Konstantine
Chapter Two
"But I'm slipping in between you and your big dreams.
It's always you in my big dreams."
"Rose. Rooosse." The Doctor is whispering her name gently across the universe. He's calling to her because he cannot bring himself to give up the opportunity to see her one last time. He could just leave it. He could. He could just tell himself that it's over and done with; seeing her would only press salt into the gashes in his hearts. But he needs to do it. He needs to tell her.
She's standing in front of him now. All he wants to do is crash through the glass wall separating her from him. But he cannot. His hearts scream at him to sacrifice everything just to touch her face, but his mind tells him to stay put. He will be okay. He's always okay.
She's crying now. The sight crushes his hearts. He feels tears threaten to break free from his own eyes. Her pain is his suffering. How he wishes he could just hold her.
She's telling him now. She's telling him the thing he has always suspected, but never recieved confirmation towards; she's telling him the exact thing he's held back from her ever since his previous incarnation. In this moment, Rose Tyler has more courage than he's had in over 900 years of existence.
He's going to tell her, he decides. He needs to tell her. He takes a shaky breath. He's got to tell her. He begins to tell her, the words forming on his lips.
"Rose Tyler-"
The Doctor's eyes fly open. He notices that his mouth is parted, and he's staring straight up at the ceiling. Oh, he thinks. That's right. The inn. They're still at the inn. The Doctor inhales deeply and tries his best to ignore the cool sheen of sweat that covers every inch of his body. He turns over in the bed to face the window once more. He's never been spared from nightmares, but they'd never impacted him quite as much as they have in this body. They're more real; they feel as painful as they would in the waking world. He feels his single heart race faster than it ever did when he had two; it must have to compensate.
The sun has yet to make an appearance above the silver horizon, but the Doctor knows it's early morning. Soon, the Tylers will need to convene. Soon, he'll need to face Rose's aversion once more. It's your own fault, the Doctor spits inwardly, surprised at the venom in his own thought. You left her here.
The Doctor turns once more, facing Rose's bed. This time, she's facing him. The sight is almost relieving. Her face is peaceful, not downcast or hardened or screwed with bitterness. Here, lying in a creaky wooden bed in Norway, Rose looks more like herself than this Doctor has ever seen her. The dawn light plays gracefully on her soft skin, illuminating it in a soft pinkish glow. It takes all of the Doctor's fragile self control not to cross the space between them and run a hand through her golden hair. Only now is he realizing just how lucky he had once been to have the freedom to hug her or to press a quick kiss to the top of her head. He feels chained from that now. One wrong step could shatter the slightest hope of rekindling so much as a friendship, much less the deeper connection he longs for. It's your own fault.
The sound of Rose shifting in her bed startles the Doctor into shutting his eyes and pretending to be asleep. He allows himself to barely open one eye, hoping it's dark enough in the room not to show. Rose is facing the wall again, the peace and beauty of her relaxed face hidden from the Doctor once more.
Certain that he will not recieve any further sleep, the Doctor rises as quietly as he can from his bed, wincing at the sounds of his worn-out bed. He leaves his suit jacket off and silently exits the room, not bothering to grab the key. He glances at a clock in the hallway. A quarter passed six. It's times like these the Doctor curses the absence of his ship. He can't just wake up and go someplace. He has to wait- something he's afraid he will become well aquainted with.
The main lobby is akin to desolate. The Doctor begins to head outside when something catches the corner of his eye. It's a tiny, insignificant blur of an object; anyone would have passed by without a single thought. The Doctor, however, turns his head and looks squarely at it. His breath catches in his throat and he stops dead in his tracks. He can hear the roar of his blood in his ears. No, this is impossible, he whispers inwardly. There's no way this is possible! He rushes to where the object rests on the edge of the front desk, tucked away. The receptionist looks up lazily over her newspaper.
"Need something?" she asks in a thick Norwegian accent. The Doctor barely hears her. He snatches the object off of the desk and stares at it in awe. The receptionist gives an amused snort.
"What's all that about? It's only a bit of coral some kid thought was pretty," she says dismissively. It's much more than that, the Doctor manages to squeeze into conscious thought, turning the object around in utter disbelief. It's freedom.
