He would have thought the moment might have called for a bit more ceremony, perhaps. Not literally a ceremony, of course—although to be fair, Time Lords were quite a ceremonial people, with an exacting tome of instructions on how to properly memorialize a myriad of occasions. Even so, he is well aware that he's not completely Time Lord anymore and that even when he was, he still never would have expected the pomp and circumstance they so loved. But at the bare minimum, the moment might have been worthy of a bit more recognition, perhaps a joyful cheer to punctuate the event, or a hushed, whispered moment of reverence. Anything really, to mark the culmination of this long-fought effort. It's been a whole year of waiting for the TARDIS to be fully grown, of scouring the Torchwood archives for the bits and bobs to make it all work. A whole year of dealing with Torchwood and UNIT and their regulations, of Vitex parties and Jackie Tyler and her regulations—and despite it all, despite all the odds and obstacles, the TARDIS is finally, finally complete. It's freedom, and it's home, and it's beautiful, and within the next few moments, it will once again all be within his reach. He exhales as he twists the last screw of the power adapter into place with his fingers, the finishing touch taking no more effort than the flick of his wrist.

There.

Done.

His fingers hover, almost quaking with anticipation, above the demateralization lever. Every nerve, every synapse firing in his hand burns for the touch—the sound—of home that he knows will be his reward for this long year of sleepless nights and early mornings. He can feel the metal switch just under his fingertips, buzzing with the energy of pent-up time waiting to burst and fill the heart of the TARDIS with energy and life, almost as drawn to him as he is to it—this, after all, is what being a Time Lord with a TARDIS is all about. His fingers begin to curve around the gear, to test it, to test even his own ability to cobble this together with inferior components from a backwards universe. Even as his hand curls around, needing it almost as much as his lungs need air, he hesitates and his fingers still—as much as he craves this, this isn't right.

Rose should be there, Rose would want to be there. They'd promised each other they'd do this together. She trusts him. Their trust had been hard-fought too, won with what had at first been stuttered conversations, awkward and one-sided, trying to patch the holes in their relationship with his promises. Promises he can't break now. No more, he'd said, he'd never leave her behind again, never let her watch the TARDIS dematerialize in front of her again while he made her decisions for her. He'd promised her, and no matter how much he aches for this, he has always ached for her more.

His eyes flick towards the TARDIS door, and he makes between that is partway between a sigh and an impatient growl, stumbling over his feet to run and find her, to bring her back here. His legs are on the move before his body has the time to turn itself all the way around.

He trips out of the TARDIS and clutches the doorway for balance, his eyes falling on her as she stands at the sink with her back towards him, busily clipping the stems of the chrysanthemums Jackie had given her for her birthday just a few days ago. He doesn't hesitate, coming up instantly behind her, reaching his arms around her from behind, crisscrossing over her hips and abdomen as he nuzzles his face into her neck.

"Hey there," she says, leaning back into his arms. There's a teasing lilt in her voice and he snuggles closer towards her, pulling her in towards him.

"I've got a surprise for you," he murmurs, not even trying to hide the elation in his voice. "Come on."

Smiling coyly, she dunks the flowers into a vase sitting on the countertop, shutting off the faucet and shaking her wet hands out. She turns around in his arms, pressing her lips against his with a contented hum, scraping the nails of her damp hands through his hair and across his scalp.

"What is it?" she asks, and he can feel her mouth under his, lips taut in a grin. He knows she's trying to tempt him, nipping at his bottom lip and he could so, so easily be drawn into this—into her, put that countertop to good use, but he groans, half in desire and half in frustration.

"Come see!" he says as he backs away, tugging on her hand.

"Must be important, you're not even complaining that I've mussed your hair!"

His only response is to run his free hand through his hair and wink salaciously as he pulls gently on her hand one more time.

They stumble as one into the TARDIS, and he comes to an abrupt stop just inside the door. The momentum of her body propels her into his own, and he draws her close, wrapping an arm around her. Wordlessly, he untwines their fingers and points to the console, to the contraption he'd been working on for weeks and had just now finished constructing, and she stills, her smile fading into a look of wonder.

