Sorry for the extra long wait on this one; summer is crazy with kids out of school. Rose's trainers in this chapter were inspired by DoctorWhoHehe, (theartofdoctorwho on Tumblr) who created the beautiful cover art for this story. Go check out her amazing fanart!


As the Doctor crossed the small wooded plot behind the Smith's home, an odd mix of trepidation and eagerness set into his stomach, making it a jangling ball of nerves.

Small twigs and dry autumn leaves crunched under his boots. Happy as he was for a reason to be back here, he had no clue how Rose might feel about it. Would she be upset? Angry? Would she run away again? Or (did he dare hope?) might she have come to regret her own actions last weekend, and maybe, just maybe, be at least somewhat grateful for this second chance?

She loves me, he told himself on an endless refrain, clinging to that one fact as if it were his lifeline. No matter how she reacted to his reappearance today, even if it was with fury or indifference or something equally disheartening, he still had no cause to give up. All he needed was for her to agree to give him some of her time, which would be the key. Time to reconnect, to get her to open up. And then he would finally get to the bottom of this mystery- why Rose had been so firmly set on pushing him away.

Exiting the shady woods into the back garden, he shielded his eyes against the sunlight, looking to his right and left. Small victory- there was Mickey, kneeling not too far from him, beside a small brick fire-pit set near the edge of the tree line. At the sound of the Doctor's approach, his friend glanced back over his shoulder, then did a double take.

"Bout time you showed up." Attention already back on his project, Mickey painstakingly adjusted the brick he'd just placed on the fire-pit's unfinished top edge.

"You're the one who said I should wait a few days."

Creakily, Mickey got to his feet, wiping his hands on his grimy jeans before dragging one through the sweat on his forehead. "That's before I knew Rose was gonna be in a snit all week."

Some of his cautious optimism faded. "Because of me?"

Mickey shrugged. "Dunno. I'm beyond tryin' to guess at what's going on in that girl's head."

"Is she here?"

"Think so, not that I've seen her today." Tugging down the back hem of his black vest top, he lowered himself onto one of the rustic log benches that were ringing the fire-pit. The Doctor frowned, watching him.

"Aren't you going to run in and let her know I'm here? You know, ease her into it?"

"Nuh uh, nope, no way." Mickey shook his head. Leaning back, he shoved a hand in his pocket, fishing out his mobile. "I got too involved in this thing with you two last weekend, and believe me, I paid for it." With one fingertip, he typed out a message on the touchscreen, sent it, and then balanced the phone on his knee. "Mar should be out here in a minute. We'll let her know what's up, and then she can go talk to Rose."

The Doctor considered the mobile, and then Mickey. "You just sent your wife- your wife who is in your house, just over there- a text message to...summon her?"

Mickey's eyes tracked the wide expanse of grass between them and the house. "S'long walk." He gave the Doctor a quick once over. "You've changed, ya know."

"Well," said the Doctor, fingering the edge of his purple coat sleeve and thinking that maybe there was still a smidge of the old Idiot left in this man, "that does tend to happen when one regenerates-"

"No, no, not the face. Not that seein' you like this isn't weird. I just mean, would the old you have done this? Kept coming back after her?" He shook his head, not waiting for an answer. "There's no way. You were like the universe's biggest martyr."

The Doctor snorted. "Yes, well, that was before. Before I knew how unpleasantly regret sits in a heart."

Mickey gave him a long look, then grabbed his mobile from his knee and pushed a button. "Huh. Nothin' from Martha yet."

"Imagine that."

Ignoring him, Mickey put the phone to his ear. "Babe," he said, after what must have been a few rings, "I-" The Doctor couldn't quite make out what Martha was saying on the other end, but her tone was less than pleased. "...sorry; I forgot what time it was. He didn't wake up though? I can come in if you want..." He listened again. "The Doctor is here. D'ya mind breaking the news?" Cocking his head, brow furrowed, Mickey took the phone from his ear. "She wants to know what the heck she's supposed to say. Is it that you need Rose's help or some crap like that?"

"Yes," replied the Doctor, wondering how he had guessed it so easily. That had taken him days to come up with.

Mickey rung off. "C'mon, then. Let's go inside. Mar says she's gonna smoke her out."

Silence fell between them as the Doctor followed his friend into the house, pacing awkwardly in the space between kitchen and lounge while Mickey first washed his hands, then dug around in the fridge, finally settling at the bar with a bottle of beer in his hands.

"You could sit," said Mickey, nodding to another barstool.

