It was one of those days when the sun, shine as it did, couldn't seem to warm your hair. But no one really minded, because had the day of Rose Tyler's funeral dawned warm and sunny, it just wouldn't have seemed right.

Most funerals are all sad and depressing, and this particular one was no exception. However, there was one or two small differences that no one, save for one, noticed—a weird, outlandish blue box was parked a hundred meters or so away from the burial, and a somber young boy that looked to be no more than seventeen that stood a little farther away from the group, with eyes that stared at something in the distance, like he was miles away.

Dr. Lynda Raine Tyler, nee Holmes, was not a stupid woman by any means, boasting not only her medical degree but also the titles of mother and grandmother. Thus it was of no surprise that she knew, without any doubt, that the particular blue box had something strange about it—some aura that piqued her natural curiosity that she had inherited from her mother.

She approached the boy after the service, when the rest of her relatives left for their respective hotel rooms, while she lingered behind, standing side-by-side with the outsider. At first he didn't notice her presence next to him. At least, that's what Lynda had thought until the boy started to speak, although still not looking at her, but at her mother's grave.

"I suppose you want to know who I am," he said nonchalantly.

"Yes," she responded flatly, brusquely. If there was anything Lynda hated, it was people who put on airs—and this boy's wardrobe and way of carrying himself provoked Lynda's severity in the strangest way.

The boy let out a heavy, shuddering, sigh that seemed to be exasperated with all of reality. This sigh surprised Lynda, for the sigh was one of someone much older than him—much older than herself, really.

"Well," began the boy, "I guess, in some sort of twisted, backward way," his eyes flicked over but downward, not making eye contact, "I'm your father."

This pronouncement immediately called Lynda's scorn, for: "My father has been dead for two years, and besides—you don't look more than seventeen! You can't possibly be my father." Her bluntness surprised her—he was a stranger, for heaven's sake, even though he claimed to be her father.

Her words seemed to trigger that bitter, sad laugh that escaped his lips, and Lynda felt an unexplainable urge to comfort this…person that looked far too lonely to be healthy.

"It would take far too long to explain, but let's just say that your dad—me—is sort of two people, one human and the other myself. And I, well, I sort of age backwards. Sort of." The boy struggled to explain as his gaze slipped back to the grave.

Lynda narrowed her eyes in disbelief. "And you are…? Your name?"

He smiled at her question, and Lynda felt a faint wave of familiarity. "I'm the Doctor. And before you ask, just the Doctor."

Lynda's eyes widened, and he smirked. "My—my father, he went by that—'the Doctor,'" Lynda lowered her eyes to the ground in confusion, muttering distractedly, "Just 'the Doctor.'" He raised her head to look back at this boy, who still refused to look at her.

"So—er, are you the Doctor that Mum had been traveling with," Lynda laughed, a bit lost in another world, "When she told me those stories, I remember asking if it was Dad that she had been traveling with and she'd always respond with, 'Sort of—yes, I suppose. Kind of,' and then she'd stay, 'Don't bother me with tricky questions, Lynda.'" She smiled fondly at the memory.

There was a silence, one that was neither awkward nor companionable. Then the Doctor said, "I missed her, you know. After I left her here with the other me, but I tried not to think about it. Really I did. But there were moments…" He sighed again, and tore his eyes away form her mother's headstone. His head snapped up again with an abruptness that startled Lynda, and he said, strongly, "I hate how it has turned out. It is incredibly selfish of me, I know, to wish that somehow there hadn't ever been two me's and that there was only one Doctor and Rose had adventured the rest of her life with me—this me, not your dad."

To hear her mother's name, Rose, was strange and unfamiliar to her ears.

"I know, and I'm not lying to you, that if that had happened I would just be watching her age and die and that it would never last—but that's better than nothing, right?!" His voice rose, and then fell back to his quiet tone. "I just wish, that those times when we were together, saving the universe at every turn—I wish that could last forever. But it can't—it didn't, it wouldn't, no matter what had happened. No matter whatever I did."

There was another silence, but this time Lynda broke it.

"I'm sorry," was all that she could say.

"Yes, I know that!" shouted the Doctor, "I know that—and, it's just that you don't know. You can't understand it—the feeling I had when went back to the TARDIS, leaving Rose behind with myself. Knowing that she could only be happy with me, but it had to be a me that wasn't me. Knowing that while she would be happy, with myself, but I would have to live in misery. It's the most damned contradicting, hypocritical feeling ever." His voiced softened once more to a lonelier, sadder tone that Lynda hadn't heard before during their whole conversation of sorts. "I had never minded being so alone , but after Rose I…" he faltered, "It started to hurt a lot more than it had before."

Lynda was more overwhelmed than she had ever been in her seventy-two years of being, and for once in her life was completely speechless. This third silence was longer than the others, and thirteen times more unbearable because of the ache—this ache in her throat that felt like a thousand tear-jerking movies.

"But now she's dead—gone, forever," said what must have been his voice, a sound that was truly odd—like a mixture of the voices of at least thirteen different men.

Another silence.

"Well," said the Doctor, his tone far too merry to be appropriate, "I'd best be off, got to rescue this damned Earth from disaster and everything." He turned, finally facing her fully, and grinned a timeless, youthful smile. Lynda felt a bit cheated—here came this weird teenaged boy who claimed to be her father who told her of this heart-breaking love story between himself and her mother, or maybe her mother and her father, and now he acted all giddy and light-hearted? She was just about to give this scamp of piece of her mind when she saw it—behind all these walls of cheery good-humor was the pain she had seen before, and Lynda Raine Tyler could see it clearly in his eyes.

She didn't stop him as he strode past her and towards that stupid blue box. She didn't even bat an eyelid when he climbed into it, and seconds later, the darned thing began to disappear into thin air. It didn't seem surprising, not now. It felt familiar. It felt right. And a strange sort of happy belonging swelled in her throat, like as if she had finally returned home.

A/N: I'm very proud of this fic, especially the last paragraph. When I first saw the ending of Doomsday, I was all teary and weepy but when Donna appeared in her wedding dress and the theme music played, I felt like Lynda did--sad, but with a happy familiarity.

So I hoped you liked it...Reviews appreciated.

Disclaimer: I guess I own Lynda. Not really though. Everything else belongs to BBC or whomever. I'm just 'borrowing' the characters for a bit.

Idiot Jello