"Is that—" she whispers, her voice breaking off.

"Yeah," he says, a smile growing across his face. "It's done."

She throws her arms around him, once again drawing him down into a kiss. This time he doesn't resist, his laugh and her giggle intermingling with their shared breath.

"Well, c'mon!" she says finally, and she's the one to break away from him this time, giving him one last peck on the lips as she pulls him excitedly to the console.

One of his hand curls around the lever once again, as if it is second nature, and he looks to her once again for confirmation.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

"Always," she says. Despite her wide grin, there are tears in her eyes, and he gently raises his free hand to cup her face, stroking the apple of her cheek with his thumb. Happy tears—for once—he thinks. Not for the first time, he promises himself to never, ever let her down again. He kisses her one more time, stroking his hand through her hair and lets his fingers find her own.

Holding her hand tightly with one hand and the lever with the other, he takes a deep breath. This is it. With a grin, he flicks the lever upwards, holding his breath in anticipation.

Nothing happens.

His eyes rivet to hers, his mouth agape, his expression both sheepish and shocked. She loses her composure entirely, the musical sound of her laughter filling the entire console room.

"Well," he starts, looking from her to the lever and back to her again. "It might take a little extra work?"

"Right," she says, still laughing, crossing her arms in front of her for a brief moment before pressing her lips to his one more time. "I'll finish with the flowers then. Come find me when you're done!"

He waits until she leaves, the door clicking behind her softly, and then turns around once again to face the offending lever with a deep sigh. Surely it must be just a simple glitch—the wiring perhaps? He takes his glasses out of the breast pocket of his suit and plops down unceremoniously on the grating, leaning in for a closer look.

Aha. There's the problem, definitely the wiring. It's just a small bit of red wire dislodged from its spot against the black wire, but it makes all the difference. He quiets the small voice inside his head that tells him that with his new human body, he probably should have deigned to wear his glasses to begin with when working on such fine detail.

Skinny though he is, his only problem is being able to actually reach the damn thing. He reaches his long fingers in to nudge the small red wire, hovering just out of his grasp. Grimacing, he leans down further, bracing himself on the dematerialization lever so he can twist his body just those last few centimeters. He feels his fingers tenuously come into contact with the wire and—

Got it. He smiles, victorious.

As he makes one final motion, shoving the red wire back into its rightful place amongst the circuitry, his hold on the dematerialization lever slips. Releasing the wire, he grips on to the lever with all his weight. It's a sudden, desperate, very human reflex to not lose his balance and go crashing into the grating face-first, and the lever begins to dislodge with his motion. He feels the crackle of energy and sees the glow of vortex energy fill the central column of the TARDIS before he begins to hear the dematerialization groan. That sound… that song. It's the universe and freedom and everything he's wanted, everything he's worked for—except for Rose. Shit, Rose—she's not here, and he promised he wouldn't do this without her. He grabs the lever with both hands, slamming it back down into place. The TARDIS has dematerialized, he knows that for sure—and his action should have been quick enough to make it rematerialize immediately in the same place. Rose would forgive that, wouldn't she?

Without a moment's hesitation, he finds his feet and sprints to the door, explanations and apologies hovering nervously at the tip of his tongue. She'll understand, of course she will.

"Rose?" he calls, slowly opening the door and peering out into their flat. His voice is cautious and he's not sure what he expects. Best case, a smile—a joke that he finally got it working, a quip about the fact that he's put his glasses on and maybe that made all the difference. Worst case… he swallows thickly. He'd spent so long trying to earn her trust back—she couldn't think he'd leave her behind on purpose again, would she? He grimaces. Of course she might. But they're a team now—a proper team now, he'd meant every word he'd said about that.

"Rose?" he calls again, taking a step out of the TARDIS.