The Doctor shook his head, too anxious to be still. He wandered through the lounge. It was a nice house, he noted dimly, open and spacious with high ceilings, sort of like the flat Rose had lived in back in the other universe. Was that why she was living here, instead of in her TARDIS? Had she gotten tired of traveling, preferring Earth to any-

He started as the door to the lower level suddenly swung open and Martha emerged.

"She was sleeping," she explained, closing the door.

The Doctor lifted his watch and peered at it. One-fifteen. "Is she alright?"

"It's been a rough week. She was injured at work on Monday-"

His pulse quickened. "Injured?"

"Nothing major; just a burned hand. But she insisted on being at work everyday afterward, even though she's been taken off field duty until it's healed. I think she's just worn out."

"Oh." He looked down, tapped the toe of his boot against the polished wood floor. "Should I...is this a bad time?"

"No, she's coming. She just needed a minute to get cleaned up a bit."

His gaze flicked up to find Martha studying him intently. "What?" he asked, self-consciously running his fingers over his chin and cheek.

"Nothing," she reassured, after a beat. "Just...still trying to get used to you, I suppose." Martha gave him a bright smile. "Must say, you do look much better than you did the last time I saw you."

He sniffed, squaring his shoulders, and smugly adjusted his bow-tie. "Of course I do. Don't know what you ever saw in that last me; he was far too skinny, and I mean really, properly-"

"Not your last body," interrupted Martha, breaking out in a laugh. "I mean the other night, when you had the whole drowned rat look going on. But now I see how this really works. Your face and fashion sense may change, but the vanity is everlasting."

Jaw dropping, he tried hard to be insulted but as she grinned up at him, her pretty face full of warm affection, he chuckled instead.

There was movement at the corner of his eye and the Doctor looked away from Martha, his hearts skipping as he saw Rose slip into the room.

"Hi," she greeted him shyly, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. Rose was fully dressed in a soft white jumper and snug jeans, hair tied back neatly, but her eyes were bleary and tired, cheeks rosy from sleep. She looked warm and cuddly and oh so adorable, and it wasn't until he saw her lips twitch into a tiny smile that he realized he had been staring.

"Hello." He felt a bit shy himself. "I...I suppose I'm the last person you expected to see today."

"Yeah, sort of." Rose twisted a loose stand of hair between thumb and forefinger, that little smile still on her lips. "Though I don't know why I'm so surprised. You've never been that good at taking a hint."

"I know," he replied, teasing back, a pleased, silly grin wandering onto his face. Rose was going to be normal today, she was bantering, she was...oh. She was biting at her bottom lip, in that pensive way of hers. Looking as if she'd just crossed a line.

Or -more likely- he had crossed one. "Erm," he said, pulling his chin and backpedaling. "I mean, I'm sorry."

Martha elbowed him. "Just tell her why you're here, Doctor."

His mouth opened as he met Rose's dark eyes, even as all thoughts of breaches and tech fled his brain, replaced with one word in Clara's voice.

"Wooing."

"Tell me, Doctor, how did your people go about wooing one another?"

Apparently, they stood about uncomfortably in their old friends' lounges, making up excuses to spend time with their beloved.

Excuses.

Right.

He carded a hand through his hair, gathering his scattered thoughts. "I need your help with a bit of tech I'm trying to develop." Rose's forehead creased, already doubting him, and he hastened to clarify. "A dimension cannon."

Her brow lines deepened. "O-kay," she muttered, still doubtful. "This oughta be good."

Abruptly, Rose pushed past and the Doctor stared after her, watching her settle into the corner of one of the red leather sofas. She looked back at him, expectant. He sent a helpless glance to Martha and Mickey, who both made shooing motions with their hands.

"You two can stay as well," came Rose's voice.

The Doctor was glad when they did so, situating themselves to Rose's right, while he removed a few stray toys from a slightly worn cushion on the sofa opposite. He sat down.

"Alright, Doctor, let's hear it. Why would you possibly need a dimension cannon?" Tucking a stray lock behind an ear with her uninjured hand, Rose waited for his answer- and those eyes of hers, the Doctor was sure, saw far more than his eyes and face. They penetrated directly to the core of his soul.

He was suddenly very, very glad that he was not about to try to lie to her.

"There's a breach," he began, rubbing his palms on the knees of his trousers. "Right on Earth's surface; the middle of a London neighborhood, lots of families about. I've been at it for months now but so far, I can't get the blasted thing to seal itself off. UNIT's got soldiers on guard day and night, but it's just a matter of time before something goes wrong. Before more people get hurt or worse." The Doctor leaned forward, elbows planted on knees. "All along, I've known of one probable way to fix it. And the dimension cannon is the exact tech I need to be able to pull it off."

