgive yourself, then forgive those you killed. The things they have both done echo into centuries long gone and yet to be, and they skip forgiving altogether.
Thanatos and his woman, he thinks, and his laugh is sardonic. There are too many secrets between them, too many half-truths and mysteries that they need to drag kicking and screaming into the open. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a long moment, and exhales as he lets them fall back to his sides. Their lifetimes are too long for anyone to have to live.
She is seven hundred now, and though he knows she is different, he tends to forget how changed she is. She tries not to remind him of the difference, he knows, quietly offering her opinion on intergalactic socio-political affairs or astromechanical theories hesitantly, if at all. Her eyes are haunted and lost now, reflections of his when he looks into a mirror.
He stares at his hands, turning them over and noting the ridges and callouses he finds. He had hurt her, heard her cry out in pain when he had violently severed their telepathic connection. He had violated her trust and gesture of faith, twisting the heartbreakingly noble actions she had shown him into weapons against her. They each lose themself against the torrent and tide of time. He slams his fist against the kitchen's island counter, and revels in the pain that shoots up his arm. It makes him feel alive, convinces him that he is alive.
He had spent two years without her. It had taken two years for him to spiral down a darker path, and the sins of nine centuries past tip the judgment scales against him. She has had seven centuries behind her now, and he is sure she understands. She had left. He had told her to go.
Coherence evades him, and he cannot find a point to his thoughts. He buries his head in his hands, and runs furious hands through his hair. What is going on? He wants to yell at the universe, but he knows it will not answer. What is happening to us? He wants to yell at her, but he knows she will have no answer.
The lone pale pink mug on the island counter mocks him, and he clenches and unclenches his fist in frustration.
He misses her.
7. Sartre, de Beauvoir, Bring All Your Friends
She wanders through deserted alleys and shelled-out townhouses, and stands in empty streets when the bombs fall around her. She doesn't sleep, doesn't need sleep, so she ghosts around the lanes and avenues of this once-great city. She helps those she comes across if she can, and waits with them if she can't. She doesn't want anyone to have to die alone.
The Underground is crowded and filled when the wailing of sirens start, so she avoids it. It doesn't matter if she doesn't take cover, because she is that much harder to kill, even if she wants to die sometimes. She supposes that thoughts of her death should alarm her. They don't.
It has been two weeks since she arrived here, heartsore and too-tired. She wonders what he is doing now, if he will find a new companion, or if he will continue his travels alone. It doesn't occur to her that he might be searching for her. Her words were barbs and vicious weapons, and there is a gulf between them regardless of how much she loves him, and she thinks she is too tired to try again. They are too tired to try again.
Tell us a story, a little girl asks, and she stares into the fire for a long moment. Most who cannot get a space in the overcrowded Underground stations seek refuge in shelters like this, and tonight she has joined one. The solitude of her mind is oppressive, and she seeks human company. The consciousness of the war-weary brush hers, and she is comforted because it is familiar. She had been drawn to the children playing in the corner, and joined them in a weak moment. It was something she had often thought about, having children of her own, and she thinks that she would have liked to be a mother, but Time has taken that choice away, and she cannot help but feel slightly bitter, even after all else it has given her. The small hand resting in hers squeezes, and she is wrenched from the image of a tiny giggling boy with brown not-ginger hair and shining brown eyes. (like his father, she thinks, and she quashes that thought)
A story, she muses, and her eyes are far away. Her gaze is drawn to the starless night sky, and she tells them of girls in blue boxes and sad aliens who live forever.
They fall asleep before she can finish her tale, and she slips away quietly into the night as soundlessly as she had come. She will not be missed, she knows. She likes it better that way. The night chill sears her lungs with each breath she takes, reminding her that she is alive. The smell of burning hangs in the air, and the sirens wail. She walks down empty streets.
She can hear the German planes in the distance, and estimates that they will reach London in three minutes. Her shoes kick up puffs of dust as she wanders down ruined roads, and she waits for the bombs to fall. The whirring of fighter planes drone on overhead. The building beside her goes up in flames.
She wanders up the stairs of an abandoned, bombed-out townhouse, winding up on the top floor. There is no roof access, but this house stands higher than its neighbours, and she can see for miles around London as the blitz continues. The city is dark, and she can see Thames glittering in the distance.
She feels him before she sees him, and she continues looking out at this devastated city. She is surprised and not-surprised, and is confused by her emotions.
You should be Underground, he tells her, and his voice is like a whip in her mind. He comes up to her and settles to her side, forearms perched on the sill, both of them staring out into the inky night with war and death around them. She can sense his anger at her casual disregard for her life, and is angry at him for his.
So should you, she sends back. He exhales, and his sigh ghosts over her hands resting on the window frame.
