Strange, the Doctor doesn't remember Earth being quite so red before.

It's a good thing he didn't step outside the TARDIS without looking, he thinks, because otherwise he's fairly certain he would be the humanoid equivalent of beef jerky in six seconds flat. He likes his bodily fluids fluid, thanks. But then again, that's decompression for you; just how things work on a planet with barely any atmosphere. He isn't certain why the TARDIS landed right here, right now, when it absolutely is not the place or the time the Doctor chose, but she doesn't seem interested in moving. (Probably he flicked his wrist just so when he set the quantum throttle; tricky thing, that.)

The rotor whines when he tries to re-plot and a thin column of smoke rises from the dash. Overheated. The Doctor curses his rubbish piloting and worse timing, always an ironic predicament for someone whose affinity with time is supposed to be so engrained that it's a shorthand for his species nomenclature. Couldn't the TARDIS have waited just a little bit longer to burn out?

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he snaps at the TARDIS. "It won't work. And what's more, I don't appreciate it. I'm flying you straight back to Earth the second you cool down. Understand?"

The TARDIS is silent in response.

Eyes closed and teeth gritted, the Doctor leans back, hands gripping the railing behind him. His fingers are going to smell unpleasantly of metal (steel and copper and blood-smell) but it isn't like his hands have got anything better to do. Time machine or not, he doesn't have the time for this nonsense. He needs to get back to Earth now.

He drums his fingers on the railing, the soft sound echoing around him. Maybe he should just stay put, he thinks. Wait in the console room until she's cooled off enough to travel again. Drumming louder, he wonders just how long it would take him to go mad, sitting in here, twiddling his thumbs.

(Listening to the rapidly-increasing rhythm of his fingers, thinking about everything that could go wrong with his plan.)

It takes approximately four-point-eight minutes for him to pull on his trusty old spacesuit and step outside onto the desolate surface of Mars.


Afterward, the Doctor doesn't waste time thinking about it. It's useless crying over spilled milk or broken promises or dead humans. He has to look forward now; no sense looking back unless he wants to turn into a pillar of salt.

Hands shake and hearts stutter and the sound of a gunshot plays in his head, over and over, louder even than the song of the Vortex, but his resolve is steady and steel-tempered.

(Is there anything you can't do?)

He just needs to make a few adjustments to ensure the TARDIS won't interfere again.

He's not beaten yet.


The Doctor is not a predator, but there's something distinctly lionlike about him as he stalks his target.

Even as he walks with his hands in his coat-pockets, the very picture of casual unconcern to most passersby, fellow hunters would recognize the tight lines of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the flicker of his eyes. The tension coiled in a cat's upper back before it springs. Impatience tugs at his consciousness but he ignores it, along with his time sense clamoring in the background and intermingling with all the noises of a bustling London crowd loudly enough to give him a migraine. Because, like all good hunters, he knows that patience eventually pays off. That timing is everything.

Rose is not prey, but she still knows when she is being watched. Her gaze slowly travels from the Doctor standing next to her to the Doctor closing in from a few meters away, his approach alternately visible and camouflaged by a herd of downtown shoppers. Rose's brow furrows even as she smiles, but the younger Doctor doesn't notice—he's too busy poring over papers at the newsstand, checking to see if anything interesting has taken place in the time since their last layover. (No signs of additional rogue Hoix, and somehow he won't notice anything about ghosts, either.) He doesn't try to stop Rose when she steps back, barely offers her a glance when she drops her knapsack and allows the older Doctor to pull her away by the hand.

He isn't a predator, but he isn't exactly a good shepherd, either.

The Doctor flashes Rose a brief smile in response to her unasked questions, tugging her away from his younger self before anyone has a chance to think any better. It's a lazy and close-lipped smile. He doesn't want anyone else to see him; he doesn't want Rose to see his teeth.

(Doesn't want her eyes to widen with realization, her muscles to tremble until she bolts away.)

Once he has tugged her around the corner, safely out of view, he pounces.

Rose doesn't even have time to finish saying "Hello" before he has pulled her to him, drawing her in by the upper arms and capturing her lips in a bruising kiss. Mouths meet and lips slide together and he drinks it all in like a man dying of thirst. Rose melts into it without hesitation. Her arms wrap around his neck while his hands travel down to her waist, anchoring her flush against him. The only sounds between them are the soft exchange of their breaths and the whispers of their clothing and the happy little hum hiding under Rose's tongue. A rush floods through the Doctor's ears when he hears it, a welcome reprieve from the buzzing of his time sense.

She kisses him like she hasn't seen him in weeks. The Doctor kisses her like these are his final words.

"Come on," he says when they break, grabbing her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers. "We haven't got much time."

"Where are we going?"

"Anywhere," he tells her. "Everywhere. Away."

