The first thing he notices is the cold.
Well, he sees it, anyway.
He doesn't feel anything except the burning—scorching and sweltering and rushing through his veins, churning against his very skin. It's close now, extremely close. He's waited too long, put it off too much, every cell in his body's screaming for release, to burn and be reborn, remoulded into a new man.
Just a little longer, he thinks. Begs.
It's been snowing, wherever he's landed, and his staggered steps out of the TARDIS leave deep impressions in the crunchy ice. It's not where he meant to land, he can tell immediately, even in this disoriented state, but there's something here.
Someone.
He can feel it in the air, buzzing all around him, and wonderfully, impossibly, inside his head—
"You alright over there mate?"
His vision swims as he turns towards the sound, an instinctual arm raising clumsily to wave the intruding party off. Hissing in pain, he presses fingers to the sides of his head. "Don't," he tries to say when one of them comes closer, an agonised groan fighting its way out of him before he can.
A throb of pain emanating from his chest makes him double over, the presence in his mind pressing harder and harder against him, unintentionally, if he had to guess, the constant prodding taking on a rhythm almost, building into a deafening crescendo, making his head pound.
"Looks like he's had a bit much to drink," another voice adds cautiously, feminine this time. "We shouldn't—"
He never does find out what she thinks they shouldn't do, considering his knees choose that very moment to give out, bringing him to the cold ground with a thud that reverberates up his joints.
Pain flares on one side of his face, the snow he's landed in sizzling quietly with his body temperature skyrocketing as it is. There's a rush of footsteps, and a large calloused hand tilts his face away from the ground, before letting go with a gasp.
Someone large and heavy looms over him, his mouth making a perfect 'o'.
"Oh," the boy says dumbly, blinking. "Oh. Mr. Ty–Mia, it's—"
Smaller, much gentler hands grasp at his face this time, panicked, and he catches sight of a frighteningly familiar face, framed by long blonde hair.
His breath seizes painfully in his chest.
"What?"
She looks at him, and then away, and then at him again, an array of expressions flying across her face, each more confused than the last.
"Oh my god," she hisses, dark brown eyes wide with alarm, palm splayed across his cheek. "Dad?! How did you— when did you—you're burning up!" She turns to her companion, demanding frantically. "What's wrong with him? What did you see?"
He wants to tell her he's fine. He wants to tell her it's really none of their business, he wants to tell her—
It's like there's some sort of delay in transmission, between her voice and his mind, and the weight of what she's said hits him like a lorry.
"What?" he wheezes out.
"It's just not possible," Mia's saying frantically to the boy, one hand combing through windswept hair. "He's supposed to be in Switzerland, just called me two hours ago! Said his flight's—"
There's something between his ribs, or maybe two somethings, fluttering, soaring, gliding, trembling, with hope, with fear—
He grabs her wrist with unexpected strength, her eyes snapping up to meet his.
And there it is.
That presence again. Pressing against his mind, familiar but not, bubbling with beautiful, terrifying possibility.
It's been so long.
The girl looks like she's been slapped, eyes blown wide and unmoving, but she doesn't withdraw her hand.
There's a million thoughts searing through his head, a thousand different questions on the tip of his tongue, and yet there's only one sound he can make.
"Rose," he breathes, his grip on the girl loosening already, his vision getting more and more clouded. "Rose."
Mia pales. "It's alright," she says out loud, and he suspects it's more for her benefit than his. "It's alright. You're going to be alright." A smack to the boy's bicep. "Andy, grab his feet. Help me!"
Gentle fingers run through his damp hair, before the ground disappears from under him.
"You're going to be okay, Dad," the girl murmurs, although it echoes around his head, and—there's that word again. "We're taking you home, yeah?"
His eyes close as he wonders where that is.
"It's him," Mia tells her. "But it isn't."
It's the third time she's expressed this particular sentiment since Rose opened the front door to find her daughter pleading for help, one very confused boyfriend and one very impossible face in tow.
For the next few minutes, Rose is in a haze almost, like she's watching this all happen to someone else.
She's not fully aware of her actions as she helps them move the body onto the bed, carefully shucking his shoes and socks, wetting a clean towel and draping it over his burning forehead.
Waiting.
Nineteen years, she's seen this body, this face—day and night, and she still can't look away.
The body in question moves then, and Rose almost jumps out of her skin when he speaks.
