She doesn't know why she bothers asking. It's just been so long since she's seen him last that it seems to be the most appropriate response to his sudden presence. He's regenerated since the last time she's seen him; blue eyes replace brown, and she feels her own go misty realizing that he's still partial to suits.
Before she realizes what she's doing, she pulls him into her arms and holds him close. She let go of the hate and anger years ago, let go of the pain they caused each other, and finally accepted their relationship for what it was.
"Oh god, it's been so long," she says, squeezing him close, not surprised by his unresponsiveness. She can understand how awkward it must be for him. The last time they saw each other— well they barely saw each other. They were barely on speaking terms for that matter. Therefore, her happiness at his arrival must be confusing.
Pulling back, she grins up at him, politely trying to read his actions. He looks down at her, his eyes vacant and sad.
She knows that he still is lost, still looking for the cure to his misery, and that he still misses Grace.
"Are you okay?" her hands linger on his arms. He looks down at the contact, then back up at her and nods.
"I'm just a bit confused, is all," he starts, a sad smile on his face. "You're Rose, right?"
She looks into his eyes, searching for some sign of recollection. "One minute," she tells him before she walks back over to her co-worker. "I have to go."
Nancy looks past Rose's shoulder at the stranger then back to Rose. "Is it an emergency?"
She nods and Nancy sighs, "It's about Peter isn't it?"
"Aww, see you already know me so well," she replies, hugging the other woman before pulling away and saying goodbye to the children. Some gather around her knees, hugging her before running off to play.
"Goodbye miss Rose!" the voices all cry out at different intervals while she picks up her purse and begins her trek back to where he is waiting.
"You owe me one, Rose Tyler!" Nancy calls to her and it doesn't slip past her that he cringes at the mention of her name. She lets it go. After all, they have nothing to hate each other for anymore.
"Let's go. My apartment is only four blocks away from here." She says takes his hand and pats it gently. It's obvious to her he's recently regenerated, his thoughts muddled and confused, and that's the only reason why she holds his hand all the way home. That's why he cringed at her name and asked her who she is.
After all, it's the only option that would make sense.
Martha stands near the Thames, right outside of the TARDIS, watching the zeppelins go by. It's only been a day and she already is bored, already itching to leave here, wondering if this is how she'll feel when she goes back to her family and her books, her white coat and her laboratories. Leaning against the railing, she tries to reach out with her mind, to see if he can hear her from so far away. She found thinking about her abilities as having two tin can phones on a string helps her rationalize it. The farther away the other person is, the harder it is to hear them, even if you search along that string. She sends out an invitation and waits, not surprised when she doesn't get a response.
"What are you doing out here?" Jack asks from behind her. "Shouldn't you be out experiencing this place? Charting the uncharted?"
"It's London," Martha replies. "May have dirigibles, and presidents, but its still London. Not much to chart."
He leans against the railing beside her, looking out at the water.
"Could always come back to Torchwood with me. I just popped by to pick up a few things. Romana's running tests and I'm having a tête-à-tête with this world's Torchwood director. Turns out we have more in common than I originally thought. He's got this sweet spot right behind his ear…"
"Not much I can do if I come back with you. Fren and Anais are too busy doing tests, you're busy with the Torchwood director— there's not a lot for me to do."
"Who said you have to do anything? When's the last time you went for a good shop? Or went to lunch, maybe a movie?"
She stays silent, listening to the cars go by and the horns of the boats as the cross each other's paths. But there's something else there, the sound of propellers over head, the constant sound of them swooshing.
How had Rose dealt with it? How do you fit into a place that is so much like home but not? How she must of felt, living there, only small differences, only the tiniest of changes. But they must have been constant reminders, little pin pricks against her skin, her heart. What would have been worse? Those constant reminders, letting her know that it was near impossible for him to come back? Or having it so painfully similar, that for days on end she would feel like he left her there, abandoned her on Earth to go off flying, to leave her behind for someone else.
She feels a hand on her shoulder, and she blinks, unaware she had been drifting in the river of her thoughts.
Drifting face down.
