A big, fat chapter for you! I hope it makes up for the wait, you dear patient readers. This one's a bit of a rollercoaster, but I hope you like it!
Five hours and twelve minutes later, the Doctor has discovered exactly how ridiculous he is. His energy converter is in a hundred pieces on the kitchen table, his back aches, his phone buzzes at intervals with messages from Pete, the bloody world needs saving, and what's he been doing all afternoon? Sitting here.
His mighty Time Lord backside is stuck to this sofa because Rose is asleep in his arms and it's the absolute best thing that's happened to him in years. Her head is heavy in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, one of her hands lies limp near his throat, her warm fingertips touching his bare skin at the v of his jumper. At that spot, the Doctor can feel the frisson of energy her skin gives off, a taste of her feelings for him in her touch that he'd long ago developed a craving for. Trust, love, utter contentment, they emanate from her like a sweet perfume. It intoxicates him.
It also makes him want to run. The stillness and quiet has had him riding his emotions like a rollercoaster: joy that she trusts him, guilt that she trusts him. Euphoria over this stolen intimacy, worry she'll hate him for it later. The Doctor revels in the feeling of being in love, of being loved, and the next minute he grieves at the thought of losing it.
Yet his resolve remains unchanged. He does not merely want Rose, he wants to deserve Rose, and that means doing the right thing. He's got to bare his guilty soul, even though it's going to hurt her.
Oh, how he dreads hurting her.
Throat suddenly tight, the Doctor shifts Rose within his arms, recrosses his feet which are propped on the coffee table, but he stays put. No matter what happens next, this time with her is his to cherish always. Rose is precious to him, but nearly as precious is her love. No one in the Doctor's life has ever loved him like she does, so wholly, so profoundly. And even when he'd lost her, he hadn't lost that. Some days it was all he had to cling to.
How he'll survive without it, he isn't sure.
He probably won't.
Maybe this is how his song will end.
He knows his thoughts are spiraling, it's getting a bit hard to breathe again, but then a tiny glint at the neck of her tee catches his eye. The chain to her TARDIS key. Instantly, it calms some of his panic, like a light in a dark forest. Rose has never given up on him, has she? Not even when he's left her behind. Not even when she really should have.
What if… what if he's been underestimating her again? Maybe she will forgive him. Especially since, unlike his other self, he regrets his mistake and will never repeat it. Omnipotence no longer holds the least appeal. The Doctor is certain he'd far rather devote his life to being the sort of person Rose deserves to be with, if she'll have him.
"Please," he whispers into her hair. "Please."
Rose stirs a little, and the Doctor lifts his head to peer at her face. Her eyes shift beneath the delicate eyelids. REM sleep. She'll be waking soon. For the hundredth time, he eyes her hand on his chest, wondering if he dares put his tongue to her wrist to gauge her cortisol levels. She'd never let him whilst awake, he's sure. Rose doesn't even like questions about her state of health. But this deep fatigue of hers has him fretting. A five hour midday nap isn't normal.
Jackie's words float into his mind- "the thinner she gets, the more he compliments her"- and the Doctor's teeth clench as he swings back to anger. Here he sits, nearly done in with worry over Rose's obvious fragility, yet his bloody duplicate hadn't even noticed it? Or worse yet, enjoyed it? How is that even possible?
Rose keeps saying his double isn't his double at all, but a different person altogether. Which he's been loath to believe. Yes, the Other has gone and taken over the planet, but that's the sort of behaviour the Doctor might have expected had he been left here alone. But to have his own worst traits bloom so fully with Rose right there watching? It's inexplicable.
He's beginning to wonder if something really did go wrong with the metacrisis.
Worry lines appear between Rose's brows, telling the Doctor she's very near waking, since she's picking up on his anxiety. Maybe he should get up now. Slip away before she wakes.
He quells the idea, chastising himself. You're going for honesty, remember?
Rose draws a long breath through her nose; one tired eye cracks open. Then she's blinking up at him in adorable confusion, like she's not quite sure where she is.
The Doctor can't help smiling at this, though he's already feeling a tad embarrassed. "Good morning, sleepyhead. Well, afternoon. Well, evening."
Face scrunching, Rose struggles into a sitting position. "How long have I been asleep?"
The rasp in her voice makes him chuckle. "Hours."
"Really?" Rose rubs her face, pushes back her hair, and when her eyes meet his again, they're a bit clearer. "Have you sat here the entire time?"
His hand finds the back of his neck and he smiles sheepishly, caught off guard by such a direct question.
"I thought you needed to work on your converter thingy?"
"I have time." He's a tiny bit defensive. "We're in hiding. And it might be awhile, days, before we have enough information from your dad to move ahead with our main plan anyway."
Rose looks amused. "You fell asleep too, didn't you?"
He's pretty sure he had dozed for a bit, a few minutes at least, so he can admit to this. "Perhaps."
"Good. You looked like you needed it, earlier." She yawns and stretches, uncurling to set her feet on the floor, and he grieves the warmth of her body. "Hold on," says Rose, looking at him suddenly. "Did you do that thing to me, that whaddyacallit; a telepathic nudge? To make me sleep longer?"
"Oi, I did nothing more than consent to being your pillow. Again." The Doctor grins. She's just too cute, all flushed cheeks and bleary eyes and suspicion. "You used to fall asleep on me all the time, remember? Bit insulting, really."
"You used to put me to sleep, you mean, always monologuing about temporal physics or space fruit or whatever else-"
"Space fruit?"
"It's not because you make such a nice cuddly pillow." She rubs her ear. "Ow."
"I may not be cudd-ly, but I am an excellent cuddl-er."
"Yes, that is very true," agrees Rose, dragging herself to her feet. "I might even call it another of your superpowers.'
"Wow, really?"
"Uh huh. You're a Time Lord super-cuddler."
Chuckling, the Doctor stretches out into the empty place on the sofa Rose has just vacated. "I'll have to remember to add that to my CV."
Rose grabs one of his hands, and they have a mini game of tug-of-war until he gives in and stands up. "C'mon, superhero. Let's see if you have the power to figure out what we should make for dinner."
