CALLUSES
IX.
The Doctor is familiar enough with both Time Lord and human physiologies to have a fairly good idea of what's been happening to his body.
The overstimulation of his ventromedial prefrontal and anterior cingulate cortices, which have been working relentlessly alongside his parietal cortex – also combined with the repeated activation of his amygdala, thalamus and hypothalamus (just to name a few) – have repeatedly put his single-hearted cardiovascular system under significant duress…something he's not minding that much, not with his blood vessels currently overflowing with dopamine and oxytocin.
In much simpler words: he's been having sex.
A lot.
And it's not that he minds it. But he cannot quite reconcile his physiological understanding of what his body is going through, with the way it makes him feel. Nor does it excuse or explain any of the odd responses he's had to deal with ever since they started – and never really stopped.
Only this morning, they'd been on their way down to the hotel restaurant for a mandatory 'energy refuelling' break, and it'd all been rather innocent – as in, they weren't even holding hands, since they'd discovered the previous evening that holding hands was fine until one of them distractedly brushed the other's skin with their thumb, which evidently led to having to take all of their clothes off again. He'd made a conscious effort not to look at her either, the two of them casually chattering on their way down the stairs.
But as the staircase turned, so did they, and he'd caught a glimpse of Rose, absentmindedly blowing on a small strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun.
Now the Doctor is aware that, generally speaking, there is nothing particularly arousing about someone emptying their lungs in a narrow stream of air to move a few stray hair off their face. And yet, both his brain and body did not care, ending up pinning her hard against the wall about three and half seconds later, kissing her as if he'd not been allowed to kiss her in a couple centuries, while she kissed him back like it'd been at least twice that long. They'd had no other choice but to stumble back up the stairs after that, hurtling against a few walls in a clumsy, entangled heap as they made their way back to their room, postponing their food break.
Again.
As much as he's grown rather fond of this particular room, they're both getting more than a little stir crazy, now. But taking care of that means getting dressed again. Which is not as easy as it sounds. It's got to the point where the actual wearing of clothes feels weird and almost unnatural, considering they've spent most of their waking hours not wearing any at all, these past thirty-six hours.
Rose is turning out to be unsurprisingly better at it than he is.
Lying on his (bare) stomach in the middle of the bed with his chin in his hands, he watches her, feet up and swaying behind him; she's left the bathroom's door opened as she dressed, now busy trying to comb her hair – she's already complained a few times about him constantly getting it knotted. He lets his gaze trail the length of her body, feeling his lips turn down, already missing the sight of her pale yet rosy skin; he's been getting particularly well-acquainted with it today – Rose's skin, having recently begun a thorough mental mapping of her every freckle, blemish and scar.
It's a massive and serious undertaking, one that will require many more hours of focus and scrutiny, and he really thinks that she should –
"No."
His head rolls upon his hand, dragging his gaze back up, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "But – "
"No," she repeats, in that tone of voice that resembles Jackie's a little bit too much, indifferent to his pout, and he lets his feet fall back loudly against the pillows. She's done with her hair, already walking to the door when she says: "'m crawling out of my skin. If you're not dressed in the next thirty seconds, 'm going without you."
And she means it, too, one hand on the handle, her eyes on her watch, already counting down.
The thought of being left on his own being much more distressing than forcing his body into clothes, he rises to the challenge, managing to cover most of himself in jeans, shirt and jumper impressively fast; he's hopping on one leg, trying to shove his foot into a shoe, when she looks up from her watch and lowers her arm, a small, victorious smile growing on her lips as she opens the door.
She doesn't step out, though, watching as he finishes putting his shoes on in a manic frenzy, being way more exuberant about it than necessary, but to be fair, he's itching to get out of this bloody hotel just as much as she is.
By the time he's joining her at the door, her smile has turned into something softer.
When he raises an eyebrow in question, she brings a hand up to his jaw. "I should've bought you a razor. It's getting long." She gently scratches at his stubble, which isn't really a stubble anymore, although not yet a beard either.
"Not liking the scruffy look?" He asks, having instinctively leaned into her touch.
"Oh, 'm liking it just fine," she says, and her cheeks become pinker, both of them remembering a couple of instances when she'd been rather pleased with it indeed, and a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips. When she notices it, she averts her eyes and drops her hand. "I just thought…maybe you don't? 'cause you were always so…you know. All neat and clean shaven."
He doesn't say anything, leaning forward instead, slowly enough for her to be able to step away, if she wanted; she doesn't, letting his face come down to hers. Bypassing her lips altogether, he tilts his head and brings his cheek close to hers, until he's almost pressing them together.
