Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I am half way through wiritng part three, but I have a long car journey today so it may not get done. I hope this satisfies in the meantime and, seroiusly, I love all the feedback. I know it was angsty, but it gets better! Promise!
Almost, Part Two
From where she is sitting, the sun looks only a few centimetres up in the sky. For some reason, she does not have to squint or recoil when she looks at it – she just revels in its beauty as the colours bathe her and everything around her. The beach is grey. The water, too. But the sky around the sun is bruised and paled with different colours; pinks, purples, oranges, reds. The sky behind her, though she does not turn to look, is still an empty blue. And still she waits.
The tide has crept lower, crawling back down the length of the beach like a tortoise recoiling into its shell. She hasn't moved.
The sand beneath her is cold, sending chills through her. Her imagination has not graced her with his presence since his last visit, but she doesn't mind. It's nice when he shows up by himself, almost like the real thing. She is not quite sure why she waits, but she does, until her hearts tell her it is time to go.
The sun has risen and she knows her family, such as it is, will wake soon and find her gone. She can't let them worry like that; yet at the same time, she doesn't want to stand and leave her memory behind. She doesn't want to face a new world, what everything in it might mean. She wants to sit here and watch. Wait.
So sit here she does.
Until her memory flickers back into action again, playing a tune to her that rasps and grates against the bonds in her mind, like the sound of metal on rusty metal. She has heard the sound before in this world, sometimes imagining it, sometimes hearing something that might be it but never, ever is. She has imagined the Doctor materialise in the TARDIS before, so it is nothing special this time around when her mind is just out to impress her. Sometimes she likes the sound and it soothes her, reminding her that her memory is just about good enough, for him at least.
Rose almost sighs as, out of the corner of her eye, she sees what might be the square build of the TARDIS but what could easily be a gape in the headland, a cave that's so tall and deep, it's worked itself right the way through the rock. Her imagination always was good at picking up on the little things.
She smiles as her memory plays back the sound of that creaking door; the slight shadow of someone stepping out from within is simply the wind kicking up the sand around her. He likes his big entrances sometimes, even in her mind. She tolerates them because they are a part of him and therefore a part of her, too. She's not quite sure how it all works, but she knows it makes a certain kind of sense in her mind.
She always did get confused when it came to love.
Eyes still fixed on the horizon, she can almost hear soft footfalls in the sand as he steps and looks at her, wondering what on Earth he can say this time that has not already been said. Perhaps there is nothing. Sometimes she likes to just imagine him, to have him nearby without words. Sometimes she doesn't need words. This is one of those times. Use her strength and memory to pretend his warmth and presence is real. Because if she goes on pretending, one of these days, if she wishes hard enough, it might come true.
"Rose."
Only he can say so much with just one word, she remembers. He's said her name like that before, and it's a question, an answer, a pleading, a statement, a poem, a universe, a name and an emotion all at once. She begins to close her eyes to revel in the sound of her name against his lips. When she realises something. The tone of his voice is thicker and richer, strong and more defined, like he's been practising it for years.
Her heart skips a beat.
She opens her eyes, turns her head.
And he's there.
He's standing there with his hands in his pockets and a smug expression over his face as though he's trying not to laugh. Just like she remembers him. But it's pouring out of his full, round eyes and calling to her and she scrambles up, not quite knowing what to believe or what to feel but never taking her eyes off him because she hasn't seen him like this in so long and she feels starved.
She reminds herself to breathe, to take a pause, to form coherent thought.
But everything comes crashing down on her all at once, like the waves against the rocks and sand, and she walks carefully towards him and watches him do the same.
They stop just short of each other, centimetres apart, and she stands and gazes up into his eyes, desperately trying to lose herself in the maze of emotion she finds there. There's grief and joy and hunger and passion and desire and loathing and envy and a thousand more, swirling and writhing in the pit of his soul. It's all and none of these that shine through in his tender, cheeky, lop-sided grin: the one that unfurls slowly from the tipped corner of his mouth then spreads to all other parts of him, including the Rose in front of him because she is a part of him now, too.
Part of her doesn't believe it. She can feel his warmth, see him, smell him, almost taste him – but part of her is convinced that he isn't real, that she is dreaming, that this is just existential thought and imagination.