"Ha," says the Doctor as they pad toward the kitchen. "I decided that during your first REM cycle. There's pasta and chicken and stuff to make salads. And, most importantly, there is ice cream in the freezer."
When Rose doesn't answer, he glances at her, and is startled to see she's a bit teary-eyed. "What's the matter, Rose?"
"It's nothing." She wipes her eyes hastily. "Just, Victor liked to sort of police what I'd eat. He would never suggest ice cream as a good idea after we'd already had pasta." Opening a cupboard near the sink, she takes out a drinking glass. "It's stupid," she goes on, her back to him as she fills the glass with water from the tap. "Don't know why I'm getting emotional about it now. It's not like I ever cared what he thought."
"You really don't think he's like me at all, do you?"
As she drinks her water, Rose turns to look at him. "No, I really don't," she says after she swallows. "Although, I would like to better understand why you persist in believing he might be."
His hearts begin to thump. He could tell her exactly why, spell out each and every ugly similarity, right now. Rose has given him the perfect opening; she's literally asking. But...he can't. There's too much concern in her eyes, too much warmth. He's not ready to risk losing it just yet.
Dropping his gaze to his socks, the Doctor shrugs. "I wonder if something might've gone wrong when he was made."
"Oh, definitely. I told you, he's your evil twin. Your opposite."
"Well," hedges the Doctor, unable to fully agree, "to me it seems more like some of my...my less desirable traits were magnified in him or something. Though I must admit, some bits don't sound like me at all."
Rose comes close and touches his arm, and he looks up to find her expression full of sympathy and understanding. He's not fooling her. She knows why he's struggling to believe he's better than his twin. In the dark depths of her eyes is her wish for him to see himself as she does; her belief that she can love him enough to drown out all his self-hatred. Her fervent longing to tell him such things, to express them with words.
Or maybe just lips.
The Doctor's gaze drops to her mouth, the burn to kiss her raging through him as sudden and fierce as a wind-whipped fire. It's overwhelming and powerful, but hardly new- he knows how to fight it. He's got to fight it.
If only it didn't feel so much like his last chance.
But this is the moment when he breaks away, cracks a joke, except he doesn't. His eyes stay locked on her mouth, their persuasive power quickly convincing him to lean closer and closer. His selfish hearts are screaming for him to give them what they want, again.
Like he did on Mars.
The realisation shocks the Doctor like ice on his neck, and his eyes widen as they snap back to Rose's.
"What is it?" Rose looks a bit shocked too, probably due to his whiplash actions and the look on his face. "Doctor, what's wrong?"
It's on the tip of his tongue. I'm no better than him. I might even be worse. I'm no good for you. But the mere thought of voicing any of it scares him so much that it's all he can do to keep his body from visibly trembling. He clenches his fists, his stomach, his jaw.
"Okay," says Rose, and he's not sure he's ever heard her voice so gentle. "You don't have to say. But I can tell you're in pain. I can feel it. I really wish you'd tell me why. You can tell me anything, Doctor."
The Doctor forces some words out. "Not this," he says, and it comes out a whisper. "You'll hate me."
"I could never." Gaze stormy and fervent, Rose squeezes one of his icy hands between her warm ones. "You know that."
"You hate him."
He didn't mean to say it. When it hits his own ears, he feels as dismayed as Rose looks. And then, as understanding dawns in her eyes, he wants to run, but she tightens her hold on his hand. "Oh," she breathes. "Oh, Doctor. You are not him."
Jaw tight, he looks away.
Several long moments pass before Rose speaks again. "Something happened, didn't it? Something bad happened while you were alone."
It's so on target he can't help but flinch a little, at the same time marveling at how well she reads him. He gives her three words on the subject, and look what she draws out of it. Suddenly, irrationally worried that she's pulling the truth straight from his brain, the Doctor carefully tugs his hand from hers.
"Look," says Rose in a tone of utmost patience. "It's okay if you're not ready to talk. But we have to deal with this sometime."
"I know." His eyes find hers again. "And...I'll tell you. I promise."
"Okay." Rose rubs his forearm reassuringly. "But for now, I think you need a break. Why don't you get out what we need for dinner? I gotta pop to the loo."
When Rose leaves the room, taking her penetrating gaze with her, he shuts his eyes in silent thanks. Then, on autopilot, he opens the fridge and gets out tomatoes and a cucumber, trying to straighten out his jumbled up head. Kissing Rose would not have been a sin equal to what he'd done on Mars, reason now tells him, and it's true. At worst it would have been a presumption. But he's still angry with himself. His hearts are so stupid, and he hates that they're stronger than his head. Like, he knows he's got no choice but to tell Rose the truth, so why does he keep putting it off? It's not like delaying it will change the outcome any.
Why she's so patient with him, he doesn't know. And she shows him so much love that it's near impossible not to openly return it. As the Doctor pulls a package of raw chicken breasts out of the fridge, he thinks about that. It's a big part of what had made him nearly kiss her. Some of the tension leaves his stomach as he realises his motive wasn't entirely selfish.
Rose is his weak spot. The Doctor cannot understand how any male could be immune to her, much less his own duplicate. They've been here for how long now, eight months? The Doctor doubts he'd have made it eight days without begging her to marry him.
Although, Victor wasn't totally immune, was he? He had proposed, after all. Selfish and negligent as he's been, the man appreciates Rose enough that he wants to spend his life with her. They're alike in that respect.
The Doctor is busy seasoning the chicken when Rose returns to the room.
"Want me to cut up the tomato and cucumber? Did Dad get feta cheese to go with it?"
He shoots her a smile over his shoulder, trying to act as normal as he can. "Yes, look in the fridge, and I think there are kalamata olives as well. Think you can wield the knife without injuring yourself?"
"Can't promise. Though I've had lots of practise lately, since Victor is obsessed with salad. Can you imagine?" Rose says this in a dramatic way that the Doctor knows is meant to make him smile, but all it does is knot his stomach. Could some of his double's traits that Rose finds so intolerable be nothing more than the normal changes of taste and personality regeneration bring?
