Author's Note: As always, I don't own Doctor Who and this chapter is unbeta'd. Please let me know what you think! :) –AMouse
##############################################################################
In the weeks that followed Rose and the Doctor spent a great deal of time doing very little of anything. Rose was on mandatory bed rest – and she rested a lot – so when she was awake, the Doctor would make sure he was always there with something to keep them entertained.
They spent hours playing board games: Monopoly, poker, Cards Against Humanity – the Doctor found that while Rose quickly became bored with strategy games, she excelled at anything which required the use of creativity or memory, and though he was loath to admit it, her poker face was much better than his.
When the Doctor had grown tired of losing poker, he'd had the TARDIS convert one of her bedroom walls into a hologram screen, and the two had cozied up in her bed and his chair, their feet intersecting at the ankle on the end of the bed, and they'd watched dozens of movies.
One night Rose had woken up without the Doctor there; this wasn't wholly unusual. However, when ten minutes had passed and he still hadn't come sauntering in with his usual single knock, wait five seconds, open the door, she'd grown concerned. The Doctor always knew when Rose was awake – she suspected the old girl kept him informed.
"Where's your pilot, hm," she asked the TARDIS, giving the coral near her headboard a little caress.
She got a reassuring hum in response, followed by a mental picture of the Doctor tinkering in his workshop. Scattered around him were strips of metal, something that looked like a fancy welding iron, and in the corner of the room behind the Doctor's bench was a toaster graveyard that was at least three feet high.
"You're right, don't bother him girl – think he deserves a moment to himself."
The TARDIS hummed again in affection and a book appeared on her nightstand.
It was Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
The Harry Potter books were Rose's very favorite. Long before she'd run away with a mad alien in a sentient time machine she'd escaped into the pages of the Wizarding World. Growing up on the estates wasn't an easy thing to do, even if you were smart and had loving parents.
An estate kid learned early in life how to get by and whom to avoid. Rose had never been smart but she did have a loving mum, and she'd been lucky. She'd stayed away from the gangs and drugs, and apart from her time with Jimmy Stone when she'd dropped out of school and ended up in debt, she'd never let that part of estate life touch her – she'd wanted more.
It was during her time with Jimmy that she's first picked this book up. There was no television in the bedsit they were living in and Jimmy always got home from band practice late, with the stench of alcohol permeating his skin and clothes.
##############################################################################
Rose had been walking home slowly after her day at work when she'd decided on a whim to make a left and stop at the used book store, thinking if nothing else it would pass the time. 'Plus, just because I dropped out of school doesn't mean I can never pick up a book again.'
The shop was small and cluttered. Books lined the shelves along the walls, were stacked on top of the shelves and the two coffee tables, they rose like columns from the floor wherever there was space.
There weren't many people in the shop. A grey-haired woman behind the counter was arguing good-naturedly with a girl of perhaps thirteen with purple and black hair. A man of about twenty was sprawled out in between one of the rows of books. He was surrounded by a travel mug and a pile books, at least three of them were open, and he was taking avid notes. The three well-worn chairs in the shop corner near the window were occupied. None of the furniture matched; both coffee tables were made of different wood, two of the chairs were green, the one where a man in an oxford and tie sat had yellow stripes, the other had blue diamonds and a woman wearing business casual attire, her chestnut hair piled back in a tight bun; she sat reading, occasionally she poked at the man in the tie to incite him to turn his laptop in her direction.
From the third chair rose a small balding man with brown hair and a wide toothy smile. Grabbing hold of a coffee mug he navigated the mine field of stray books covering the floor in short piles and ended a few feet in front of her.
"You're new?" He had a slight accent which she couldn't place, when he'd said it, it had sounded like a question, but Rose had the feeling he hadn't been asking.
She nodded at him. "How'd you know?"
"Because this is my shop and I've never seen you. Also, because you've been standing at the doorway for a full minute taking inventory," he joked. She gave him a small chuckle, though it fell flat on her ears. He spread his arms out wide and took a step back. "So, what do you think?"
"It's lovely," she said after a moment. "Feels sorta homey, you know? Comfortable."