He doesn't, merely brushing his rougher, prickly skin against her own; even though they're not touching, he knows she's just shivered, quite attuned to her by now.
"I think we're both coming to appreciate this…shaggier version of myself," he says in her ear, his voice low in both volume and tone, feeling her warm exhale near his neck.
He's straightening up and slipping passed her, then, stepping out of the room; he's already walked a few feet down the corridor when he turns to look at her, both hands in his pockets. She's closing the door, her gaze on him, her cheeks beautifully flushed; he knows from the look in her eyes that she's going to make him pay for this.
Later.
Right now, they really need some fresh air.
He extracts a hand from his pocket and holds it out for her to take.
They'll just have to risk it.
…
Rose doesn't realise how much she's missed being outside until they're walking out of the hotel.
It's not even a nice day; the sky is dull and grey, full of clouds that are heavy with rain, the air windy and subsequentially chillier than their outfits are suited for. It's almost better that way. After spending most of the previous day and night(s) enveloped in sultry heat, she welcomes the cool breeze sweeping across her skin, enjoys the feeling of it seeping beneath her clothes, allowing some of that pent-up heat to be released into much crisper air.
She's not worried about getting cold, either, not with her hand enclosed in his, or the way their shoulders and upper arms keep on 'accidently' bumping into each other. She's physically too aware of his body, now, too responsive to his proximity to be able to properly cool down, not in the immediate future.
The area reminds her a lot of some of the more rural parts of England she spent many of her summer holidays in when she was little, her mum having no other choice but to have her stay with more or less distant relatives when school was out. This particular setting is lacking in exotic alien plant life, merely full of very human trees and bushes, but still.
It's the two of them. The Doctor and Rose Tyler. Walking hand and hand without a care in the world, especially not in a possible destination, just…going somewhere.
Anywhere.
It might not be a nice day, with the looming rain and the chilly winds, but it's quite a lovely, lovely day.
"I'm not sure how I feel about this."
Rose is startled out of her reverie, not enough for her pace to slow or her grip to change, but she's instantly intrigued by both his words and his tone. When she glances up at him, she's not surprised to see a matching pout settling on his face.
"Norwegian landscape?" She tries guessing.
"Oh, no, that's lovely," the Doctor responds at once in a much softer and chipper tone; when he looks down at her, his expression is so honest and sweet that it tugs at her heart and makes her insides flutter. "I meant the jeans. And the jumper."
She smiles back at him, more endeared by the second – she is aware that she is too easily endeared by everything he does or says right now, but there isn't much she can do about it except enjoy the feeling.
"Too tight?" She asks, teasingly. "I did pick them at random."
Well. She did suspect they'd look good on him.
"Meh," he answers with a shrug of his shoulder. "They're fine. I'm just not sure how I feel about them not…being a suit, I suppose."
Rose comes to a gentle stop. He doesn't realise it immediately, having walked a couple more steps before he stops as well, their linked hands stretched between them. She tugs softly; he tugs a little bit more. In the end, they both take a step towards the other, until their fronts are pressed together, and she rests her chin upon his chest, looking up at him. Not the best angle for eye-contact, but the closeness more than makes up for it, his free arm already coming to encircle her, her eyes closing as she feels him pressing her tighter to him.
There really is no way she could ever get cold.
"We'll do this properly once we're back in England," she reassures him, her thumb caressing his hand. "Pete loves a good suit, too, he'll give us some pointers." She almost bites on her lip when she feels him leaning in, his lips brushing the bridge of her nose, before they come to rest upon that place between her eyes. "You've kind of been not liking any clothes at all these past couple days, though," she continues. "Maybe the jeans will grow on you once you get tired of being naked."
"Mmmm," he hums against her skin, the sound vibrating all the way down to her toes, until they're curling in her shoes. "I don't foresee this happening any time soon. This is already pushing it. Maybe I should just strip. Express my freedom. It's not like there's anyone around to appreciate it except for you."
He's barely finished talking that she hears the unmistakable sound of approaching voices. She reopens her eyes and turns her head upon his chest, watching as an older-looking couple makes their way up the path. Unable not to imagine what would have happened if they'd arrived only thirty seconds later, knowing him and how shameless he could be, especially when a tad high on endorphin, Rose briefly buries her face in his jumper, overtaken by yet another bout of laughter, feeling him chuckling softly in her hair.
And then, he's talking, loudly and in Norwegian. She debates staying like this, face pressed to his chest, loving the feeling of his voice reverberating through her, the foreign language making the sound of it even more charming. She forces herself to unpin her body from his at least a little bit and to make eye contact with the two people who are now kindly answering whatever query the Doctor came up with.