The Doctor turns to face her, careful not to touch anything with his chicken-contaminated hands. "Rose, you know he's technically a new regeneration, right? Even though he looks the same as me?"
She folds her arms and sighs. It's deep and exasperated. "Yes. He explained that to me the first day. I was joking, Doctor. His love of greens is not why I think he's not you."
"I'm sorry, Rose. I don't mean to keep casting doubt on what you've told me, it's just...like you said, I haven't been around him myself. I keep trying to account for his behaviour and I can't."
"Something is wrong with him. You just said that, yourself, a few minutes ago."
"It's only a hypothesis," he replies, turning back to the sink to wash his hands. "I've got no clue what might be wrong with him. Like, can you tell me again what made you suspicious of him so early on? Before you'd caught him lying to you?"
"It's hard to explain. Like I said before, it was mostly a gut feeling. A vibe."
"But you didn't notice it immediately."
"No. Like... on the beach, when I kissed him, it seemed right. Things were sort of awkward afterward, but even that was to be expected since we'd been apart for so long. The first week or two, he worked really hard to win me over, but...I dunno. Anyway, it was a while before we kissed again. And when we did…"
"What?" prods the Doctor, against his better judgment. He lets his hands linger under the warm running water and doesn't look at her, on the verge of combusting with jealousy.
It's a long beat before she answers. "Felt like he was into the kissing, but not that into me, personally."
Speechless, he shuts off the tap and turns to stare at Rose, towel in his hands. Another incomprehensible thing. Desperate as he is to kiss her himself, the Doctor knows his desire for physical intimacy is one-hundred-percent the result of their emotional closeness, the connected relationship they've built. Smushing mouths together just for smushing's sake holds zero appeal. It's a very human thing.
Hold on. Could that be part of the problem? What if his double was far more human than he'd admitted to?
One heart, no regenerating, but other than that, the Other had claimed his biology remained nearly eighty percent Gallifreyan. But what if he'd lied? Maybe he was ashamed.
Maybe he's too human to form a telepathic bond. The Doctor straightens, suddenly sure he's onto something. Of course. That might explain why he'd never mentioned it to Rose.
"It sounds stupid," Rose says, twisting her hands anxiously, and he knows he's been quiet too long. "But it's how I felt a lot of the time, like the vibe he gave off didn't match his words or actions. For example, when he'd talk about things that happened while I was gone, like the Year that Never Was, he acted like it was a struggle to tell me, but I could tell he was enjoying himself."
Rose's primary focus is on what's beneath the surface, the Doctor realises. She's been reading the energy, reading the 'vibe'. Correctly, too, if her insight into his own feelings a few minutes ago was anything to go by. Not that that was anything new. "You've always been very intuitive, when it comes to people."
"Not always," she replies, pulling out a chair and sitting on it. "Not when I was younger. When I first traveled with you, I got it wrong a lot. I had no clue Jack was a con artist. And do you remember Adam?"
She grins, but the Doctor's spine is tingling now and he can't pause on her little joke. "But at some point, you started being right most of the time, yeah? Do you remember when?"
Rose looks surprised. "No, not really."
"Was it after I regenerated?"
"I don't know, I never thought about it. Why all the questions?"
"Oh," he says with a tug of his ear, "I can't help but wonder if you've got an undiscovered superpower. You, Rose Tyler, may be an empath. Well, you are an empath, I've known that for a long time, but I think your abilities might be a lot stronger than what I realised."
She shrugs a little, smiling. "I've known that about myself for ages. I'm sensitive to what other people are feeling, yeah, but it's not that special. Lots of humans are empaths. There's tons of magazine quizzes about it and stuff."
"I'm talking about something beyond human ability, Rose. Yours…" he rests the heels of his hands on the countertop and leans back as another bit of evidence comes to mind. "Well, it seems to be on the level of someone whose species is naturally telepathic. Even your skin gives off the right sort of energy; I've noticed it for ages. I just didn't understand properly, I assumed it was because of our-" He cuts off, face heating as he realises what he'd nearly said out loud. Mutual attraction.
"Hold on- are you saying that travelling with you made my brain sort of...alien, or something?"
"Not alien. And travelling in the vortex wouldn't cause it," he goes on, pacing a bit as he thinks out loud. "Lots of people have travelled with me with no physical effect. But none of them," he pauses to look at her, "took the Time Vortex into their head like you did."
"But this is just a theory?"
"I suppose," he admits, though the adrenaline-fueled thrill going through him says he's right. "All the evidence points to it, though."
"Is there any way we can know for sure?"
"Oh yes, once we get back to the TARDIS I'll do some scans of your brain."
"Can't you check it now?" Rose wiggles her fingers at him. "Take a peek in my head, see what's going on?"
Heat floods his cheeks, and the only reply he can muster is an inarticulate "ehm." She doesn't know, she doesn't know, he chants inwardly, a vain attempt to remind his body that her offer is oh so innocent.
"Or...maybe not?" She's blushing now too, nearly as hard as he is, though the keen curiosity in her eyes and tone says she's not feeling much embarrassment of her own. "It's just, I've seen you do it with other people and I thought–"
"Right, but, well. This is different. Different than that."
"Oh, I didn't know. I'm sorry." Contrary to her words, Rose sounds more intrigued than apologetic, like she might even push the topic further, which sends so much heat through the Doctor that his gaze skips around the room, in frantic search of a change of subject.
"So, anyway…" Spotting the food he set out, he remembers with relief that they're supposed to be making supper. "Chicken! How do you like it best, Rose? Baked? Fried? Broiled? Ohh, I spotted a barbeque out back on the grass, it's a nice charcoal one too, I hate the ones that use propane, a person can always taste it on the food, ugh. Anyway, I can't remember the last time I've barbecued something. Actually, I'm not so sure I ever have, like to try it though, and we're plenty isolated out here, yeah? Unless the Tesi have outlawed barbeques; in that case I wouldn't want the smoke catching their attention or anything. Have they? Do you know?"
The Doctor winds up at the nearest window, and he peers up at the sky as if checking for Tesi patrol ships, though he hasn't seen a single one in the entire time they've been here. Rose doesn't answer his question(s), though, so he sneaks a look back at her.