Rose grins and follows after him, leaving laughter and nervous glances in her wake. Probably she's worried about the younger Doctor—and she should be, even now the Doctor can feel his memories changing, distorting like stretched taffy as his younger self looks around and wonders where his companion wandered off to this time, and he can't tell if the noise in his head is a memory or a thing of the now—but she trusts him, she trusts this him, and the Doctor tries not to think about that too much. He can feel the timelines straining around him, stretching to the brink of splitting, but he doesn't let that stop him from guiding her away, leading her down several empty alleys until they find the TARDIS.

"Excellent," he breathes, pushing the doors open. Once they've stepped inside, he whirls around to face her, forcing a broad grin on his face. "Now, how do you fancy a little field trip? Bit of a lateral move, just over to take care of some things at Canary—"

"Oh my god," Rose cuts in. She isn't listening to him, isn't even looking at him. Her eyes travel all over the console room, her mouth hanging open in worry. "What's wrong with the TARDIS?"

The Doctor glances about uneasily. He's not sure what she's complaining about. Nothing is wrong. Well, certainly, the glass column sits stiller than usual, the hum is perhaps a little sickly, and the reddish-pink hue could be a little off-putting if you hadn't seen it before. The tools scattered about like debris after an explosion present a minor injury hazard as well, lying on the grating and sticking shrapnel-like out of the console as they are. And one could easily mistake the erratic vibrations pulsing under their feet, the on-again off-again thrum of danger-danger-danger, for the sound that an automobile engine chokes out before it sputters its last. But nothing is wrong with the TARDIS; everything looks exactly as it should, considering.

"Not sure I follow," the Doctor replies, tugging on one ear. "Nothing—"

His words are chopped in half by Rose pushing past him up the ramp. "What happened to you?" she asks, now talking to the TARDIS, addressing it like she might address a sick kitten. She reaches out to pat the dash reassuringly. "Did something nasty get to—"

SNAP.

The instant Rose's fingers touch the desk, a bright white spark arcs out and bites into her hand. She jumps back, eyes wide.

"Whoa," she says. "What was that?"

"Static discharge," the Doctor lies cheerfully.

"Static?" Rose asks in disbelief.

"Yep!" the Doctor assures her, popping the 'p'. Before he has a chance to gauge whether Rose believes him or not, he pushes past her, bounding up the ramp. His plimsolls bang over the grating as he darts around the control desk, peeling off his coat and throwing it over the ramparts before he starts flipping switches and pulling levers. "You wouldn't believe the buildup generated by bouncing around the galaxy," he babbles. "It's a major hazard of space travel. Extraterrestrial travel in particular, I should say. Not the travel between spaces. Intradimensional trips are their own bag. But space travel is a terrible hazard for the electronics. On the plus side, I could set up my own xerography business, make a mint."

Rose laughs uneasily. "Right. Erm, Doctor—"

"How do you fancy it? We could give it a go," he interrupts, punching keys and ignoring the worry that has descended over Rose's face. "No cyanotype? No worries! Tyler and Smith's Xero and Co. can help in a pinch. See, it's funny because you'd do it in zero gravity. Get it? Xero? Zero?"

He shoots Rose a manic grin as he twists a bunch of cables together in an open panel. Probably should have done that earlier, but he was in a bit of a hurry. "So? What do you think?" he asks.

Rose issues a nervous smile in return. "I sort of think you've gone a bit mad," she laughs.

"Only a bit," he says with a wink, and turns his attention to the navigation plotter. The thing remains stubbornly immobile, no matter how he pushes it. He lets out a huff and cringes at the crescendo of commotion building in his cerebrum. Why won't the blasted thing work?

Rose gingerly reaches out the touch a coral strut. She startles when another arc of electricity leaps out at her. "Is she sick?" Rose asks.

"No," the Doctor replies, shaking his head both in response and to clear the ruckus away. "Just stubborn."

Glancing around again, Rose frowns. "You don't think anything's wrong with her?"

The Doctor squeezes his eyes shut. His time sense rings in his ears, the sound filling his head, wheedling and screaming and bang-bang-bang-banging over and over and over and he suddenly has a keen insight into the madness caused by the sound of drums.

"Doctor?" Rose asks, stepping toward him, and the bedlam in his head intensifies. The ringing explodes into a full-blown orchestra of cacophony, bells jangling and horns screeching and cymbals clashing and voices shouting and maybe that last one is just him because he's pretty sure he can feel his cerebrospinal fluid boiling.

(It can't be stopped)

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," the Doctor manages to force out. "Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. It's all as it should be."

"But the TARDIS—"

"The TARDIS is just a machine, Rose," the Doctor lobs back, almost spits. He grips the edge of the control desk and feels a muscle twinge in his cheek. "Who are you going to trust, a machine or me?"