He'd smiled at her like she'd said exactly the right thing. It was a soft smile and Rose felt herself warming up to the eccentric man in the eccentric shop. "Yes," he sighed happily.
He took a step to the side and ushered her into the store further, seeming to understand her need for space. Leading her over to the spot behind the counter where the girl and lady were still arguing Rose noticed the coffee station set up in a little nook. He motioned for her to help herself, and feeling somewhat bashful but allowing herself to be led by the man's disarming personality, she made her way over to it. Built into one side of the counter was a small stainless steel sink. To the right of the sink were a tea kettle on a hot plate and an old percolator. A pile of different teas had been pushed off to the side of the counter, and above it all, as mismatched as the rest of the shop, mugs dangled from their handles awaiting use.
Needing no more encouragement, Rose had chosen a light blue one with navy flowers. She turned on the hot plate and set about preparing her tea as she liked it, finding milk in a little fridge under the counter. When the kettle clicked off she poured the water and picked up her cup before turning to face the room.
"Anything in particular you wish to find?"
He seemed to be scrutinizing her; she shook her head uncomfortably, and said nothing for a long time. "Just trying to pass the time."
He kept studying her. She knew what he must see. Estate chav. Bleached hair in need of a touch-up, eye make-up too dark, clothes too worn and baggy. Eventually he walked away.
She took a few steps to follow him, but decided against it – instead she began perusing the books near the front of the shop. She found them to be in no particular order and wondered how anyone ever found anything.
Less than five minutes had passed before the store owner returned to her side, holding a book out for her to take.
"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," she read. She'd heard of it vaguely but had never had any interest in picking it up, or any other book for that matter, until she'd dropped out.
"Five dollars. You take it home, you read it. If you like it you keep it, if you don't like it, you get your five dollars back."
"Why this book," she was curious. He'd clearly sought out this book for her specifically. And he seemed so sure of himself.
When he answered her his smile had been sad and knowing. "We all need to escape into fantasy from time to time," he'd pushed the book into her arms and then disappeared quickly into a back room.
Rose had paid for the book and left. She'd read the entire first book in two nights, while she waited up for Jimmy to get home. A week after she'd finished the first book he hadn't come home at all and she'd decided to go back to the little used book store for the next book.
She'd learned a lot of the owner of the shop during her many visits. His name was David Peterson. He'd had a family, but they'd died in a car accident when his son and daughter were six and two. Mr. Peterson had read almost every book that had come into his used book store, and more—and he had the uncanny ability to match the book to the person.
She read the Harry Potter books too quickly, and when she had finished them she'd been discontent. She wanted to know what happened next; she wanted to read slower and savor the words, she wanted to read faster so she could read more and more.
Mr. Peterson understood this too. He likened it to the swoop of your heart in your stomach when you drop quickly on the London Eye, but sad instead of pleasant.
He'd chosen Harry Potter well; even as they moved on from Harry Potter to Jane Eyre and Jane Austen, to Shakespeare and Poe and Robert Frost, Rose had found herself imagining Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. For the first time in sixteen years she was enchanted by something—she felt like the words were a part of her, they gave her strength.
Until the first time Jimmy hit her. Brave women in books like Hermione and Elizabeth Bennet would never tolerate violence from the people they loved, but Rose had been frozen in shock and shame. She was an estate girl and she had let him get this far. She didn't leave when he stayed out late with the band, or when he came home smelling like marijuana and vodka, not even when he'd come home with lipstick and eye make-up smeared all over his shirt. She let him yell and talk down to her, even as she paid for the bedsit they lived in.
Her inaction had led him to believe he could get away with hurting her. And when he'd finally gotten drunk enough to try she had been too shocked to do anything more than cry and lock herself in the bathroom. Where else could she go when her mother and Mickey wouldn't speak to her?
She'd believed him when he'd apologized in the morning and for a while their relationship had been better than ever—then he'd done it again. And he'd kept doing it until he barely needed alcohol in his blood to provoke an assault. Rose had buried the damage behind make-up and books and told herself it would all be okay once Jimmy's band made it.