She's watching him, brows slightly drawn. "Doctor, how long has it been since you've properly slept?"
His own brows pinch. "What?"
"Well, you seem a bit, I dunno, erratic. I can't help but wonder how much of it's due to exhaustion."
"I'm exhausted?" he scoffs, incredulous. "Like you can talk!'
"I think you should sleep tonight," Rose goes on, ignoring his rudeness. "Just for three or four hours. I'll stay up and keep watch."
The Doctor makes a face and dismisses her ridiculous offer with a wave of his hand. As if he'd ever agree to her skipping sleep tonight on his behalf. "Rose, I'm a-"
"Yes, you are," she interrupts, folding her arms and staring him down. "You're a Time Lord, so you need food and water and air and rest, just like every other living, corporeal being in the universe. And I also know how you like to neglect those needs to the point of ruin unless somebody's keepin' an eye on you."
Unable to counter this, the Doctor glares at Rose and Rose glares back, both of them trying to threaten the other to submit to being cared for. And then, at the same time, they begin to chuckle.
"I'm sorry," the Doctor says. "You're right, I know you are, it's just…I can't rest. Literally can't. I'm too worried. To fall asleep before this whole thing is sorted seems impossible."
"S'okay, Doctor, I get it. Believe me, I do. I didn't mean to get pushy about it. I sounded like my mum."
He smiles at her and shakes his head, then turns to raise the sash of the window. Cool, rain-washed air puffs against his face, and as he draws a deep breath of it he feels a little bit braver. "Rose?"
"Yeah?"
"It's not just because I haven't slept lately," he admits. "That's not the only reason I've been out of sorts."
Rose replies in a voice that is so, so gentle. "I know."
"You can't! There are laws against it, you told me that ages ago!"
Rose's boots drag up a cloud of red dust that floats around their helmets as, behind him, she digs her heels into the dirt. Her arms are circled tight around his waist in a silly, vain attempt to physically stop him. She knows he's stronger than her...although, she has no clue how much stronger. That's a Time Lord -what was the term she had used, superpower?- that he normally hides from the humans. Why does he do that, again?
Though he could easily shake her off he doesn't, he just continues to march back to the base. He wants her along, wants her to see this. To see him.
"There are Laws of Time," he replies, his voice dark and vehement as it transmits through the comms in their spacesuits. "Once upon a time there were people in charge of those laws, but they died. They all died, Rose! Do you know who that leaves? Me!"
He stops abruptly as he all but shouts the last word at her. Rose stumbles and loses her balance, but before she falls the Doctor halts Time, spinning to set her upright. From her perspective he knows it'll seem instantaneous, like she's suddenly safe within his arms due to Time Lord magic. Blimey, how impressive he must be.
Rose's eyes are indeed awestruck and fearful as they meet his gaze through the curved glass. "Do you see, Rose?" the Doctor continues, power swelling within him like a wave. "Do you get it yet? It's taken me all these years to realise the Laws of Time are mine, and they will obey me!"
She doesn't try to challenge him again. He stalks on; the base looms ever nearer and Rose has disappeared from view, though the Doctor can hear her calling after him. It's faint, though, two syllables drifting through air. The comms stay silent. Somehow he still smells her fear.
None of it matters, nothing can stop him. He will be –he is– Victorious.
The Doctor jerks upright, his eyes popping open.
He's not sure where he is, but it's not Mars. Rose's face fills his vision; she's inches away, her brow furrowed with worry. Her lips part, but he'll never know if she spoke. Hot energy still pulses hard through his body, a potent concoction of every emotion he owns, propelling him into motion. The next thing he's aware of is the night air chilling his sweaty skin as he bursts out the front door.
Across the porch and down the stairs, down the hill, he doesn't stop until he reaches the beach, uneven and damp and ice-cold through his socks. Panting, the Doctor collapses onto his knees, his palms slapping flat against the rough sand. Waves push and pull at the nearby shoreline, their rhythm slow, finding no syncopation with the erratic throb of his pulse.
All his power is spent, and all of his hope. His body is nothing more than a broken vessel, empty but for the grime of truth.
She couldn't stop him. Loving her hadn't made him any better, after all.
All at once, the object of those anguished thoughts drops down beside him and flings an arm over his curved back. "Hey," Rose whispers, her nose pressed against the side of his head. "You all right?"
The Doctor begins to shiver, from nerves and from the cold. He'd been dreaming, he knows that now. He remembers his amazement at winning the sleep debate, and Rose sulking a bit as she'd gone off to bed. He'd spent the last few hours alone on the sofa, piecing together his energy converter. What the Doctor does not recall is dozing off, but it doesn't matter. It had been no work of fiction his tired mind had conjured up. And it has given him what days of ruminating couldn't: terrible clarity.
One of Rose's warm hands drifts up the back of his neck. "That must've been some nightmare."
Stiffly, he lifts his hands from the sand and brushes them off. And then, still on his knees, he moves out of reach, unwilling to let her give him any more comfort. The Doctor darts a look at Rose. She's shivering too, knelt on the cold sand in her flannel pyjamas. "Go back to the house," he tries to command, though it comes out weak and shaky. "You'll freeze. I just need some air."
"Like I'm leavin' you out here alone," she mutters as she rises to her feet and stomps over. Rose grabs him by his upper arm. "C'mon."
The Doctor resists her pull. "I'm fine."
"It's the middle of the night, it's freezin', and you just ran out onto the beach in your socks in a panic," she retorts mercilessly. "You're not fine. So c'mon, shift. If you need air so badly we can sit on the porch."
Since he now knows he is fully capable of defying her entreaties, the Doctor is not all too sure how he ends up on the porch so quickly. Rose pushes him into one of the wicker chairs and then goes into the house, leaving the door ajar. When she returns moments later with two big plush blankets and drapes one over his shoulders, he tries to reject it.
All he gets for his trouble is a fierce glare. The Doctor fists the blanket shut with his trembling hands and grudgingly submits to its comfort.