Gaze dropping, Rose picked at the semi-ratty white bandage encasing her hand, drawing his eyes to it for the umpteenth time. He was longing to prod for every detail about that burn of hers; it was driving him mad. But this wasn't the time for personal questions.

Those would come later, once she'd agreed to work with him.

"And I suppose you can't build it without my help?" Rose kept her gaze on her hands.

"Not a chance."

She puffed out air through her nose, smiling a little, and shaking her head as she met his eyes. "I dunno, Doctor. Seems a bit far-fetched, even for you."

"Oh, it is," he agreed, tensely tugging at the fabric of his trousers. "But once we make a quick jaunt over you'll see-"

"I'm not travelin' with you," she cut in, "not even a quick jaunt. I believe you, and I'll help you build what you need, but that's it. Alright?"

He wasn't sure why this statement had him feeling so gutted; she had just all but promised him hours of her time and wasn't that what he wanted? Twisting at a button on his shirt cuff, he slowly nodded. "Alright."


The air was much cooler than it had been the previous weekend, and windier, befitting the late September date. Irregular gusts of it drifted deliciously through the TARDIS, her doors thrown wide open to the sights and sounds of the woods just outside, and as the Doctor returned to the console room, arms full of bits and bobs, he noticed it made for a very pleasant atmosphere.

Spending time with her here would be just fine, he thought, dumping his armload onto a jumpseat. Better than. It may not be as private as the vortex, but at least they wouldn't be stuck in the house. He and Rose, at opposite ends of the Smith's kitchen table, had already worked for the better part of two hours- him with paper and pen, offering this suggestion and that, to try and help Rose jog her memory of some of the mechanical parts and complex processes that went into a piece of tech she'd helped design years ago.

After her outright refusal to travel with him, he'd expected things to be strained between them, Rose all business. But, she seemed to be making an effort. It wasn't exactly easy- he was careful of every word he said not related to the cannon and Rose spent twice the amount of time gazing at her own hands than she did at his face- but he'd made her laugh once or twice. And she didn't seem to be in a hurry to be rid of him.

Mid-afternoon had rolled around and Rose was ready for a break, declaring that she would think better once she'd had a cuppa. Figuring she wouldn't be opposed to a few minutes to herself, the Doctor had retreated to the TARDIS, scavenging for whatever components he might already have on hand.

He was locking in place the legs of a portable work-table when he heard soft footsteps cross the threshold. Peering up, he found Rose just inside the doorway, a dark silhouette with the light at her back. In one hand she held a steaming mug.

Powerful longing began in his chest, blooming to spread through all his limbs, bringing on a sudden case of paralysis. Why hadn't he mentally prepared himself for this? Last time it happened- Rose Tyler, with the Doctor, on his TARDIS -as it should be- it had gotten to him more than anything else, driving him to push for things he downright knew couldn't happen.

"You've changed the TARDIS again." Rose came forward a step or two, eyes scanning over all the silver and blue.

"Yes, fairly recently," he replied, regaining his composure and straightening up from the table. "What do you think?"

She hesitated. "Well, I like it, s'just...not as cheerful as before, when it had all the glass. There a reason for that?"

He drew a breath, eyes zeroing in on the cup she held cradled against her chest. "That for me?"

She glanced down at it and then back to him, smiling as she approached. "Yeah. I, um, put in the amount of sugar that you used to like. Hope it's not too sweet."

Taking the mug, he carefully sipped from it, and managed to thank her without making a face. Probably wasn't the best time to inform her that he currently took even more sugar in his tea than the already godawful amount that he used to do.

Rose gestured to the piled-up jumpseat, padding over to it. "Looks like you got a start on what we need. But wouldn't it be easier to just work on it in one of your labs?"

He scoffed. "Who cares about easier? In here we can leave the doors open. Never get to do that. And it's a beautiful day outside."

"The TARDIS doesn't like holding those doors like that for too long. It's a lot of work for her, maintaining both dimensions." Casually, Rose took a couple of small switches from the cushion, and as she placed them on the table, he caught her smirk.

"Rose Tyler. I suppose you know everything there is to know about a TARDIS, eh?"

"Yep," she replied with confidence, sounding like an echo of his prior self. Perhaps she was trying to remind him of how much things had changed, how she'd changed, in the years they'd been apart. However, if that was meant to put him off, well...it would be accurate to say that the effect was contrary.

Next she picked up an image translator. It was heavier than it appeared and Rose fumbled it a bit, having only one good hand.