The tears fall down her cheeks as Jack turns her into his chest, his hand resting on her neck, the other firmly pressing into her back. She welcomes the contact and hugs him back, not knowing where or why, but knowing that it's sincere.
"What if he finds her?" she asks. "What if by some crazy twist of fate he finds her and brings her back? What then? What am I going to do?" Her tears are absorbed by his heavy wool jacket.
Her only response is the sound of propellers over head.
He sits there in her kitchen, watching as she prepares sandwiches. She had made the tea first, working her way around the small kitchen while he had a chance to observe her dwellings. It's plain, and somewhat small, but it's nice. She doesn't have much set up, judging by the boxes that are lying in the hallway and living room, a sign that she's still in transition. The silence between them has been long and thick; his sanity hangs on by a mere thread. Rose Tyler, but is she his? How does he ask without damaging the time lines? How does he accept that it's probably not her? After all this searching, all this emotional turmoil, how does he deal with the fact that the signal was possibly never meant for him, but for alternate Doctor?
"Drink your tea, before it gets cold," she says, placing a sandwich in front of him, as she sits down on the other end of the table.
He smiles at her briefly, picking up the cup, and sipping its contents. She's prepared it just the way he likes it, no milk one sugar. It's enough to make his hand shake as he places the cup back on the saucer.
She smiles briefly before biting into her sandwich, then taking a sip of her own tea. Their walk had been brief as she let him into her home. And now he waits, waits for a reason, waits for an explanation, waits for it with little patience left.
"Rose?" he says, angered he has to ask, annoyed that he allowed himself to slip enough into this situation. He should have gotten out before he fell deeper down the rabbit hole. It would have been less painful that way.
"Mmm?" she asks, looking up from her plate, pushing a curly strand of auburn hair out of her face.
He looks into her eyes for a sign, any hint that she's old and wise and possibly his, but all he sees is her readiness, her waiting upon him, and in truth he can't hold the contact long. He needs to keep his distance.
"What are we doing?" he asks, rubbing his face with his hands. So much sleep and still so tired, he's getting old.
She sighs, placing the sandwich down and chewing. The silence continues, as he waits for a response, any indication that she's going to explain what's going on here, why she brought him back, what they're waiting for.
He watches as she calmly looks up at him, hitting him full force with eyes that terrify him in their intensity. She holds sorrow and rage, depths of unfathomable magnitude in those ever-changing orbs.
"We're waiting. I know that's hard for you. I know you don't really know the meaning of the word, but we wait. We wait till you see Peter, we wait till you start to remember, and from there, we'll figure out what to do."
"Who's Peter?" he asks.
"And that's why we wait," she responds, placing her hand over his. It's neither a warm nor cool contact. Her body's temperature is no different than his.
He nods his head, knowing there's not a lot he can do. It's obvious to him now there was another Doctor for her, this Rose. It's obvious that she thinks he's this William, and he hasn't got it in him to tell her otherwise. When she figures it out, he'll explain the circumstances, take the verbal beating he's sure to get, and bow out gracefully. But this is it, this is the last Rose. He's finished, he'll never look for her or get involved again. He doesn't think his hearts can take it.
So he sits there, and he waits, because he doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to admit to himself that this Rose is not his. He wants to pretend.
For a few hours, he wants to take the slow path.
"Everywhere, tall buildings, pyramids— cathedrals, everywhere… waiting, waiting, waiting."
"And where is he?"
"Waiting."
"Martha?" a quiet voice asks just outside her door. She had been brushing her hair as she watched the film, her jim-jams on so that she could go to bed right after. She pauses it and sighs, knowing she had almost reached that goal.
"Come in," she responds, turning to see the door creak open. Jack and Fren pop their heads in, taking a peek at what she's up to.
"An Affair to Remember!" Jack exclaims, excitedly entering her room and sitting beside her on the bed. He takes the popcorn from her lap and places it on his own.
"Deborah Kerr, Cary Grant. Stunning movie."
"I prefer Love Story, but I couldn't find it," she replies. Surprise and suspicion line her voice. "What— what are you doing?"
"Well, Torchwood's gone home for the night, Madame President decided to come back here to run more tests, and Anais is— well, being Anais. We were bored," Fren tells her still standing at her door.
