Chapter Three: Down the Rabbit Hole

When the Doctor came looking for Rose in the library with a cuppa and important news at the crack of synthetic dawn, she was not on the sofa. He sighed. If she had crawled back into her own bed, she'd be there forever. He knew he should let her sleep, but this was important-he decided he'd wake her up and tell her, and then she could go back to bed if she wanted.

Rose's room was always dark, not a ray of light or a virtual window, not even a night light, because that was the way she said she wanted it. Good thing he had Gallifreyan superior night vision, and the dim light from the door he'd left open to the hallway shed a few beams across the floor. Rose's bedroom was an obstacle course of piles of laundry she never got around to finishing completely, stacks of books she borrowed from the library and never put back, a circle of plates and tea mugs around where she liked to sit on the floor, along with a slew of sketch books and pots of ink, pens, charcoal pencils. This is why, when they spent the night together, he preferred her in his room.

The thought, of Rose in his bed, as he approached her sleeping in hers, soft and vulnerable, always so open to him, he had to stomp hard on a sexual response that came roaring up out of nowhere. He was like a petrol-soaked stack of dry wood, these days-throw the tiniest spark, and you'd have a conflagration. Well, that's why he had this news. That's why he had made a decision.

"Rose," he called to her, low and soft. He sat beside her on the edge of her bed, one knee bent up on the mattress, the other foot on the floor. He leaned in and touched the tip of her nose, lightly. "Rose," he called again, a bit more impatiently this time.

Rose's hand flew to her nose, rubbing at it in sleepy irritation. Eyes still closed, she mumbled, "How long you gonna keep lookin' for frogs?" Then her face went lax, her mouth fell open, and she began a soft, small snoring at the back of her throat.

The Doctor laughed, gleefully. Humans and their hypnopompia. It was him laughing that woke her up.

Rose opened her eyes, rolled to her back and got up on her elbows. She squinted at him balefully, probably because he'd left her door open and the light was bothering her.

"Still laughin' at me?"

"Hmm?"

She fell back down onto the bed with a huff. "Your wee joke, earlier. Come to apologize?"

He reached out to stroke the back of her hand. To his dismay, she withdrew it from him, placed it on her stomach. She sat up fully against the headboard, and drew her duvet up around her, under her armpits. The body language was clear: back off.

That hurt, it truly did. Almost enough to erase the lingering mirth he felt about her expecting Gallifreyan love poetry out of him. He almost giggled, again. The way she was looking at him, right now, that would not be a good idea-giggling. He focused on her distance, and the hurtfulness of that. He had to put that right, yes he did.

"I've news," he announced.

"Tardis on fire?" she countered.

"What? No, no, of course not."

"Then why are you waking me up?"

"Oh, sorry, you can go right back to sleep if you like, but I thought you should know. We'll not be traveling, for a while. Perhaps not at all, not like we have been. I'm going to settle down with you, Rose, and keep you safe, and I need to see about fully bonding with you, if that's going to be possible or not, because if it is, we'll do that, asap. We've got a pit stop, got to see a man about some equations, but then we're off. I can let you choose the planet, and time. Maybe you'd like to shop around a little, first, but I was thinking Earth, classic Earth, 24th century, that would be perfect. I tell you what, we'll go there first, and try it out, and if you don't like it, then we'll look for somewhere else. So, see, now that's all settled, I had to tell you right away." He waited for it to sink in. He knew the relief and happiness it would bring her, it was going to blossom across her face, any moment now…

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Oh, gads. She was angry, again. "This you're always being angry with me, Rose, it's got to stop," he said, trying to keep a rather unmanly whine out of his voice. Probably not succeeding.

"Oh, you're impossible!" she growled, and thrashed her way out of the bed, then went to her armoire and started dressing angrily.

He was quite disappointed that when she ripped off her nightshirt, and her breasts were bouncing there in profile for a moment, her arms stretched overhead, that he couldn't go touch her. But that would be a very bad idea right now. Very bad idea. Rose was angry. Why was she angry?

In a pair of sweatpants and a fresh tee, attire which said "I'm not going anywhere just yet," Rose flipped on the lights and gestured to her bedroom door. "You, out. I'm going to the bathroom, and I will meet you in the galley in a few minutes. And then you can explain to me-" and here began a list.

She made a fist in the air, pointed toward where he was still half-on, half-off her bed, and thrust a forefinger up, counting. "One, how the hell you got into my head from a totally different part of the Tardis, last night. Two," she added her thumb. "Why you think teasing me is so hilarious. Three, why you have no respect for my need to sleep a solid nine hours a day. And, four and five," she opened up her hand fully, "why the fuck you decide we're gettin' married and movin' out of the Tardis and changing our whole lives up without fucking asking me!"

He sat still on the bed, drinking her in. Gods, she was glorious when she was like this. There were gold and champagne sparklers, like stars from a firework, popping off all round her in an aura of psychic energy. It was more beautiful, more stirring, than any mere celestial phenomenon he'd ever witnessed, his Rose, on fire.

"Are ya' deaf now as well as daft?" She pointed again to her bedroom door. "Out!"

He took heed, and scurried up. As he left, closing her door for her (she'd appreciate that, wouldn't she, wanting privacy and all), he could hear her going into her ensuite, slamming its door, muttering, "Bloody tosser, he's lost the plot, he has-"

He headed to the galley. He'd have tea ready, and he'd try to explain to her exactly why he'd "lost the plot," because she was right, he had. Perhaps he wasn't thinking straight. How could he, with their bond half-formed, her running hot and cold and him knowing the imminent danger that was stalking her? Really, how could she expect a man to be sane under such circumstances? Maybe she was being the rude one, now, eh?

As he set water to boil on the induction hob, and went fishing in the cooler for cream (Rose liked cream), his mind was unsettled, his emotions fractured. No, this couldn't go on, he couldn't focus. What good was he to her or the universe, if he couldn't focus? He fetched down a tin of Irish Breakfast from the cupboard (Rose loved Irish Breakfast), he sensed her moving through the Tardis, coming toward him, and his body surged with anticipation, veritable fountains of joy moving through him from stern to stem and back again, at just the thought she was going to walk into the room in a moment.

That's when he knew it, for certain: he was hopelessly down a rabbit hole, and only his Alice could get them out.