Rose's eyes widen in alarm.

The Doctor realizes that he's panting for breath (just a little bit, only a little tiny bit, maybe she didn't even notice, maybe she's looking him up and down for a completely different reason). He shouldn't have to pant. It's long past time to regain some control. Engage the respiratory bypass. Reset everything to zero. Turn it all off and on again and maybe that won't be fear creeping across Rose's face anymore.

"What's going on?" Rose demands.

"It's nothing. It doesn't matter," the Doctor replies, straightening his back and drawing up to his full height. "The only thing that matters is what we choose to do right now."

"Like…?"

One last time, the Doctor considers his words and the possible damage of them. Potential versus kinetic energy, and just how badly can he ruin the universe, anyway?

"You know something's about to happen," he says slowly. Says, doesn't ask.

Rose nods. But her words are slow as well. She seems reluctant to speak them aloud. "You said a storm was coming."

"Yes, well. I'm sure you picked up that I was speaking metaphorically. But what if I told you, in very literal terms, that we had the power to stop the storm? Prevent it from ever creeping over the horizon, stop it in its tracks before it can obliterate everything in its path? You and me? Right now?"

She blinks. And there it is, the deer-in-headlight look he's been waiting for. Nonplussed, Rose shrugs. "I would say—I mean, you're from my future, right? So whatever this is, it's already happened for you. So I guess I would say, wouldn't that muck things up? Crossing your own timeline like that?"

"Yes, very much" is what he should say.

(We're fighting time itself)

"No, not at all," he tells her instead.

(and I'm gonna win)

He closes the gap between them, approaching her with slow steps. Slow, so she won't run away. "Do this with me," he urges. (Pleads.)

"Why? What happens?"

"That doesn't matter. It'll never matter, not if you stop this thing with me right now."

Swallowing loudly, Rose stammers. "I—I don't know—the timelines—"

"Time can be rewritten."

"But you told me, you told me dozens of times, you said—"

"Do you want to leave?"

Rose openly balks at that, but can't seem to find the words to respond. The Doctor's feet have stopped mere inches from hers, just far enough that the two of them can maintain eye contact, just close enough that she can't easily escape. He watches while she works through her confusion, her eyes searching his for any hint of relief. He won't offer it, not unless she says what he wants to hear. The thought that she might say "Yes," that she might turn on her heel and go, makes his throat constrict and his eyes burn.

(Distantly, he wonders what his fellow Time Lords would think of him right now, breaking himself and splitting time for one small human. He tells himself he doesn't care.)

"Rose," he says, forcing a veneer of patience over his voice, "do you want to leave the TARDIS?"

"No," she says quietly.

"Do you want to leave this life behind?"

"I don't. Are you saying that that happens?"

"Do you want to leave me?"

A hysterical laugh bursts out of her in response. "God, do you really have to ask? You already know what the answer's gonna be."

"Say it. Say it, please."

Rose's lips press together. She's fighting tears; he can see them glimmering in her lashes, but she refuses to let them fall. "Of course I don't want to leave you," she admits, her voice breaking. "I never want to leave you."

His answering smile is a grim one but he pulls her in for a kiss before she can see it, grasping her by the chin and pressing his lips to hers. He knows he's distracting her, knows he's cheating, but he doesn't stop, won't stop until she's marked as his by his hands and his teeth and the universe won't take this one last thing from him, it won't, it won't, it won't.

(He's earned this, he tells himself. He deserves it.)

"Wow," Rose breathes, pulling back for air. "I'm never gonna get used to that."

"You could," he tells her. (You will, he means.) He leans his forehead against hers. Eyes drift closed and his words come out in a murmur. "Stay with me."

A pause. Her fingers clench in the front of his jacket, her hands betraying the fact that she's shaking just a little bit.

She swallows again. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll stay. I'll stay and help. I'll stay with you."

Warmth floods his chest and fizzes up into his head, leaving him feeling drunk. He rewards her with another kiss, a hungry thing that forces her mouth open for exploration. If the sudden intensity surprises her, if she senses the full depth of his desperation, she doesn't show it. Or maybe she matches it, dragging her fingers through his hair and nails against his scalp and he can't imagine any better way to shut up his bleating time sense than to hear her gasp into his mouth.

At least, that seems like an excellent plan until he backs her up against a coral strut.

Rose lets out a sharp cry as another spark bites into her, the TARDIS shocking her upon contact. The aftershocks send little spasms rocketing through her frame. The Doctor yanks her away before the TARDIS has a chance to shock her again.

"Ah yes," he says, grimacing. "That." He smacks the column for good measure. It doesn't shock him, because of course it doesn't, because he's not the paradox in the room.