She'd known better though. It was a night in late August that he'd come home earlier than usual, totally sober. Normally she would have been relieved, but from the moment she had left Mr. Peterson's shop that evening she'd had a feeling of intense foreboding.
Jimmy slammed the door shut and locked it. He walked wordlessly toward the bed and reached under it – Rose's heart swooped to her stomach – and pulled out a small wooden chest filled with her books. From his back pocket he pulled out her copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and his flask.
He dropped the book on the pile with the rest, opened his flask and took a long swig before pouring the rest of the contents into her treasure chest. She'd begun to cry quietly as she watched him, but she made no move to stop him. She watched as he bent down with his lighter and set her books aflame.
Once they'd been reduced to mostly ash Jimmy had turned on her with unclouded eyes. He stalked toward her, yelling about her stupidity, her wastefulness, her squandering. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her face close to his, demanding to know how she could dare judge him for his drinking when she was wasting all of her money on shitty books.
He threw her into their table, which skidded across the floor and into the wall and caused one of the chairs to clatter to the scuffed linoleum. "Why can't you do anything useful," he asked before slamming her head against the wood.
He spun her around and punched her in the face, then again. Blood filled her mouth and her jaw had dislocated. He grabbed her again and pulled her off the table, shoved her in the direction of the bed and kicked her when she didn't move quickly enough.
She stumbled to the ground with a shout and he kicked her again and again. She kept crying for him to "please stop, Jimmy…Jimmy! Jimmy, stop! PLEASE!" But he kept going until unconsciousness began to creep in.
He pulled her up off the floor and threw her onto the bed, and for one paralyzing moment she thought—but he didn't. Instead, he pulled out a switch blade and held it to her neck, taunting her with it. He dragged it along her arms and collar bone like a caress and allowed his body to rub up against her battered body so she could feel for herself the pleasure he'd gleaned from tormenting her. Eventually he returned the sharp blade to her neck and added just enough pressure to draw a thin line of blood. By that time her terror had mounted to high she hadn't even felt any pain.
She was sure now that this would be how she died—if not tonight then tomorrow, or the next. She didn't want to die like this—sixteen-years-old, almost seventeen; she'd never done anything or gone anywhere. She hadn't talked to her family or friends in months.
She'd fallen unconscious still screaming at Jimmy, with him pinned above her, erection pressed against her thigh, cooing her name lovingly, with an acidic smile, every time she'd cried for him to stop.
##############################################################################
It had been eleven days since Torchwood and Rose's body was healing surprisingly well, even considering all the help the TARDIS's vast stores of medical equipment had been able to offer. She still spent most of her time lying in bed… at his request, but sometimes the Doctor helped Rose into the hover chair, and for the last two days he'd helped her stretch her legs. She'd grown tired rather quickly and had slept for the remainder of the night cycle each time.
That's why her thief was sulking in his workshop now, to let her rest…at least that's what he had told himself, but she knew better. Seeing Rose injured and unable to leave her bed for a five minute walk (if it could even be called that) without depleting all her energy left him feeling distinctly ill. He'd spent most of his time in that room with her and required a moment to himself. He wished to pretend that at any moment she may come skipping in, asking him to take her somewhere 'impressive.' She wouldn't have enough energy to skip off to another adventure for another three weeks if her progression stayed consistent—but just two weeks ago, Rose and her thief had been running.
The TARDIS had been disappointed in him since the battle. She'd made her opinion on his cowardice known and her conversations with him had been short at best since the loud one had come and gone. She knew what her thief was thinking: that she had aligned herself with Rose and every time the Doctor had tried to explain himself the TARDIS had become defensive, like he was just some bloke that had broken her daughter's heart and not her 'bloody pilot'—still, he'd eventually given up trying.
Still, when her Rose's sleep cycle was nearing its end, or she needed something the TARDIS could not give her, she would tell her thief and he would always come. So when suddenly the lights in his workshop dimmed and the TARDIS hummed intently, sending a mental push and a picture of Rose's closed door to hurry him, her grumpy pilot pushed himself up off his chair. Irritated that his alone time had been put to an end and dreading having to pretend he was totally unaffected by seeing Rose veritably bed-ridden, the Doctor shuffled slowly off in the direction of her room.
