The One Adventure I'll Never Have

part v (1/2)

.

"I can see everything. All that is, all that was, all that ever could be."

"That's what I see, all the time. And doesn't it drive you mad?"

"My head-"

"Come here."

"-it's killing me."

"I think you need a doctor."

.

"Who was she?"

"I don't know."

"What did she look like?"

"She was...blonde."

"What was her name?"

"I don't know."

"Donna, what was her name?"

"She told me...to warn you. She said two words."

"What two words? What were they? What did she say?"

"...Bad Wolf."

.

I taste ash. It clings to the back of my tongue lovingly, greedily. It laughs and I feel blue flames licking up the inside of my throat, scratching my esophagus. It speaks and I hear a dead language, so familiar that my ears begin to ring with the memory of screams. A deadly facade.

Time Lords are renowned for carrying no weapon. No one understands why I persist in such a silly tradition. I am alone, the last of my kind. There is no High Council to judge my motives.

There was, once. There were red hills and a citadel overlooking the species below, a little room hidden in the depths of the city, protected by a righteous few, occupied by a dais. Upon it was a portal through which our young could see the Time Vortex in all its ferocious glory.

We used weapons during the war. Not our powers of persuasion, not through haughty spectacles - though there were those, too. We clutched blades crackling with the Energy of Time. They advanced, we retreated, exchanging glancing blows and rolling over and over through desolate plains as friends exploded into bones and blue light. At one point - in the past and always, without fail, in my nightmares - I had a Dalek at my mercy, its beady eye staring at me, daring me.

They thought we were cowards. We thought every creature deserved a chance to be saved.

But I killed. We all did. I towered over the Dalek with its metal prison, breathing heavily as it laughed. Laughed, as if Daleks could understand such a concept.

"You will be so alone," it croaked through a shattered voice transmitter, its mouthpiece dangling, dripping dark black oil onto the ground. "So alone, Doctor."

I remember screaming then, lunging forward in my desperation and sinking my blade through the Dalek's defenses. Burying my head into the Dalek's outer shell, I felt it shudder, electric power crawling through its core. Then it fell, fell like a domino, bathed in an electric current, hitting the ground, and I was a murderer.

When I looked up, the sky was black. I could hardly tell ash from Dalek. Behind me, the citadel burned, shrieking as it crumbled.

"Doctor, wake up."

"You will be so alone. So alone, Doctor."

"Doctor, c'mon. Get up, Doctor!"

"You have to help me," someone wheezed. I turned, drenched in Dalek oil. One of my dear friends was lying on the ground, chest heaving. I hurried to his side, but - no. He was gone, eyes staring, glassy, at the molten edges of Gallifrey.

"Please. Please help me," the voice came again, shrouded in tears.

I looked to the left and froze. A tiny Dalek lay in the dust, covered in the oil of its fallen brethren. It couldn't have been more than six months old. A baby; they'd sent a child to fight us.

I opened my mouth to speak but all that came out was a choked sound. The tiny Dalek turned its head slowly, feebly, its cracked eye focusing on me. The light in its eye was fluctuating between blue, green and purple and back again, fading away.

"Please," the little one begged, and I found myself shaking my head. It couldn't be. Daleks didn't have emotions, didn't have the capacity to beg. No, surely it was tricking me, playing games until my barriers were lowered.

I took a step back. My eyes were burning with ash, with tears.

Save it, one of my hearts screamed. This is what you fight for, isn't it? Giving second chances?

The little Dalek began to shudder, oil dripping from beneath its face plate.

I ran.

"Doctor!" A stinging pain erupts across my cheek and I fling myself up, nearly bashing Martha's face in. My tongue presses itself into the side of my now swollen cheek and I taste ash.

"What now?" I whine, still not at all sure of where I am. My fingers begin to rub at my eyes, scrubbing at the blurriness. "Have the Sycorax come back for round three? According to Clause Fifty-Six of the Shadow Proclamation-"

"Doctor," Martha interrupts, looking a bit cross. Taking a minute to study her, I find tell-tale bags under her weary brown eyes. She's wearing a black uniform similar to the those I've seen at Torchwood, the label of the company stitched into one of the front pockets of the leather pants.