"How long did you wait?" he asks, his voice verging both on laughter and tears as he looks at her – really looks at her. And she knows, right then, that she isn't imagining. His voice is so rich that her memory doesn't do him justice. Her world falls apart.
He knows the answer to his question, of course he does, but he can't help the words and she can't help the smile or the reply that follows.
"Five-and-a-half hours," she laughs and cries at the same time, a bittersweet smile spreading over her pained face.
It's a lie, and they both know it: she is just playing his game. However, it is not the words that matter, but the tone behind them and what that, in turn, means.
And then his whole face lights up as he gives in, succumbing to the laughter that is spreading through him like a flower in bloom. He's laughing, truly and properly, like a young child and an old man, wholly, completely, and eternally; she can't help but laugh too as he brings his arms around her, crushes her to his chest, lifts her and spins her, around and around, making them both as dizzy as the Earth itself.
But neither of them care, as they relish one another, losing themselves in each other's laughter, breath, scent, touch, feel, sensation... It swirls around them like a whirlpool, churning lost desire, hungry words, broken hearts, and new beginnings into a thrill of colours and mixes, taking away sense and coherence until all that is left is instinct and action.
He can't stop laughing as he turns them, closing his eyes as he buries his nose somewhere near her neck, in amongst her hair. He smells a shampoo he remembers from the TARDIS when she was with him, and he feels giddy and excited, like his whole worlds are exploding into something new, something better, and he can't wait to get started because he's finally found what has been missing these past years of his life. He hugs her harder, feeling her squeeze him back – her arms are looped behind his neck and it almost hurts. Except he cares too much to notice and instead just sets her down in the sand again, their world still spinning around them.
He doesn't let go and neither does she, each clinging to each other that little bit more as the laughter fades and dies, replaced by something else.
There are tears now, from both sides. Rose grasps him desperately, her hands moving so she can claw him to her, one getting lost in his mane of hair, the other gripping his shoulder tightly. Salty tears drip down her face to his jacket; she muffles her sob but does not stop herself from nuzzling his neck, feeling his skin against hers.
He doesn't mind, though, and in secret rather likes it. He cannot match her stream of salty fire, but as he pulls her close to his chest, silencing all gaps between their bodies, he can't help but let out one small, choked cry as he holds her, shaking with so much and so little, he's not even sure what makes sense anymore. He feels her crying in his arms, feels the skin of his neck become slightly damp with her ragged breathing and slow sobs.
His hand begins to caress her back soothingly as he rests his chin on her shoulder, his other arm circling behind her shoulders and keeping her close. He draws idle patterns with his hand, the one drifting to and fro from the small of her back. He feels her respond to the touch, somehow both pressing against his torso and tensing her back to meet his contact.
She never ceases to amaze him.
They stand like that as the sun continues to rise, each second ticking away into long, wholesome minutes, until finally neither is shaking with overwhelming emotion. There they stand, feeding off each other's warmth, eyes closed, breathing slow, each trying to stay connected – just like this – for as long as time will let them.
It is the first time they have shared physical contact since... Well, Rose can't exactly remember when. Her memory is hazy and blurred, certain events not accurate enough to base thoughts upon. All she knows is now, and right this moment, the man in her arms is holding her so close to his hearts, and feels so warm where she has once been cold, that she both fears and hopes that this is a dream. Part of it is too good not to be.
The Doctor, however, can recite the exact last time he held her in his arms, touched her skin, kissed her lips, inhaled her like oxygen – they are all too long ago and somehow that thought is terrifying. He has lived so long without her beside him, without her hand to hold, without her laughter to enthral him, without her challenges to spur him on that he can't quite believe, that after all this time, he's found her. The past few years of his life slip away into nothing, a mere dream, compared to the chance he has again with her.
With a last embrace, he stands back slightly to look at her, sliding his hands down her curves to rest on her waist. Her breath his deep and long and she searches his eyes, not quite sure which question she wants answered first.
He is grinning again, soft and gentle, and when he speaks it is through his smile, tinting his voice with a tenderness that he only uses towards her.
"I found you. The universe took you away from me, but here I am, doing what I do best. The impossible."
Rose smiles warmly, her hands resting on his shoulders as her gaze rests on him. "I'll have to start calling you that. Mister Impossible Man. You seem to be settin' quite a trend."
