Hello again, and thank you for the reviews, favourites and follows! I really do love them, truly!
To me, the inner thoughts of Twelve sound a bit like the inner thoughts of Ten in this chapter, but I'm just excited because I'm writing Rose and Ten for the next chapter! Well, it is a Rose and Ten fanfiction, isn't it? It got a bit off track, I must say.
I hope you enjoy, and please review!
Warning: mentions of abuse, although not heavily.
The Doctor felt sure he had figured his way out of this nonsense... the impossible weapon, the impossible girl. Frantically scrambling, he clasped onto his superior senses, only to find them brutally maimed, obviously due to the temporal disturbance of the world he had surely created. The TARDIS had felt it, the plain wrongness of the situation.
It pained him a great deal to admit it, but this was not the first, nor the second, or millionth, time his thoughts had lingered somehow interminably on the subject of his once dear companion. His pinstripe days were long gone, yet there seemed to be still an ember of old passion, and, now and again, he longed to stoke the fire. He never had the chance back when he was young, and naive. Oh yes, there had been moments, fanciful flickers of what he had assumed to be love. And had he ever acted upon it? He'd tried, once. And then he had cursed himself for being so idiotic, risking his hearts for the sake of a human who would wither and die.
And so he had remained stoic, incorrigible, ruling never to cross that bridge, never to entangle himself up in something he had never truly understood in fear of the vile, omniscient ogre lurking under his safety-net. And then his monsters had murdered them anyway.
The Doctor examined his mystery intently. Her chocolate eyes blenched as dusk drew in, beguiled the light away; they tapered into stubborn, suspicious slits as she judged him, distrustful, yet... inquisitive. That's what he lo- liked about Rose. Her wild sense of adventure matched his own. Seems like it still did, in his head.
He tinkered with the weapon-of-mass-destruction, willing it to mutate into some sort of bloody distraction. Someone gave his forehead a hard clout, and seconds afterwards he realised it was himself. Yes, he knew he had to wake up. He screwed into his eye sockets as if to draw conclusions from the stars and stripes, or at least rid himself of his vision.
There was a slow symphony of machines humming in the quiet. The scanners chattered ominously, primeval apes sparring in the skulking shadows.
'How did you know my name?' It would have been a demand if she had been any older.
His confusion sprouted. What was she still doing here? He thought he'd have been able to shake himself back by now.
'Are you one of mummy's friends?' He saw the way she subconsciously shivered, and his expression tightened.
Jackie has friends? Actual, real humans who want to ... do whatever people do? Do they know she is rather proficient at maternal martial arts? The Doctor had never liked the older woman.
'And who are they? Her cups of Tetley?'
And then the monitor exploded.
Twisted shards of shaved metal surfed through the shock wave of dust and debris, and shot inches away from his skull. Hideous, jaundiced tongues of fire sprung, spat, scratched at the central console like feral creatures lost to the unruliness, the intensity of unqualified fury. Books dropped five storeys, and thudded to the floor as if made of lead.
Then, they lifted themselves back upright as they convulsed in a convoluted show, spines hitching triangularly. They were sallow puppets, terribly strung along the air.
The Doctor started and reeled back, went to scoop Rose's small shoulders round and away, but was only met by a burning spark of electricity. He cursed, jerked his hand, looked at her for the first time.
Golden light coursed through her tiny body, amassing in a rich, off-yellow mess somewhere in her eyes. Wet tears crept furiously down her face, of which was contorted into an expression of such horror that he knew he would never ever forget.
Bad Wolf. The message struck him now. Perfect. The Doctor grimaced. Human beings were even stupid in his head.
But did he do this? Was it his fault? Of course it was! It was his dream, after all...
A book cuffed the back of his head. How - Rose. But, why on Gallifrey would he imagine this? He didn't have the time, nor the desire for a subdural haematoma.
Unless...
He touched Rose's temples, gritted through the pulsating zap of voltage that she conducted, and entered the basics of her mind for a few measly seconds, before -
He was thrown back by a surge of her power. Momentarily paralysed, he felt the considerable and unpleasant throb of his backside radiate from him. With a groan, he hulled himself up, brushing down any unexpected dust patches.
Not deterred, he raced through his mind for the information he had... stolen. His data banks were vast and stomach-dropping, but this was his domain. A few sparks blasted out on his left, a quick check and no, they weren't the one. A couple more... come on you useless old git!
There! There. A forty percent drop in the brainwave activity of her frontal cortex, which meant - she was dreaming, just as he was! That explained his ship's liking to her, for she wasn't a pigment of his wearied imagination, but she was almost, almost, here. But, why?
Rose burst with uncontrolled, glowing streams of light. Ah, the child was having a tantrum.
The TARDIS sent both of them her comforting, soothing warmth. The monitor crackled into life; it flickered its lids, black and white static splintering. It repeated this cycle for a few tense moments, and then morphed listlessly into a grainy picture.
Rose screamed. To him it sounded like a wounded thing. Her hands clasped around her red-spotted ears made him want to do the same.
'Rose?' The rough, cockney accent provoked two iridescent spates of attacking light: one struck the wall, and the other the console. The Doctor apologised to his old girl, immediately and profusely.
'Rose?' Somewhere in the real world there was the soft creak of a pink door. The Doctor watched as the stout man entered, as his heavy chest exhaled, and as he leered over the small, sleeping form of his child companion. Heavy exhilaration was hot in the air. The man crossed the box-like room in seconds, a considerable feat considering his size. He was eager, and zeal pushed him forward. His fat, twitching fingers peeled back the pleated, cerise duvet...
'Jimmy? What you doing in there? Rose's sleeping. Come to bed.' The reply seemed to be from none other than Jackie Tyler, albeit a much younger Jackie Tyler. The man, this Jimmy, could only sigh deeply, before, much slower this time, retreating towards his unfortunate commitment.
The Doctor felt sickened by the mere sight of him, and turned away from the offending present, burning wrathfully with his other storm-like persona. He looked too bloody familiar with that room. The bastard.
And then the final blast smashed into the device he held in his hands, galvanised the white essence of the weapon to expand, the rate exponential and implausible. It singed the Doctor's fingers, hissed as its mechanics shifted. Rose crumpled to the floor before him. He cursed, and cursed again. He tried the sonic. Nothing. He thought he would have more time.
Die in the dream world, die in the real world. He twiddled with the bleeping end. What could he do!?
Die in the dream world, die in the real world. He repeated his phrasing, hoping to drill in his situation.
Die in the dream world, die in the real world. He couldn't figure out what he needed. It was no use!
It was going to detonate. They were dead.
TO BE CONTINUED.