Rose thought the whole room might start sliding around her. "What?"

The Doctor was watching her, close, his fingers still hovering in the space just near her right hand. His jaw was working. He couldn't be serious. But he didn't take it back. He stood there in his tweed and braces with huge, sad eyes that didn't blink. Looked like he'd rather be anywhere in the whole galaxy than in that time machine just then. His hand drifted away from hers and went curling up his chest, fists moving together. All bent into himself.

"Y…you said the barrier's weaker," she reminded him. As if he'd forgotten. "You said it was like a wound."

"It is."

"So you've got back." Rose heaved against the feeling of tears starting up again. She searched for anger, for its drying qualities. It wasn't coming quickly enough; try reasoning. Her mouth went for a reassuring smile, like a child. "You're here, you—we can start again. Two of us."

The Doctor's voice was barely audible. He stared at her like he was watching someone drown, helpless. "We can't."

"Doctor."

"Not like this."

Rose looked into his green eyes, horrified. "You don't want me."

"No—" The Doctor's response was so quick that he almost spoke over her. He even took a step closer; there was hardly any room left, almost barricading her against the console. Then he seemed to stop himself short, like an invisible hand was tugging him back; his whole body wrenched to a halt. "Believe me, no. That's not it."

"'Cos you changed."

"Rose," the Doctor's voice got a bit louder, strained. "No."

"Why else would you be doin' all this?" Rose colored, looking him up and down. Here was the anger, finally. But it wasn't drying her out like it should've been, like it usually did this past year. She jabbed a finger down hard to the floor, punctuating every word. An adult's version of stamping their feet. "Before. A year ago, on that stupid beach, you said two universes would collapse, and now you're here anyway and you're tellin' me no?"

His eyes flicked between hers, round and dull and forlorn when they had no right to be. "Yes."

She flung up that same hand, scoffing through her lips, eyebrows raised. "There y'are then. S'gotta be 'cos of me. 'Cos you're different."

"Not that different."

It wasn't fair. He shouldn't be allowed to look like that, with that soft rasp in his throat when he spoke. Like his throat was closing up. She was the one being turned away. Rose blinked up at him underneath wet lashes, cheeks burning, furious. Crushed.

The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing both eyes shut for a moment as if he couldn't keep looking at her. "It is because of you," he said quietly, tightly. "It is for you, it's for your sake you can't come with me. Not now."

"Is it because of my mum?" Rose asked. "Because you don't want me to leave her, 'cos I've already told you—"

"It isn't that." He opened his eyes. "Sorry, erm. Not just that."

Rose blinked again, harder. "But it's not right."

He didn't say anything.

"S'not right," she repeated, fighting around the tension building in her chest. "Don't you think…" Stopped. Tried again, still sounded like a child. Genuinely asking. "Don't I belong with you?"

The Doctor's arms fell limply at his sides. He always seemed hunched over, this one, but now it got worse. He turned away, hands at his hips, dropping again, now one hand was at his brow. Head sunk low.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, of course you do, yes." Then he whipped back to face her, pointing, did those hands never stop moving? "Yeah, and you will be, you will be. You'll be exactly where you belong. But not yet."

Her tongue shoved hard against her cheek, and after a moment she spat, "I don't understand."

"Spoilers."

"No." Rose shook her head, slowly. "No, I'm not havin' that. You're from the future, yeah, and so are they. Your mates? So where'm I?"

He stilled. "Don't. Don't, please. You know I can't—"

"You said I'd be where I belong, but I'm not, am I? 'Cos I'm not here."

"Rose—"

"They didn't even know my name." Rose's tongue was now tracing the back of her top row of teeth, eyes narrowing at him. "Are you lying to me?"

"No." The Doctor pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes, nearly growling now. He pulled them down and got close again, stepping steadily back to her like she was a cornered animal. "No, I am not lying to you. I swear. You were right, absolutely right, you do belong here, this is where you belong. Where you always belong. Rose Tyler and the Doctor, in the Tardis." But why were his stupid eyes still like that? Huge and sad, gazing at her as if she were an old photograph? "Just as it should be."

Rose glared up at him, waiting for more, but nothing came. For a moment, she just took him in, learning. This face of his liked to wax poetic. A bit like Will had been, but stronger; his voice was quick and always rising and falling. Like his words wanted to rhyme every time he spoke, but they couldn't, so they were simple and vague instead. It was harder to understand than he'd ever been before, because it got you feeling things even if you didn't catch his meaning yet, she realized. Tricky. Clever. He must be a menace if he still made those big speeches on distant worlds when the going got tough.

"Tell me," she insisted.

"I…" His teeth ground together, eyes squeezing shut, pressing steepled hands briefly to his forehead. "…can't."

"Doctor," Rose said, firmer, "tell me why I can't come with you." Then, because she just had to, "Am I dead?"

His hands dropped, eyebrows drawing together.

"In the future, am I…" She swallowed. "Did I die?"

