Chips 2

Rose realizes who she had chips with that evening, and describes the event to 10.5, over more chips.

This is for Colormyworld, who suggested Rose and 10.5 have a conversation about events in Chips. Thank you very much, my dear. I hope you like this one.

I'm lovin' these prompts, people. Keep 'em coming. I haven't turned down one yet.

Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Doctor Who.

They find the shop quite by accident one day when shopping with the baby. There it is, tucked between two department stores, tiny and grubby as ever. Less than a mile from the Estates. She insists they go in. Had to see if the chips were the same.

The neon sign outside is green, not red. The floors aren't concrete, but black and white tile with stained grout. The proprietor is a woman, aged and batty, who takes orders with a chew up pencil. But the air smells the same—salt and vinegar, oily and slightly sweet. Rose inhales deeply.

They sit in her first favourite seat—the back booth. Prior her twelfth year, Rose had favoured the front window seat. Then she'd met the man, and become more acquainted with booth. It certainly had its advantages, such as a great view of the shop and its occupants. Or less ripped-up seats, as nobody wished to sit in the back. And proximity to the kitchens.

Rose settles into the booth with ease, putting the diaper bag beside her on the floor. The Doctor gives her a disapproving glance, but the baby quickly diverts his attention with a gurgle. She's still in her plastic carrier. Her eyes are half-lidded. It's nearly noon, nearly nap time. Rose watches with a quiet joy as her partner tucks his daughter in tightly with a second blanket, then taps her nose as he monologues over the benefits of nuclear energy over hydro, a conversation started earlier in the car. For all she knows, the baby understands him clearly—after all, she's one-fourth Gallifreyian , and Rose hasn't the slightest idea of the rate of mental development of infant Time Lords. The Doctor's not been much help on the subject, for every time she's inquired, he's merely shrugged and claimed to be entirely unknowledgeable because he's never a quarter anything before. He repeatedly assures her that the child will probably turn out to be perfectly normal, with maybe just the tiny side effects of an aspirin allergy and extended life expectancy. Nothing too major.

An order is placed. Rose turns her attention toward examining the familiar shop, while her partner occupies himself with the baby, now going over the finer points of some quantum physics theory. How they moved from nuclear energy on to quantum physics she'll never know. It was just another leap of faith that often came in conversations with the alien. "Part alien." She reminds herself.

She sits back against the cool pleather seat, thinking. Being her reminds her of the man, the great mystery man who had occupied her thoughts since their meeting here over eleven years ago. She'd mused and wondered a good deal since then. Sure, the idea of him being the Doctor had occurred to her on more than one occasion, but it had seemed impossible. Until a few months ago….

XXXXXXX

She'd been rudely awaken by a shattering gasp, followed by a series of jolting screams. Rose sat up, accessing situation. Her bedmate writhed beside her, twisting the sheets around his quaking form, crying out in some unseen pain.

"What is it?" She demanded urgently, holding his shoulders flat on the mattress.

"R-r-r-regeneration."

Her grip loosened in shock. "How? But you said—"

""N-n-n-not m-mine! H-h-his. H-h-he-he's dying!" The moan came out with a great shudder, then he stilled scarily. Rose ran her hands across his sweat-dampened brow.

"How?" She asked again, in a smaller voice this time. Scared of the answers he might give.

"I don't know." He's lying. They both know it. It doesn't take a hand to the back of the neck, or a quick nose rubbing to tell her that.

Rose doesn't say a word, but lays back down, snuggling close. The shaking stops later, early in the morning before first light. They don't speak of the incident again, except once when he finds her alone with the baby, crying her eyes out over their child's sleeping form lying in the white crib.

XXXXXX

She holds a crisp chip between two fingers. It's soft, yet not rubbery, leaving shining traces of oil on the pads of her fingers. Still warm. Rose examines it closely before consuming it carefully. Her husband watches from across the table, silent.

"Did you ever…meet me before you…met me?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

Rose lifts another chips, considers it before answering. "Like, I dunno. Meet a younger version. Be all mysterious. You know."

"I really don't."

She sighs. "It's hard to explain."

"You think I met you prior to you meeting me in Henricks?"

"That's it, yeah."

It's his turn to consider. "Possibly. Though, not in this regeneration."

"Oh." She's a little disappointed. For a while she'd held onto the idea that perhaps a younger variation of the alien had met her then. That would explain the red bike comment. She fiddled with the plastic straw of her soda. "Maybe the new you, then?"

"Maybe." He allows. "Why, Rose? Had an epiphany?"

Though not on that magnitude, Rose had to admit she'd had a sudden realization. "I—I think you came to me. Here. When I was twelve."

Her husband's brow furrows. "What did I look like?"

She explained the man down to every last detail down to the gray, ancient eyes, the bow tie, the suspenders and scuffed black boots (so much like his ninth self…), floppish hair, and angular nose. With each word his eyes grew more and more shadowed. Roses finally paused from her narrative. "Sound familiar?"