The TARDIS wasn't happy with such slow progression. When her insistent humming yielded no increase in pace, she concentrated some of her power on making the endless corridor shorter. 'When little red will not go to the Wolf's den, the Wolf's den must be brought to little red.'
In her haste to get him to Rose, and possibly because her private joking had lapsed her concentration, the TARDIS hadn't managed to bring the door all the way to the Doctor. She had brought it within two-hundred meters, and as soon as her thief had realized this, he'd taken off.
Satisfied that he would now make it to Rose on his own, the TARDIS allowed her consciousness to drift for a time. She thought of the origins of folk lore on the many planets she had landed on in her time and those she would land on in her future; each story has a source, she knows. The witch in Hansel and Gretel was an absorbaloff; the witch in Snow White was a Carrionite. Inside her right now were the two most feared creatures of all. The greatest warrior in the universe, the Oncoming Storm, Time's Champion—and the physical manifestation of time—a wolf trapped in girl's clothing. She wasn't the Wolf yet, not really. Maybe she never would be…time is so intricate, after all. But her potential is visible to many of the more perceptive creatures in this universe; already she calls to her own. 'There's something of the Wolf about you… you burn like the sun…'
##############################################################################
He'd been dragging his feet back to her room, watching his converse slide across the grating and filling his ears with the dull scuffing sound they made with each pass, when he'd felt the corridor shift.
With a puff of air blowing his hair back and making him squint momentarily, he'd suddenly found himself on the other side of the long hallway leading to the bedrooms. He allowed his face to fall into a line of grimace, because apparently his meddling ship can't just let him have a few moments to himself…
Before he'd taken another step a shill sound had taken his attention away from the floor, his face shot up and he was running, long coat trailing behind him like a cape. He didn't knock this time when he reached the cherry oak doors, throwing them open and rushing over to her bed, the Doctor sat down on top of the covers and made a depression in the mattress. He reached out with a tentative hand and cupped her closest shoulder, gently trying to coax her awake but not really sure how.
Rose didn't have nightmares… not that he'd noticed—not ever, or surely the TARDIS would have alerted him a long time ago… right? Yet here she was in the throes of terror, she was whimpering and crying and the Doctor had no idea what to do. She'd led him out of his own nightmares for the last two years and couldn't he do the same?
"Stop…please just stop," she whispered.
"Rose," he kept his voice low like hers and gave her a gentle shake.
"Please stop," she continued to thrash and cry.
"Rose," he said louder, grabbing her firmly by both shoulders to keep her in place.
"Jimmy, Stop! PLEASE," she wasn't whispering now. Her body had gone rigid except for the terrified quivering. He could feel it, her emotions amplified by his touch—she was vibrating in fear, dread, he couldn't remember ever feeling such unbridled horror in his life.
Determined now to wake her up from her nightmare he gives her a slightly rougher shake. "Rose! Rose, wake up… it's okay, you're safe, you just need to wake up now. Rose!" He feels bad for being so rough. She's still bruised and sore, even if the bones in her ribs have knitted themselves together perfectly.
Although, he realizes, flinging her body around as she is won't cause her any less discomfort than he will for shaking her awake. 'Thank Rassilon her hand is well casted.' The Doctor knows her left hand was the most damaged and it'll still be another two weeks until he can take the cast off to judge whether it will even ever fully heal.
"Rose," he says in frustration and this time her eyes snap open, but the Doctor can tell immediately that she's still wrapped up in her nightmare. She starts to scream and kick at him, rolling her shoulders to get his hands off her and trying to roll her body away from his. When neither of those things works (he won't let her go while she's panicking, in case she hurts herself) she curls up in a tight ball, tucking her head into her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around her, trying unsuccessfully to arch her body as far away from him as possible. She's sobbing, he realizes.