"Martha Jones," I slur, looking around at my surroundings in bemusement. "Why haven't you been sleeping?"

Martha's expression morphs from irritation into concern and I wonder what I've said now. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" I'm scratching my head now, through my artfully messy brown hair. I still don't know where I am and the thought is disconcerting. I never forget anything. It's the curse of the Time Lords. Well, unless I've been knocked out by a drug. Well, maybe. Well, okay, highly unlikely, but still possible.

"You called me and told me to meet you," Martha says, pinching the bridge of her nose, fingers paling. "Then, of course, you disappeared. I've been searching for you for three bloody days. If I hadn't managed to lock in on the TARDIS, I'd have never found you." She looks around. "Why'd you choose to stop here anyway? I haven't been able to detect any sort of alien activity."

I look around me, focusing on the cold, hard tile and the empty jar of jam by my face. My fingers are still sticky with the substance.

"I'm lying on a kitchen floor," I mumble, sitting up. Dust bunnies knock me right in the mouth and I wince, spitting them out.

Immediately, I freeze, hands digging into the tile as much as they can. Coated in jam, my fingertips drag across the tile, making a screeching sound.

"Yeah, I'd noticed that, thanks," Martha comments."What I want to know is why-"

She stops talking all of a sudden, unusual for Martha. I quickly scan how her face has tightened, still swept up in my own personal nightmare. The room has been untouched, the furniture still in the same place. The same pictures stand proud watch over the rest of their room from their perch on a bookshelf, smiling faces, baby pictures with the date noted in orange print on the corner. A bag of crisps lies on the table by the couch, the colorful wrapper covered in dust.

"Doctor, you know this place, don't you?" Martha asks, voice marginally softer.

I manage a nod, my heart jammed up into my throat. Why would I come- I'd sworn never to come here, ever. My eyes trail down and I'm in for another surprise. My comfy tan coat has been traded in for a beaten leather jacket. I have no doubt that if I were to dig into my left pocket I'd find a broken shard of the weapon I used throughout the Time War.

I was dreaming of the war. I'm wearing my last regeneration's horribly baggy jacket. Of course I'm here. It makes sense now.

"Doctor?" Martha murmurs hesitantly.

I swallow. It feels like I'm dislodging a rock.

"Martha, welcome to Rose Tyler's humble abode. Would you care for some crisps? I warn you, they might be a little...crispy."

"Why did I choose to sleep on the floor?" I'm asking myself twenty minutes later, now propped up against the side of the couch, eyes frozen on the blank telly as I hold a bag of mildly frozen carrots to my swollen cheek. "There was a perfectly good couch right here and I know that Rose's bed can fit-" I clamp my mouth shut too late. Martha is already giving me a curious look.

"Sometimes I think all of this fantastic brainpower goes to waste," I tell her, shaking my head at my own stupidity. "I mean, really? The floor? It's not as if - oh. Wait. If the jam were...no, no, my superior senses would've detected an anomaly in the jam's ingredients. Martha, did I mention how absolutely delectable jam is? Whoever invented jam was brilliant!"

Martha gives me a little smile as I ramble, trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm in Rose's living room. The silence is too much. I keep waiting for Jackie Tyler to spring out from the pantry and hit me over the head with a jar of preserves.

"Hit me already," I mumble under my breath.

"You want me to what?" Martha asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, no, I was," I stutter. "I didn't mean to…never-mind."

Martha looks at me strangely for a moment and then shrugs, dismissing it. "So, did you want to tell me why you ended up here?" She flushes, realizing how personal her question is. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I just thought you didn't like thinking about her, let alone having a sleepover at her flat."

