CALLUSES
III.
The physical pain, the Doctor decides, is not the worst of it.
This part-human body of his is turning out to be quite the hassle. Not only can he not control his pulse or his breathing (not nearly as efficiently as he used to), but he also appears to have become rather…emotional.
He shouldn't have left Rose the way he did, not when thirty seconds prior to his hurried exit, he was telling himself he would do anything to prove her he was in it for the long haul. Unfortunately, this unfamiliar body of his decided otherwise; his throat had constricted so much by the time he was walking through the door that he wouldn't have been able to let out a single sound, except maybe a choked up squeak, his eyes burning furiously.
Humans cry. He'd spent enough decades of his existence surrounded by human companions to know that for a fact.
And none of them had been more prone to tears than the one who'd kindly shared some of her genetic material and behavioural traits with him.
Bloody Donna Noble.
All shouty and furious and incensed, until some poor soul looked her way with sadness in their eyes, at which point she usually started weeping.
Thinking about Donna is what does him in, in the end. He would have been fine, otherwise – centuries of practice when it comes to burying his feelings and hiding his emotions in various incarnations, but the thought of Donna's tears is his downfall; the proverbial salty drops that spill the bucket.
Had she cried, when she and his counterpart realised he had to wipe her mind and leave her behind, too? She wouldn't have gone without a fight, not his Earth girl; probably begged until the very end.
Always had.
So there they both are, the two Time Lords, half-human and not. One with his TARDIS, yet all alone.
One with Rose Tyler, yet quite alone as well.
Oh, this is just disgusting. Are noses supposed to leak mucus like that?
He's (unsuccessfully) attempting to wipe off the overflow gushing from his various facial orifices when the door to their room opens; he's not made it far. For one thing, he's not become so pathetic that he'd go wondering outside at the break of dawn, hoping it would rain – for dramatic effect.
That, and he walked out without his shoes.
He supposes that finding oneself so distraught that one ends up sitting on worn out carpet in a dimly lit corridor does fall somewhere on the melodramatic spectrum. The fact that Rose can see him in this sorry state doesn't matter much either.
She's made it quite clear she's struggling with having been left here with him; anything she says or does from now on will undoubtedly be a result from her incurable empathy. He could have done without her pity, but eh.
He's having a bit of a weird day.
By the time she's sitting down opposite him, he's sniffling loudly, forced to swallow a good amount of slimy discharge in the process.
"Blimey," he says, his voice hoarser than usual. "How do humans cope with all that gunk."
He sees her shrug from the corner of his eyes, not quite daring to look at her. "With tissues?"
He snorts at that, which, given the amount of mucus still trapped in his nasal cavity, does not turn out well. Her suggestion does remind him that he has his suit jacket on, which comes with pockets that are bigger on the inside, as all his suit jackets do.
(Or did)
He sinks a hand in there, rummaging blindly, until his fingers grab at one of the old-fashion hankies he always carries around in case of leakage – usually the mechanical kind.
His face now cleaner, this 'episode' of his having stopped as quickly as it started, he rests his head against the wall, eyes closed. His entire brain throbs worse than before, yet he feels…strangely lighter, as if some of the overwhelming pressure that had built up in his chest from the moment he woke up has finally been released.
After another long stretch of that not-exactly-comfortable silence, he lowers his head and opens his eyes. Rose is staring at him, nibbling at the nail of her thumb. At least the look on her face doesn't resemble pity, which is a feeble consolation.
She mostly looks…guilty.
"Now don't go and blame yourself for me getting all…blubbery," he tells her sternly.
"I was cruel," she says, subdued.
"Rose Tyler," he retorts, a hint of reproach in his voice. "I don't think you could ever be cruel even if you tried."
"I made you cry," she replies, putting way too much emphasis on the word 'cry', causing him to cringe a little, feeling the uncharacteristic warmth in his cheeks go up yet another notch. This physical form of his just keeps on betraying him in odd, embarrassing ways, making him yearn for his lost ability to regulate most of his body functions.
"Nah, you didn't," he dismisses her claim with a wave of his hand. "Unfamiliar hormones and shared DNA with an overemotional human made me cry. You were being honest. Never blame yourself for choosing honesty over lies."
That next silence actually feels less oppressing than all the previous ones.
"Do Time Lords cry?" she asks, then, genuinely enough, and since she's just seen him do it, she's obviously asking about real Time Lords.
"Most humanoids cry," he deflects in a familiar (comforting) chipper tone. "Time Lord physiology is close enough to human physiology that we do have the ability. Now like many other 'unessential' functions our bodies possessed, it was not done often – and definitely not as gooey and messy. Time Lords could be a tad big headed, believe it or not. It wasn't posh to indulge in such emotional weakness."
She's properly staring again, wordlessly telling him that she'll sit there until he gives her a real answer. Since he just praised her for her honesty, it's only fair that he should be just as candid.
"Sometimes," he says at last, his voice having lost its cheerful edge. "When I'm in pain. Like most people."
The nail nibbling resumes, and he scowls at her.
"Oi, what did I say?"
"I hurt you," she insists.
"Eeeeh, you hurt my feelings a bit," he concedes, "but you really can't be blamed, this is one wonky situation, not sure I even trust myself right now. I do have the memories and core personality, but there's a good chunk of Donna rattling in there as well, which is not helping me cope with all the physical changes and the emotional trauma."
"Emotional trauma?"
"Well, you know. Going from being a Time Traveller in his TARDIS to being Mr John Smith without his TARDIS. That's all rather new to me. Well, that's not entirely right, I have done that before, but it wasn't quite as painful, except maybe for the whole 'rewriting of the cells' part, but the TARDIS was in sleep mode at the time, not in another universe, and I had absolutely no idea I was a Time Lord in hiding, so being Mr Normal was rather pleasant. Martha didn't like it much at all, not just how she ended up being my servant in that scenario, but particularly the pesky bit where human me went and fell in love with the school's– "
He abruptly puts an end to his verbal diarrhea, closing his mouth loudly. "No matter." Telling Rose about how he'd fallen in love with another woman – even if it hadn't technically been the proper him, might not exactly help ease things between them.