"Why's the TARDIS doing that?" Rose asks, gingerly rubbing the back of her head and neck.

The Doctor pulls back, glares at the red-pulsing console. "It's nothing to worry about. It's just being difficult. But we can't have that, can we?"

"Is she going to keep doing that, if I'm in here?"

"No," the Doctor murmurs, stepping away. He's thinking. The clamor in his head has faded to a dull background ache and ideas have flooded through in its stead. "It won't happen again," he mutters, reaching out to touch the control desk.

He knows there are ways to make the TARDIS obey his will. Is he not lord of this vessel? Lord of time itself?

(The Laws of Time are mine, and they will obey me)

"I need to take care of a few things, Rose," he says, turning around to find her watching him with no small measure of concern. "And it would probably be best if you were someplace else until I'm done."

Rose opens her mouth like she's going to argue, but she seems to think better of it, biting her lip instead. "How long do you need?"

"Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. An hour. Can you give me that?"

"And then we'll fix this thing, and everything will be all right?"

"Everything will be wonderful," he tells her with a smile.

When she looks uncertainly around the TARDIS, as if searching for support, the Doctor steps closer, takes her hands in his. "You told me 'Forever', once," he says softly. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Rose hesitates. Then she nods.

The Doctor's smile broadens. "Good."

Drawing her in, he presses a hard kiss to her mouth. She's really shaking now, nervous tremors shivering through her. The Doctor promises to make all of this up to her when everything is settled. Later, she'll understand.

"An hour," he repeats when they part. "An hour, and then we'll make everything better. We'll stop the storm. Together."

"Together," Rose agrees, and she pushes up on the balls of her feet to plant one more quick kiss on the Doctor's lips.

Loathe to lose contact with her, the Doctor holds her hand for as long as he can while she slips away, watches as she runs down the ramp. He feels his face split wide open in a grin when she reaches the door and turns back for one last look. Rose relaxes a little at that, and he thinks his expression must be convincing, because even from here, he can see her shoulders loosening. She flashes him a smile of her own.

Then she pushes the doors open and in a flash of powder-blue, she's gone.

The moment the doors close behind her, the Doctor pushes off, shedding his jacket and tie and dropping them to the grating without a second glance. Circling the console, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves to the elbow. His thoughts race and his eyes travel over the desk, surveying buttons and switches and levers and keys and all the things ripped out or plugged in where they don't belong.

The TARDIS hums unhappily around him, her song quiet and sick-sounding.

"Now," the Doctor breathes. "I've got no more patience for tricks or treason. Are you going to play nice, or do I need to make you play nice?"

His response is a resounding three knocks on the doors.

The Doctor halts, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. "It hasn't been an hour yet," he calls out, because it was only three raps, not four, so he refuses to worry.

(Three knocks is all you're getting)

Besides, who else could it be but Rose? Impatient little human.

Chuckling to himself, he bounds around the desk and down the ramp. "Couldn't stand it, could you?" he asks cheekily as he strides along. Pure, unfettered satisfaction surges through him, smug amusement that Rose can't stand to be apart for that long. He closes his hand around the doorknob and gives it a good pull. "Just couldn't stay away—"

He pulls the door open, and there she is, sure enough, she's Rose, but—

But he sees her, and the words lodge in his throat.

The Doctor doesn't mean to stop talking. He just does. The end of his sentence detaches and goodness knows where it went as amusement gives way to a sensation like ice water pumping into his stomach. The rest of his body seems to understand what he's saying before his brain fully understands the message relayed by his optic nerves.

Rose is thinner than she was just a few moments ago. She is thinner, her hair is longer, her mouth is set and her eyes are sad. And she is wearing a blue leather jacket.

The Doctor wonders whether he should attempt speech again or close the doors before she can get any closer, just do something, something, anything, but he's too flummoxed to do anything but stare while his hearts clench in his chest.

(You don't look like a coward, but all you've wanted to do is leave)

"You're here," Rose says, the words like a prayer. For a moment, the mask slips, and he can see relief in the way her eyelashes flutter, in the way her whole body seems to relax by just an inch as she looks him over. Then she visibly steels herself.

"We need to talk."


Water and fire and noise and

(sorry, Doctor, it looks like history's got other ideas)

Noise forms thought pushes words shouting out of his mouth

(I'm not beaten yet)

(not beaten)

Not beaten

No wait, that's wrong, that all happened already and he doesn't remember pressing rewind. Fast-forward instead. No use crying about it.

Look forward.

Don't turn into a pillar of salt.


"Doctor?" Rose asks, searching his face for any hint of recognition.

He shakes his head to clear the fog. "Rose," he says, forcing a broad smile for her sake. "Long time no see."

"Yeah," she replies with a half-grin. "Very long time."