In the other chair, Rose wriggles and shifts, until she's wrapped toes to nose in her own blanket. Then she looks at him. In the dim light spilling out from the house windows, her eyes are soft and compassionate once again, and it hurts him in a way her irritation could not. "All right," she says. "Now that we're both comfy, you can tell me what you were dreamin' about, if you want. And if you'd rather not, we can just sit here for a bit."
The Doctor stares out into the blackness. He has no hope now but the hope of pain, there will be no escape. All he wants now is for it to be done, for the guillotine to thump down and bring on blessed darkness.
"It wasn't really a dream," he makes himself say, and wonders if she can tell how badly he's shaking. "More like a flashback."
"From the War?"
"No." He fists great handfuls of the blanket and squeezes as hard as he can to ground himself. Anger boils up when his body refuses to settle, and it breaks apart the dam of fear within him. "But," the Doctor continues, his voice suddenly strong and heated, "speaking of, you do realise I've committed genocide, yeah? I survived the War because I ended it, Rose. By murdering billions."
He can tell she's caught off-guard. "Doctor, you didn't have a choice-"
"Didn't I?" he retorts through clenched teeth. "I'm no helpless victim, Rose. And unfortunately, I can't even claim to be stupid. Oh, no, if anything I'm far too clever. I always know exactly what I'm doing."
No longer cold, the Doctor throws the blanket off and shifts in his seat, fixing Rose in a direct, intense gaze as he hurls the truth at her. "I've done things that are far, far worse than anything my other self has done. Conquering one little bitty planet is nothing."
Instead of recoiling like he expects, Rose narrows her eyes at him. "Oi. Time out. M'willing to hear anything you wanna say, but you need to calm down a bit first."
The Doctor breathes through flared nostrils, rubbing his damp palms on his jeans. "This is the calmest I've been since I got here. Till now, I've been too much of a coward to tell you the truth."
He bends forward over his lap, gripping his knees. "You've been convinced I'm not him because you're under the delusion that I'm a good person. But I'm not. I'm not. You've spent a few months on the slow path with my double, with me, and now you've seen what I'm really like when I don't have all of time and space to distract myself with!"
"You're wrong, Doctor," says Rose reproachfully, and he jumps up from his chair, furious that she's not getting it.
"I'm not merely like him, Rose, I am him! Same mind, same thoughts, same history, right up till when we split into two, and not all that different afterward. So what if he made himself King of the Earth? I made myself into a god of Time!"
He's towering over her almost menacingly now, and though Rose holds his gaze without flinching she doesn't reply. Lips tight, she looks very near tears, and it's like a knife in his hearts. Turning away, the Doctor paces to the edge of the porch, where he grips the railing for support, unable to go any further. Everything cages him in: this porch, the darkness, the moonlit sea.
"I'm sorry," he says bleakly. "But… you need to know I can't be trusted. I've got all this power, and I'm meant to use it to protect Time, but instead I tried to subjugate it. I tried to rule it. Even called myself the Time Lord Victorious," he adds, laughing brokenly. "So please, don't tell me I'm nothing like bloody Victor. If anything, I'm worse."
A curious numbness creeps over the Doctor as his words hang in the air like noxious fumes. Only the sea responds, rumbling and crashing, unconcerned with the vile confession it's just borne witness to. It's over, he thinks, and feels nothing. It's over. It's over.
And then he hears Rose getting out of her chair.
She'll walk away from him next. Go back into the house, into her bedroom. She'll lock her door. Call her mum.
If he stays out here, will he be able to hear her crying?
The Doctor sags over the railing, swallowing thickly as a dreadful heat builds behind his eyelids. In the back of his mind, he knows he can't fall apart now, this world still needs him. But for the life of him, he can't remember why.
When he feels a light touch to his spine, the Doctor jumps a mile. "Sorry," says Rose, and such a word from her mouth at this moment startles him even more than her touch. "I didn't mean to scare you."
All he can do is stare at Rose. Tears shine in her eyes, but no horror lurks behind them, no disgust. "You're so sure I'm gonna hate you," she says, laying a warm hand over one of his icy ones. "So I'm making sure you know I don't."
"You don't?" he croaks.
"Of course I don't."
For several crazed seconds, he thinks back, wondering what he'd missed telling her. "I tried to conquer Time. I thought I had the right to break any fixed point I wanted, and, and a woman had to kill herself to stop me and set things right again, and-"
"Shh," she hushes him. "I heard you, I get it. You made a big mistake." Her hand squeezes his to the point of pain. "But that doesn't mean you're not a good person. Being a good person...it doesn't mean you always do good things, or make good decisions. It's about your intent. How you feel about it, after. Victor… s'like he's proud of the bad things he's doing. All he wants is for his cleverness to be seen and admired, for people to know that they're less than him. You're not like that, Doctor. Not ever. I don't know the whole story, I don't know what made you try to be a...Time Lord Victorious, or whatever. But I am sure that your motive was good. I know it, because I know you."
His throat swells and burns and he sniffs, wiping at his eyes.
"C'mon," whispers Rose. "Come sit, and we'll talk about it."
In a daze of disbelief, the Doctor follows her, returning to his chair. This can't be real.
Rose picks up his blanket from the porch floor, and then, instead of returning to her own seat, wedges herself sideways into the narrow gap beside him and slings her legs over his. His right arm, having nowhere else to go, curls around her low back while she flings the blanket over them both.
Oh yes, he's definitely hallucinating.
"Can you tuck it around my feet?" she asks, and he does. They're bare, cold as little ice-blocks.
"Tell me the whole story, Doctor," she says, resting her cheek against his shoulder.
He nods, but is wholly unsure where to start. Rose seems to sense this, and helps him out with a question. "Where did it happen?"
"On Mars."
"Mars, really? What'd you go there for?"
A ghost of a smile finds his lips. "For fun." The smile fades. "Because I'd been warned that I was going to regenerate again soon. I was doing everything I could to avoid it."
To his amazement, Rose doesn't pursue that, just nods in silent encouragement to continue.
And so, over the next half hour, the Doctor tells her of Bowie Base One, how it was not only the wrong place for him to be, but the absolute worst time. He tells her of Adelaide Brooke and the others, of how helpless he'd felt on walking away and leaving them to die.