"So you both decided to pick on me?" she asks, stealing her bowl back from Jack's lap.
"Not pick on, enjoy in the delightful company of. Martha, it seems you really have no faith in me some days." Jack responds before adding, "It's like you talk to the Doctor too much."
"What about the other Time Lords, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?"
"I'm sensing some hostility." Jack crunches out between his chewed popcorn.
"They asked me if I was his pet. How would you feel?" she asks as she takes a handful from the bowl.
"The ladies have gone back to their ship to retrieve information gathered over the last few months to give to Madame President," Fren answers.
She sighs and hands Jack back the bowl, scooting over and motioning for Fren to come sit on the bed with her.
"Let me finish the movie before you both decide to drag me out into this godforsaken world."
As she turns to grab her remote, her mind seizes, as images and emotions are burned into it. The pain is unbearable, like she drank something too cold and is having a brain freeze. Only this brain freeze eats away at her limbs, her body, and her soul, devouring her sanity and ability to reason. All she knows is to hold her barriers against its onslaught, as she falls against her bed. She sees Jack's concerned face above her own, inaudible words falling from his lips while Fren holds her head, fingers resting on her temples as she jerks and spasms.
Martha, can you hear me?
Fren get out of here! I never gave you—I know but I can help you, do you want that? Do you want me to help you through the pain?
Please, please help me.
You need to relax— stop blocking the images, let them flow through you. Trust me.
I can't, I'm afraid.
Don't be afraid, I'll be right here to help you through it. I'll never let go of contact.
As she lets go, she feels like water, like a conductive as she visualizes a Dalek, black and challenging. She's never seen one before, but she knows what it is just from the Doctor's brief description. Then there's Rose. Rose glowing. Rose dying. Rose burning up like a star. Weird symbols that seem all too familiar. Aliens that look like snakes chanting. An invasion. She sees it all, sees the consequence, the sacrifice, and the lamb. She knows it is his Rose.
His Rose is alive.
And it's his Rose who's going to die.
She's old. How old he's not too sure. But he knows old when he sees it. It's in her eyes, the way she holds her body, the resonance in her voice. She's lost her accent.
He can only imagine how old.
He can't ask though; that may give it away. Whoever this Rose is, she's lived beyond her years, and he can't help but admire her, let his heart open up, let himself love her for however long he can. So he sits there, both of them on the couch sipping tea.
"Why Preschool?"
She laughs at the question, and he can hear the echoes of memories past weaved through the dulcet tones.
"Why not?" she replies as she rests her head on her hand, her elbow propped against the arm of the couch.
"Well just seems to me if you're Doctor Rose Tyler of the Torchwood Institute," he says, going out on a limb and using the information he acquired on the plane earlier. "Your qualifications could probably have you in a better position than a two bedroom apartment in a small town in the middle of nowhere."
"Suits me just fine. Besides, dealing with children all day prepared me for dealing with you," she tells him, leaning over to sip her tea.
"Now that's not… that far off," he chuckles.
She beams at him, her smile wide and tender, the light catching her face making her beauty seem ethereal.
"After I faked my death at Torchwood, I needed to keep a low profile. You knew that, so you made sure you had a firm reign on the people in the NIFAL department. There's a Swiss bank that NIFAL deposits new identities in every five years, for field agents. It's a safety deposit box that I have a key to. Being that Elle grew up to be a field agent, and that we looked incredibly alike, I would take her ID's. Then one day, I was left a present. Two full sheets of psychic paper. It's been enough to get us by."
"Us?" he asks.
"Peter and I," she responds. "And don't ask. I'm not going to tell you. You're just going to have to wait."
He pouts a bit at the idea she may have a husband or boyfriend, someone to share her life with. He knows he has no reason to, that he would have wanted her to move on, to live 'a fantastic life'. He knows that he has no right to judge, or be upset, no reason to pout or ignore her. But he can't help himself.
He's jealous.