The Doctor stalls for just the briefest moment—he doesn't know what Rose wants to talk about, but he knows that she's probably looking for an embrace and meaningful dialogue and declarations of some sort, and she's not going to get any of that. He simply hasn't got the time. The only consolation he can offer is that soon, much like a sand castle built too close to the water at high tide, this conversation won't matter anymore.

"So," he says, clapping his hands together and slapping a veneer of cheerfulness back over his voice. "I imagine you're here about that pesky business with the stars going out. The good news is: you're on the right track. You fix it. Happy endings all round."

Surprised, Rose starts to speak, but the Doctor cuts her off. "Not much of a spoiler, I don't think, especially if things proceed the way I've planned them. But the bad news is: you don't fix it here. You're just a hop, skip, and a jump too late in the timeline, I'm afraid. Might want to adjust the Cannon's readings for that pesky dimensional feedback flux."

Rose shakes her head. "Actually, that's not entirely why I'm here."

The Doctor frowns. "You mean the stars aren't going out?"

"No," Rose says slowly. "I mean I know exactly where I am, and more importantly, I know exactly when."

"Exactly? Down to the nanosecond? Impressive. Dimension-hopping suits you."

"Look, I haven't got a whole lot of time, I just really wanted to—"

"Well, I won't keep you," the Doctor interrupts. He reaches for the door handles. "Good luck!"

"Doctor," Rose says, and he stops at the sound of her voice, how it wearies as the conversation goes on. "Please. I know I'm pushing things being here right now. But it's been a hell of a few weeks. A hell of a few years, actually. I think I've earned a couple minutes of your attention."

Fingers tapping impatiently on the door handles, the Doctor casts about desperately for something, anything he can say to make her leave. But short of slamming the doors in her face, he comes up empty. Maybe the path of least resistance would be the best one to travel just this once.

"Fine," he concedes. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Are you okay?"

The Doctor stares at her. "You made an extradimensional detour just to ask me if I'm okay?"

"It's just something I've wondered," she replies, brushing her hair behind one ear. "I mean, I've had more than enough time to think about it. Sort of replaying stuff in my head, all the things we did before, everything leading up to today. And with everything that just happened…"

She falters, losing herself in a memory. It looks like a painful one. "Like I said. Hell of a few weeks."

"Well, you shouldn't have troubled yourself. Hardly worth the trip. I'm all right, really."

Rose's eyes narrow. "Really?"

"Yep!" The Doctor pushes away from the doors and saunters back toward the console, because Rose or no Rose, he's got work to do. "I'm always all right!" he shouts over his shoulder.

"So you weren't planning to do anything rash, then?" Rose calls after him. "Like, oh, I don't know—stopping everything that happened on Torchwood Tower?"

"Nope," the Doctor replies, refusing to look at her, choosing instead to reach down and pluck a plasma wrench from where he dropped it near the control desk.

"You were, though," Rose insists. "You were gonna do something at Torchwood. Something big. I know you were."

"Oh, I'm not arguing that. That is most certainly the plan. But it's hardly rash."

Rose doesn't say anything, doesn't budge from the doorway. Ah well, no matter. The Doctor slides under the console to do a little work. This paradox machine isn't going to complete itself, after all.

"So why didn't you?" Rose asks quietly.

The Doctor chips away at the corner of a panel, leveraging the plasma wrench to try and prise the thing off. "Sorry?" he grunts.

"Why didn't you stop it? Why didn't you come back for me?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," he says. Practically chirps. "Just give it a few minutes, and things will be better." He pulls out the sonic and aims it at the wiring just so (setting 587, inverting the frequency of the auxiliary temporal array, and the TARDIS creaks in protest). After, he flashes Rose another small grin. "Doesn't that sound nice? For things to be better? Don't you want that?"

Rose looks away. "It doesn't really matter what I want."

The Doctor clicks his tongue. "Oh, now that's a little unfair, isn't it?" he asks, pulling himself off the floor so he can type in a set of phrases to alter the TARDIS' base code. "Of course it matters. Just think about it: it'll be like you never left in the first place!"

"But I did leave," Rose argues, and he can tell she's confused. She shifts from her spot in the doorway and walks toward him. "I didn't want to, but I did leave, I—"

She glances around the console room then, and for the first time, her eyes linger on all of the things that are out-of-place, the tools scattered about the desk and floor willy-nilly, abandoned like surgical implements thrown to the floor; she peers at the open panels of the console that overflow with cables and cords and circuitboards, wounds bleeding a strange mixture of electronic and organic viscera.

"Wait," she says suspiciously. "You're not still planning to do this, are you?"

The Doctor glances up at her. "What do you think?" he asks, but he doesn't say it like she's stupid. He's genuinely curious to know what she thinks of all of this, one universe and several years later.