He's never seen a reaction so strong in her. That's not to say she hadn't always been passionate. Her compassion was limitless and an angry Rose was terrifying in her intensity, but her grief had always been followed by immediate acceptance; she skipped all the stages of grief in between. When her dad had died again, when Mickey had left, when the universal walls had closed, Rose had coped with her grief by telling him stories with a nostalgic smile, a husky voice, and a few occasion tears.
Anger had never caused a reaction have so strong either. Typically, Rose's anger followed a brief outburst, but anger, jealousy, resent were all short-lived emotions for her. They devolved quickly once she'd calmed down, shifting into insecurity or remorse. Once she calmed down she always felt as though she'd overreacted, which admittedly she sometimes did.
No this was entirely different. He knew her and her reactions inside and out; no grief, anger, or fear they had ever experienced together had culminated into this. He couldn't explain it, and it broke his hearts.
Doing something he'd never done before—though he'd frequently entertained the thought, under far pleasanter circumstances—he lifted her balled-up frame with one hand, and used the other to help pull him further onto the mattress. Once he'd made himself comfortable he lowered her back down so her upper body was resting in his lap. He bent down over her, "shh-ing" her softly. "You're safe now, Rose. You're safe; I promise. It's okay—it's okay."
It was almost novel—or it would have been if he weren't so concerned about her—usually it was her waking him from a nightmare, pulling him back to reality and massaging his hair and scalp to help him relax back into sleep. He'd never been asked to care for her.
…although it strikes him that he'd never asked her to care for him either. He'd asked her aboard. Everything she had done after she'd said yes had been because Rose had simply cared. She'd wanted to help him. Maybe she just hadn't needed anything in return; more likely, he'd made her feel as though she shouldn't ask… just another of many things he'd never do for her… just another in a long line of topics which must never be discussed.
Even these last few days Rose had never actually asked him for anything. The TARDIS had been the one to keep him informed of her day-to-day needs, sending him thoughts and pictures so that he'd already known what she needed.
He felt ashamed of himself for this new insight into the last eleven days—let alone their whole relationship—it made it all so much less intimate. The Doctor hadn't been taking care of Rose at all, really, the TARDIS had, and he was only the conduit.
He brushed some tear-dampened hair away from her cheek, freezing for a moment, his forehead crumpling in confusion when she flinched away, but then she relaxed in his lap and he continued on. He finger-brushed her hair until it was unknotted, humming an old Gallifreyan nursery rhyme that he'd once loved until she'd finally calmed down.
It took a while, but eventually her tears stopped and she'd reigned in her trembling. The tight knot she'd twisted her body into had severely relaxed and now she unfolded herself from it entirely, sitting up and leaning back, she turned her face away from him. "Sorry," she muttered with a sniff.
She must have still been disoriented from the shock her dream had caused her. When he gently pulled her back to him so her back came to rest on his chest she flinched away again, her body going stiff. "Sorry," she said again, louder this time. When she looked over her shoulder at his frowning face she appeared surprised to find him there—he doesn't know why, he'd been there for quite some time.
She'd begun to scoot forward to allow him room, to stay in her bed or to slide out of it, but he didn't allow her to get too far before he'd wrapped his arms around her and slid her back into him for the third time; he tried to ignore her continued jumpiness.
##############################################################################
When Rose had come out of her panic and realized she was awake and safe, the Doctor was right behind her, muttering to her and telling her she was okay now. Overcome with humiliation for being seen in such a vulnerable state, and shame that he might possibly know what she had been dreaming about, and overcome by the turbulent emotions her nightmare had resurfaced, Rose curled further into herself – ignoring the dull throb of her partially healed injuries – and sobbed like she hadn't allowed herself to in years.
When she'd pulled herself together she shook her limbs out and sat herself up, only to be pulled back-to-chest with another person. After a quick flinch she realized it must be the Doctor and froze; she hadn't realized he'd gone so far as to crawl onto her bed to comfort her.
Moving forward to give him personal space, keeping her blotchy, tear-stained face directed away from his view, she didn't get more than a few inches before he'd wrapped his lanky arms around her and pulled her back into him. "I'm just fine here, thanks," he told her, his arms were still wrapped loosely around her and his chin was resting lightly on her shoulder.
