Someday, This Day – What's the Difference?
He thinks about it very, very carefully one evening, after she's sauntered off to her bedroom to sleep half her life with him away.
Using the empirical evidence that has been his life thus far - or rather, pre-Rose - the Doctor comes to the completely rational conclusion that he has not, as yet in said life – or rather, pre-Rose – ever felt quite this seemingly irrationally...turned on. For want of a better, more scientific, and decidedly less human, turn of phrase.
So.
Hmm.
Right.
Now arrives the hard part of the problem.
Ah, no. Not like that; minds out of the gutter – honestly, humans! Constantly thinking about that. Ahem.
Time Lords are above such things. Or at least, they were. He was.
Pre-Rose, that is.
Anyway, the significantly more important issue is how on Earth/AnyOtherPlanet/the TARDIS/his bed/the library floor/that hammock in the garden room – okaaaaaay, getting a little distracted there; back to business. How, in any circumstance/location, is he going to resolve this slight...miscommunication of his brain to his, ah, blood flow?
Thing is, Rose is...well, Rose. She has that, oh, that smile; those big, brown eyes; that quite frankly very lovely, womanly figure. She's kind and compassionate and witty. She is, simply put, beautiful. And he certainly isn't alone in the universe in thinking so.
Which is...good. Yes, good. Because it proves there isn't something wrong with him. Lots of people become powerless under the sight of Rose's tongue poking the corner of her mouth as she grins mischievously. Which is...good. Yes. Very...good. Well, sort of. She's someone any red-blooded (or any other colour-blooded) male would find attractively pleasing – he knows that because, unfortunately, she does unconsciously command the attention of passing looks and appreciative comments. Wherever they bloody go. Which is...good, for her self-esteem, he supposes. Pretty boys by the dozen must be flattering. But.
But.
Well.
And here's the thing:
The Doctor, rather alarmingly, absolutely does not want any other boy, man, or woman, or undecided - or whatever else in existence – looking at her in that particular way. You know the way. The way that said they wanted her to talk to them, touch them, be with them. Et cetera.
He couldn't allow that. But is it really a matter of him allowing it? No. He doesn't own her, and he can't exactly keep her locked up on the TARDIS so that it is only him looking at her in that particular way. That would be...wrong. He's pretty sure that would be wrong. However tempting the idea, it cannot be done.
There is something inside him, see; something intrinsic and inherent and unable to be gotten rid of. It had been created very early on in knowing her, and had grown so far as to clench his hearts in fear whenever he faced the possibility of losing her. It would remain within him long after she was truly gone from him, though – in fact, it would never cease, not for the rest of his lives; it's so immense. He knows that. Because the something is a lot like love, but love and so much more on top...
People profess love all the time. Even him, in a way, because he's told her he loves bananas, and he's told her he loves humans, and he's told her he loves the universe, and travelling, and making things right.
People use the word love so casually in their speech. But he doesn't love her like some people claim they love chocolate; so-and-so off that film; holidays in Spain; Shakespeare; fluffy animals. The word is tossed around so often like it's something simple, something transient, when it isn't, not really. Not if you've never truly felt it in this way before. It's the most terrifying, wonderful thing, and no one can possibly know that more than him.
(And perhaps that's very arrogant of him. But who's he to be modest? He is a Time Lord, and they were not programmed, as such, to feel this way; and definitely not for humans.)
So what can he do? What can he seriously, actually do?
It's all so confusing. She's his friend, but she's more, she's his everything. But she doesn't know it. And therein lies his other problem:
If he tells her, will she stay?
He reasons that she will, because surely he can't be feeling all this and feeling it all alone. Surely it's not all unrequited. It can't be, what with the way she meets his gaze sometimes. The light in her eyes, the happiness, the hope. She must feel something there, hidden behind the gentle, comforting facade of holding hands and friendly hugs. Forbidden and tantalising and now barely out of reach.
He could grab at it, he realises. He could take it in his stride and sprint to her room right now; wake her up from her sleep where he hopes she is dreaming of him, and just...announce it. Loud and proud. I love you! he could shout, and she could be his, like that, in an instant and forever.
But what if he ruins it? He'll never leave her, but she could leave him. What if he messes up, somewhere along the line, and she decides to go? At the moment, with the remaining fragile distance between them, she forgives him anything. But stepping over the boundary means trust becomes scarier, because it's a lot more than just their hearts in jeopardy. Because at the moment, he knows if he lost her he'd be broken in a way he had been before she fixed him. But throw in to the mix decades of an even closer kind of love, kind of bond, that goes beyond long, secretive looks and slow burning want – then to lose her; well, it would be unbearable.