The 'conversation' lasts less than a minute, everybody exchanging some smiles and nods, before they start moving in opposite directions. Soon, they're back to walking side to side, hand in hand.
"You asked them about nearby nudist communities, didn't you."
"Nothing in walking distance, unfortunately," he replies both swiftly and casually. "They did encourage us to stick to this path, though. Some lovely sights ahead, apparently."
A comfortable silence settles for a couple minutes as they follow the path indeed, now going up a slight uphill. She's the first one to speak again. "We should probably fly back tomorrow."
He doesn't reply straight away, not exactly tensing at her side, but she senses a small shift in the air. And she gets it.
Going back to England means bursting that warm bubble they've been happily hiding into these past thirty-six hours, in which they ignore the rest of the world, talk all night, and make love all day – or the other way around, with the occasional outings to get food or fresh air. Given their lack of TARDIS, and being therefore unable to hide in the Time Vortex every once in a while, she's not sure when they'll get an opportunity like this again once they stop ignoring everybody else.
But she's got responsibilities. And he will remain a nameless entity in this world as long as they don't do something about it.
"All set to say goodbye to Norway, then?" The Doctor eventually asks, and she knows he's making a conscious effort at sounding casual. His words alone cause an inevitable heaviness to grow between them, though.
Before she can answer, they reach the top of the small hill they'd been climbing, and the 'lovely sights' they were promised come into view. The air does briefly get stuck in her throat, but it's not caused by awe, merely by the fact that the sight in question is a vast expense of water, surrounded by its curving shoreline.
The bay differs from Dårlig Ulv Stranden in many ways; greener, with more roads and habitations leading down to it, and the overall landscape is quite distinctive. And yet, the similarities are enough for Rose's breathing to become shallow, her grip on his hand suddenly rigid as her eyes begin to water, from both the strong winds and the sudden clawing pain in her chest.
Staring at the Norwegian sea below, she realises that this is it, indeed. Once they leave this place, she doubts they will ever be coming back.
Her breathing has deepens slightly, and it takes her a few moments to notice the way his thumb is moving across the back of her hand. The gesture is enough to soothe some of her turmoil and confusion, yet she can't bring herself to look at him.
She can't look in his eyes.
The Doctor doesn't say a word, doesn't move at all, except for that small touch upon her hand. Even with his healthy ego, he'll never be arrogant enough to claim he knows what's going on inside her head; he understands enough, though, enough to remain quiet and let her work through this, even when the rain starts to fall.
It's drizzling more than raining, but he suspects they'll be drenched by the time they make it back to their room…whenever that might be. And maybe it's only the rain and the chilly air, but the silence between them seems thicker and colder than it's been since his first few (conscious) hours by her side.
It's also highly possible that his growing uneasiness is making him slightly paranoid, suddenly convinced that he's losing her to the thoughts in her head, in which he's not exactly the most prominent figure anymore. He knows what the view below has triggered, his own gut twisted with dread at the mere similarities with Bad Wolf Bay, even as he tries reassuring himself.
If Rose was distancing herself from him the way he fears she is, surely she wouldn't be holding on to him like that. She's gone from holding his hand in one of hers to holding it in both, nearly pressing it to her chest, as if afraid he might vanish into thin air if she lets him go for just one moment.
And again, it doesn't take a genius to know this is exactly what she is afraid will happen, after she's had to watch him disappear not once but twice in a similar setting.
This understanding does nothing to ease his apprehension, feeling himself getting more tense as silence stretches and stretches and stretches. It's an extremely odd and quite unnerving feeling, to find yourself questioning whether or not the person you love is regretting having you instead of another version of you.
He's become very stiff, and a little shaky; lost in her own thoughts, he doubts Rose is entirely aware of it. He wishes he could just pull on her hand and drag her away from this place. He understands why she's not moving, though, or why there is a familiar, pained look slowly settling upon her face.
Unfortunately, he also happens to be quite insecure, and still a tad on the emotional side; he's not sure he'll be able to cope with whatever she says to him, when she finally finds the courage to say it. He'll do this for her, though.
He'll do just about anything.
Rose has noticed it, of course. How tensed he's become, standing so close to her. At least to some extent.
Hadn't she been feeling so increasingly wretched, she might even have been impressed by how quickly the mood has changed, going from something sweet, warm and almost care-free, to this strained, cold and miserable silence, without any of them needing to say anything.
Yet again, she guesses words aren't necessary when they both suffer from a kind of wound that never truly heals.