The Doctor, who had been biding his time, now found exactly the opening he needed. "Right," he said, clapping his hands together. "This won't do at all."

Confused, Rose looked over at him. "What?"

"This," he repeated, miming his right hand limp and useless like hers. "Those are delicate components, and you're mucking about over there like a one-limbed Unopod." Turning on his heel, he strode up the stairs, heading for the main corridor. "C'mon. To the infirmary with you."

Behind him, she made a noise like an objection.

"Oi," he said, turning to her with raised eyebrows.

Rose licked her lips. "No nanogenes," she argued, folding her arms. "You do too perfect of a job and UNIT will know exactly who I spent my weekend with."

He was going to get the entire weekend? "Okay," he conceded, hardly able to conceal his glee. "One semi-healed hand, coming right up."

The infirmary was conveniently close by, one of the first doors in the corridor. After climbing onto the high exam bed, Rose sat, swinging her feet while the Doctor buzzed from cabinet to cabinet, gathering what he needed.

"Looks like aloe," she commented, nodding to a small vial in his hand. It was half full of a translucent green goo.

"It is. Well, basically. This is actually from Florinia," he explained. "From a plant that grows on their beaches. It's much like Aloe Vera, but about a thousand times stronger."

"Makes the best burn lotion I've ever seen?"

"More like a salve, but yes."

After washing his hands, he went to the stainless bench-top and mixed up the various ingredients into a smooth, slightly greasy gel, Rose quietly observing from the bed at his back. Once he was satisfied he dipped a finger in, confirming he had the proper chemical makeup with the tip of his tongue.

He heard a snicker and turned to find Rose grinning at him. "Sorry," she said. "I know, I've seen you do that a million times. But it will never not be funny."

Shaking his head in mock vexation, he took a pair of latex gloves from a box on its shelf by the bed and snapped them on. "Only need to look to analyze this burn of yours, I'm afraid," the Doctor informed her, as she offered the bandaged extremity for him to unwrap it. "So sorry to disappoint you."

Rose suppressed a giggle as he plucked out an end of the gauze. Cutting her a sharp, brief glance, his eyes went wide as he realized just how that had sounded. He cleared his throat, both of them going quiet as he slowly unbound her hand, loop after loop, eyes carefully on his work.

"Blimey, Rose," he breathed, sliding on Amy's old glasses and getting his first look at that injury. Her entire palm and all five fingers were coloured a dark, raw pink, tight blisters swelling all over the delicate skin. "How did this happen?"

"A Celsiod said 'run', so I did what came naturally."

He frowned, turning her hand this way and that to inspect it further, jaw clenching. "Celsiods don't have a spoken language."

"It was a joke."

Wordlessly, he released her and turned back to his concoction, in its bowl on the counter a few steps away. He began stirring it again, unnecessarily, just to give himself a minute to breathe.

This tentative ease with one another was thin ice, he knew, and he was determined not shatter it with some foolhardy step. Yet the infirmary was quite small (was it smaller than usual?) and simply being alone with her in here was already affecting him. To top it off, seeing that injury of hers, more severe than what he'd imagined, had thrown into the mix in a fierce dash of protectiveness, catching him entirely off-guard. And all at once he did not trust himself, his hands, or any words that might come out of his mouth.

He needed a major distraction. This ointment would have to do; at least it could now use condensing into a more potent formula. Dropping the glass pestle with a clink onto the bench-top, he scraped the mixture into a low-form beaker and then set it on the burner.

"Now what are you doing to that stuff?" came Rose's voice at his back. He could hear her kicking her shoes' rubber heels, tink, tink, against the metal bed-frame- cream-coloured hightop Chucks they were. He had no idea how to feel about that. The Doctor ignited the gas with his sonic.

"Well, you said no nanogenes, but without them it's going to take a miracle to fix up that hand of yours." Facing her again, he rubbed his hands together, like a plotting mad scientist. "And for miracles, Rose, we need holy salve."

"Holy salve?"

"Yes," he replied, pursing his lips to fight a smile as he swiveled back to check his heating concoction. Slow bubbles were already forming in the thick gel, beginning to rise and pop. "I'm going to boil the hell out of it."

There was silence for a moment and then she laughed out loud. "Oh my god, that was terrible."

Chuckling, he vigorously stirred the salve so it wouldn't scorch. "Probably. You laughed though, so that means your taste in jokes is just as bad as it ever was." Rose hummed, agreeing. The Doctor grabbed a pair of tongs from a drawer and then lifted the beaker from the heat, pouring the cooling mixture into a ceramic bowl. Their shared laughter had him relaxing a tad, having discharged some of the electricity in the room. He took a deep breath. Time to deal with the next phase of this treatment.

