When he saw me, he laughed.
When I see him, I laugh.
He had stumbled out of the darkness and against the nearest wall. He was burned, broken, breathing the shallow gasps of a dying man, and the incongruous laugh turned quickly to heaving, ragged coughs. It was more than his body could handle, and he slid down the wall, streaking it bright crimson behind him.
I don't have much time left. I know how it feels to die. I can't escape it this time. My arms tighten around the precious bundle within them, clutching her to my chest like a lifeline.
The shock began to subside, and I found my voice again. "Who are you?" I demanded.
He is exactly as I remember him, so many lifetimes ago, silver hair and wrinkled face, young and reckless and playing at the wise old man. It hurts too much to laugh again. "Oh," is all I manage.
"Oh? Oh. Yes, you're injured, do please stay still, I'll get someone-"
She shifts and fusses. "Shh." I raise half a finger toward my lips and gesture with my eyes, and he falls silent. "It's too late. Here. C'mon."
I went to him. "What do you mean, too late? You'll be regenerating any moment, hm?"
"Can't. Please. Take her."
And he held out his little bundle, though his face twisted in pain at the effort. A tiny child, no more than a few weeks old, all pudge and pink cheeks swaddled in blood-stained blankets. I hesitated only a moment. "Oh. Yes, of course." She felt strange in my arms, too light, too fragile.
"Take care of her," he told me.
"I will." Even though I'm expecting the answer, my traitorous heart still sinks when he continues. "I'll see she gets to the right people, hm?"
"No!" Too much vehemence; the word rushes up too fast and catches in my throat and I have to stop to cough it and a lungful of blood out. He looks on in increasing concern. He's starting to catch on. So naive for such a wise face. "No, no. You- no one else. You have to take care of her. Your grand-daughter."
He leans back like I just slapped him, looks at her, looks back at me. His eyes narrow. "Who are you?"
He intercepted my hand, moving too fast for a dying man. Bloodshot eyes bored into mine. "No," he said, but this time it was pleading.
I'm sorry. There's so much you can't know. So much I would spare you the pain of ever knowing. I'm so sorry.
"Another world. Another life. But she is yours. Here, now, she needs you." Desperate, I say his name. My name. The name we gave up, so very long ago and not so long at all.
Slowly, his hand withdraws, cradles her head. He nods.
Darkness consumes my vision. She's safe. My anchor is gone and the tide rushes in to claim this unmoored vessel. "Her name..." I say, and my voice sounds so far away, trailing off before I can finish. I can't stave it off any longer. I can already hear them, from the other side, calling for me, yes, I'm ready, I held on for so long, but I've fulfilled my final duties, I want nothing more than to see her again-
As the light faded from his unfocused eyes, his lips parted again to whisper one final word, a word the translator struggled with for a moment. 'Arkytior', it finally produced, obscure High Gallifreyan for a rare imported flower.
-my beloved Rose.
Notes: Inspired by musings about the Doctor's family and Susan's origins, and noticing that the actresses playing Susan and Rose have strikingly similar facial structures.
As of writing I have only seen the first two arcs of Classic Who (the cavemen and the Daleks), forgive me if I screwed up anything.