She knows how unwise it is, for her to make them stand here, staring down at a place that looks so alike the one that has done nothing but bring her pain and nightmares; she suspects his current reaction is due to him experiencing something similar. He's been left here as much as she has, trapped in this world, separated from both his best friend and his TARDIS.
All set to say goodbye to Norway, then?
Rose suspects a part of her will always be waiting on that beach.
"I didn't want to leave."
She senses him shifting his gaze from the seashore to her face more than she sees it, her own gaze lost in the distance; she's not looking at anything, her memory from all these years ago overlapping with the scene in front of her eyes.
It takes her a few more seconds to speak again, her throat having closed up even more since she's breathed out those few words.
"When you disappeared. I didn't want to leave." She swallows hard, before forcing herself to take in a long, shaky breath. "Mum kept saying…that you were gone, that we should go home. But I thought…" She shakes her head a little. "I told myself it couldn't be it, that 't was just a glitch. Pictured you, running around the console, kicking at it. You were gonna find a way to make that crack last a few more seconds." She pauses again, feeling her face constricting. "I knew it, o' course. That mum was right. You were gone, and I knew it. But I couldn't leave. Because if I left…that was it. I'd really lost you."
One of her hands lets go of his to wipe at her cheeks, forgetting that the soft falling rain is hiding most of her tears. "I know the whole point of you burning up that sun was so that we could…say goodbye. But we mucked that up, didn't we?" She lets out another shaky exhale. "We've always had crappy timing."
The Doctor knows he needs to say something.
She's opening up to him, and all he's able to do is stare at her while doing his best to control his breathing, his throat once again tight and painful, making it impossible for him to speak at the moment.
"I just feel…" she begins, her voice quickly fading off. She takes a couple more deep breaths before trying again: "I feel like we didn't get to say goodbye to each other, back then, not properly…and I didn't get to say goodbye this time around either. He didn't…I didn't even get a chance to talk to him."
He swallows hard; rain or not, he's still able to tell which wet trails on her face aren't coming from the sky.
"You could talk to me."
His voice ends up sounding hoarse, having forced these five words through his constricted windpipe.
And for the first time in the last few minutes, Rose turns her head and looks up at him. Somehow, it makes it worse and better at the same time. Once she meets his eyes, she doesn't let go, letting him see the extent of her grief and confusion.
"I know it's not the same, but…" he swallows hard again. "All things considered, it wouldn't be that far of a stretch." Feeling too exposed and vulnerable, he cannot help but add, bringing his free hand up to his face: "As long as you can look passed all the facial hair, that is."
Something changes in her gaze, then. It becomes softer, as her whole expression relaxes slightly. He's barely dropped his hand that she's bringing hers up to the same spot, looking at her own fingertips as they gently caress his growing beard.
When she meets his eyes again, his stomach dips.
"I was…lost, before I met you," she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Unable not to, he raises his hand again, covering hers upon his cheek, leaning into her touch, even as he forces himself to remember that she's not actually talking to…him. This is her, taking him up on his offer to act as his other self's substitute, giving her the opportunity to say what she didn't get to say. Probably one of the most idiotic, self-damaging suggestions of his life.
But he'll do just about anything for her.
"Thing is, I didn't even know it," Rose carries on, just as quietly, having averted her gaze again. "That I was...wasting my life away, day after day. Until you crashed into it, and woke me up. You showed me…so much. You showed me the universe, and how I could make it better. You helped me see that I was stronger than I thought, helped me realise that I was…that I was worthy." She finally meets his gaze. "You made me better, too."
His heart is thumping madly in his chest, experiencing the strangest combination of emotions, from gratitude at hearing these words, to the oddest kind of sorrow, because these words she spoke so softly weren't meant for him.
Even now, he wishes he wasn't too choked up for words, so that he could tell her the truth. Tell her that this former him she's grieving always knew it.
The way he always knew it.
There might only be traces left of the nineteen-year-old shop girl he first met in that basement, the courageous woman now standing in front of him was there all along, simply awaiting a chance to release her potential.
Still unable to speak, the Doctor moves instead, gently extracting his fingers from her grip, their hands falling from his face as he shifts his body, wrapping her tightly in his arms and holding her to him, feeling her squeezing him back with the same intensity, her face pressed against his neck.
As she sinks into his embrace, Rose feels most of the tension leave her body at last, the tight knot in her chest loosening almost completely. She's been holding on to something she knows she might never have had, even if things had been different.
This, here, with him, is more than she could ever have hoped for.
The Doctor leaving her behind hadn't been selfish at all, in the end; in views of everything they've discussed, these past couple of days, it actually had to be one of the most difficult and selfless decisions he's ever had to make. He could have left his duplicate in this parallel world and kept her for himself, the two of them back in his TARDIS, the way they used to be.
