9: Rose needs a doctor
The Doctor sits in the dark on observation deck, gazing out through the panorama window into the endless night. He's watching some rather pretty ionized clouds slow down the beat of a pulsar, when someone pitty-pats up from behind, sort of rolls over the back of the love seat and lands in a heap next to him.
"I thought you were tired."
Rose curls up in the corner, resting her head on the armrest. "I am." She looks through her lashes at the void where streaks of reds and yellows are shifting in a slow, horizontal dance. "Can't sleep, I'm... I haven't been sleeping well. For a while."
The doctor steals a glance at Rose's face. The aurora outside casts a warm glow across her features, illuminating her like candlelight, and it softens the circles under her eyes and the slight crease on her brow. With her body folded into the corner, way over on the other side of the seating, it's still impossible to be further apart than the width of a hand. She's not bothering to keep that last distance either, comfortably spreading out as far as space permits and that simple fact is making his mind cautiosly relax. Every sign of Rose-Rose feeling like normal, acting like she normally would, brings the shards of his world closer together and adds to the faith that all will, eventually, be alright.
So he sits back and enjoys the silent company. With Rose close and casual a nice array of calm feelings are flowing through him in rythm with the waves outside; hope, contenment, affection.
(Deep inside, pushed back and thoroughly ignored: flutter, heat, and a sense that close should mean something else entirely; that close can never be close enough.)
Her feet press against the side of his thigh and his hand goes to wrap itself around one of them, arguing to his mind that hands and feet are essentially the same and that it and its right-sided brother hold her counterparts without hesitation all the time anyway. His mind complies for a while, but when the fingers sneakily begin tracing slow lines across the back of the foot, it overrides command of all limbs and promptly places the hand back in his own lap. Slightly flustered that his treacherous hands would attempt to cross the thin line he has set for himself, to avoid falling headlessly through into the rose garden and stomp around to leave it trampled and torn, he carefully tries to shift and lean a little further away from the sleepy heap. He finds it quite impossible. There is no room. Cautiously relaxed turns cautiously nervous. No room. No space. Limbs and bodyheat everywhere. Why did he have to go and put a love seat there in the first place? He could have chosen a nifty captain's chair, or a beanie bag or absolutely nothing at all and have people stand up while looking out at the universe passing by – the universe does, after all, deserve a standing salute – but no. A love seat.
"It's like looking into a fire", Rose mumbles, and the soft sound of her voice breaks the Doctor out of his silent rant. "Sort of..." She holds her hand up in front of her face in a sleepy gesture towards the slow flickers of light. "...Horizontal... fire..."
The Doctor turns to look at her and smiles crookedly, worries forgotten. Rose tucks her hand in under her chin and sighs.
"Cake or Death..." he starts to suggest, but mutes when Rose's breath is replaced by a quiet snore. He watches her, allowing the little rasps of her throat to tickle his ears for a few minutes, and steals a listen to her heartbeat, before very carefully rising to go fetch her a blanket.
...
Wasps. Angry, infuriated. The noise imposing on her ears, retreating, returning. No escape.
Heat. Rising, falling, licking too close.
Smoke. Dark, obscured shapes. Searching, squinting, straining her eyes – out of sight.
Metal. Cold, hot, in her hands. The scent, in her nose. The taste, in her mouth. The mass, weighing down. The fear sharp in her back, rising like ice along her spine. When it reaches her neck, she will have lost.
Dark, ugly panic. Nauseating, all-encompassing. No escape.
Burn. Sudden, red across her cheek. Muffled sound. Rough feeling, like a lifeline. She grasps, it slips. Another, red across her cheek – it stays. Muffled sound breaking through like from water – her name. She grasps, finds, holds on. More sound breaking through, clearing, coming closer: crying.
She's crying.
...
The crimson glow on Rose's left cheek is giving the Doctor tremendously bad conscience as he carries her away from the fire-like flickering on observation deck and to the nearest safe haven: his room. Touching her, shaking her or calling her name did nothing to wake her from her nightmare; it was only after he, in toothgrinding hesitation, slapped her in the face that it loosened its grip and released her into this, still not completely conscious, state of falling apart. And he would have stayed with her in that room, quietly wincing at her fingernails digging into his hand, and let her cry it all out into his shirt – but then she started sputtering about "putting it out", sounding quite authoritative amidst sobs, and he thought it best to remove her from the suggestive ambiance.