"No. No, you…" He was shaking his head too, continuing to gaze and gaze at her. Then he got fast again. "Rose, you have got to believe me, you will see me again. This isn't the end. I can't tell you everything, and you'll have to keep trying, but you will end up exactly—" Now he swallowed. "Exactly where you should be. Where you belong, like you said. Just as you said. But not like this."

"You're not makin' sense." Rose glanced from one of his eyes to the other.

"Will," he began. "Will, the watch. The Angels, all of this. We were never supposed to be here, never supposed to come back to this world. It went wrong. It was a mistake."

She scoffed softly. "Sorry I spoiled the plan, then."

"It isn't your fault."

"No," she agreed. "No, I'm just collateral damage."

"Listen to me, listen. I am trying to tell you that this can't have happened." The Doctor's tone grew stronger. "Not for you. Things…must to go the way they should, or there will be disastrous consequences, and not just to time in Pete's World, this world, but time in our universe as well. Whole creations could be ripped apart if we tamper with even a single thread of events."

The Tardis, still whirring around them, seemed to be engaging in its usual landing pattern. Things got a bit slower, the rotor and the engines, and the lights began to dim slightly. Rose didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to care about their destination just then. The Doctor settled into a standing position beside her, both arms braced against the console, staring into the glass column. She kept her back to it, hands also gripping the console, but tighter, angrier.

"You can't rewrite history," said the Doctor. "Not one line. For you to know any of this, for you to have seen me, like this, it isn't just wrong, it isn't just a mistake, it is a problem. And a fairly big problem."

"Why?" Rose demanded, disbelieving. Why couldn't this happen, why couldn't something, just once in her life, be good without being too good to be true?

"Because you are…" the Doctor made a little sound, like a chortle, and when she glanced at him he was almost smiling, tone bitter, "…important, Rose. You are so important, the most important, ordinary, amazing human being, so human, and to alter your influence on the timeline will create a bigger wound than many I've seen before. And that wound will yield results. Terrible results."

So? screamed one half of Rose's brain. And the other half thought of Jackie, Pete, Tony, Mickey, Peyton the sales clerk, all the people working and living here and others doing the same back in the right universe, and said, That's it then. Misery made her heartbeat loud in her ears.

She didn't want to listen. She wanted to go to sleep and not wake up again, so none of this was happening. She wanted to whirl around and press any button, pull any lever, to take them far away from here, to make the Doctor bring her along. To make him see and agree that she was where she belonged now.

But though she hated it, he was right. Something about this did feel sort of outside. Felt incorrect. Not him—not her, not them being together again. But part of it. She might just be too human to place it, however important or amazing he said she was.

"What do we do then, are you gonna wipe my memory or something?" Rose snorted.

Then there was silence.

An awful pressing began to fill Rose's chest. Warily, she looked at him.

He was looking back, slack-jawed.

Rose's mouth opened, and for a second nothing came out. Then: "No."

"It's the only solution."

"No," she repeated, quieter, taking a step backward. Away from him.

That step, not her words, seemed to reach him more forcefully, but he still said, "Please. Rose. It won't hurt."

"I won't let you," Rose insisted, shaking her head once more, falteringly. She trailed one hand along the console, taking another two steps around it, opposite him.

"If you remember this, if you remember me, like this, and Amy and Rory and all of it, the damage we could do to the future, your future, would be irreversible." He stepped after her, very slowly, almost desperately. "I won't let that happen."

"But you can't…"

"It could destroy universes, Rose," the Doctor murmured. "It would destroy your life. More than you know. More than I can say. You have got to trust me."

She stilled when he reached her, closed in, because of the undertone in his voice. Like physical pain. Around them, the Tardis whined once, and then much of the noise in the engines stopped. They'd landed.

One of the Doctor's hands came up to her face. Rose examined his mouth, his irises, the line between his brows. He stooped, meeting her gaze, earnest and at the same time forceful.

"You do, don't you?" He raised his eyebrows. "Trust me?"

Rose felt herself leaning away slightly, from his touch, his voice. The way he was watching her.

"Come on, all this time, I'm still me. New face, new gear, but it's me. Eh?" He smiled a bit. But he was speaking up and down as usual, quickly, as if from nerves. "And you're still you. You can see it, can't you, 'course you can. Always could."

Not bad, just alien, the age-old scent filled her nose. The elbow patches, the double heartbeat she could almost hear. Of course it was still him. And nothing made it clearer than what he was doing now. Sending her away while he boasted of their connection. Talked about how special she was and then made her leave him. Same old alien git.

"This is what's best, it really is. I promise you. And I can fix it, I can make it so that you'll still remember Will, so that it happens later, everything just…right." He licked his lips, dropping his hand. "But you've gotta trust me, or else it won't work. Telepathic highways are…poisoned without trust."

Telepathic highways. Rose moved away again, more gingerly now, because some part of her still wanted to spare his feelings.