"I tried to leave, but I couldn't do it. I was nearly to the TARDIS and I turned around and headed back, convincing myself with every step that it was the right thing to do. That I had the right to do it, to intervene with the fixed event, because there were no Time Lords left to stop me. So I saved Adelaide and Mia and Yuri, and I took them back to earth in the TARDIS. I was so arrogant, Rose." The Doctor drags a hand down his face. "I scared them all to death and I liked it. I even asked them why they weren't thanking me."
"Doesn't sound like you," is all Rose says. Her legs still hang over his, heavy and warm and wonderful.
"The two younger ones, they ran off, but not Adelaide. She knew I'd done wrong… it was almost like she could sense that I was at the start of a terrible path. She was right, too. There were so many things I intended to do. Save Donna. Stop the Master. Prevent my next death." He peeks at her from the corner of his eye. "Rescue you at Canary Wharf."
Rose hums. "Course you were. Anybody would want to undo those sorts of losses, if they had the power to do. I made the same mistake myself, when I tried to save my dad's life."
"That's not the same thing. You didn't know what you were doing."
"I did. You told me it was wrong to muck with established events, but I didn't listen cos I loved my dad and I wanted him safe. You broke that fixed point because you didn't want people to die, Doctor. You weren't after power or money or fame. And if you had broke some laws of time to rescue me or Donna, it would be because you missed us and wanted us to be happy."
The Doctor is silent, thinking about that, testing her words to see if they ring true. He can't deny how it had gutted him to give Rose up to his double, but he'd done it so she could be happy. And when he thinks of restoring Donna's memories, all he sees in his mind's eye is her joyous expression on realising she's herself again. But it's still hard to believe what Rose is telling him. He's always seen himself as an incredibly self-centered being.
"If any of that's true, I learned it from you," he says at last.
"No." Rose lifts her head from his shoulder. "You are a good person. You. I didn't put it in you, or make you grow it or something, I just see it. It wasn't the reason I decided to go travelling with you, but it's the reason I decided to stay." Taking a hand from beneath the blanket, she cups his cheek, coaxing him to look her in the eye. "It's why I promised to stay with you forever."
Sincerity radiates from her, her eyes and voice are full of it, but something in him, some fear or hunger, needs more. On impulse, the Doctor lays his hand over hers on his face and drop his psychic shields, then nearly gasps. Energy, crimson with heat, spills into him in torrents- Rose means what she says, fiercely, passionately. And her wish for him to believe it too borders on desperation.
It engulfs him for a moment, forcing him to see himself through her eyes. And what he sees is not a villain nor a hero, but a man with bruises and scars. A man she loves and trusts despite his failings.
Is it really asking so much, that he adopts her view? If Rose thinks he can be this man, is this man, why should he argue? Even if he's not a good person, she makes him want to be. And that's got to count for something.
"Are you feeling my feelings right now?" she asks suddenly.
Shocked, he drops his hand off hers and flings his shields back into place. "You could tell?"
Rose rolls her eyes, and removes her palm from his cheek. "Empath, remember?"
"Yeah," he replies, breathless. "It's how you knew who Victor was inside didn't match up with his outside."
"No, it wasn't. I felt so much happiness from him in the beginning, and I still knew he wasn't you. Because I know you."
She's said it so many times, but this time it's an arrow that pierces his layers of doubt, and he begins to believe. Rose knows him. She knows that he alone is her Doctor, and his double, despite outward appearances, is not his double. As his eyes well, the Doctor grabs Rose, pulling her fully onto his lap to hug her tight. Rose clings to him just as fiercely.
"I'm not leavin' you," she murmurs, and he believes that too. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears escaping to dampen her hair as he buries his nose in its soft sweetness. It's beginning to hit him, the magnitude of what it means, what he has in his arms right now, how close he came to not having it. He shouldn't even be in this world, a fact he's hardly paused to question. He should never have known...
The Doctor shivers and clutches her tighter, as sudden fear chills him to the bone. It was too close a call.
"What's wrong?" Rose asks, pulling back.
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking of the 'what if's'."
She gives him a small smile, understanding. "Torchwood would've stopped Victor eventually."
"I know, it's not that. I just…" The Doctor tips his head back against the top edge of the chair. "What if I'd come even a few days later? What if you'd already been married to him?"
"Even if I had, it wouldn't have meant anything, except as a strategy to try and save the world. I certainly wouldn't have felt obligated to stay with him."
Her easy dismissal of the issue sends another shudder of fear through him. Such naivety might have ruined her life; he's been a fool to leave her in ignorance. "Gallifreyan marriage is permanent, Rose," the Doctor tells her, apology in his eyes. "That's how it is for every telepathic species. You've seen me form temporary psychic links with people, I know, but it's very, very different when a certain sort of connection is first made with someone we...with a mate. It's sacred and binding, unbreakable. Literally 'till death do us part.'"
Long moments pass in silence as Rose takes that in, eyes fixed on the distant sea. She's as still as he's ever seen her.
"You alright?" he queries gently.
She nods, brows and lips pinched. "Yeah, course. I just wish you'd told me sooner."
"I know, I'm sorry. That's why I'm so incredibly thankful Victor didn't...well. Take advantage."
Rose puts a hand to her mouth. "Victor– he never told me either. He asked me to marry him and he never… he couldn't bind me like that without askin' me, could he?"
"Well…" The Doctor grimaces. "He shouldn't, of course. It would be wrong, incredibly wrong."
"What, so only his bloody conscience would prevent- no, I can't think about it, it's too awful. And there's no point in worrying about it, yeah?" Rose shakes her head. "It's over. I'll never have to pretend to like him again, much less marry him."
"Right. But I am glad he's had so much to hide, if it's what's kept him out of your head. Although, I've been wondering if it's more that he's a bit too human to initiate a psychic bond. His telepathy might've been reduced in the metacrisis."
"Oh, really? What makes you think that?"