"Right," I say, reaching for the jar filled with raspberry jam at my feet. "Well, considering that I can't remember coming here, I'm guessing the TARDIS found a way to knock me out. She's got a knack for doin' that." I open the top of the jar and scoop out a bit of jam, sliding it onto my tongue. It's bitter, but I relish it anyway.

"I'm assuming the TARDIS dressed you too, then?" Reaching out and scratching her ankle, Martha smirks.

I flush, snapping, "I can take care of that myself."

"Mmm." Martha slides a little closer. Her smirk widens as she leans back against the table adjacent to the couch, the movement jostling the table and sending one of Jackie's maganizes onto the floor. It lays there pitifully, the pages bent. "So...the TARDIS likes to kidnap you?"

"You'd be surprised," I answer, twisting my fingers around inside the rim of the jar to make sure I've gotten every last bit. No sense wasting. "There was this one time she thought I'd handled a situation with Ace - one of my old companions - wrong, so she locked me inside the console room and dragged me across several galaxies until I repented. In my defense, Ace was perfectly capable of handling herself and it was only a giant squid-"

"As fascinating as that sounds," Martha cuts me off, "maybe you might like to focus on what you're doing here." She holds out a hand for the jam and, cocking an eyebrow, I hand it over. Without even a little pause, Martha digs in, licking her fingers enthusiastically.

I open my mouth to try and say something, then realize I have no bloody idea of what to say. I've never been keen on sharing memories from the Time War, nor Rose, and now I've gotten myself all tangled up in both.

"I'm wearing my last regeneration's jacket," I say finally.

"Feeling nostalgic?" Martha teases, her laughter dying as she notices the way in which my face has seized up. "You don't like who you used to be?"

Now isn't that a loaded question?

"I was...different back then," I answer hesitantly, smoothing a hand over the jacket and digging into the pocket until my fingertips graze the edge of my old blade. "There was this war..."

"The Time War?" Martha supplies helpfully. I go to give her a confused look before remembering that she's a dedicated part of Torchwood and has as much access to alien tidbits as she desires.

Nodding, I say, "Yes, the Time War." Even now, the name shreds my throat as it forces its way out. I don't think I'll ever be able to speak of it without reliving some of the nightmares. "During my last regeneration, I fought in the war and I - this was what I wore." I chuckle flatly. "I suppose I just got attached to it, 's all."

Martha sets the jar of jam in between my bent legs, her hand travelling farther up to press against my knee, squeezing once. "Why are you wearing it now, then?" she asks softly.

My own voice surprises me. I hadn't expected to answer. "Sometimes when I go out to other universes, saving planets and whole species if I'm lucky," another humorless chuckle follows, "I'm reminded of exactly what I lost. But it's so much worse than that, because I caused it." I inhale sharply. "Normally my superior intellect can hold it back, but sometimes I..."

"PTSD," Martha says as my voice drifts off. When I give her a questioning look, she adds, "It's pretty common, at least in my field. People who go through trauma often find themselves stuck perpetually in fight-or-flight mode." Looking at my jacket, she says, "This outfit probably makes you feel safer, if I were to guess."

"You mean humans experience PTSD?" I clarify. "But I'm not-"

"I don't think it matters what species you are." I can feel Martha looking at me sadly but I can't find the energy to answer. My hearts are too busy warring with each other over which nightmare to confront first: the battlefield or the parallel universe into which I lost Rose. The latter wins and in a split second the sound of Rose's laughter is echoing in my head along with an image of our hands linked as we run away from the latest alien threat. My eyes begin to water. Blinking, I try to dismiss the burning feeling that comes with these horrible tears, but it persists.

"You came here," Martha says, pointing out the one thing I'm struggling to bury. Stop it. Please. "You feel safe here."

"Felt," I growl too harshly. Martha's fingers dig into my shoulder before retreating into her lap. "Rose knew my last regeneration. She was the first person I brought up the war to. I couldn't keep it from her, not after she -" Not after she promised me forever. Not after I wanted her to stay.

"I'm sorry you lost her." Martha takes my hand and while I don't uncurl my fingers, I allow the little comfort.