"Rose—"

"Think I need—" She gulped in. Tried to sound normal. "Need some air."

And she got out of his airspace, rushing down the nearest flight of steps. Out the door.

They had stopped in the fields outside Pete's mansion. Rose didn't look at the stars—she kept her eyes on the rippling grass, sitting a short distance from the Tardis behind her.

When she first came out, she'd seen the big house down below, the gravel walkway, and thought surely Jackie would come bursting into view, a tiny figure running across the acres to get to her daughter. Surely her mother had heard the wheezing, heard them land. She was fairly certain Jackie had nightmares about the sound the Tardis made when it traveled. But no one came, and only a few of the lights were on in the lower windows. She'd be alone to think.

And think she did, for about half an hour now. The Doctor had not come after her. He must have known she wouldn't try hiding, try running to avoid what was apparently fate. She could have done. Could have tried, and she wanted to. But it would be useless, and apart from that, it would be wrong. There were universes at stake.

But how could she do this? How could she sit here, with the bloody Tardis at her back, finally, finally, and allow the end of this day to see her right back where she'd been this morning? Stuck. Trapped. Longing for the Doctor, climbing into her bed in that awful giant manor, reminding herself over and over that she'd never see him again.

How could he do this, for that matter? See her, know her, show her his face—show her his future—and tell her she had to forget?

She heard the Tardis door creak somewhere behind her and hastily wiped her eyes. But it wasn't the Doctor.

Rory came walking up to her, silent for a moment. "Sorry," he said eventually, jabbing a thumb backward when she glanced up at him. "Amy, um. Sent me to check you were—"

"Still here?" Rose grunted.

"See if you were okay." Rory let his arms hang loose, awkward. "Which…you're obviously not."

"Better go and tell them, then." Rose took in a shuddering breath, partially smirking. She nodded to the time machine.

He didn't. For a few seconds more, they didn't say anything else to each other, and he continued to just stand on the hillock, swinging his arms. Scratching at the back of his neck. Then, to Rose's surprise, he lowered himself down in the grass beside her, brushing dirt off his hands onto his knee. Rory was in different clothes now, a baggy jacket and jeans, and they all smelled like the Tardis. Coldish and otherworldly.

"The Doctor told us," Rory said bluntly. "About the mind wipe. I don't think I get it, not all the way, but. Never stops him."

Rose nodded, plucking a bit of grass and turning it over in her fingers.

"D'you…wanna talk about it?"

"What for?" Rose rolled her eyes back up to the house in the distance.

"Because I think you might need to." Rory let out one short, weird little huffy laugh. "Not a psychiatrist or anything, but I am a nurse so…" Rubbed his neck again. "Um. Yeah, not the same, actually. At all."

"We're not even s'posed to know each other." Rose tore the grass in half. "Apparently."

"Well. That's good," Rory decided, shrugging a bit. "That means you can say anything now, right? Because it won't matter."

Rose gave a loud snort. "Nah, no point. S'just…"

She clicked her tongue and fell silent.

"We've got time. The Doctor says the Tardis has to…sort of power up to make it through the rift again."

Rose kept her eyes on the mansion. Rory seemed to follow her gaze, and there was just them and the wind for a few heartbeats longer. The trees framing the field rattled, still leafless, in the distance around them. She wondered if Rory was always like this—easy to talk to, but always stopping and starting when he did talk. Like he wasn't sure, even though everything he said was often said with confidence. It was good for drawing people in. Smart, good for helping people go calm—good for a nurse, in fact. She could see why he was the only boy in Leadworth Amy had taken to—if that part of Will's knowledge hadn't been made-up as well. Rory made you feel special when he noticed things about you, because he wasn't afraid to say them out loud.

"You love him."

Rose kept her eyes steadfastly on the house, freezing up.

In the corner of her eye, Rory turned his head to look at her. "The Doctor. You're in love with him."

She felt the spaces behind both eyes stinging. Bit her lip.

"That's why you're gonna let him do it," Rory went on. His voice was deeper now, harder. Much more mature than she'd thought it could be. "The mind wiping thing. Because he asked you to."

Rose chanced a glance at him, cheeks burning, eyes stubbornly growing wet. Rory gave her a pursed-lip, eyebrows-up sort of expression. All lines. He lifted his left hand and turned it back to front, clumsily, so that his wedding band glinted in the moonlight, and then put it back down in the grass. Shrugging a lot, not just with his shoulders.

"That's what you do," Rory explained stumblingly, "when you love somebody. If he needs you, if you can help…" He gestured again, flopping a palm up at nothing and letting it hang against his knee. "You do it. Even if it's mind wiping."

Rose chuckled with him, sourly, longer than he did, and hers was more of a scoff.

"Even if it's weird." Rose added, rolling her eyes.

"Or impossible." Rory's head bobbed, facing front again.

"Like…" Rose got more comfortable, now sort of smiling, inhaling, leaning back on her hands. "Gettin' possessed by a mouthy trampoline, or—pullin' open the Tardis with Mickey in a big ol' truck…"

"Getting turned into plastic."