"I've had a lot of different careers over the years. Before my 'death' I had my Doctorate in communications and psychology, had a good understanding of all the branches of physics. But even then it was hard for me to apply those to jobs that wouldn't get me noticed. So for awhile I took jobs that didn't require a lot of customer-service or public relations. I was a ghostwriter, an electrician— that ended badly—did some telemarketing and some housekeeping, and that's only naming a very select few. After I felt comfortable, a few years ago I went back and took a year long course so I could become a childcare worker, and it's been what I've done ever since."
"Well I hate to break it to you, but being a preschool teacher isn't that low profile of a job. Those kids will remember you forever."
"Yeah, I know, the earth is a very small place. I've had to be careful," she responds, taking another sip of her tea.
"Then why do it?"
"Because I needed too. Their innocence, their intelligence, their brutal honestly— I needed it, I craved it, and quite frankly I missed it. I can be myself, and not feel like I'm being scrutinized. As for them remembering? It's not a big deal anymore anyways."
"Why not?" he asks her curiously.
"Because we never know what's going to happen, and I knew you'd come back."
They sit there in silence as he thinks over what she's just said. She's been waiting for him, all this time. How long has it been for her? If she's been here since her Doctor left her— William, then is she over a century old? But he had been so sure that this was the world that he left his Rose on. Is it possible that his Rose died and a new Rose happened to get deposited on this rock as well? No she talked of Elle, so she has to be the original Torchwood Rose. This divergent universe and Rose is so similar to his that it's easier for him to pretend, easier to believe in the lie he's constructed in hopes of finally finding peace. He can almost find it in her eyes, in the sound of her laugh. He can almost believe.
Almost.
"How'd you know to come back?" she asks.
He decides to go with the truth, after all she had meant for him to hear her call, just this universe's version of him. No she's not as old as him, hasn't had the same amount of time to build the walls to hide her intensity like he does 99 of the time. Give her time, and she'll learn, maybe even teach him something.
"I heard your call," he tells her simply, and he sees her eyes begin to water, the sorrow filling them up like an empty cup. Quickly she looks away, the tears falling freely down her cheeks as she nods.
"Right, of course. That would make sense. Silly me."
He's about to ask her what's wrong, about to pull her in his arms and comfort her, hold her, smell her hair and get drunk off the sound of her voice. He's about to do all these things, free of hesitation and restraint when they both hear keys turning in the door, before it opens and shuts.
He looks back and Rose, ready to question what is going on when he sees a boy no older than sixteen walk through the door, a pack on his back, curly locks falling in his eyes as he drops it to the floor in the hall.
He makes his way to the living room when he stops at the sight of them sitting their.
"What's going on?" the boy asks, never breaking eye contact with the stranger sitting on his couch.
The Doctor looks at Rose in confusion, wondering if this was who she said they were waiting for.
"Peter," Rose starts. "This is your father."
"Romana, what the hell was that?" Jack asks, marching into the console room, Fren right behind him supporting Martha's weight. Blood drips from her nose, eyes, ears and mouth, but she's alive.
Alive and scared.
"Martha just had a grand mal telepathic seizure, and I'm guessing something triggered it," he tells her, his arms crossed as he stands there beside the Time Lord.
Romana's face is guarded as she reads data, her skin glowing blue from the screen.
"I've been going through Torchwood's records, reading up on past history, this world's past wars and events. They endured a Glarecox invasion."
"No…" Fren says, stopping, still half carrying Martha.
"What are the Glarecox?" she asks weakly, her head resting on Fren's shoulder.
"The Glarecox are a brutal totalitarians. They were designed as a plague to wipe out any humanoid race, although they are one themselves. It was said the great Rassilion captured their source of power, taratagenes…"
"What are taratagenes?" Jack asks, his hands on his hips, looking at Romana, then back to Fren. Martha can see the determination set in his jaw, his concern for the situation in how he holds himself. If she weren't so weak at this moment, she'd consider trying to sneak a peek in his mind. But she can't do it, not after finding out what she knows now. What Fren knows now too.
She's going to have to talk to him about that.
"Fren?" Romana commands, as she continues to sweep round the TARDIS console, punching in numbers and setting co-ordinates.
"Taratagenes are similar to nanogenes, but have more— damaging effects. They were what gave the Glarecox their corporal form. Without them, they were gaseous, and have no power over anything. With the taratagenes they were virtually indestructible. Since their bodies were made up of only gas, the taratagenes creating their hard forms, they couldn't be damaged with most conventional weapons."