"She took the heart of the TARDIS into herself," I murmer, again without meaning to. Fresh awe ripples through me as I realize yet again the enormity of Rose's sacrifices. "She could've killed herself. Even after I'd sent her away so she wouldn't have to die with me, even after I betrayed her, Rose still came back for me. She said she wanted me safe." Pain follows the ripples and I shudder. Beside me, Martha blinks back tears.

"She sounds brilliant," Martha says, her hand tightening around mine. I clutch at her fingers, needing the contact.

"She was." I lean back against the couch cushion, my vision blurring, mixing kitchens and beaches. "She was absolutely fantastic."

Martha shifts again until her back is resting against the couch. She tucks her legs up and knocks her right knee against my left. "Now I know why I never had a chance with you. Could've clued me in sooner." Absentmindedly, Martha plays with the ring finger of her left hand.

I look over at her, my smile too sad and too tight. "Next time you should rule out the nine hundred year old alien. We tend to have a phobia of commitment."

"Yeah," she answers softly. I nudge her knee with mine.

"You should get back to Torchwood," I tell her. "Take a shower though first, yeah? You're startin' to smell a bit ripe."

Martha rolls her eyes. "And whose fault is that?" She mumbles something about my crooked sense of time.

"You could've stopped for the night to take a shower," I point out. "Don't put this on me, Martha Jones."

Martha just stares at me for a moment before a smile breaks across her face and she laughs. I can't help but chuckle.

"You're incredible, you know that?" Martha asks after she's caught her breath, eyes twinkling.

"So I've been told," I brag with a wink.

We laugh together for a moment. Martha's eyes remain trained on my face, contemplative.

"I'd ask you if you want to go grab some fish and chips with me, but I have a feeling you'd spout off some intergalactic meeting you're late for." Her tone is humorous, but I can tell that some small part of Martha would really like me to say yes. It's the same part of her that will always miss travelling through the stars, despite her knowledge of how impractical it is.

"It's really good to see you," I tell her honestly, reaching over and scooping her into a tight hug. Martha buries her face into the side of my neck and I hear her breath hitch slightly. When we pull apart, though, Martha already has a fortified, bright expression on.

"You still have my mobile, yeah?" Martha asks, waiting for my mumbled affirmative. "I've plugged my new number in. Call if you need anything. I can handle alien crises." Her hand cups my cheek ever-so-briefly. "Take care of yourself, Doctor."

With that, we stand. My joints pop as I struggle upward. I follow Martha to the door, waiting until she opens it before I hold it for her.

"Martha Jones," I say, trailing off because I'm not sure how to finish the thought. Instead, I just beam at her, not the kind of smile I used in the months following Rose's disappearance, but an actual grin. Martha seems to understand.

Just before she closes the door, Martha pauses.

"Everything alright?" I ask her with a little frown.

Her mouth purses. "Do you even remember why you called me here?"

I stop to think about it, but all I draw is a blank. What could've been so important that I needed both a trusted friend and top notch Torchwood agent with me, here of all places?

"You have no idea, do you?" Martha asks.

"Nope." I pop the 'p.'

She shakes her head at me. "I'm gonna go ahead and say that you needed a friend."

I don't really have anything to say to that. My superior Time Lord mind recoils at the idea, but when I look at it as objectively as I'm able, it's a definite possibility.

"Goodbye, Doctor," Martha says. Her fingers trail over the sleeve of my jacket, and she's still smiling when she closes the door behind her.

I stare at her retreating figure through the peep-hole for a long time before backing away. The house suddenly feels too stuffy, partly because of the accumulation of dust, I'm sure. My foot nudges the now-empty jam jar and it rolls around on the floor, clinking softly. At last it comes to a stop by the the beginning of the hall leading to Rose's room. Eager to escape the sudden uprising of dust and pulled along by some force without a name, I tread down the hall, stopping by the first door. I half expect the door to spring open and reveal Rose, glaring at me for interrupting her while she's getting ready. It wouldn't be the first time.