"Goddess."

"Roman soldier." He lifted a hand.

The quiet came back. Rose looked sideways at him, shoving hair out of her face as the wind caught it. Even if it's mind wiping. Rory didn't meet her gaze, seemingly lost in thought himself. His eyes were on his wedding ring now, and she found herself joining in, admiring the glint.

"He said I've got to," she mumbled, almost in spite of herself. "Said…I'll see him again." She blinked back more tears, mouth open, shaking her head further. Turning back to the rippling grass. "But I've been waitin' so long already…"

"Know how you feel a bit." Rory grunted. "Two thousand years I waited for Amy. Sort of." He tilted his head. "I suppose it never happened now, but—I can still remember it."

"Blimey, you've been through it and all."

"Yes." Rory nodded exaggeratedly. After a bit more chortling, he added seriously, "That's it though, isn't it, I mean—for Amy, I—I could do anything. That's love too, it's…patient. So—if he said he'd see you again—" Rory hunched, mouth tightening. "The Doctor. He's not always totally honest, but—look, I don't think he'd lie about that. To you. If it helps."

Rose didn't answer. Her gaze drifted up to the stars at last, winking at her. Constant.

"Does he know?" Rory asked, glancing over.

"Quite right too."

Rose bit her lip again, hard.

"Right." Rory sucked in. "Erm. Doesn't matter. Sorry." And he looked at the stars too. "Whatever they need. Even if it's hard."

The good ones stay, came Jackie's voice in her head. Even if it's hard.

She had tried to stay. She had tried to stay at Canary Wharf. She had come back to Satellite Five. She was here, now, after the watch opened and after the Angels chased them. And now he wasn't letting her go on staying.

But maybe that wasn't all of it. She had to choose to believe him, trust him. Because she did love him. Because he said they'd be together again, and whether that was now or years on, she was going to stay loving him. Even if it was hard. Even if she had to forget this, remember Will and forget the Doctor as he was now.

If he needed her, if this was how they saved the day, and he couldn't do it without her help—without her forgetting, and he promised the end result was that everything would be as it should be…

Whatever they need. She did get to choose. And Rory was right.

She was going to choose the Doctor every time.

"Leave it, Pond," was the first thing out of the Doctor's mouth when Rory left the control room. "Please."

Amy sized him up, one hand on the jumpseat. He still hadn't explained. Not Rose, not anything. Only that the plan right now was to erase this whole thing from Rose's mind and send her on her way, because of time stuff. Because if he didn't, the universes would explode, probably. Because if he didn't, Rose would not get what the Doctor balefully called her happy ending.

Amy was far more interested in the happy-or-unhappy beginning.

"Who is she?"

"Someone I lost."

"Getting that," Amy replied, edging closer. He had his back to her, staring into the glass column. "She had a key."

"She's not the first."

"Mm, we can talk about that later." Amy bounced her eyebrows. "Y'know what I mean. Who is she to you?"

"D'you want a story, Amy?" The Doctor said, gravelly, voice very low. He looked at her out of the tops of his eyes. "Because you are not getting one tonight."

"Not the whole story, then." Amy wound her way around the console, folding her arms. "Just the important parts."

"Once upon a time I traveled with Rose and then I lost her. To a parallel world." The Doctor stood upright, spreading his hands. "The end. No sequel."

Amy leaned back against the bit of the console with the red blinky lights, stopping beside him. "That is a terrible story."

The Doctor nodded, jaw working. Hooded lids, half a wry smile.

"Did she leave you?"

"No."

"So you left her."

"Amy—"

"How long ago?" Amy watched him turn away and start again with the pressing and the fiddling. "'Cos she said a year, but I've been here a year. Maybe longer. Honestly it's…sort of hard to tell anymore." She shook that off. Back to the point. "But I never saw her. Or her stuff, and y'never said anythin' about her, so—"

"Yeah, well, I don't leave my friends' stuff just hanging about, do I? Bad manners." The Doctor jabbed one of the buttons particularly hard. When Amy didn't reply, waiting, he glanced up at her and back down again. "I don't talk about them."

"Why not?"

The Doctor twisted something on the console, sharp. "Gotta keep moving. Things to do."

Amy pulled her mouth down in an exaggerated frown, nodding. "Wellll, it's certainly good to know that if Rory and I ever go anywhere, y'won't let pesky memories get in the way of all your wacky deep-space travelin', isn't it."

No response.

"Unless y'turn up with a fob watch one day and we just happen to be crossin' the street."

"This wasn't planned." The Doctor's voice was still dangerously low, and he looked up at her with a set jaw.

"I know." Amy nodded more, slower. "I know it wasn't. But…still happened. And now y'have to make her forget? I just—"

"Yes."

She stopped nodding. Stared at him, expression freezing. "It's not fair."

"No." He went still, pausing over a series of switches. "It really isn't."