He'd given her up instead.
He'd let her go, offering her this exact replica of himself as a parting gift, another version of him who was just human enough to give her what he could never have.
Not only did she get him back, her Doctor, but she got him back in such a way that allows him to live this life with her. The one adventure he thought he could never have.
"I love you."
When she says the words at last, she's not surprised by the way his entire body tenses around and against her; it's been a long time coming, and considering how…sensitive he's become, she suspects he's going to struggle for a moment or two.
He surprises her by speaking more quickly than she expected. It doesn't surprise her nearly as much as what he says, though, his voice hoarse and muffled against her hair.
"Oh, he knows…"
Rose has to gently loosen her hold on him, pulling away just enough to look at him properly, her confusion worsening. Although he meets her eyes, she can tell that it's an effort for him to hold her gaze.
"What?" She asks, puzzled by both his words and his behaviour, only now noticing just how tensed he's become.
"The…other me," he says, his voice soft, despite how constricted it sounds. "Everything you said…he knows it, Rose."
She stares at him, about to ask him again what he means, when it hits her.
"You could talk to me," he'd said, when she'd regretted not having been able to have a proper goodbye with the other Doctor. "I know it's not the same, but all things considered, it wouldn't be that far of a stretch."
It's like a veil has been lifted.
She sees it all, senses it all; the tension in his every muscle, the forced, almost neutral expression on his face, and the agonising look in his eyes as he stands there in front of her, willing to act like a substitute.
Rose doesn't know if she wants to laugh or cry.
She does neither in the end, unwrapping her arms from around him to bring both her hands to his face instead, cupping his cheeks tightly. "You goof," she says, almost reproachfully, her voice thicker than she expected, and it's his turn to frown in confusion. "Everything I just said, about…you making me better and all that? I was saying all that to you. I mean, it's obviously true for the two of you but…you're the Doctor who's stuck here with me for at least another fifty years, if we're to trust your estimations. So," she tightens her grip on his face in emphasis. "Let's just make this clear right now: whenever I'm talking to you, I'm really, really talking to you, and no one else. Yeah?"
He's silent for a long moment, his deep frown slowly relaxing as he realises the ridiculous miscommunication that just took place.
"Oh," he eventually says.
"Yeah, oh," she smiles.
He grimaces a little. "Well, that's awkward."
"Not really," she says softly, her thumbs brushing the hairless, reddening skin over his cheekbones, wiping off rain water. "It's…very you." She pauses. "And I do mean you you."
"Yes, I think I've got it."
"Yes?" She smiles when he nods once with the smallest of embarrassed pout, her smile already fading when she uses her hold on his face to pull him closer to her, their eyes locked, too close to be able to see anything but each other. "I love you."
She pulls down a little more, until his forehead comes to rest against hers and she closes her eyes, feeling his next exhale upon her lips, warm and wobbly and endless, one of his hands already sinking into her wet hair, his fingers closing into a fist.
" I love you…" she breathes out again, no more teasing in her voice, only the aching truth of it.
He doesn't speak, doesn't say a single word; the way he soon uses his grip on her to pull her to him says quite enough.
He kisses her slowly…so slowly, the intensity of it growing with the intensity of the falling rain, anything but a drizzle, now. As their clothes become heavy with the purest of water, fingers, lips and bodies latch onto one other, as if challenging this universe and the next to dare try pulling them apart, now.
It will be a while before they speak again.
A/N: I'll be honest, I've been debating whether or not I should keep on updating this story on this website.
I'm not trying to be all petty with the 'you don't review so I don't update'. It's more of a 'obviously not enough people are interested in this story on this platform, so I might as well stop' kind of realisation. I'm genuinely surprised, I've been posting stories on ffnet since 2004, and until this previous chapter, I'd never had something of mine not get a single review. Again, not going for the petty thing, I'm a grown adult, and I have a more vocal readership elsewhere, I'm just...surprised.
I'll finish uploading the rest of this story, because it would rub me the wrong way as a creator to have an unfinished story here that is actually finished, but after that, I won't upload any of my future DW stories on this website unless I'm given a reason to do so. I'm a very tired working adult, and I don't have enough free time to spend quite a bit of it formatting and uploading chapters. Again, I don't get anything from this part of the fanfiction sharing process beside getting feedback from you, readers. It makes little to no sense to carry on doing it here if there's no...actual sharing, you know? I know how many people read each chapter, so it's a bit disheartening.
Anyway, there is one small epilogue left. If you're interested and just very shy, I'll carry on posting my stories on AO3 and whofic, under the same username. You can find me there.