He's standing over the mainframe of the TARDIS, hands playing aimlessly about with some of the non-life-or-planet-threatening buttons, when it hits him. Eyes wide with excitement, laughter bubbles up and out of his mouth.

"Rose?" There isn't any answer. "Rose, I've gotten it!" Pressing one of the buttons and waiting for one of the floor panels to move, revealing a staircase, he bounces about. "I told you that your simple human jokes were no match for my superior intellect!"

He descends the stairs, heading toward the direction of Rose's room. It's inevitably where she'll be. As he approaches, the sound of an old Gallifreyan tune drifts along the hall. He'd stored records on the TARDIS before the destruction of his planet, and while it had been too painful to listen to them, he had kept them all the same. Rose had taken to them the moment they'd been uncovered in the TARDIS's library but this was the first time Rose had played one when he was around. Being so in-tune with his emotions, Rose had figured out the emotional chaos such songs caused him and listened to them only when he was otherwise occupied.

The song brings tears to his eyes and, without thinking, he drifts closer to the source.

"Rose," he croaks as he draws nearer to her open doorway. He can hear Rose humming from inside. "I get it now! At first I thought it was silly for a number to be frightened of another, but this - this is brilliant."

She continues to hum. The music must be too loud for Rose to hear him.

"The structure of the joke is just fantastic," he continues, marching toward the open door. "So simple, yet, poignant. Because 7-" he rounds the corner of the doorway. "Ate-"

He smacks straight into something soft, giving, and it hisses. Eyes flickering up bare skin, he meets Rose Tyler's stunned gaze.

She isn't wearing a shirt.

"Nine," he finishes weakly, finding it hard to breathe.

His fingers descend from where they've leapt up in fright, accidentally brushing against the purple lace of her bra. Heat flashes through him, burning, echoed by the red climbing up Rose's cheeks. For a moment they just stare at each other, but the spell is broken when his eyes drift helplessly back down to caress her soft skin.

"Doctor," Rose whispers. He can feel her body trembling where it's pressed against his own.

Suddenly, he realizes exactly what's happening. "I- I'll just-" he backs away, hands up as though expecting Rose to slap him. "The joke, and I - well -"

"You - you should probably go," Rose says shakily. Her pupils are slowly devouring her eyes, black, so black.

"Right," he says, trying to ignore the part of him that really, really doesn't want to go. To cover it up, he laughs awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck. "I'll - I'll just be up there, working on the TARDIS. Same old life."

He scrambles away, the image of Rose silhouetted in the doorway burned into his retinas. The Gallifreyan melody echoes hauntingly in his mind.

My hand reaches out and pushes gently on the door. It swings open, revealing Rose's room. Before I can actually take anything in and feed the persistant ache in my chest, I collapse on Rose's bed, curling into a ball. The covers smell like her. The wall closest to the bed is covered in drawings - dragons, castles, stars and galaxies - made with permanent markers, a memory of the little girl Rose used to be. The doodles have stood guard over Rose through the years and here they remain even after she's gone.

I close my eyes, trying not to think of purple lace and what's underneath it, how it felt to run my hands over Rose's skin and feel so completely safe with another being.

When I open my eyes, I'm no longer in Rose's bedroom.

I'm standing on a landing platform on what resembles what humans would call a UFO. The familiar gold balls attached to the circumfrance of the ship have my hearts racing.

In front of me stands a handful of people in dark blue uniforms. They aren't wearing masks, so there must be an oxygen field established here on top of the gravity field. Their faces are grim, some covered in cuts and others barely recognizable through the blood. They're clustered in a vague sort of triangle shape and at the head of the triangle is Rose. My joy at seeing Rose is cut short by a sharp stab of terror.

Not less than two feet in front of Rose is a Dalek, it's blue eyepiece fixed firmly on her face.

to be continued

a/n: I'm sorry this took so long. Writer's block is always fun. ;D