"Rose," he slurs, head rolling towards her, tiny droplets of sweat forming all over his face.
"I'm here," she says immediately, grabbing his hand without thinking. He doesn't respond, eyes still screwed shut, and she realises he isn't awake. Unable to let go just yet, her thumb rubs slow circles over his feverish palm.
"But it isn't…" Mia murmurs again, having gone silent to observe the interaction. A pause before her eyes widen dramatically, and Rose can see the moment the penny drops, having seen that exact expression on her husband's face several times. "Do you think—"
"What's wrong with him?"
It's Andy who speaks this time, his eyes never leaving the prone body laid out carefully on the bed. He seems to notice them staring at him, a dull flush creeping up his neck. "I only mean…well—he looks different. Younger," he finishes lamely. "Clean shaven, too."
"It's not just that," Mia says urgently. "Outside—"
Rose interrupts, clears her throat, glancing pointedly at the boy.
He doesn't take the hint, continuing to look on unabashedly.
It's an old disagreement at this point, and Mia will usually insist that he can be trusted, (to which her Doctor will snort in that condescending way of his,) but tonight is different, and she must realise how impossible this situation would be to explain.
"Andy," Mia says impatiently, "give us the room."
"Oh," he says, surprised. "Right. I'll just…"
There's an awkward few seconds as he searches for something to say, before giving up and turning to leave. He struggles to work around the slightly jammed door long enough for Rose to remind herself that they really need to fix that already, before he pulls it open.
"Mrs. Tyler," he says solemnly with a nod. "Mia. Good luck with…"
"Thanks," Mia says shortly, gesturing for him to close the door. She crouches by Rose's side then, one hand squeezing her mum's knee. "Outside," she continues, like there hadn't been any interruption, "I felt him. In my head. But there's something wrong with him." Then quieter, vulnerable, almost like she doesn't want him to hear, "It's like…he didn't know me.
"It could be some sort of de-aging tech," she says slowly when Rose remains silent. "But it isn't, is it? Mum?"
"Yeah," Rose says finally, voice hoarse as if it's been out of use for hours. She shakes her head to clear it, meeting her daughter's unusually unnerving gaze.
"It's him, isn't it?" she asks, voice low. "The other him…from the other world. It has to be."
It's almost as if actually saying it is what does it. A pained moan, face scrunched up in agony, and Rose snaps out of it.
"He's waking up," she says, standing abruptly, her heart racing. "Mia…wait outside."
"But–"
"Trust me on this, yeah?"
There's something to be said about the absurdity of the situation when somehow, miraculously, she obeys.
It appears to be not a moment too soon.
There's something on his face when he wakes.
Something warm and heavy and wet. He raises an arm in an attempt to shift it, except his hand never leaves the mattress. Trying to move makes his head spin. Black spots swim before his eyes.
"Easy," says an impossible voice, hands guiding him into a sitting position.
He accepts the help willingly, too weak to protest. It doesn't feel like he's on fire anymore, but there's a constant, dull ache echoing through his body, and a part of him wants to never open his eyes again, convinced the pain will be back.
"How long've you got?"
It's the resignation in that whispered question that does it.
He blinks, once, twice.
And she's there.
Absurdly, he feels the urge to grin.
He'd had her in mind of course, his last trip as this him, he'd wanted to see her, but actually being in the same universe again—the same room—
There's so much he wants to ask her, so much he wants to say—He wants to know where he is, who the two people who found him are, why he can feel the girl in his head. He wants to know how she's been, if she's been happy, if she's been loved, if she's angry with him, if she's missed him.
"Rose Tyler," he murmurs reverently, his gob failing him as it always does when it comes to her.
Something loosens in Rose at that, and she inhales, her grip on his shoulder tightening imperceptibly, before dropping altogether. Her eyes glisten.
"It really is you," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "How?"
"I don't know," he tells her honestly. "By accident, I think."
In truth, it shouldn't have been possible (and he really thinks he ought to reconsider what that word means at this point) but here he was, without a clue how he'd done it. Here he was, with Rose Tyler.
Perhaps it's just the universe being kind, this one last favour to him.
His reward.
Rose says nothing, simply nodding once before turning to stare down at her clasped hands.
He uses the moment to observe her more closely. She's considerably older—her hair longer than he's ever seen it, her face a little harder, a little more lined— tougher, somehow, but there's nothing tough about the way she bites her lip before meeting his gaze again, looking for a second, as young as he remembers her to be.