"I don't know. I mean, that's sort of the other reason I'm here, to find out exactly what happened today. But now I'm just confused. Because you don't change things. You don't come back for me."

"Maybe I didn't," the Doctor argues cheerfully. "But I will."

"You don't," Rose insists.

"I will," the Doctor repeats, trapping his tongue between his teeth in concentration as he types.

Rose takes another step forward, closer to him. "Doctor, I'm telling you, you don't."

The Doctor laughs. "And I'm telling you, I will and I am and I do." Striking a key just a little harder than he needs to, he punctuates his bout of typing with a flourish. "Why are we even having this conversation? Your impressive quantum accomplishments notwithstanding, I do know just a bit more about this sort of thing."

He holds up his thumb and forefinger to illustrate. "Just a bit."

"Why, though? Why this, why now?"

Slipping his spectacles out of his pocket and onto his nose, the Doctor pulls a swiveling screen toward him under the guise of running diagnostics. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks, almost under his breath.

Rose's eyebrow piques in question, but she's silent.

The Doctor shakes himself. "Just think about it. No more Battle at Canary Wharf. No more Void ships, no more worrying about Void stuff, no more Daleks or Cybermen or horrid white walls." He whips around to look at her, gesticulating wildly. "No more being stranded in Pete's World!"

"You mean no more Mum and Pete," Rose points out. "No more Tony."

"Well," the Doctor says, drawing the word out while he plays for time. "Not necessarily. Pete and Mickey and their lot will come over here no matter what we do. Whole separate universe, whole separate set of events. Who says we can't give Pete a little nudge when he pops over, talk him into staying here with your mum?"

Rose plants her hands on her hips. "Still, that doesn't account for everything I did at Torchwood. My Torchwood. Friends I made, people I helped, people I saved."

(some little people)

"Eh," the Doctor grunts, dismissively waving her off. "You can do that here."

Her eyes go wide at that. "Right, because what I was really talking about was my own sense of self-importance, not the fact that people could die."

"Oh, come off it. You know what I mean," the Doctor laughs. He enters a last set of instructions on a keyboard and feels the TARDIS ripple beneath his feet. Stepping back, he leans lazily against the railing. He's got a few minutes before the TARDIS reboots. Why not spend those minutes reassuring Rose, even if it's only for his own peace of mind? "Besides, what about all of the lives lost because of Canary Wharf?"

(I've done this sort of thing before)

"I'm sure those people would appreciate not-dying," he continues.

(In small ways, saved some little people)

"In fact, I'm sure there are a great deal of people who would appreciate our help," he says.

(Oh, I'm good)

"And as instrumental as you undoubtedly are to your Torchwood, I'm confident that they can carry on without you," the Doctor finishes.

"But you can't?"

The Doctor's smile slips a little. "Never said that."

Rose shakes her head. "No. This isn't right," she half-mutters. "I remember. I remember coming back here, and you were gone. And everything at Torchwood definitely happened. With the Cybermen and the Daleks and Mum and me getting pulled across. I had nightmares about it, nightmares for months. We never stopped it. You never did come back."

"Well, maybe I didn't fetch you then because you're conveniently here now," the Doctor reasons. "It really doesn't matter which version of you helps me with this. It just needs to be you."

"You're saying nothing's happened since then, nothing that would change your mind?"

(And there's no stopping you?)

"No," he says, and his voice is dark behind the smile.

He watches Rose's face as she works through it all; he sees her confusion and disbelief drain away, leaving realization clinging behind. He sees the exact moment the truth dawns on her when her mouth falls open and she takes a step back—no, a stagger. It's like the revelation hits her with a physical blow. She looks like she might be sick.

"Oh, my god," she whispers. She tears her eyes away from his, addresses her words more to herself than to him. "It's me."

"You're what?"

Her voice is so quiet, even the Doctor with his superior hearing has to strain to hear it. "I'm the thing that stops you."

(If I have to fight you as well, then I will)

The Doctor's hearts squeeze painfully. Funny, it couldn't have hurt more if Rose had actually reached inside his chest and wrenched his guts both in her hands. First the TARDIS betrays him, now her?

"Nope," he says, and he's almost proud of how normal he sounds. He takes off on a stroll around the desk, circling around to the other side. "Not gonna happen."

"That's just it, though," Rose says, working her way through her thoughts. "It doesn't happen. You don't come back for me, you don't change events, and if nothing else has changed your mind, then it's got to be me. Doesn't it?"

(Looks like history's got other ideas)

"No, it doesn't," the Doctor responds. His fingers fly over the console and it's a small mercy that they can type and move so quickly because it does a marvelous job of hiding his nervous energy, disguising the sense that at any moment his skeleton is going to rattle right out of his flesh. "It doesn't have to be. You don't have to do anything."