After testing the temperature of the mixture against the bare skin of his wrist (he thought it best not to use his tongue again), he swung back to face her, setting the bowl on the mattress.

"Hand." Rose obediently placed it, palm up, into his curved gloved fingers. Latex barrier or no, the warm weight of it had his throat tightening. How long had it been since her hand was last in his?

And it was injured. As he scooped up a glob from the bowl with his right hand, he felt Rose stiffen. "Will it hurt?"

"Might tingle a bit at first, and then as those blisters begin go down it's going to itch. It will probably itch some later too, but you can't scratch it. Okay?"

"Got it." Rose's eyes fell shut as his fingers stroked gingerly across her sore palm. Focusing on the raw redness of her skin, how he was already softening those tight, hard blisters, helped him keep it together as this task suddenly felt very intimate. Just him and her, alone in this small room, no sound but that of their tandem breathing, her denim-clad knees every so often brushing just above his own. Minutes ticked by as his fingertips slid, with gentle deliberateness, over every dip and swell of her palm and fingers.

Rose kept her eyes closed, as if she were afraid of any potential pain, though the Doctor knew it was more an attempt at space between her and him. The blisters had now faded completely and he began on a second coat of ointment, attempting to tone down the painful redness. Though Rose had been steadily relaxing as the process went on, at this point the Doctor was wholeheartedly wishing he could close his own eyes. Without the blisters (or even Rose's watchful gaze) to deter him, his attention was endlessly drifting away from his task and up to her face, to the perfect arch of her brows, her long, fanned out lashes. The sweet curve of her cheek. Her pink, parted lip- stop it.

If his free hand wasn't covered in goo, his hair would've gotten a few good yanks, until the sting snapped him back to his senses. Blimey, he needed to finish this up. The Doctor made a few final swipes, lastly running his thumb along the base of her hand, and then up through the center of her palm. With a soft gasp, Rose shivered- and then suddenly he was drowning, swept up in a flood of scent; a heady melding of skin and salve and pheromones.

"All finished!" It came out far too loud and Rose jumped, her eyes flying open as he dropped her hand. He hastily stripped off his gloves. "How's that for miracles, eh?"

Miracles, indeed. He needed another one, right about now, so he could get out of this room before he succumbed and did something enormously stupid.

Rose flexed her hand, testing it, and smiled. "Thank you. S'brilliant."

"Notice there's still some damaged tissue, just like you wanted. I did a rubbish job, actually, but at least no one should be suspicious." Fumbling in a drawer, he swiftly located and tossed her a soft knitted glove. "Wear that to protect it while we're working. I'll, ah, wrap it up again later." While speaking, he had backed out the door into the safety of the corridor, hauling in a lungful of fresh air.

Rose was still blinking at him from the bed, glove in hand, as he turned and fled to the console room.

Though the TARDIS had closed her doors while they were in the infirmary, she allowed the Doctor to open them up again, indulgent ship that she was. He stood, half in half out, upper back against the doorframe, and enjoyed how the breeze felt in hair that was admittedly damp around the back of his neck. Rassilon. All this cleverness in getting Rose to spend time with him, but it didn't extend to helping him survive it. So far it was nothing but tension and eggshells, and while they'd accomplished a bit with the cannon, the discussion had never circled anywhere close to them.

Look at you, Doctor, he thought, a wry smile crossing his face. Stuck piecing clever gadgets together, when all you really want to do is discuss feelings and settle relationships.

His past selves would be horrified.

A little thrill flipped his stomach as he heard Rose come in. Turning round, he found himself greeting her with a beaming smile, as if he hadn't seen her in days, and was rewarded with a real, if somewhat bewildered, smile in return. He snuck a quick peek at his watch- yep, in reality, it had been less than three minutes. Absurd. That's what he was.

He went and met her, once again steeling himself against such close physical proximity, juxtaposed with frustrating emotional distance. It wouldn't be easy, but, she was here. His Rose. He hardly had reason for complaint.

Together, slowly, they began sorting through the items on the portable table, gradually figuring out what was usable, listing out what they might still need. And in between, the Doctor somehow managed to strike up an easy, landmine-free conversation, peppering her with questions about her few months at UNIT. He even dredged up a few stories of his own time there that she'd never heard before.

They were hesitant and careful, regaining their footing with one another. Not exactly what he'd hoped for, but it was a start. It was progress.

And, he thought, hearing Rose's laugh ring out as he tripped over a stabilizing device (which had been abandoned to the floor despite her warning against it), he wasn't exactly hating it.