And trust may become scarier, but so does knowledge. She'll see into him, more than she already does, and he'll likely tell her anything she wants - and probably more so besides – once he's crossed that threshold of her mind and soul and she's crossed his. Hardly any more secrets between them.
And that's scary enough for him, but what about her? She might see things he doesn't want her to see, because with what she knows, already, he thinks she loves him, still, despite it all; the blood on his hands and the nightmares of a War everyone lost. But if she sees everything, will she look at him the same? She'll likely comfort him and say it doesn't matter – that's what she does, for him, you see; becomes his salvation, his girl that atones him – but would she really believe that? Would she really be able to love him, knowing what he'd been capable of in the past? What he is - if required, if she is in danger - still capable of, even now?
"Doctor, are you alright?" comes her voice, and he jumps off the captain's seat in surprise.
"Blimey, Rose!" he exclaims, clutching a hand to his chest. "You scared the life out of me!"
Rose grins cheekily as she walks over to him, absently rubbing her eyes. "Sorry," she apologises sleepily. She heaves out a sigh as she sinks down onto the seat. "Can't sleep!" she proclaims.
He sits down beside her. "Oh. It's still night, then?"
She looks at him like he's daft. "Yeah...I've only been gone, like, half an hour. Wow, you really were deep in thought, weren't you?"
"Hmm?" he replies distractedly, trying to calculate the exact speed at which he could lean towards her without it looking like it's intentional.
Rose solves the issue by shifting closer herself, resting her head on his shoulder casually. "I could practically hear you thinking when I came in," she clarifies. "You were somewhere else in your thoughts."
"Nah, I was right here, actually," he corrects softly, bringing his arm up and placing it around her shoulders.
She yawns and snuggles closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Me too," she murmurs.
He smiles into her hair, and ponders whether it's completely necessary for them to remain where they are while she dozes off...surely it wouldn't be wrong of them to migrate somewhere...comfier? Like...a sofa, or...a bed? It's not like it would stop being an innocent cuddle just because they got more...horizontal; after all, innocent cuddles are all they do. Neither of them let it become more. Ever.
He finds himself asking the question before it's fully formed in his mind. "Do you want me to come to bed with you?"
Rose raises her head and stares at him blankly, an eyebrow slowly arching.
He hastily rephrases his question. "I mean, it seems like you're really tired, so isn't it better that I come in your room with you so we can talk before you fall asleep? Then I won't have to carry your heavy lump to bed later," he adds cheekily.
"Oi!" she says, but she says it through laughter. "Yeah, alright, old man. Would hate to put your back out."
"Oi!" he says back, but she's affirmed his idea, so all is well, really.
They walk to her bedroom in a comfortable silence and within close proximity to each other. In fact, he leaves his arm slung across her shoulders and so she's pulled rather closely into him as they make their journey. Not that either of them complain.
Inside, Rose tugs him down next to her on the bed and curls into him again, her head on his chest. "So," she mumbles, stifling another yawn. "What shall we talk about tonight?"
There are so many topics they could choose from. They've steadily worked their way through the mundane to the absurd to the downright hysterical on other occasions, never once having an awkward silence with neither knowing what to say.
But then comes her idea. "I know!" she says, before he can answer. "Why don't you tell me what you were thinking so hard about earlier?"
He goes very still. "Ah, no, no, no, no," he blusters. "No."
"Oh, why not? Was it all scientific? Too hard for me to understand?" she asks knowingly.
"Um. Yes. Yes, that's right. All sorts of, er, equations and things." He exhales roughly, knowing he's got away with it. "Far too advanced for a human brain," he teases playfully.
"It's just...you looked worried. Troubled. I thought maybe you were remembering...things," Rose says carefully.
He looks at the top of her head with a puzzled expression. "What sort of things?"
"I..." she starts, unsure. Then, she looks up at him, folding her arms on his chest to get better leverage, and goes for the sarcastic approach. "Oh, I dunno. The traumatic experience that happened a little while ago."
He touches her face, then; his mouth downturned, he lets his fingertips trace her features lightly, remembering the horror he had felt when all he could see was a blank canvass where her beautiful eyes and nose and mouth used to be. "Is that why you can't sleep?" he asks her quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Because you don't have to worry, Rose. I'm never going to let anything like that happen to you again," he vows, cupping her cheek.
Her face contorts into a confused look, then. "Hang on, what are you talking about?"
He looks at her like she's dribbling on his hand; which, honestly, he really wouldn't mind, and my, isn't that a strange, bizarre, really, really weird thing to wish for...he must be losing it. He clears his throat. "Last week. With the Wire...?"