Amy saw his hand twitch forward, like he wanted to do more tinkering or coordinates-setting, but he seemed unable to move for the moment. He looked so tired. It was good to see him back in his daft clothes, with storms and eons behind his eyes, but it was almost worse too. Especially now. The Doctor stood there with his head hung like he could feel every day of those nine hundred-ish years.

"Doctor—"

"Is there something else you'd like me to say, Amy, something to make you feel better? Or perhaps you've seen an alternative I haven't thought of yet?" The Doctor's head came up, those storms crackling and blazing out at her.

"No," Amy began.

"No, because this is it." The Doctor spread his arms out wide, gesturing to nothing, everything. "This is it, this—is what must happen for Rose, this is what always," he stabbed a finger down on the console, "happens. There is nothing else. I have already done the best I could for her, and if she forgets this, if she can believe none of this ever took place, you, me, Rory, the Angels, then she will still have that ending. It will be a certainty."

He paused, breathing, spreading his fingers out against the console as if he needed its coral frame for support. His voice got softer, quieter. Knackered.

"And it is all I can do not to go out there right now and tear it all apart."

"Okay. So she needs this, I get that. Fine." Amy shifted her weight to her other foot, swallowing. Her vision blurred a bit, staring at him. She held her mouth in a tight bow. "What about you?"

The Doctor glanced up, an awful, haggard little smile playing about his lips. "Never mind me."

Never mind him? She could hardly see anything else. His pain just filled the whole control room; she was surprised it didn't leak out the Tardis's fake windows. He was the same as ever, all gangly and mad and alien, her Raggedy Man, but she knew just by the way he wore that little smile. She knew. She looked at him and the way he was all but shrugging and saw Rory the night his granddad died, saw the lady in the waiting room at her fourth psychiatrist's office, the one who'd miscarried and looked at the wall out of a hollow face. Like her own face, Amy, the one in the mirror of the Tardis bathroom an hour after Rory had been sucked into the crack in the universe. When she didn't remember him anymore but she couldn't work out why she was crying.

It was familiar, and it was dreadful. But it wasn't like anything she'd ever seen on the Doctor before. It was the most human she'd ever known him to look, even with the fob watch open now. And he probably thought she couldn't tell it was there. Stupid idiot.

Amy went to him, and he moved at the same time she did, neatly turning so that she was facing his shoulder and he was nearly sitting against the console. Not being touched. Not open for touch.

Pulling up short, she said, "Is this what you do, you keep moving? Even though you're…" She searched for the right word, looking him up and down. "Aching?"

He turned the not-smile to the floor, avoiding her gaze. Crossed his arms, all casual-like.

"Every time you lose someone? Every time? Doctor—"

"Amelia."

"Sorry, am I wittering again," Amy scoffed, blinking back tears for his sake that were starting to get annoyed, now, too.

The Doctor's head lifted, magical funny green eyes glittering at her, and then he stood up straight and wrapped both arms around her. Tight and tweed-y. Just like he used to. Amy dropped her nose onto his shoulder, breathing in that weird sort of half-smell she couldn't place that was always very him and a little unpleasant. The smell that filled her garden in the middle of the night when she'd been kitchen-counter-height. She hugged him too, slower, taking a moment just for herself. Just to remind herself that the Doctor was here, he'd come back, and he was safe. But he wasn't all right.

"Well done, Pond," he murmured in her ear. "What would I have done without you, eh? My caretaker."

And if she let a few tears fall then, what about it?

They clung to each other as the Tardis beeped, hummed. Did whatever it was doing, fueling or waking up proper or something. She couldn't remember the explanation. And the hug was making her feel better, but she couldn't tell even a bit if it was helping the Doctor. It was the same hug as always, him rubbing her back a bit, her digging in a bit harder than necessary to that brown jacket with each finger. Amy felt something in her chest uncoil, something she hadn't known had been in there before.

When they pulled apart, Amy sniffled as unobtrusively as she could and said, "About Will."

The Doctor blinked at her, waiting. Leaning again comfortably against the console with his hands slipping into his trouser pockets.

"How much d'you remember?"

"Everything." His lids were hooded, sleepy, adding to the exhausted air he carried. "All of it, I think. Why?"

"Because he really liked Rose." Amy held the Doctor's gaze, unflinching. "He was really, properly mad about her. Right from the start."

The Doctor's face did not change one mite. Gave nothing away. He just watched her, still waiting.

"My mate Mels," Amy explained, glancing around, giving him a bit of a visual break, "she used to tell me, she said, Rory's face did this thing when I came into a room. Like someone just lit a candle inside him."

The Doctor nodded, once, in a muted way to show he was still listening. No change.

"That was your face. Will's face." Amy folded her arms, leaning in. "When it was Rose. Was it because you were human, or…" She turned her gaze back on him, flicking between both his eyes. "Because of something—else? From before. When she was travelin' with you?"

He didn't say anything at all. He didn't look away, either. His face was exactly like the Weeping Angels, totally stone, totally the same.