"You'd better well not," he counters with mock reproach, already feeling the way they used to be leak through into their relationship. "I didn't spend all this time trying to find you so you could come up with some poncy nick-name for me."
"All right," she agrees with a small laugh and a grin. And then she's worried, suddenly, because for her it has been a matter of months since she last held him and only a matter of hours since she last saw him. For him... "How long's it been... since we..."
He knows her question and his look mirrors that of when he was on the beach, telling her goodbye. Pride and warmth with regret and sorrow, mingling together to create a small smile that is almost tipped downwards in the corners rather than up.
He lifts a hand from her waist, cupping her cheek, the palm of his hand warm and slightly rough against her skin. She can't help leaning into his touch and he notices.
"Forever," he whispers back, because he doesn't want her to know exactly how long it's been since the last time he took her hand or pulled her into a hug. He doesn't want to tell her that there have been other companions or other adventures, or other dangers, or even other loves. He hasn't fallen again, he would never – could never – do that; but there have been others who he has learned to care about, in his distant way. Others who have left.
He doesn't want her to know that his latest companion does not understand why he never leaves the TARDIS, when they land so she can visit her family. She doesn't understand why he avoids the question, refuses to meet her parents or siblings, refuses tea, despite being so apparently attached to it. He does not want Rose to know that the companion, Martha, eventually gave up trying to help him and, after just short of a year, wished to be taken back home again. He has been alone since, but he doesn't want his Rose to know, because she'll only worry. And worry is definitely not how he wants her to be feeling right now.
"Feels like forever, anyway," he continues jovially as his thoughts rush on, dropping his hand but insisting on staying close to her. "But you know me – always been a tad melodramatic. Anyway. Miss me?"
His grin is wide and doesn't falter when she reaches to hit him affectionately over the head, the lightest of slaps that simply lets her hand linger on his cheek for just a moment. He has to try very hard not to close his eyes and tilt his mouth towards her palm, because temptation is ripping through him wildly and there are so many ways that he wants to let her know how much she means to him, how much he's missed her, how hard he fought for her. Will always fight for her.
"More than – " she begins, trying to add sincerity back into their conversation – but then has to stop and think, because she can't think of anything that has even come close to how she has missed him and how she feels about him now. "More than… Oh, I dunno, you idiot. More than life? What d'you expect?"
He smiles and licks his lips, pride bursting through him as he watches her. He knows he shouldn't be surprised that she hasn't changed a bit, considering it has only been months, but he has been dreaming and praying about this moment for so long, and it has been so rehearsed in his mind, that he can hardly believe she is actually here, in his arms, and he can't remember any of what he wanted to say.
And then he considers her question seriously, his grin fading slightly. The smallest of frowns creases his already tired brow and for a moment, he glances to the heavens, taking in a slow breath.
"What do I expect?" he echoes, though it seems to Rose that he's asking the sky itself rather than her. Then suddenly his eyes are back again, very much in front of her and very much real. "I don't know. I know what I deserve. Anger and curses, and probably a good slap or two. I know that I want forgiveness, because to be quite honest, the guilt has been… well… but what I expect? I didn't even expect to get this far. From you, Rose Tyler, I expect nothing. Nothing but the fantastic woman who still, even now, never ceases to amaze me."
She feels words tangle with tears in her throat, feels something rise from her stomach and spill through her barriers – but she will not cry. Not now, when he is here, after he promised that he could never be again.
She wants to reach for him, to take his hand, to hug him again, but she isn't sure if she's allowed or if he's changed or if they still work together quite like that. So she makes do with watching him, instead, giving him nothing but her full attention, because he deserves no less.
"I thought you said you couldn't come back? That I'd never ever see you again…"
His smile is bitter, almost rueful, but he bites back on his pride and his words because he has waited too long for this. "Never say 'never ever'," he informs her earnestly, before reaching and taking her hand. Their fingers do not intertwine; the way he takes her hand in this incarnation is different to his last, and he usually prefers the subtle approach, palms grazing each other, fingers curled around each other's knuckles. However, this time, it is very much like a duke greeting a duchess and he grips her fingers in his whole hand, stroking his thumb tenderly over them as he looks at her. "And when I saw you – I was right. I couldn't come back. Not then. My supernova burned and the crack healed; but I still looked for you. By God, Rose, I didn't half search. Ways in and out of universes aren't that uncommon in my line of work, but there are a thousand different realities and none of them quite… fit…"
"And… And what about now?" she chokes, sniffing back tears that have no right to be there.