He honestly didn't mean to end up in here, the least colourful place of the Tardis and not really one he considers warm and comforting. But it was close, and quiet, and the door was open.
(Why did he leave it open?)
Trying to lower his armful to the surface of the bed he feels that Rose's hands are firmly clenched around his collar and tie, pulling them with her and slightly choking him. He awkwardly shifts to turn and sit down with her still in his arms, settling her on his lap. She keeps shaking with sobs, still unreservedly crying and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. Her voice muffles against his shirt, long since soaked. He rocks her, hushes her, strokes her hair and pleads with her to calm down and the more she doesn't the more he worries. Nothing seems to console her and hard as she tries, there is not a coherent word leaving her lips to explain what is hurting so badly.
"Rose, darling? There's no fire", he tries. "No one's burning anything."
It doesn't help.
"It's alright, sweethearts, you're safe."
No reaction. Distraction?
"Look Rose, I've gone bald!"
If anything it gets worse.
Eyes clenched shut, tears streaming, and her mind in so much distress she couldn't be further away even as she clings to him – this wall is new and terrifying and The Doctor fights to keep the frustration of helplessness at bay. Finally he makes the decision to try another level of connection.
After some shuffling he manages to lay Rose down on the mattress, where she tries to curl up on her side, forcing him to lay down with her as he's still firmly held in place by her grip on his tie. He brings his hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before placing his fingers in the right spots. He presses a quick kiss on her forehead, silently asking forgiveness for this intrusion, and enters her mind.
And there is Ralph; cut off in the middle of a sentence, standing before her for a good whole second with a gaping, dripping hole in his temple before tumbling into a heap on the ground. There is the horrifying realisation brought by the warm, salty taste on her lips that her face is splattered with him, and the shame of vomiting much too close to his body.
And there is her wristwatch; caught on something inside the hole she just tucked plastic explosive into while the sound of feet draw near and her heart isn't strong enough for this, it's going to burst if her own lungs don't suffocate her first. There is the pain of panic nearly dislocating her thumb and the tumble when she springs free, and breathless running.
And there is the dirty cellar where Hannah will bleed the last good pillow through while Rose tries to stitch her wounds back together, fingers slipping and uncanny calm in her voice. There is the burning sensation of knowing that it will fail, and the guilt-ridden thankfulness that this is not her best friend but another Rose's.
The Doctor's stomach churns. Every beautiful, amazing, wondrous place he has ever had a mind to show her – and this is where she is. This is where she was, and still is. But this is no place for his Rose. This is no place for anyone actually, which makes it the very last of all places for Her.
He can't bear it. He brought her home once; he will have to do it again.
It has never been something one does lightly or without much consideration. To the Doctor in this case it also holds some fear: his mind is vast and there is darkness there that he doesn't wish for Rose to catch any glimpses of. But there is nothing to do but try, and he concentrates hard to make a space for her, in him.
Rose feels a nudge and is suddenly in the eye of the storm. All around; raging memories and feelings, blasting past in a gray, hazy whirlwind. In front of her, or within or somehow just there; brown eyes. Completely calm, smiling, and so longed for she almost hiccups. Her own mind fills in the blanks, and there's the Doctor taking form before her. As he gradually grows more solid, more present, the gray, nauseating haze grows less so. The dusty, broken surroundings fade and Rose feels something shifting without moving, as if the world around her is carefully being taken down and replaced with something else. Another ground beneath her feet, another light in the corner of her eye while the familiar, welcome, so very safe face keeps her locked in place, unblinking. She feels the grief slowly wash out of her. When the Doctor, or his image, winks, Rose finally lands in a state of perfect stillness. Familiar, yet strange: this is a different place. There are other things here...
There is the Doctor leaning over her shoulder as they stare into a pot of water, waiting for it to boil. "The bubbles should be the size of codfish eyes", he says. "No more, no less. Well, more or less."
"We were never sure if the water was alright", she answers thoughtfully. "We always boiled it, but we hardly ever made tea." There is the memory of the concern, the thirst and the missing. But as facts, not feelings. She sinks into the sensation of his arm snaking around her waist.
There is the rail along Hungerford Bridge, cold through her shirt as she leans out to look at the view. There is the life and noise of people and traffic.