Shoulda known, she thought. But she said anyway, "What d'you need from me now?" And she straightened and sniffed again, drier. Business-like. "Can I do anythin', can I help?"

The Doctor's face did change at that. He smiled, thin and genuine. "Amy Pond," he said fondly, "you've done more than enough."

When Rose re-entered the Tardis, she did it about ten minutes behind Rory. The ship felt cozier this time around, and she realized she did like the orange lighting. She even sort of liked the gramophone, and the little things twirling and blinking on the console she'd never seen there before. Rose caught sight of details she hadn't noticed an hour ago, like the hat rack, much less dusty in this version of the Tardis, and a dart board on one of the far walls. She wondered briefly if the jumpseat felt more like a loveseat now.

The Doctor was watching her as she came up the steps. He was bending over the console, stood under the viewscreen. The Williamses were both in view, too, but whispering together at the base of another set of stairs. They got quiet when she came up onto the console level.

Looking at the Doctor, Rose felt the white-hot ball of anger try to make a reappearance, but it couldn't quite rise up when she caught sight of his eyes. The way he was obviously drinking in her every movement.

She tucked a lock or two of hair out of her way, hugging herself. Looked fixedly at the hat rack. "How do we do it?"

There was a beat of quiet before he answered. When he did, it was with a little clap, and it was as if someone flicked on a light. He seemed totally different in tone than she'd expected from his face a moment ago.

"Well. It'll have to be a delayed cerebral plug, I think, best foot forward. Telepathic, trigger your brain to empty out some crucial pieces in the last few weeks."

"You said I'll remember Will."

"Bit of a precaution." The Doctor stayed rooted to the console when she glanced at him, hands together, rubbing away. Still watching her. "Instead of taking it all out, I'll be removing the bits about the Tardis, Amy, Rory, the watch, any trace of our universe coming into this one. Into yours."

Rose winced, and then tried to pretend she hadn't. Our universe. Yours. Different. Separate.

The Doctor paused, too, and his voice was a bit different, careful, when he began again. "That way if anyone mentions Will, you'll remember a bloke called Will, handsome devil—"

Amy snorted very loudly. Rose saw Rory roll his eyes hard. She bit back a smile.

"—but you won't remember the ties to the Angels, us, that sort of thing. He'll just be a story, a stranger you met briefly, a disappeared person in an unsolved case."

A disappeared person, Rose thought. Like Stacy Campbell. Like Larry Nightingale.

"And I say delayed," the Doctor went on, finally moving to come around the console, but now glancing about as if pulling his words from the walls, "because it's safest to do when you're unconscious. The brain is a very delicate instrument, gotta be careful what you put in and take out." He stopped in front of Rose, eyes twinkling. "Especially with the good ones."

Rose looked away; lips pressed together to keep from smiling. Her chest still ached. Her eyes were still red, she knew, from crying a year's worth of tears in the last hour. He could twinkle all he liked. The vacuum that was steadily opening inside her, even without the mind wipe yet, would not go quietly.

"So!" The Doctor snapped fingers on both hands, pointing at Rose. "You'll need to be asleep, that's where the delay comes in. Whatever I remove, the erase won't take effect until ooh, roughly—ehm, two hours from now."

Two hours suddenly felt meager, skimpy. Too fast, too soon. Rose had the suctioning sensation she'd just been told she had two seconds before someone shot her in the heart. Maybe it was the proximity to the Doctor, maybe it was the fact that she was in the Tardis again, but she knew precisely what time that would be. Like a quiz she knew she was going to be sat for later in the day, dreading it. She stifled a snort of disbelief.

"Midnight?" she asked, peeking at the Doctor. At the Williamses. "What, like Cinderella?"

He liked that. The Doctor smiled broadly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Cinderella. Yes! If you like. Pumpkins, sparkles. Mice turning into horses, although actually—" He turned the point on Amy and Rory. "There is a planet where every biological organism mutates into horses when the suns set, mice included. Hills like haystacks. Good spot for a picnic. How's that for a honeymoon?"

Amy widened her eyes, pulled down her eyebrows, and shook her head fiercely at him. Rory had turned completely around to massage his forehead.

The Doctor swiveled back to Rose and grew sober immediately. "Sorry. Er. Yeah, midnight."

She couldn't believe he was able to say these things so quickly, so nonchalantly. And underneath her frustration, underneath her bemusement at his rapid change of demeanor, she was thinking, I'll have to forget this. I'll have to forget him.

Him, the way he spun a lot when he walked, the greens and the twinkling, the snapping and pointing and rubbing, and the undercooked melody his voice had every time he spoke. She was just getting used to it. She was admiring the dark hair and the warm color palette as he'd been talking at her, gesturing at her through the explanation. Even the old man clothing was growing on her; he looked good in blackish trousers and laced-up boots. This body appeared closer to her age, and he wore it like it was the furthest it could be from twenty. The result was too huggable. (He was wearing a watch; what did a Time Lord need a watch for? Just to fiddle with, probably.)