It takes him a split second— a hairsbreadth of time pinched between the moment he opens the door and the moment his foot plants itself on the carpet—that he realizes that this isn't right… something is off. He hasn't had much of a chance to test his time sense, stuck in the linear life as he's been, but it flares full force now, just as strong as it ever was when he was a full Time Lord. He turns his head first left, then right, attempting to catalogue any change—any anything—that's changed in the past minute since he dematerialized. It's their flat, yes… it's the same sofa, the same carpets and doors and pictures on the walls. The same cluttered kitchen table, even, the last rays of the setting sun reaching across it, the long thin fingers of light stretching out, almost eerily. Everything's even in the right place, from the Torchwood reports lying forgotten, shoved onto a shelf in a nearby bookcase to the stilettos Rose wore to the last Vitex fundraiser, kicked off near the front door. The bouquet of chrysanthemums is even here, its vase now sitting proudly in the center of the mantle. He frowns… something isn't right about the flowers. He strides over to the vase, and wrinkles his nose—even from a meter away he can smell the mildewed water, which has nearly evaporated down past the level of the stems. The flowers themselves are dry, nearly dead, the neglected petals already beginning to fall, curling in on themselves as they dry on the mantle. They were new a few minutes ago, and the lifespan of a bouquet when well-tended is up to thirty days—though from the looks of it, this bouquet does not look well-tended.

He swallows quickly and turning around, the significance of this not lost on him. He's potentially a couple of weeks late—maybe even a whole month late. Rose is going to kill him.

He walks to their bedroom, his mind reeling. Clearly he's gotten the coordinates wrong—she'll be angry of course, and hurt—he'd promised he'd wait for her but it wasn't intentional, she'd have to understand that. She'd have to. He'd explain what happened—she'd believe him, of course she would. Why would he lie? He came back for her after all, didn't he? And it's only been… a couple of weeks? A month at most. Hardly any time at all really, when you think about it.

"Rose?" he asks, urgently this time, at their bedroom door. He freezes, barely recognizing the sight before him. The room is an utter mess—at least his half of their room is. Rose's side of the bed is neatly made, the top of her dresser pristine. But on his side of the room… bits and bobs of detritus he doesn't even recognize litter the floor. Had Rose done all this in the time he'd been gone? He steps forward to take a closer look.

No… it wasn't Rose who created this mess. It couldn't have been Rose.

These are notes in his own handwriting, circles and loops in his native language. But when did he write them? He lets his eyes fall over them, trying to place them… they are clearly notes he was writing about building some kind of object. But what? He doesn't recognize it at all… what in bloody hell was he trying to do? He stares at the notes—and the realization smacks him so hard that he nearly takes a step back from the force of it. These are notes he hasn't written yet—he doesn't recognize a single one. He lets out a sigh, both curiosity and relief, and takes a step forward. If he hasn't written them yet, but they are here, that can mean only one thing—he's seeing his future—this means he was here before.

More to the point, this means he can go back—this means he needs to go back, in fact! He smiles. This certainly isn't the first time he's crossed his timeline or happened upon his future self, but it is the first time this has happened in this universe, of course.

"Rose?" he calls, his voice relaxed from the reprieve the universe has given him, as he turns back towards the TARDIS. "Are you here? I think I've made a mistake and landed a bit late, so I'll just pop on back—"

It's only as he passes the kitchen table that he sees the greeting card, lying on its side, abandoned next to a haphazardly torn envelope that had never made it to the bin. He stares at it, his eyes only briefly taking in the harsh white cardstock, and the painted pink carnations with stems intertwined like lovers' fingers, before settling on the words…

So sorry for your loss.

His breath stills, and he feels his time sense that something is wrong—very, very wrong—ricocheting and crackling through every synapse of his brain, telling him to walk away, now. But the raw need to know sizzles within him, threatening to burst—it's too human… he's too human now. He can't help himself. His fingers reach for the card, the thick paper heavy against his fingers. It splays open as his fingers brush against it, and he can only make out a few words but Dear Doctor and Rose was and so so sorry and funeral and sincerely and—no! His stomach heaves and catapults him forward, breath finally entering his lungs in a gasp. No. He pushes against the table with both hands with such force that he almost upends it, the card fluttering daintily to the floor as he propels himself away. No. This can't happen. This won't happen. This is wrong.

His breath coming in jagged heaves of air, he backs away from the table and stumbles back into the TARDIS, slamming the door behind him.