It's pitch-black, he replies at length, and she murmurs her assent. All the lights are out.
She wonders where he is going with this, where they are going, and if they are even going anywhere at all.
He extends a hand towards her, and wiggles his fingers in invitation for her to take it.
Come on, he says. The TARDIS is brighter.
She nods slowly, and stares at his peace offering.
She takes it, and they run.
8. Sinners in Glass Houses
His lips are harsh against hers, and they stumble into the TARDIS in a tangle of limbs. She moves impatiently against him, aching for skin-to-skin contact. He makes quick work of her shirt, yanking it roughly over her head, and his mouth is hot on her breasts. Her breaths are loud, like gunshots in the silence of the console room.
She moans, and it is like liquid fire in his veins. He divests her of her jeans as he sheds his coat and jacket, and he traces a finger down her centre. She is wet and hot.
He vaguely registers that this is no solution. They are both angry and frustrated, and too many words still need to be said. He pushes the last scrap of lace that keeps her covered aside and slides one finger into her, and his reasoning is lost. Her hips buck in small thrusts and she gives voice to little throaty moans, and he hardens to the point of pain. Her eyes are dark on his when he withdraws his finger and licks the traces of her off it.
Her hands fumble on the buttons of his shirt, and he gasps when she slides it off him and trails kisses to his navel. She unfastens the button of his slacks and lowers his fly, and his hips involuntarily jerk when her hands close around him. He is impatient for contact and tries to draw her up to him, but she brushes him off and lowers her mouth to his member. All thoughts fly out of his head as her tongue drives him to the brink of insanity, and the hot suction of her mouth nearly makes him come undone.
Wait, wait – stop – he pants into her mind, wanting to draw this out for both of them. He pulls out of her mouth and tugs her up to him, and when his lips crash onto hers again he can taste traces on himself on it. He lowers them to the floor and spreads her wide before him. Her face flushes, and she attempts to cover herself. No, no, he assures her. Let me look at you.
She is pink and yellow and glorious and beautiful, panting with the force of his ministrations. He twines her hand with his, and trails kisses up her legs and thighs, pausing to hear her breath of anticipation before dipping his tongue into her. Her breath hitches, and her hips buck. He takes his time, because now they have all the time in the world, and they are both short on words, so he needs to show her.
He licks and laps and sucks her to completion, and she is still shuddering in the aftermath of her orgasm when he slips himself into her. She is perfection; tight and wet and hot, and he leans his forehead against hers as he begins thrusting. He shares his pleasure with her and feels hers in his mind, and the intensity of the act is all-consuming. His hands are everywhere; kneading a breast, tracing the curve of her collarbone, angling her hip. He needs to touch her, to know she is here with him, and to let her know he is here with her.
Their pace is almost frantic and is wholly desperate, as if they are afraid that one of them will shatter. She clings to him, and he holds onto her, and the friction between them is almost unbearable. He senses her impending climax through their connection, and he increases the force of his thrusts as his beckons. She flexes and clenches and grips him from inside, and his eyes roll back in pleasure.
She comes apart in his arms scant seconds later, and her inner walls flutter and pulse around him, bringing him to completion. He jerks and shudders within her, and he comes in long spurts that seem to go on and on. Their link intensifies their pleasure, and it is a long while before either of their heartbeats return to any semblance of normalcy.
When he can finally catch his breath again, he vaguely registers that he must be crushing her. She lies soft and pliant and warm beneath him, and he is still inside her. He makes to roll off, but the flutter of displeasure that he senses in her mind at that thought keeps him where he is, above and on and around her.
They revel in the quiet hum of the TARDIS in the background, and neither of them speaks for a long moment. There are too many things that need to be said, but the words seem wholly inadequate.
I love you, she whispers in his mind at length, and he presses butterfly kisses over her eyelids and face before sealing her mouth with his.
Thank you, he tells her later, and though it is not the three words she is looking for, the eight letters mean just as much.
9. Not-Humans, Aliens and Broken Things
It is raining. The muted patter on the stucco roof of the house they are staying in is soothing, if a little disconcerting after the silent hum of the TARDIS.
The smell of rain is refreshing, and she slides out of bed, slipping into his discarded dress shirt to pad over to the trellis window to stare out at the deserted lane two floors below. Colourful awnings and banners flap in the wind, and the cobblestone streets gleam in the wet. A bicycle-like contraption is propped up against a wall next to a narrow street. The sky is grey with morning, and this world is quiet but for the pitter-patter of raindrops.
She places a palm flat against the cool glass of the window, and is so enthralled in her reverie that she startles when his back presses against hers and his hand covers hers on the pane. She leans back against him, savouring the coolness of his body temperature that is somehow simultaneously warm. He presses a kiss to her ear, and nuzzles her neck before resting his chin on her shoulder.