"I helped tear this thing down." She runs a finger along the metal. "Did you know?" There is the snapshot of every heartstopping moment of that night. But not relived, only remembered. And there is the tiny surprise of feeling the Doctor's breath so close to her ear when he answers: "I know." Partly sympathetic, partly proud.
There is apple grass. Between her fingers, tickling her face as she lies on her stomach on his coat, lazily resting her chin on her arm and squinting at the sun. There is the reassuring notion that, if she should turn her head, she will see him right next to her.
"I looked for you", she says. "Everywhere I could think of." And the memory of this does hurt, a bit. She turns her head, and there is the Doctor propped up on his elbow, as she knew. And there is the strange flutter when he reaches out and slides a strand of her hair between his fingers and says: "What's in your heart is never far away, eh Rose?"
Perhaps it takes seconds, perhaps she spends hours moving from detail to detail, relaying her story in bits and pieces. But she does it from the outside looking in, knowing and remembering but not despairing, and in every instance the Doctor installs himself like a feeling of stability: it changes everything. The loneliness and the ache, the holes that made her time in the wrong place unbearable are filled and she finds that she can stand it all.
When Rose has moved through an infinite number of places, events, short exchanges of words, she feels clear-minded and relaxed. She begins to take notice of the situation – the present one. She's clearly asleep, or something like it, but conscious at the same time. She feels the cushioned surface underneath her body and knows she's lying down somewhere. She feels a light pressure in a few spots on her face and head, as if someone's fingertips are resting there. She feels herself, yet feels out of herself and suddenly she knows what's going on; it makes her want to use words like flabbergasted and awestruck, because the notion of being inside someone else's mind – His mind, the Doctor's mind, protected and private and amazing – humbles her completely. And, after the initial surprise, entertains her to no end. She tries to take a look around, however one might do this mentally, and finds herself rejoicing at landscapes she recognises from one place or another, rooms full of interesting things, wonderful people. And a bunny rabbit.
In the mean time, the Doctor is doing what he can to stop himself from releasing a storm of emotion into the protective space he's keeping Rose in. It's proving more difficult than expected. It's not the darkness that threatens to break through the barrier – it's the light. And the warmth. The too-bright light, the too-hot warmth, the too-strong wish to gather her up and keep her within himself forever and let all else wither and fade around them because he didn't know, with all of his excellent brain powers he didn't know what it was going to feel like, to have Her... there. Close, closer, closest. Inside. Inside, where he's been alone since the day of his creation and her blessed heart lights everything and cor, he knew she was brilliant but just how much – no.
Yes.
Brilliant, brillant, brillant Rose, who's traipsing around with him in a field of daffodils that nip at their heels, talking about gratitude and healing without a single word being spoken. Her hand so perfect in his, her curiosity so dangerous. He trips on something, pulling her into a stumble that ends against him, his chest, his hearts. The strangest of sweet glimmers in her eyes, and...
Oh. In the rose garden now. Don't panic. Stand perfectly still. Don't – trample – anything.
Rose feels a rush of something grand as the field of playful flowers is replaced by the front garden of a little house in Oxney. Suddenly there is a different light, softer and brighter at the same time and scorching hot without burning. The thick greens and reds of lavish rosebushes are satin soft to her eyes, the air caresses to her skin. This place is different; smaller, condensed, set apart. There is such tenderness here that she feels overwhelmed.
The Doctor, however, looks as if they just stumbled into something he doesn't quite recognise and that she isn't meant to see. For some reason all the funny little things she nearly hasn't noticed him doing while listening to her stories spring to mind: they seem connected to this place. Whispering so close to her ear, gazing so steadily into her eyes. Holding her differently, tracing circles ever so lightly on the back of her hand like a lo-
"I need to let you back", he says, or thinks, or something like that. Rose's heart sinks in time with the steady shift back to her own self and she feels him letting go, carefully but decisively. Coming back feels like crawling into her own, cold, unused but familiar bed after sleeping in someone else's arms.
As the final connection is broken Rose opens her eyes with a gasp as if waking up from a strenuous dream, and draws shaky breaths while her hands grasp for the Doctor's head, burying themselves in his hair for loss of the warm haven that was his mind. Pressing her forehead to his she steadies herself to meet the world again. After a few moments she swallows and sighs deeply, blinks with sore eyes and draws back. Carefully letting go of the tufts of hair she places her hand lightly, reassuringly on the Doctor's cheek, and smiles.
The Doctor glances around, and looks worried.