"Oh! No, I meant something a lot more important than that," she dismisses, nearly chuckling at his silliness but realising that would be inappropriate. "No, I – I meant...the Time War," she finishes tentatively.
"Oh! Oh, okay." He pauses. "The thing with the Wire is very important, too, you know."
Rose shrugs and looks him in the eye. "But you weren't really thinking about that."
"No," he agrees. "Doesn't mean I haven't been, though. I haven't slept since last week, because every time I close my eyes I see your face just...gone," he admits.
She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and blinks quickly to avoid them. "Yeah?"
"Yes," he confirms, reaching down to hold her head in his hands again. The pads of his thumbs sweep across the apples of her cheeks and she closes her eyes at his reverent touch. "Still!" he says loudly, clearing his throat again and breaking the moment. "All over now. Nothing to angst over for evermore."
She opens her eyes when he drops his hands and they try to smile at each other but it's all false and they both know it. And now he can't quite look at her and so he's staring at her wall like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"It's okay to be scared, you know," she whispers. He swallows hard and still doesn't meet her gaze. "You don't have to be embarrassed about being a little vulnerable, sometimes." She unfolds her arms and reaches for his hands, holding them in hers. "Not to me."
He looks at their joined hands, then. Sees how tightly their fingers have interwoven. Nothing can break this. Nothing can break them. They'll always get through it, whatever it is that's trying to take her from him, just like they did last week. He always gets her back.
"What were you thinking about, then?" she asks him again.
"Us," he admits quietly.
"Us?"
"Yes. Us."
"What about us?"
"Us," he repeats, emphatically this time. "Us-us. You and me. Me and you. Rose Tyler and the Doctor. Bad Wolf and the Oncoming Storm. Shiver and Shake. Sonny and Cher – no, wait, not that one. Sooty and Sweep! Love that show. Bonnie and - "
"Yeah, Doctor, I get the picture," she giggles. She giggles even more when he pulls her up to lay right next to him, their heads sharing a pillow as they simply look at each other until their laughter fades out.
He turns onto his side and she does the same. She lifts a hand to stroke his sideburn, then lets it drop to his neck, fiddling absently with his collar, before trailing it all the way down his arm and tracing a pattern on the back of his manly hairy hand. She smiles at him impishly, like she's daring him to stop her.
"One day," he murmurs; his breath ghosting over her lips, they're so close. "One day, I'm not going to be able to do this anymore."
She flinches away from him in shock, staring at him with hurt in her eyes.
"No!" he exclaims, his hand shooting to her waist to yank her back to him, bring her closer. "No, I didn't mean it to sound like that. What I mean is, someday I'll lose my carefully constructed self-restraint, and this? This sharing a bed lark? Yeah, that's not going to work. Unless, of course, you - "
She stops him talking with a spontaneous idea that brings her mouth to his.
And like that, 'someday' becomes this day, because his hands are sliding in different directions, one up to tangle in her hair, the other down to her lower back. He pulls her closer one second then pushes her slightly away the next, so that he can roll on top of her. She gasps in surprise and tightens her arms around his neck as his tongue delves between her parted lips.
When he pulls back to let her breathe, he whispers, "I was thinking about this, and how we can't be like this."
She kisses him again and trails her hand down his back, sending shivers down his spine. "But we can," she tells him. "We can."
He kisses her back in reply. His leg slips between hers and he tries not to collapse his entire weight on her.
His mouth moves from hers to trail across her jawline. "We can't," he mumbles against her neck.
"We are," Rose corrects gently, her confidence in the fact clear and unwavering. "You know we are. We can't not." She's astounded to hear him make a growling sort of sound in response, and she decides she loves it even though she doesn't know what it means. "Doctor?"
He lifts his head to look at her properly. "That meant, I think you're right," he clarifies.
"Oh. Excellent," she giggles.
"Yep." He inhales sharply when she licks a certain bit of his neck that he's not realised he'd love her to lick until now. "Rose."
"Doctor?" she smiles innocently. She tilts her head and bites his earlobe and he sincerely cannot help it when he lets out a happy (and a little bit girly) giggle.
"Oh, Rose, what have you done to me?" he murmurs, pulling back slightly to search her eyes. "You interrupted careful thoughts, you know; I never did finish my analysing of the issue of wanting this sort of thing with you. How do you think I should conclude?"
Rose beams up at him. "That this, Time Lord, is going to be the first of many times that I will interrupt your careful thoughts in the middle of the night."
"Ah, promises, promises," he grins.
And he kisses her again.