She was liking it all more with every passing second, in spite of the sourness of the coming mind wipe, and maybe because she knew she was about to lose it. In two hours' time, she wouldn't remember one inch of this Doctor. She'd remember Will, but not him.

Could he see, when he locked eyes with her then, how much it was hurting her? Or would he ignore it, like he had when his eyes were brown? Or linger on it, like when they'd been blue?

Wrong. Neither. Those green ones matched hers exactly.

As the Doctor got closer, some of the speed and focus went off of him. There was something in the corners of his mouth, in the way he walked, that told her he wasn't nonchalant. He was carrying on. What she hated most in that second was the fact that she could still be angry with him, still sullen. Even though she knew just how he felt. Maybe felt. Probably felt. Always hard to tell with him, regardless of what face he had on.

"All right then." She took in a breath, shuddery, and watched the greens flick to her mouth and back up when she said it. "How's this work?"

As he responded, she passed him, not looking at him again till she reached the console and turned around, back to the column, hands on the coral. Trying to get in enough air for what had to happen next. Looking and looking at him, trying to commit every detail to memory for as long as she got to keep it. What was it now, one hour and fifty minutes? One hour and forty-five?

"Well," the Doctor said quietly, turning too, eyebrows up, flicking a hand. He sounded too calm. Resigned. "There is more than one avenue. Down to personal preference really, name of the game when it comes to telepathic ventures."

Rose let out a little huff, swiping at her eyes diligently with a sleeve. They would keep watering. She gripped the Tardis's console with all ten fingernails, more to keep herself upright than anything else. "Great, so. Whatever. Never mind how, s'gotta be done anyway, let's just…get on with it."

"Right."

She felt him consider her, saw his hands come together and wrap over one another in front of his chest. A bit of remorse in his voice, a bit of guilt. There was nothing she could do about that now—she was being as composed as possible, under the circumstances.

No, she couldn't help it.

She still met his darting gaze and said, in quite a different tone, "S'okay. I know you've got to, it's…" The ball in her throat got bigger, no longer angry, but choking her. Try again. Firmer. "And it…it's hard, but. It's not your fault." She tried to smile. "Be all right, you and me."

The Doctor stilled, staring at her. Unmoving, mouth slightly open. Oh, but he was pretty, how did he keep doing that? Was it a choice? And now he was unblinking, Rose felt she was under a big stage light. For six seconds they stood there, looking at one another, Rose wondering why he'd stopped.

He turned quickly to look over his shoulder at Amy and Rory. Whether it was for help or to convey some hidden little message between pilot and passengers, Rose wasn't sure.

Rory tugged on Amy's sleeve then, both of them starting like they'd been watching television and someone had just changed the channel. "Come on," he said softly, and began leading his wife backward toward a door.

The Doctor suddenly hurried after them in about three steps. He spoke in a murmur, one that was probably meant to be quiet enough for privacy, but everyone could still hear him.

"Rory," he said entreatingly, and Rory paused, turning slightly toward him. "Did you ever miss the chance to do something really, really huge in the past? When you were younger, when you were someone different. Something important. And then it was gone."

"Um—yeah." Rory's eyes flicked to Rose, then Amy, then back to the Doctor. "Sure. Of course."

"And you promised yourself, all your selves actually, everyone you'd ever been in your life, that if you got a do-over, you wouldn't miss it again for the whole wide world?"

Rory looked further confused. So did everyone else. His eyes parked on the Doctor, narrowing, like he was trying to follow the path of a wasp. "Yes?"

"Right," repeated the Doctor, stronger. He turned back to face Rose. "Okay."

Then he reached the console in two long, marching strides, and kissed her hard with both hands framing her face.

She would have lost balance if she hadn't been backed up against the console. Dimly, she heard Amy make a noise that was quickly shushed by her husband, and then she didn't hear anything else, either because they'd gone or because the Doctor was snogging her. Properly. Not for long, but dizzyingly fierce. Had this ever happened before? She tried to remember. It seemed funny now to think it hadn't. Like a joke.

Thought became a little more difficult after the first few rapid heartbeats and initial surprise. Will had been so sweet, so careful, like he was made of warm milk, and this face of the Doctor's had seemed the same. But even though his hands were gentle, this was really almost aggressive. Intense. Very on purpose. As she returned the gesture, he got closer, and she thought she might start melting through the glass floor. Just a Rose-shaped puddle of syrup.

When the Doctor leaned back at last, he looked between her eyes and spoke very quietly, like he was trying not to wake someone. "Sorry," he said, moving a bit of her hair, "but I do think I've just found my preferred avenue, d'you mind?"

"Go on then," said Rose, grinning. It was all she could manage at the moment.