Maybe someday he will tell her about how she'd invaded his dreams, even with his entire consciousness tucked away; about how many pages of his journal John Smith had covered with the shadows of her face, her soft features etched too deep in his self to ever be erased.
Across from him, Rose is staring again, but there's something…different about the way she looks at him. It takes him a moment to realise the corner of her lips have curled up just the tiniest bit.
"You're staring," he notes at last, without reproach.
She half-shrugs. "You were rambling."
"Yes, I do do that, don't I."
More nail nibbling, her faint smile already gone. "I'm sorry."
"Rose," he chastises her.
"Not for the…crying bit," she continues. "I'm sorry you've lost your TARDIS. And that you're…trapped here."
The 'with me' doesn't need to be said out loud this time either.
This won't do.
"I wouldn't call myself trapped. The fact that I am alive at all is incredible. Brilliant, really. Sure, I'm still fighting hyperventilation every time I remember I only have one heart, and this half-human condition of mine is beyond weird. But if we're being honest, and I really think we should make this honesty thing a thing, I would rather lose the TARDIS than lose you. Not again."
I could save the world but lose you.
Distant words ricochet between them, across years, universes and regenerations, until he realises that this sounded way too earnest and needy, given the state of whatever relationship they have at the moment.
He swiftly carries on: "Not that I'm expecting anything from you. Except maybe some pocket money until I can figure out that job thing, since I'm going to need a change of clothes at some point, and also food, probably. I don't think this body has eaten actual food yet. Let's hope I haven't acquired Donna's eating habits, now that made for some disturbing kitchen situations, let me tell you. I mean really, I'm all for the pursuit of the new and the improbable, but pickles and marmite as a midnight snack? Bleeerk. Chips sound so much more appealing at the moment. Do they even have chips in Norway? What am I saying, of course they have chips in Norway. Pommes frites, they call them, which isn't Norwegian at all but French. Norwegians actually prefer to eat their potatoes in the shape of little balls that they call raspeball, or komle. Isn't that a neat word? Let's go and get some komle. Komle, komle, kom- "
"Doctor."
The call itself is enough to put an end to his latest tirade, but what causes his already shortened breath to hitch in his throat is the realisation that she's called him Doctor; she had not done so since the beach.
The effect is somewhat dampened by the worry crease in her forehead. He has to admit that even for him, that was a lot of talking without barely taking a breath. If not for her interruption, he could have gone on for a good ten minutes, at least.
It feels as if something in his brain is pushing and pushing and pushing to get this surplus of thoughts out; while the tears have relived some of the metaphysical pressure, whatever is cooking in this half-human head of his is still a long way from decompressing.
A passing vision crosses his mind, a clear mental snapshot in which Donna is the one unable to stop the flow of words, the string of syllables coming out of her in a panicked rush.
He closes his eyes shut, the back of his head coming to rest against the wall, taking a deep, wobbling breath. "Sorry," he apologises again in a half-whisper, his heart suddenly hammering. "Brain's still…adjusting."
He senses her move more than he hears her, feels her come to sit at his side. She's not close enough for their arms or legs to touch, yet he swears every inch of his skin begins to hum at her mere proximity.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Sweet, empathetic Rose.
Before he can answer anything, his stomach does it for him, in the form of a low, extremely noisy rumble that seems to go on forever, the sensation reverberating through his entire frame – as well as through the entire bloody building.
When silence settles at last, the Doctor sighs just as loudly, officially done with this body. "Borborygmus," he mutters. "Perfect."
There is a pause, and then Rose speaks. "What?"
He's shocked to hear the restrained laughter in her voice, letting his head roll against the wall to look at her, just as surprised by the nascent, genuine smile on her lips.
"Borborygmus," he repeats, pronouncing each syllable with more emphasis, as if it explained everything, because really, it is rather self-explanatory.
Rose snorts, pressing a hand to her mouth, and he frowns deeply at her, anything but upset by her unexpected amusement at the detriment of his digestive system.
"From the Greek word borborygmos, and its verb borboryzein," he continues in a familiar tone, being a bit of a wise-ass. "Or, in your Earth English, 'to have a rumbling in the bowels'."
Her laughter, when it comes, is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. The sight of her face as she lets it all out is right up there with it. There was a time in his life when not a day would pass without this sweet melody echoing throughout the TARDIS at a regular, almost rhythmic interval.
To the Doctor, it's akin to hearing your favourite song after years of silence; you remember most of the words and every shift in its tune, yet you're discovering it all over again.
Falling for it all over again.
The laughter abruptly stops when the door opposite them opens, and they found themselves staring up at a small, rather plump man who, judging by his expression, is definitely not amused, thick moustache quivering, a vein already starting to pulse at his temple.
The Doctor has faced enough enraged enemies to know this one is about to charge, albeit verbally, and probably in Norwegian.
Without thinking, he grabs Rose's hand in his and pulls, the two of them scrambling back up. "Run!" He shouts, and for one fleeting instant, they're not running away from a stubby, disgruntled guest (and their insecurities), but from a fleet of Daleks, an army of Cybermen, or even a hoard of gas-masked drones.
They run bare feet on carpet as some would run bare feet in the sand, Rose's laughter bouncing off the walls, as it fills up that space in his chest where his right heart used to be.
A/N: I'm officially off work for a glorious two weeks! I'm really hoping to get this story completed during that time, at least in draft form. Any feedback would be lovely :)