"How long's it been for you?"
He shakes his head, immediately regretting it when a pang shoots down his spine. "Not too long," he manages, grimacing. "A few months."
"It's been years for us," she says, a hint of awe in her voice, and he's surprised by how much the casual mention of his counterpart stings, as much as he's been vying for confirmation of their…togetherness. "Decades, almost." A pause. "Never stops to amaze you, does it? What the TARDIS can do? One second you're someplace and the next…"
She trails off, her eyes wandering to somewhere behind him. He twists around, to much protest from his aching body, trying to see what she's looking at, only to notice the door to the room they're in slightly ajar. There's a flurry of movement then, and the door slams shut, followed by hushed voices arguing.
"Sorry," Rose winces, finding his gaze again. "I told her to give us some space, she's just…curious."
At some level, he's known since his mind first brushed against hers.
He wonders if it would be better not to know.
"She," he echoes, because he's curious as well. "She's…"
"Yeah," Rose says softly, her hand finding his, squeezing. "Ours."
He nods then, several times, unable to stop nodding, really, his eyes flitting to the closed door again.
It's not like he hadn't suspected; not like he hadn't thought of what their lives must be like—it's almost embarrassing how much he had thought about it—and yet…
They never could have, her and him.
There's a whole life behind that door, so close yet entirely out of his reach. Always, always out of his reach, the one adventure he can never have.
A home, a routine they have together, and he wants to know it all—know everything, every nook and cranny, the story behind every piece of furniture, every frame on the wall, every callus on her fingers—who picked out the bed frame? Who was better in the kitchen? Who left dishes to soak in the sink for days?
And the girl—
There is so much he'll never know, let alone experience—and there's no time for any of it, there never is, not for him, and never for him and her, and isn't that ironic? The Time-Lord always running out of time?
Rose hesitates. "I could–" she begins, before stopping. "I could call her in. Introduce you properly."
"Oh," he swallows, trying his best to keep a neutral face. "Rose—I don't—I'm not—" His hearts pound furiously against his chest as he grasps for words.
He doesn't know how to tell her there's nothing he wants more; nothing he's more afraid of.
How to tell her that he's not sure he'd ever be able to leave, if she does.
Some of the sheer panic seizing him must show on his face, because Rose rushes to placate him. "You don't have to," she amends quickly. "Sorry. It was a stupid idea. I shouldn't have said anything."
He shakes his head, grimacing, disappointed despite himself. "I don't want her to think—"
"She'll understand," Rose tells him. "I promise."
He nods some more, eyes blinking away prickliness. It's for the best, he knows. Just the knowledge will have to be sufficient, will have to be more than sufficient. "A daughter," he exhales. "That's…"
"Yeah," Rose says, nothing but sympathy in her voice, squeezing his hand again before letting go.
"And…the boy?"
"Oh," she says, as if surprised he'd even asked. "Well, he's," she swallows, tilting her head, "you know. Her boyfriend."
"Oh," the Doctor says, taken aback. He frowns slightly, trying to visualise the boy again, his hazy mind struggling. Confusingly enough, he feels a small spike of irritation. "Really?" he says before he can stop himself. "Him?"
Rose's startled for a second, mouth agape. Then she barks out a laugh."Oh, don't you start! You really are the same." Her grin falters slightly, and she adopts a more sombre look. "He's not half bad if you get to know him a bit, really."
He shrugs half-heartedly, all too aware he's never going to get the chance. Suddenly he can't bear to look at her anymore. He feels his body tensing up against his will, quite unable to make himself relax again.
This is an intrusion, is what it is. This home, this life, this universe.
He simply doesn't belong.
His palm glows, the undercurrent of energy making its presence known again, almost as a confirmation. Whatever this was, this little window of time he was given, it's nearly over.
His train of thought is interrupted by an odd noise Rose makes, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
"Were you always this young?" she chuckles wetly, at his questioning glance, her hand making an odd movement, as if to reach for his face before thinking the better of it. "I must look ancient to you."
"No," he says quietly, willing himself to look at her. "Beautiful as ever."
She gives him a small smile, reaching out again, and this time her hand does make contact.
He watches her almost as if in a trance, incapable of blinking—lest he miss a second— because if this is the only taste he's ever going to get…
He's always been a selfish man.