You're up early, comes his voice in her mind. She turns her head and smiles into his lips as she captures it in hers, and their breaths and tongues intermingle for a prolonged moment.
Mmm, yes, I am, she replies, turning in his arms to face him. She takes in his mussed hair and unshaven chin, and the rumpled sheets that lie half hanging off the side of the bed from where he must have climbed out. I'm hungry, she tells him pointedly, and he groans into her mind. Shoo, she adds emphatically, nudging him to the doorway of the bedroom so that he can get started on their breakfast. He reluctantly disentangles himself from her, and wanders off to the kitchen.
You really need to learn how to cook, he sends as a parting shot, accompanied by a mock glare as he trails out. She tidies up the bedroom after he is gone, his presence a constant hum in her mind even from the kitchen. Tucking the corners of the duvet into the mattress and fluffing the pillows, she sits on the bed, burying her nose into the collar of his shirt that she has conveniently borrowed. It smells of him; musky and spicy and something unique and wonderful and special. She smells of him, she realizes belatedly. She can't explain why she feels so happy at that thought.
Bed made, she follows the smell of frying bacon and fresh toast to the kitchen, where she finds him deliciously rumpled, standing at the stove, frying pan and spatula in hand and clad only in his boxers. She tries to sneak up behind him, wrapping her arms around him to trail fingers down his hard chest and abdomen as she presses a fleeting kiss to his shoulder blade. He makes a noise at the back of his throat as a sign of his appreciation of the gesture.
I could sense you, he tells her, and he sounds exasperated at her behaviour even in her mind. It has become a little routine of theirs, with her trying to sneak up and surprise him and failing every time. No harm trying again, she pouts at him, and his chuckles reverberate warmly throughout her consciousness.
He plates up their breakfast of sausages, toad-in-a-hole and bacon, and her mouth waters at the enticing aromas that waft to her nose. Like Pavlov's dogs, you are, he teases, and she swats him gently across the tiny kitchen table. So, she starts, chewing a rasher of bacon (and she is really thankful for their telepathic connection, because it lets her stuff her mouth and communicate), the TARDIS. How goes the refueling?
He wrinkles his nose at her less-than-ladylike eating etiquette, and sniffs at her before cutting his sausages into little bite-sized pieces and popping them into his mouth. Food snob, she snorts, and he pokes her. She's almost completely refueled. It'll probably take another few couple hours or so, so we've got the whole afternoon to do whatever you want. Her heart warms at this; whatever you want, he had said. They have been here on the planet Lyoras for a week for TARDIS refueling, and they have both been trying.
She will tell him a little, and he will share pieces of him with her, and the going is slow, but it is a step forward. A week is too short a time to mend everything about them, and maybe they both can't be fully mended. They are not whole, she thinks, but they are not broken.
Whatever I want? Anything? She asks, smiling into his shining brown eyes. He leans forward, nuzzling her nose with his. Anything at all.
They spend the day sitting in front of this planet's version of the telly, watching bad daytime soaps and throwing popcorn at the screen when characters they don't like come on. She is snuggled up against him on the couch, with a shimmering silver afghan she had bought a few days ago thrown over the both of them. She watches him from the corner of her eye, and laughs when he starts rambling on about the scientific inaccuracy of the programme.
Their day is perfect.
10. Star-Crossed Lovers on the Edge of the World
They are running. She has realized that he runs much faster now than he did back when she was human, and she has concluded that he had been pacing her then.
Now, they run in sync, flying over the rocky terrain as shouts and gunfire rattle the air behind them. Their pursuers are fast cheetah-hybrids, but they cannot hope to catch a Time Lord and a Not-Human. Their laughter peals over their shoulders, and they are giddy in their exuberance.
The TARDIS is five miles to the south, across a rushing river and trails lined with landmines. They have both never felt more alive. Her hand is in his, and their presences in each other's mind is warming.
A mine explodes several yards to her right, and he pulls her closer to his side even as they continue their sprint. They come to an abrupt halt on the edge of a ravine that plummets to a gushing river a hundred feet below, and the shaky ground beneath their feet crumbles a little, sending small chunks of rock downwards.
She lifts her head to meet his gaze, and finds him fairly glowing with the excitement and thrill of the chase. She grins at him, and he returns it in full force.
Think you can survive it? She asks, nodding her head at the plunge before them.
His eyes glitter. Oh, yes.
They throw themselves over the edge, whooping with joy on the way down, hands still firmly fastened together. Her last thought before she hits the icy water is that he had promised her a nice, quiet and non-dangerous planet. His last thought before he is engulfed by the lashing water is that they need to find more exciting situations like this.
They always have tomorrow.