"'kay," she intoned after a while. Her voice was gravely from sleep and tears and she didn't trust herself to say anything more than that.
"Do you want to talk about it," he whispered. He usually didn't like to talk about it she knew, but he had done once, and she'd listened. It really had helped.
She shook her head back and forth slowly. "Nope."
For a few moments the quiet in the room was only interrupted by Rose's nervous shuffling and continued sniffles. She was waiting for him to push the subject; he was trying to think of a change of subject that would lift her spirits.
Finally his eyes settled upon a book. "What's this," he exclaimed, reaching forward and picking it up off the bed sheets. "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," he read.
##############################################################################
"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone," he read.
"Mmhmmm," Rose drawled. He looked up from the book for a moment, sneaking a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at the cover of the tattered paperback in his hands, her eyes were lit up in the way he'd only ever seen when they were in the midst of an escape or running for their lives. It was something infinitely precious to her, this tattered little book.
Thinking his job of cheering her up just got a lot easier, he flipped the book around to read the back cover. He frowned. "This is a children's book?"
She ripped it out of his hands too fast for even him to realize it had happened until she'd already clutched it to her chest. "Classifying Harry Potter into an age division or genre is criminal, this book is so much more," she huffed.
Welll," he told her as he slid the book from her protective hold, "How should I know that, I've never heard of it before now."
Her head spun to face him so fast he'd gotten a mouthful of her hair. He spit it out dramatically with a "Do you mind?!" However, Rose paid him no heed.
"Are you serious?" She demanded. Her eyes were wide and fierce, her voice rose until it was nearly a shriek—he almost told her he was joking to keep her from attacking him. "You've traveled all of time and space! You're hundreds of years old! You've never heard of Harry Potter?!"
He almost laughed at her outrage, but frankly, she was a bit scary just then. He kept his face as serious as possible. "No. Should I have?"
"YES!"
"Okay," he said, leaning back against the headboard and sinking slightly into the mattress. He dragged her back with him so their bodies stayed pressed together. "'bout time I found out then, wouldn't you say?"
He didn't need to see her face to know how happy he'd made her, and the happiness rolling off her body, momentary as it was, made him smile too. The wolf-y grin she'd occasionally grace him with—eyes dancing, tongue caught in her teeth—a dog with its head out an open window, tongue out, ears flapping, eyes bright because for that moment in time, she's flying and she's never known such exhilaration—he doesn't have to look at her to know he just put that look on her face. Lately (at least for the last two years or so) it seems like he lives his life just waiting for the next time he's able to make her smile like that. He lives for it. He opened the book…
"Chapter one, "The Boy Who Lived"; Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious…" Eventually, Rose sunk even further into the Doctor. He glanced her way occasionally, watching her eyes flutter closed, but she never fell asleep, the entire time he was reading. The content smile never left her face and something about her mental presence left him with the impression that she was breathing in the words as he spoke them. She knew if he mispronounced a spell, skipped a word, paused a moment too long. And when he yawned one time too many, she took up the book for him and brought it to life behind his closed eyes. The book, he found as he drifted off to sleep just as Dumbledore caught Harry sitting in front of the mirror of Erised, which thanks to his big Time Lord brain, he knew was desire spelled backwards, reminded him quite a bit of Rose herself; she defied mono-classification as well, and to attempt to stifle her by boxing her into a specific stereotype would indeed be criminal.
##############################################################################
There we are! I hope you enjoyed it!
*Something else: I know no definitive backstory for Rose's time with Jimmy Stone is ever given. What I've written about is how I've always imagined it to be. I'd like to note that I'm not doing this to make Rose appear damaged, or to make her another damsel in distress for the Doctor to save. I had a similar, but still vastly different relationship in my own past and for me, imagining Rose rising from something like that and going to be what she was makes her a million times stronger. And it gives me hope that all of the battered victims, men, women, and children, can rise as well.
*Also, as a further note, I've changed the title of this story; I've never been totally content with "Eddies in Time" and whilst writing this one a different title popped out at me. I decided to go for it—sorry for any confusion it causes.