"Right, so whatever you're planning to do, dismantle the ghost shift or kidnap that Yvonne lady or blow up the building or god knows what else, I'm just supposed to sit back and let that happen? You're telling me that's not gonna cause a paradox?"

"Oh, are you an expert on paradoxes now? Lovely."

"What about ripping a hole in the fabric of space and time, what about Reapers, or fixed points, what about—"

"Alternatively, what about pretending, just for one millisecond, that I'm a Time Lord and I know exactly what I'm doing?" the Doctor asks, his voice loud but still pleasant.

"Doctor, you can't do this," Rose pleads. "Please. It's wrong. You know it is!"

(The Time Lord Victorious is wrong)

"That's for me to decide," the Doctor says, shrugging.

Rose throws up her hands in frustration. "Okay, fine. Great. Say the universe doesn't explode in our faces. What do we do after that? You and me, do we just ride off into the sunset like nothing ever happened?"

"Something like that. But really, there's no point in stopping, is there? The modifications to the TARDIS open up a whole world of possibilities. Imagine," the Doctor says, spreading his hands wide like he's framing a painting. "Imagine, everywhere you go, you can do whatever you want. No more worrying about it. No more waiting idly by for the pronouncement of a bunch of dusty old rules. The entirety of time and space are laid out before you like a canvas, and you decide the brush strokes, you paint creation to your design! You can eliminate suffering, end world hunger, say goodbye to social divides, destroy the capacity for destruction and anger and death. Topple corrupt governments and stop dictators in their paths. Save entire species from extinction. Halt the progress of natural disasters. Everybody lives!"

He quiets. "And you can make it so that your loved ones never again have reason to grieve. This time, Martha's never stranded alone in 1913, kidnapped in the future, trapped wandering the Earth. Her family isn't caught up in the chaos. Old friends are never corrupted, never go mad. Sarah Jane doesn't waste years waiting. You never have to watch your father die. Engineer things just right, tweak their genetic code just so, and people can live forever. Companions don't perish or leave or wither away. Susan and Romana survive the War. There is no War. And Donna…"

Her name lodges in his teeth, stoppers up the flow of words streaming from his mouth. Burns the place behind his eyes. He's silent.

"Who's Susan?" Rose asks.

Shaking himself, the Doctor blinks those memories away. "This isn't just about us, Rose," he tells her, and if his voice has softened a bit, gone tender, then so be it. "This is about you and me and making the world a better place. For everyone. Nobody's ever sad again. Nobody's ever lonely. No one ever leaves, no one ever dies. We make reality whatever we want it to be. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

Rose's mouth sets into a grim line. "I think it's horrific."

The Doctor can feel his muscle twinging in his cheek. His patience is running thin, but he's going to stretch it out for along as he can, keep up the ruse for as long as possible. "You don't understand right now," he says gently, removing his spectacles and pocketing them. "But that's all right. You will."

"Okay, obviously, something's going on right now. And whatever it is, I know it's bad, and I'm sorry. I really am. But you can't just make everything bad go away," Rose argues. "You help where you can, but one grand gesture won't fix the fact that there's wrong in the universe. You can't just make the world whatever you want it to be."

The Doctor nods. "I can. And I'm going to."

"I mean, look at what happened when I tried to save my dad. Do you really think it's gonna be any different if you do the same thing here?"

(The whole of history could change)

(No one should have that much power)

"It will be different this time," the Doctor responds.

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do, I know exactly what I'm—"

Rose's voice grows louder, competing with the sounds of his double heartsbeat hammering in his ears as she says, "You're jumping into this just as blindly as you did on Krop Tor or eighteenth-century France—"

"Please, Rose."

"And what about me? Am I gonna remember everything, am I gonna forget?"

"You won't."

"You're not infallible, you're not a god!"

"Rose—"

"Doctor," Rose cuts him off. "Please don't do this to me. I don't want you to!"

"You'll never know the difference!" the Doctor snaps.

Rose draws in a sharp intake of breath; he'd almost call it a gasp, if it weren't for the implications.

Hand through his hair, the Doctor silently curses himself. "You'll never know," he says again, his words hushed now but no less potent. "This entire conversation is pointless. Events are already set in motion. It's all just clockwork. Just a matter of time. And it'll happen with or without your consent."

(The laws of time are mine and they will obey me)

"What, that's it?" Rose asks on a harsh laugh. "I don't get any say?"

(There's no one to stop you)

"No," the Doctor replies, his voice sharp.

(Not anymore)

Rose rolls her eyes, blinking back angry tears. "Right," she says. "Good point. What could I say? Can't argue with someone of your far-superior morals and intellect, can I?"

"It's not your fault," he says coldly. "You're only human."