Mostly, it's her earlier comment 'he's into the kissing but not that into me personally', but as he's trying to think up a tactful way to repeat it, a dreadful thought occurs to the Doctor. If Victor's not all that telepathic, yet enjoys kissing for kissing's sake...oh, oh no. Normally full intimacy, both physical and mental, would only happen after the marital bond was formed, but if Victor wasn't bound by that law, what was to stop the unscrupulous man from pressuring Rose into doing...well, more than she wanted? Would she have felt she had to, to keep up the facade?
"Well," he replies, hearts beating hard, "most Time Lords wouldn't be as into...physical affections, like you mentioned he was."
"Right," she agrees, finality in the word. It's obvious Rose does not want to discuss it. He should drop it.
He can't. "Rose. You said he liked kissing you...did he pressure you into, well, more?"
Painful seconds tick by, and the Doctor holds his breath. Rose looks confused and he's not sure why. His question, whilst awkward, was fairly clear.
"Oh," she says at last. "You think because he's part human he might have wanted to...no. No, I think he's still too Time Lord for that. Thankfully," she tacks on, under her breath.
Now he's the confused one. "Too Time Lord? What does that mean?"
Rose gazes off into the night. "Don't be thick."
"I'm not. I genuinely don't know what you mean."
She begins to fiddle with the blanket nervously, which scares him. "God, you're going to make me spell it out? I thought I explained this already, when we were riding in the back of the lorry. Victor told me why you left me with him."
The Doctor remembers this conversation. But he hadn't understood it at the time, and he still doesn't. "Right. And why was that, again?"
"Oh my god." Rose tugs up the blanket and buries her face in it. "Just that," she says, muffled, "you believed I wanted a romantic relationship with you, and since you weren't willing to pursue that with a human, you felt it was unfair to me. He said you were certain I'd get fed up with you before long, and you'd always planned on leaving me here with my mum, even before he got made."
She looks up at him, cheeks flaming. "But that's the thing, that's why you should've asked, because I never expected that sort of relationship with you. I was fine, I was happy. The limits were always clear, and I made my choice with my eyes open. And I don't think I acted like some" -her lips tighten- "needy girlfriend."
As all becomes clear, only Rose's weight on his lap keeps the Doctor seated. Otherwise he's sure he'd be mounting his motorbike and riding off into the night, single-mindedly intent on slamming his fist into Victor's cruel mouth. "Did he say I called you that?"
"More or less." Rose shrugs, and then notices his enraged expression. "What?"
The Doctor draws a long breath, trying to calm down a little. "Rose. If you know Victor is such a liar, why would you believe him about that?"
"I dunno...he said it was good for us to be brutally honest with each other."
"Brutal honesty," he scoffs. "That's a term cruel people use to justify sharing a thing they know will hurt you, for no reason other than they want to hurt you. Even if what he told you had been true, there was no call for him to share it. I was gone."
"So…" Scratching at the blanket with a fingernail, Rose does not look at him. "Are you saying it's not true?"
The Doctor pauses to breathe and focus on Rose, not wanting his Victor-directed fury to colour how he answers her. "It's not true," he replies, emphasising each word. "I left you with him because I believed he could give you things I couldn't, like a life near your family. He could grow old with you, and you'd never have to worry about him changing his face. I genuinely thought you'd be happier with him. That said, it wasn't like I wanted you to go, and certainly not because I felt you had inappropriate expectations." He gives her a rueful look. "If there was a needy person in our relationship, it was probably me."
This gets a small laugh out of Rose. "So," she says and eyes him; he can tell she's mustering her courage. "What would've happened had he not been created? If you weren't about to kick me off the TARDIS?"
"Well, I would've talked to you, I suppose. Made sure you really wanted to stay with me, before it was too late to go home with your mum. And if you said you did, well…you would've stayed." He shrugs, though he's beginning to feel quite overwhelmed. How is it that he's sitting here with Rose in his arms –on his lap, no less– with nothing, not even his own ugly secrets, threatening to wrench them apart? Talk about uncharted waters. It's as frightening as it is thrilling, yet all the Doctor wants is to drift out further, sink even deeper.
"And then what? I say goodbye to my mum, and go back to the TARDIS with you and Donna?"
"Yeah." The Doctor slowly exhales. "And then we drop Donna off home, just for a spell. Not because I'd've forced her to, mind, but I reckon she would've asked. She's...considerate like that."
"And then it's just us, just like before?"
"Yeah."
Rose nods. When she does not prompt him with another 'and then', the Doctor thinks he might go mad. Outwardly, it seems like all he's doing is reassuring her, explaining what might've happened for them along the road not taken, yet somehow they are taking it, right here, right now. They've stumbled back onto that idyllic, golden road and there's a bend just ahead. He's desperate to discover what waits beyond it. Isn't she?
"And then," he finds himself saying, "I take the TARDIS back into the vortex. And then it's just... quiet, and...I look at you. I can't believe you're real, that you're with me, because I'm not ever that lucky."
Rose's breathing quickens, more anxious than anticipatory. But he can't stop. "And then it's starting to hit me, what a gift I've been given, the second chance I'd dreamed of. And then, since I'd long before made up my mind that if I ever got another chance, I wouldn't waste it, I'd..."
Hearts hammering, the Doctor slides his hand along Rose's jaw, cups her head, and leans in, pausing to give her a chance to draw away. But he knows she won't. He feels it, how this kiss is at the join of all roads- it happens here, but also in the TARDIS as he's just described, it happens as they reunite on a wrecked street, on an impossible planet. While they're dancing in a rundown hospital.
His lips capture hers, at first soft and prolonged like a held breath, like the launch of a roman candle. But when Rose whimpers, fisting his jumper as she draws his bottom lip fully into her mouth, the Doctor ignites. His other hand finds her face, angling her head as the kiss explodes into fire and colour and life.
Oh, he's never known a hunger like this. Such a sweet ache, all longing and heat and a fervent push-pull of mouths, and as seconds become minutes he only wants more of her, all the stars could burn out and he won't have had enough. The Doctor curls an arm around her and the kiss opens, becoming slower, deep and wet yet still wholesome; nothing carnal or empty about it. Because this is love come alive, passionate and oh so personal.