She strokes his cheek gently, her thumb hovering over the innumerable little cuts and gashes adorning his skin. Her palm comes to rest by his jaw, her eyes sad.
"What happened to you?"
He inhales raggedly, trying to focus on the feel of her.
He doesn't think he could tell her everything, even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to think about it at all. All he wants is for time to slow down, for this moment to be everlasting—being face to face with Rose again, her palm on his cheek, the quiet sound of her breathing, the faint scent of familiar shampoo—to pretend that this is all there is for him to do now, that there's no future he's going to have to face without her.
She seems to sense his reluctance, because she doesn't push him, simply allowing the heavy silence to linger.
"You should know," she says after a moment, "I was very angry about what you did. The last time we saw each other."
He recoils slightly.
Anything, he thinks. Anything but this.
It may have been years for her, since their last meeting, but to him…he simply doesn't have the strength to be berated about yet another thing he'd done wrong. Not this. He wouldn't be able to bear it.
"For the longest time, I was," she continues, unrelenting. "Absolutely furious. Leaving like that, without a word, after everything. Forcing me to choose."
He shakes his head, a silent plea. If she was upset, if she was unhappy—
It couldn't have been for nothing.
"But you should know," she repeats gently, one finger tilting his jaw towards her, "I understand now. And I forgive you." She pauses, blinking back tears, voice thick with emotion. " And we can never thank you enough. I can't imagine how this feels for you. And I don't know how to make it better. But if it helps," she grasps his hand again, "you did the right thing."
The breath he lets out at that holds the weight of the world.
It's an incredibly Rose thing to do, he thinks. Anchor him, save him. Delve headfirst into the darkness and make everything better.
For one short, miraculous moment, there is no pain at all.
"You're happy?" he asks her, his voice wavering dangerously.
There is no hesitation in her answer. "Unbelievably."
"That's good," he tells her, and he's almost shaking now, "that's all I wanted."
His palm glows again; this time, she notices.
"You have to go," she murmurs sadly. Not a question, but an observation.
He doesn't respond, can't respond, pitching forward with the intensity of the jolt that goes through him then, grounded only by the quick hand Rose places on his sternum.
When he exhales, golden mist drifts from his lips, and they watch together as it floats towards the ceiling before dissipating.
Mia's waiting alone, Rose notices with some relief, when they manoeuvre their way into the kitchen, the Doctor leaning on her heavily, her arm around his waist.
"Mia," she calls, "help me out. Get on his other side." She feels more than sees the Doctor tense at that, squeezes his arm in reassurance. "Not now," Rose tells her when she joins them, mouth halfway open to say something. "We'll talk later. Promise."
The TARDIS isn't far, Mia tells her, and so they make their way out of the house slowly, hobbling along like the oddest participants in some sort of three-legged race, except no one's particularly looking forward to reaching the finish line.
The Doctor needs a bit of a rest every few seconds, and Rose's chest tightens with worry every time he breathes out golden fog—she's never seen him so ill, not the first time he'd regenerated, not even during those first few hours in Norway. He feels uncomfortably hot, despite the biting cold around them, the unnatural heat reaching her even through the layers of clothing between them.
She thought she'd gotten over this, this ache at the thought of having him and not.
It's surprising how much the anticipation of this separation still hurts.
The thought of him having to return to her old universe, alone, in this condition, makes her feel ill, but she pushes those feelings aside.
There would be time for that yet. Right now, they needed her.
Her daughter's being incredibly brave; despite her constant glances at the man between them, Mia says nothing.
A sense of fierce pride takes root in her, alongside deep melancholy. She knows, better than most, what it's like to be confronted with the existence of someone who is your father but also…isn't.
She concentrates on placing one foot in front of the other.
A weak squeeze of her arm signals their arrival.
The TARDIS is exactly as she remembers it, the ridiculously brilliant police-box looming over them, humming with energy. The Doctor braces himself for a second, before untangling himself to stand on wobbly feet. He's sweating like he's run a marathon, his eyes blurry and unfocused, yet trained on her.
"Well," he says as lightly as he can manage, "that's me." He gives a sad sort of shrug, one hand pushing against the TARDIS door, which whines pitifully as it swings open.
She's a little disappointed, but she isn't surprised, entirely familiar by now with his dislike of goodbyes, almost being able to muster up a smile as he gives her one last nod of acknowledgement.