"Romana, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Jack persists.
"No time, need to find the Doctor, and fast."
"I want to know what the hell is going on," Martha adds weakly, as Fren places her in the Captain's chair and pushes her hair out of her face. She sees concern and worry in his brown eyes, making her feel a little fuzzy inside. Or maybe that's the exhaustion kicking in.
"Rassilion captured their taratagenes and kept them in a secure box, naming it the box of—"
"Pandora?" Jack asks his interest piqued.
"Yes. How did you know?" Fren asks finally looking away from Martha.
"We have one, back on our Earth. I kept it in the vaults, never allowing anyone to open it."
"Well you possibly saved your Earth. Obviously humans here weren't advanced enough to prevent that from happening."
"Bet you ten quid that was a cheap shot at Rose" Jack whispers to Martha, kneeling down beside her, wiping the blood off her ears.
"I'm not taking that bet," Martha murmurs back, the pain slowly starting to ease away from her being.
"Spoil-sport."
"Madame President, Jack wasn't lying when he said that Martha's… episode, that what happened was severe, I was sitting right—"
"Fren, NOT NOW. I have to get to the Doctor."
"I swear to God Romana, you're nothing but a pain in the a—"
"Jack, I rarely partake in petty banter, but for you I'll make an exception. If you don't back off, that small pain is going to turn into a full on gaping wound."
"What's going on?" Anais asks from the hallway.
"We don't know." Jack replies, lifting up from his position beside Martha to pace around the control room.
"You should go back to bed," Fren murmurs to Martha, taking her hands in his own. "You're weak and need rest."
"I can't," Martha responds. "Not if we are going to see him. He needs to know. He needs to know what we know. I have to tell him."
"And what is it we know?" Fren asks her, his voice tight and tender, condescending but understanding. "We know nothing. Not until we find out what that was. It could have been a trap, or residual effects of traveling through several different universes."
Her eyes water, unable to hide the fact he's hurt her by his words. He sighs when she looks away and he has to place his hand on her cheek to get her to look at him again.
"Martha, I'm not trying— all I'm saying is that until we know what's really going on, maybe we should hold back from telling him? Maybe we'll just worry him for nothing, and I know you don't want to do that."
She nods her head in understand and he begins to pick her up from her chair to move her to her bedroom.
"Hold ON!" Romana yells, pulling on levers and chains, turning bobbles and spinning wheels. The TARDIS begins her cry as they begin their travels. Not expecting the sudden jolt, and due to the fact that she can barely move, Martha falls over onto Fren. Violently, they slide down the chair.
"I thought we weren't going to leave until we knew for sure what was going on?" Jack says, his arms crossed as he stands his ground by the railing. Martha watches him from the comfort of Fren's arms, his suspenders hanging around his waist, his shirt still tucked in.
"I know. We have to go. NOW."
"That's not my father," Peter says calmly, his hands in his pockets, staring at the Doctor blankly.
"I agree. I'm not his father," he affirms, looking back at Rose.
"Don't be daft," she tells him, before walking over to Peter. "Of course he's your father. I know it maybe a little hard for you, but that's your dad. It's just that he's regenerated recently. He may not look like you still remember him, or act like it. He may not even remember some things, but he is the same person at hearts."
"No, it's not that… It's not the regeneration, that's just not my dad," Peter says, his arms crossed moving in front of Rose and pushing her behind him.
The Doctor tries to reach out his mind, to feel around Peter's brain and see who he really is and how he knows so much, but he's blocked out, the walls firmly placed.
"Rose has psychic abilities too. I learned how to block when I was thirty years old," Peter says, his face angry and voice low.
"This man isn't my father Rose, which means, he's been tricking you."
The Doctor looks up at her face, unable to deny himself the pain of watching it contort into confusion and shock. He knows that all is lost, that no matter what he does, she will never trust him again.
And after they were getting so close.
He watches as she shakes her head no, placing her hands in a temple over her mouth, and he's about to explain, about to admit to his deceit, when the cry of the TARDIS begins to echo against the walls of the living room.