When hurt flashes across her face, the Doctor softens. "If it's any consolation, you should remember everything," he tells her. "We're external to the events, safe here, in the center of activity."

"The eye of the storm," Rose mocks.

"Exactly. Everything you did, everything you were over there—it'll still live on, in your memory. But anything you don't want to remember, the Battle, this conversation, anything...well, we have ways of dealing with that, too."

Rose fixes him with a hard stare. "I never knew, did I?" she whispers. "Who you really are."

(I don't care who you are)

BANG.

Both of them jump at the sound of the Cloister Bell, at the glass column buzzing to life in the center of the room between them. The Bell's ring reverberates through the room long after the sound fades. It shakes the air with an impact the Doctor can feel in his teeth. A few moments later, and it tolls again, the sound ringing outward like a vicious ripple. Like a shot fired at dawn.

The countdown is complete. The TARDIS is ready.

Grimacing, the Doctor reaches out, charting a course for Canary Wharf.

"Doctor," Rose pleads. She circles around the desk, walking closer to him. "Please don't do this."

(This is wrong, Doctor)

"Please," she tries again.

(The Time Lord Victorious is wrong)

He can't look at her. His fingers idle over the keys.

(I'm the winner)

The Doctor flips a switch and watches Rose edge closer out of the corner of his eye.

(The whole of history could change)

He pauses.

(The laws of time are mine, and they will obey me)

"I'm sorry, Adelaide," he murmurs.

Rose lunges toward him.

He hits the ignition.

Time rotor gasping and glass column grinding, the TARDIS gives a great lurch that jolts the Doctor and throws Rose off her feet. The entire ship shudders and the walls groan, straining to hold out against a pressure a thousand times heavier than the depths of even the darkest ocean. Tremors rip violently through the room until the control desk sparks and the roundels on the walls flash and flicker. On-off, on-off, lights spasming like in an electrical storm.

Time winds ruffle through the room, tearing at the Doctor's hair and clothes and moaning quietly beneath the shrill screech of alarms bleating overhead. Thrumming deep in the floor and the Doctor's chest, the TARDIS roars back to life in full. The entire room floods with blood-red light and the Doctor can feel the TARDIS' distress as if it were his own, as if he's straining to hold the universe together using only the atoms of his being.

He grits his teeth and pushes past the pain and grips the rough edges of the console until he can feel the coral friction-burning his palms and tearing ragged edges into his fingernails.

(Not beaten, not beaten, not)

Pops of light explode behind his eyelids and he nearly doubles over in agony. The Doctor bites his tongue to cage in the cry bursting to escape his lips.

"Doctor!" Rose shouts over the noise. The time winds pick up in intensity and they pull at Rose, buffeting her hair and her clothes wildly about. She has to cling to the railing just to stay upright amidst the winds and the shockwaves bucking through the TARDIS with every tick of the second-hand. "Doctor, please!"

(saved some little people, but never anyone as important as you)

Rose inches closer, pulling herself along the railing. "You told me once, you said you could feel the turn of the Earth," she yells, and the Doctor doesn't have to look to know that her face is streaked with tears from the wind. "You said you could feel us falling through space. You said you could feel that all the time. What do you feel now?"

The Doctor clenches his eyes shut in an effort to block her out, but her words ricochet around his grey matter. He feels the TARDIS shaking all around him, paroxysms that rock him to the core. He feels the time winds burning his cheeks and nose and knuckles. He tastes copper and salt, blood sour in his mouth from his hard-bitten tongue. He smells the ion charge in the air, a whiff of beryllium, a stench of burned oxygen, acrid and bitter. He hears—

His eyes fly open and he stares without seeing. It isn't what he hears that matters—the howl of the winds or the squeal of the alarms or the skip in the TARDIS' hum or the catch in Rose's breath. It's what he doesn'thear. Because his time sense stopped ringing the moment he sent Rose away, he realizes. And it never started back up again.

In its place, there's...nothing. Not even darkness. It's a vacuum.

(Don't you get it?)

"You can't feel it anymore, can you?" Rose shouts. "The integrity of time here has been compromised-you're damaging the timelines too much!"

(Is there nothing you can't do?)

"Sometimes you have to destroy in order to rebuild," the Doctor manages to choke out.

He almost jumps at the feeling of Rose's hand closing over his. "We're clinging to the skin of the world, you and me," she tells him, eyelashes fluttering and eyes full of fear. She squeezes his hand. "And if we let go…"

(I've gone too far)

Silence in his head gives way to the sound of a gunshot.

(I don't care who you are)

(The Time Lord Victorious is wrong)

Rose's fingers tighten around his and he can feel her pulse thundering madly in her fingertips, can practically smell her desperation. It smells like gunpowder in the snow.

With a trembling hand, the Doctor slams the kill switch.