"But wait," Mia says, and he stops, startled, turning to stare at her. She looks at the Doctor, and then at Rose, eyes glistening. "I don't—" she whispers, her voice small and unsure, and all Rose wants to do is wrap her up in her arms. "...Dad?"
There's this eerie sense of déjà-vu then—she recalls standing in this very universe for the first time, pleading with her dad, and she recalls how it had felt when he'd rejected the sentiment. Her heart breaks at the thought of her baby experiencing that sort of… refusal and she turns to look at the Doctor as well, eyes beseeching.
The Doctor for his part stands stock still; his face doesn't betray a single emotion.
Enough time passes in silence for Rose to feel increasingly uncomfortable.
She has an idea of how difficult this is for him, having seen him be a father for the last sixteen years—and he loves it now, he does, takes to it like it's what he was made for—but it hadn't always been easy for him.
She remembers how he'd struggled at the beginning, that paralysing fear that would overtake him—he'd had children before, and they'd died—fear that something would happen again, and he wouldn't be able to survive it this time, not with her, not with them, not with this one fragile human life that had no do-overs.
Her heart breaks for the both of them; the two people she loves most in the world, afraid and in pain, and there's nothing she can do to make it better.
"Mia…" she begins softly, voice dripping with sympathy as her arm reaches out for the girl. "I think—"
And then he moves.
He doesn't make a sound as he does, taking the few trembling steps to close the distance between them, shaky hands coming up to frame Mia's face ever so gently, like he's afraid to touch her, closing his eyes.
A man in prayer.
It occurs to her that they're conversing in their minds, a moment so private between father and child that she has to look away for a moment.
Seconds stretch into years as Rose watches, the unspeakably tender exchange making her overly conscious of every loud breath she takes.
Snow falls around them, delicate flakes settling in Mia's hair, before the Doctor brushes them off carefully, pressing his lips to her crown.
He's pale and unsteady when he turns to face her, but she swears there's an upturn to his lips that's genuine.
"Rose Tyler," he enunciates in that way of his, grabbing her hands, squeezing. "I suppose this is goodbye." His tone playful, but lacking any real humour or warmth.
"You gonna be alright?" she can't help but ask, folding her arms over her chest against the cold.
He swallows, eyes flitting about, and she's almost certain she knows what he's going to say, how he's going to deflect, but then he looks at her again, jaw tightening. "I don't know," he confesses quietly. "But seeing…all this…it makes it easier."
She nods, using the heel of her palm to rub at her eyes, before smiling tentatively. "Can I..?"
The Doctor takes a second to understand what she's asking for, before nodding. Her arms wrap up around his shoulders, crushing him to her. He's still for a moment, before he hugs her back with equal vigour, melting into her, his skin warm and sticky.
She knows this body so well, has become so intimately familiar with it over the past nineteen years and still, it feels like it's been forever.
"It's not really goodbye, you know," she tells him, her voice slightly muffled as she presses a hard kiss to his shoulder. "It never really is."
"What do you mean?" he asks, confusion colouring his voice. "Rose, I swear, I really don't know how it worked this time—"
"No," she laughs wetly, unable to suppress the sheer fondness spreading through her. "No, I meant…it might be goodbye for us right now, but in five years…we'll go see Woman Wept together. In three thousand years we'll save Madame de Pompadour from killer robots. In the year five billion, you'll take me to watch my planet explode. And in two hundred thousand years…the Game Station."
She pauses to look at him, this beloved face, hoping beyond hope that this is of some comfort to him, that he knows she is grateful, grateful for his sacrifice, for everything he has given them.
His eyes are dark, full of emotion he can never voice.
She swallows the lump in her throat. "And you'll be here," she says thickly. "With us. Everyday. You see? Somehow, somewhere, we'll always be together."
It's not much, but she thinks he understands when he tightens his grip on her, his nose in her hair; takes several long, deep breaths, like he's trying to inhale her essence itself.
As closely entwined as they are, she feels every tremor that goes through him, every surge of energy, until he pulls away, a rueful smile on his face.
"It's time," he says simply, glancing upwards, looking to the sky for something she can't see, and then back at her, his entire being glowing faintly. He's silent for a long moment. "I'll see you later."
"Not if I see you first," she echoes weakly. His lips twitch at that, a small, fragile thing.
And then he is gone.