The blanket slips to the floor, allowing chill night air to seep into their little bubble, which forces the Doctor to recall their current situation. Sort of. He's drunk on her like he's had a dozen ginger beers, but there are issues to be settled. This has gone as far as it can go. With effort, he slows and then breaks the kiss, slitting his eyes open.
Rose's lips are swollen and very red, he notices, as is the skin all around them. His fingers go to his rough, unshaven chin. "Sorry," he murmurs as he skims a fingertip past the corner of her mouth, though he regrets absolutely nothing.
"Are you?"
She's genuinely asking, and with a pang the Doctor realises how thick he's been. Too caught up in his own problems to notice how terribly insecure she's been feeling. "Only for the stubble-burn," he tells her sincerely as he draws a gentle thumb down her chin.
"But you said...earlier, you made it sound like this sort of thing–" Rose flutters a hand, no doubt in reference to the kiss that still burns on his lips– "was sort of a big deal."
"It is." He holds her gaze with steady warmth. "You are."
Rose flushes redder, looking like she hardly believes him.
"Rose, you must know..." The Doctor shakes his head, frustrated that the words aren't springing to his lips, and then he spots the chain at her neck. Tugging her TARDIS key out from beneath her pyjama shirt, he rubs it between thumb and forefinger, remembering what it means, hoping it will empower him. And it does. "I'm in love with you."
He gets only a glimpse of her glistening eyes before Rose tips forward, burying her face in his chest. But from the way she grips him tight, he knows he's said the exact right thing for once. He kisses her forehead, once, twice. "You okay?"
"What a daft question," she says, breath hot at his throat. Then she leans back, wipes her eyes, and gives his shoulder a little smack. "I just never thought you'd say it, that's all."
"Well, believe it or not, I meant to, long before today."
"Did you?" she murmurs. Still with a tiny bit of doubt.
"I was going to say it on Bad Wolf Bay, I really was. I can't tell you how angry I was with myself, running out of time like that." The Doctor scratches his neck. "I know it seems hard to believe, a Time Lord losing track of time, however, if any of my people were still around they'd be quick to tell you I was never their finest specimen."
Rose laughs, her eyes shining as she brushes his hair off his forehead. It's a tender, loving gesture and he enjoys it, but it also disappoints him because he's feeling rather needy. Again. "Do you have anything you'd like to say to me?" the Doctor prods casually. "I don't know, it might even be something like 'muhahaha, I've finally got you right where I want you–"
Rose gives his earlobe a little flick, and laughs again. "I love you too, silly man. Thought I told you that already."
"Well, I'm no expert, but it seems like a thing that can be said more than once."
"That a promise?" Eyes very dark, Rose leans in and presses a short, sweet kiss to his lips. A little flint-spark to kindling that very nearly catches fire. What another spark like that might do to him, the Doctor doesn't know, but he doesn't dare chance finding out. His feelings for her have long been a formidable force, but now, allowed into the open, he's got to admit: they've completely mastered him. His self-control is threadbare, and he badly needs some physical distance. Even if he doesn't like it.
"Let's go back inside where it's warm," he suggests, and they do.
"Oh, did you finish your energy converter?" Rose plonks onto the sofa and leans forward to examine his little project, which now looks rather octopus-like with all the exhaust tubing he'd had to add. Then she looks up at him with those big, dark, thickly-lashed eyes of hers, and pats the neighbouring cushion in invitation.
"Yep, just about." Hovering awkwardly on the opposite side of the coffee table, the Doctor shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I was thinking we ought to head back to the TARDIS tomorrow."
Rose beams at this news. "Really?"
"Yeah. Even if we don't have enough information to take to the Shadow Proclamation yet, we'll be safer. We'll hide out somewhere in a neighboring galaxy."
"Brilliant." Still smiling, she pats the sofa again. "Come sit with me."
His hands fist tight in his pockets. "I think you should go to bed," he says apologetically. "It's nearly four in the morning."
"M'fine. I'd rather stay up with you."
"Yeah, I know, it's just…" Puffing his cheeks out, he exhales, and then gives her a lopsided smile. "That's the problem. I want that too, but what I need is for you to go to bed, okay? Alone," he adds quickly, at the first sign of her smirk. "If you stay up," –his hands come up and he begins to gesture agitatedly– "I don't know if I can… I mean, I need to make the final adjustments to the converter but I'm not sure if I'd be able to focus, not if you–" Shaking his head, the Doctor stops, takes a breath, and then blows it out again. "Right now, all I want to do is kiss you. That's all I can think about."
Rose's eyes darken in an instant, and the Doctor looks away, his face hot. "But it won't do, having things between us get out of hand. This is so new… and we need to talk about some things. Important things. I want you to understand exactly what you're getting into with me. Before you're into it."
Glancing back, he finds Rose is getting up from the sofa. "Okay, I'll go to bed," she says easily, fine to respect his limits now that she knows what they are. "But I just want you to know, I've already made my choice. Nothing's gonna change my mind about you."
"Difficult things are going to happen," the Doctor replies soberly. "Life with me, it won't be easy. I may very well regenerate again soon."
"I don't care about that," Rose retorts, even though there's obvious pain on her face. "I mean, of course I don't want that to happen, but I don't care what face you're wearing so long as you stay you."
"I always will," he starts to say, and then frowns. What is Victor, if not proof he's already broken that promise? And yet, though he's been so many men in his centuries of life, he's always, always been himself. He can sense them yet, still rattling around up in his head, and not one is anything like that metacrisis.
Something has to be wrong with him.
From the depths of his mind a voice abruptly surfaces, a remnant of a long-ago dream. A prophecy. It echoes with threat. When your strength is at its lowest, I will reach out. I will reach out from the recesses of your subconscious, and seize your body.
"No," gasps the Doctor, hands flying to his head. "How did I not…"
"What is it?" Rose steps toward him hurriedly. "Doctor, what's wrong?"
"He's not me," he says, staring at Rose as he sinks into an armchair, knees gone wobbly with horror and shock. Oh god, he'd left her with him. "Victor. He's not me. He's the Valeyard."