He leaned over, resting his forearms on the greasy table. Today he's in a brown suit—her favourite—and glasses, and off-white Chucks, along with his long coat. Rose had, on occasion, convinced him to wear more casual things. Today was not once of those occasions. She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. The time was passed with the quiet sipping of soda out of bright paper cups. The Doctor ran one hand through his mussed up hair, letting out a long breath.

"You might've met…me." He allowed. "A different me."

"I thought your couldn't—"

He cut across her. "I never said I can't, I just said it wasn't advisable. Apparently my newer self ignored the risk and decided to meet you over a basket of chips."

Rose considered. "So…what does this mean?"

The man sighed "It means it's really no wonder we met in that basement. The TARDIS frequently lands in familiar places, it's like…the memory is comforting. She probably felt the residual memory and decided to go for it."

His wife crinkled her nose. "So mistake landing, yeah?"

"Never said that." But they know it's true. A small grin stretches the corners of her mouth. She's about to comment when a tiny "snuff" sound. The baby. The parents glanced down, anxious. But she was just making sounds in her sleep. The Doctor reached over to tuck the blankets 'round his daughter a bit more tightly. Rose's smiled deepened. Domestics. He'd sworn off domestics.

He turned back to the conversation at hand. "He wanted to see you, Rose. Probably didn't even think about it. Just went."

She was twirling another greasy chip between her fingers, eyes still on the baby, whose hand waves aimlessly in the midst of sleep. Never stops moving, that one. Just like her father.

"If I knew…" His voice drifted off. Rose's eyes shift from the baby to her spouse. She took a long drag from the paper cup, letting the bubbles burst against her tongue and the brown liquid cause her cheeks to swell slightly. Sweet and cold, to be savored. She held the mouthful for a long time, until the carbonation has completely died. Then—

"Yeah." She finished for him. "Me too."

They leave the shop about twenty minutes later to continue their shopping. In the car, Rose could't help but look back, wondering about the man. About the night when she was twelve, and she met her Doctor, who wasn't really "her" Doctor. And about what he might've been thinking when they finally said goodbye.

XXXXX

Leaving her again (for the last time) was incredibly difficult (though no worse than any other time). Once he was around the corner he stopped, pressing his back against the yellow brick, breathing deeply. In. Out. In. Out. And in…

Out.

He honestly had not come expecting to see her, that had not been his intent. Truly, he had come to find some half-decent food. He was tired and lonely, sadden by the day's (or had it been weeks? Hard to tell, in a time ship) events. He wanted a quiet place to just sit and ponder, possibly over a plate of fried food (not that he'd actually eat any of it). The chip shop had seemed familiar, though for the life of him he could not recall how. Then in walked that blond girl, and he'd realized his mistake. Out of all the places in London….

Sarah Jane he could stand to see. River, no problem. Martha wasn't a big deal, either and Jack would've been easy. But Rose was an entirely different matter. So, he'd sat stock-still, holding his breath, praying to whatever gods might be listening that she didn't notice him, didn't see his eyes flitting to hers every few seconds, didn't—

But she had. Quickly.

Typical, wasn't it? She never left him, not really. Rose had kept her promise. Whether this had been her intended means or not, she'd kept it.

"How long you going to stay with me?"

"Forever."

She'd said it as though the thought was perfectly natural. He never had someone so keen on staying before. Everyone saw the TARDIS as some sort of duty-free vacation. Kip in, travel for a few months, then return home, no worries. But not Rose. She had been draw to his lonely self from day one. It hadn't taken her long to devote herself completely to his lifestyle. And she kept turning up everywhere. Not that he had minded.

He'd stumble upon some remote culture, some random group of primal people. They would go through the usual ceremony, then he'd be invited to meet with the local psychic, sage, or wiseman. There would be a load of smoke and mystic talk, and then, and then Rose came to be the topic of conversation. The Bad Wolf. The Valiant Child. The Physician's Companion. Whatever name they choose, it was always the same.

"Rose," He breathed into the dark night, air turning to swirling mists that hung around his face, reminders of the cold he couldn't rightly feel.

He could still hear her. Walking up the stairs, across the walkway to the door, pushing the dull brass key into the lock, opening the door, entering and shutting it. He fancied he could also hear the quiet "click" that came with flicking on the lights. The sloshing removal of wet shoes and an overstuffed jacket. Then, (and perhaps this was his imagination) a soft sigh.

But he'd probably imagined it.

Without another word or thought, the Time Lord left his dark corner post to return to his ship. The next few days would probably be pure misery, as her name was right on the surface of his thoughts now. He'd be in the kitchen, or in library, in the console room, or maybe just in the hall. Something—a phrase, a word, an image—would pull that name into focus, just for an instant. But an instant would be more than enough.

He tucked his hands into his pants pockets, pushed himself off the wall, and began his return in a brisk pace, kicking up gray chunks of compacted snow with each step. Never mind the misery.

Between the chips and the girl, this accident had been worth it.