I haven't posted anything in a while! I really enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you enjoy reading it!
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is property of the BBC. I have no affiliation with the show other than the fact that I am an avid fan.
He had always run, from the time he was eight years old, never once stopping, never once turning his head back. He just ran, so that madness wouldn't catch up with him. He ran, so that the pain of his losses would never hit him. He ran to stay away from the anger that would surely consume him if he ever paused long enough to consider the countless what-ifs in his lives.
And though many people had traveled with him in his brilliant blue box, he had only ever had one true companion, someone who ran with him, at the same pace as him, and, like him, never slowed, never stopped. Time. His Time. Like with River Song, the two never met in quite the right order, but unlike with River, because they had always run together, they both knew each other implicitly every time they met. Time was the only one he trusted, the only one he could trust.
Until he met her. He and Time were running from that blasted war, that damned genocide he didn't think he'd ever forgive himself for, from the people he'd once known, and the people he'd once been, when she appeared out of nowhere with her blonde hair like a beacon in the night and her fair delicate face that he could never guess would engrave itself in his mind long as he'd live, wherever in the Universe he'd go. Rose, her name was. Rose Tyler. And when she traveled with him in his brilliant blue box, she gently grabbed his hand and beseeched him to stop running, at least to jog so that she could keep his pace. And he didn't know why he obliged- for anyone else, he wouldn't have, but for her he just… did. And after they jogged for a bit, they slowed to a walk, and then stopped altogether. But the madness and the pain and the anger stayed away from him, because Rose was with him, and she alone held more power than all of those things combined.
And yet he knew that Time hadn't stopped running. And he knew that Time was growing more impatient and jealous with every second he stayed still with another companion. Every night, he sobbed into his pillow in that brilliant blue box, begging Time to stop, to come back to them, and to just stay, because though he tried with all his might not to think about it, he knew Rose was human, and Time, whom he had never considered cruel before this point, would never allow him to stay with a human indefinitely. Jealous Time would yank him forward, away from Rose, eventually.
"Eventually" came sooner than he could ever imagine, ever expect, before Rose even exhibited symptoms of Time's jealousy. "Eventually" came at the hand of what some might call fate, but what he knew was just his curse that hurt everyone whom he became close to. And because his protective beacon in the night, his flower, his Rose was no longer with him, all the madness and the pain and the anger that he had tried so hard to run from, found him. So, wincing as Time grabbed his hand again, he did the only thing he could do: run.
And though running had always been a future-spective activity, he could not help but look back, turning his head toward Rose. Always toward his beautiful magnetic Rose. Because though others traveled with him in that brilliant blue box, the only companion he had now was Time. And Time was cruel. And Time wouldn't stop with him. Only his flower would do that. And Time couldn't protect him. Only Rose could do that.
And when he finally found his flower again, for an instant, he wanted to stop with her because only she could keep all the madness and the pain and the anger away, because, although he never had the nerve to tell her, he loved her, loved her with the full extent of both of his hearts and beyond. He loved her with more than a hundred times the total energy of all the supernovas he'd ever heard of. He loved her more than the infinite volume that the Universe could hold.
But he couldn't bear to hurt her. Because he was cursed, and he couldn't bear to see something worse happen to her than what had already happened. Because all the madness and pain and anger would multiply exponentially if he lost her again. Because he supposed he was selfish, and wouldn't allow himself to get hurt like the last time he had lost her. He wouldn't, couldn't allow all of that madness and pain and anger to catch him again.
So he and cruel Time ran from her. It was all he could do. And he knew that soon, so very soon, far too soon, he would have run so far that he would be someone that she would no longer recognize. And that was painful. Because, above all else, he was afraid, not of her forgetting him, but of himself forgetting her. He would have run so far that even she, his beautiful magnetic Rose, would have no pull on him. And that terrified him more than anything.
He had to see her one last time, before that happened. He just had to see the light that radiated from her hair and from her smile, and feel the warmth in her brown eyes. He had to see her, but she couldn't see him. Not in the way that he needed to see her. Else she'd ask him to stay. Else she'd ask him to stop running. And though he wanted to, more than anything else in the Universe, he couldn't stop with her. Because he couldn't risk losing her again. Because the madness and the anger and the pain were right behind him, and he could not delay, lest they catch him. So he looked and longed and smiled at her, as he and Time ran past. Then Time flung him so far forward, too far forward, too far away from everything that he had been, too far away from everything that his Rose knew of him and too far forward than everything he had known of himself.
So really, he had no choice but to keep running. And soon she'd just be another speck that he and Time had passed. Soon he'd forget about stopping with her, and that he'd ever stopped running at all. Soon she'd just be another traveler.
And one day, while others were traveling with him in his brilliant blue box, Time sent him backward. And he remembered his flower. He remembered his Rose. And he realized that he might see her again, if he only went back far enough. And though he said that he wasn't one for reruns, there was nothing he longed for more than to see his beacon in the night. There was nothing he longed for more than to see her warm eyes and bright hair and delicate face. But if he saw her, he would remember how he felt stopping with her. He'd remember the joy that he'd felt, and how she'd kept the madness and the pain and the anger away. And he'd want to stop again. And he knew he couldn't.
So he didn't let himself go back far enough to see her. So he turned on his heels, and did all he ever could do, all he'd ever really been able to do.
He ran.