The Doctor's eyes are large and wise, like he knows something she needs to hear but will never tell her because it may destroy her. "Well now, I'm here aren't I? I won't say I gave up looking. I didn't. Everything I bloody did, I did it for you. You were always there, at the back of my mind, your little tiny London voice willing me to go on. Without you, I may very well have sat around in the TARDIS for the rest of my days. Course, without you, none of this would even be happening anyway, but you get what I mean. I suppose. If you think – "
"Yeah, I get it," she cuts across quickly, because at this point, she feels she is doing him a favour from his rambling. Once he starts, he barely ever stops. "You were saying?"
She doesn't mean to sound impatient or patronising, but there is something so captivating about the sound of his voice that she just wants to listen to him, listen as he tells her about his journeys and his struggle to find her. Part of her wishes she could just take his hand and let that be that, and another part hates herself for being so selfish. But something in her has changed while she's been here, this 'parallel Earth', and at the sight, sound, smell and touch of him, she feels herself changing back. Selfishness seems almost deserved.
"Right," the Doctor corrects, his frown fading, his thought returning to his original track. The hand around hers squeezes tight, and he likes to imagine he can see a visible shudder run through her at the touch she might have missed. Then he smiles, not open mouthed, but still very, very alive. He meets her eye. He holds his breath. And then he tells her, in a voice that is barely more than a whisper, because he knows she will understand. Head dipped so that he is almost looking up at her, his eyes dance with mischief. "I found them."
Three words, and her heart skips a beat. She smiles too, tightening her own hand on his, then pulling him into a hug of ecstasy, of congratulations, maybe even of love. She doesn't know. All she does know is that she has never felt so completely happy and complete with something that is nothing to do with her. It is a happiness that shouldn't be her own, and he is somewhat astounded when she feels it for him. But he grins and hugs back, just briefly, before setting her in front of him again and stepping around the beach in ecstatic triumph. He laughs and grins and circles her, eyes never leaving her, before he reaches for both of her hands and practically dances around her as if she were a maypole.
"I found them!" he says again, and his voice is a cry, a victorious shout of pleasure into the morning air as he dances. "Rose, I found them! My own kind! I went, and I looked, and I found them!"
His excitement is clear on his face, like a young child who has just been reunited with his family. In some ways, Rose muses, that is exactly what it is like.
She wants to ask how and why, but she knows those are questions he will answer in time. Something inside her tells her that he hasn't fully appreciated the weight of his triumph yet, as though he has been waiting to share it. With her. The thought uplifts her, and she feels as though she's flying when that look of his grazes lovingly over her. How it connects with him being here, now, she can't see; but she knows that the Doctor will tell her when he is ready.
Laughing as he feels youth return to him, the Doctor stops for a moment and gazes out to the horizon. Suddenly, as abrupt as the snap of a pair of fingers, his success and spirit fall away from him, leaving a sort of sombre composure. Even his smile has faded.
He stands away from her, his arm outstretched as he clasps one of Rose's hands in his. But his gaze is firmly set upon the line of the sea and he can't bring himself to look at her as his acute, Time Lord senses whirr into action around him. He somehow feels detached, like he has been here before, like he is dreaming.
He mutters something under his breath and Rose, transfixed by the beautiful carving of a man in front of her, steps tentatively towards him, squeezing his hand slightly. He doesn't turn to her.
"Doctor?" she asks quietly, both checking that he is all right and questioning what he spoke.
He gives no indication that he has heard her, save for the softest caress of his fingers over the top of her hand. He is so real where once he was so ghostly that she wants to cry again. How many times will he do this to her?
The Doctor mutters again, no more audible, but she is closer now, and thinks she can make out what it is he's said. He almost seems in a trance, but she gasps when she hears his words, coming to a halt beside him and staring out with him over the sea.
...I'll meet you on the horizon...
It looks like, just this once, the horizon came to them.
End of Part Two.