He dipped back in, and she felt his hands move very slowly until his fingertips brushed her temples. There was an obvious sensation, one she couldn't miss, like someone clicking on a torch in her thoughts. Distracting. It made her stomach turn over, her heartbeat pick up—or maybe that was the kiss. But something, some awareness of what he was doing now, made her want to run away. Instantly the torch feeling shut off.

When she blinked, the Doctor had broken it all, but his hands were still at her temples. He hunched a bit, meeting her eyes.

"I know. I know," he said, leaning back in until their foreheads touched. Gritting his teeth. "I'm sorry. But you have got to let me, Rose."

"No, I—" She took in a shaky breath, and repeated after him, trying not to sound as if she could still cry, "I know."

"It won't hurt."

"Okay."

"And it won't take effect until—"

"Midnight," Rose finished for him, shutting her eyes.

"That's it," he agreed, and he even sounded a little proud. She heard a smile and a chortle in one when he spoke. "Midnight. Cinderella."

She puffed out a little laugh with her lips tightly together, to make him feel better. His thumbs moved to get rid of a few stray tears she hadn't realized were slipping out. Somewhere in the edges of her vision she registered that the Ponds had indeed gone away.

The Doctor pressed his forehead harder against hers and added growlingly, "Courage and kindness, oh, but you were always much better than any fairytale—"

He kissed her again. She might almost have to become one with the console at this point. Wouldn't be the first time. Here, he didn't turn on the torchlight straight away. His hands did go to her temples, but he was gentler, and for a moment it was just the two of them, just together.

Rose felt herself relax, felt the Doctor's affection almost tangibly when he did begin the telepathic process, or whatever it was he was doing in her mind. She knew it was happening—it was her brain—but it was easier to let it happen in the background and focus on him instead. The torchlight clicked on, but it was drowned out by the steady closeness of the man holding her, and the gold-colored hum of the Doctor's feelings, all of them warm, all of them wrapped up in her name.

Maybe he was doing that on purpose, too.

"Take care of yourself," Amy ordered, with a real smile on.

"And you," Rose replied, trying to relax in the hug the ginger had tugged her into.

They were outside, out under the inky sky, in the waves of grass. The lights from the Tyler mansion were winking in the distance. Jackie and tea and telly awaited, maybe a cuddle with Tony before bed. Before forgetting. The trees had stopped rattling; the wind had died quite a lot since Rose had gone out for some air. Now the night was cold, and calm, and it had snowed again while she'd been in the Tardis. There was the tiniest dusting of soft, crystally-white over everything. Even the Tardis's light.

Rory went for a handshake when she let go of his wife. A handshake and a single nod. It was funny how unlike he was to either of the other male passengers Rose had seen travel with the Doctor. Jack would have hugged her. Mickey would have nearly crushed the life out of her, straightaway. But this fit Rory better. His eyes were kind enough for three hugs put together anyway.

"Thanks," Rose said to him, so quickly it was almost nonsense.

Rory made a befuddled face. "Yeah. Uh. What for?"

And she liked that, she liked that he didn't realize. That plopping down in the grass to talk out a bit of devastation was so ordinary for someone like Rory Williams, he thought nothing of it. Talking of regular old Tuesdays. It seemed like snapping a charm off a bracelet to explain it to him. So she didn't.

Instead, she turned to the Doctor, who was standing a bit behind the two Williamses, head low, arms swinging.

"Need this back?" She held up the Tardis key, shoelace necklace and all, pulling it quickly out of her pocket.

The Doctor's mouth sprang into a smirk. "Would you give it to me if I did?"

"No."

His eyebrows shot up. "Well then. No."

She smirked back, tongue out, and saw Amy roll her eyes. As one unit, Amy and Rory turned, hunched against the cold, and went back into the Tardis. Rose listened to the old door creak and felt even colder herself when it shut. Then it was she and the Doctor, up on a little hill. Pete's big house was behind her, and the most wonderful box in the world was behind the Doctor, blue and wooden and wonderful.

The Doctor raised his eyes to her face. There was a fear of some sort in the action. "You might need that key someday anyway," he said, spreading his hands.

"Yeah?" Rose's smirk grew.

His feeble attempt at bravado vanished at the sight. "No—I mean, spoilers. Stop it."

"S'not like I'll remember."

Rose let the smile drift off, breathing in fast through her nose. This couldn't be more different from Dårlig Ulv-Stranden, this field with nothing but a path to the manor and miles of trees around them. But she was getting the same sense of emptiness from it. And she couldn't stop staring at the Doctor, at the threads in his coat, the shine of his shoes. The way his mouth moved, the way his hair looked in the dark.

"Guess this is it," she said, hating how her voice trembled.

"Guess so," the Doctor agreed, much less wobbly.

But when she moved forward, she found he was too. She dropped her bag in the grass and frost. His arms wrapped her up so snugly, she couldn't feel the chill anymore. Rose clung to his back, putting as much of herself into the hug as she could. Making sure to allow for as much physical contact as possible.

She wouldn't remember this. So it had to be good. It had to be worth missing. She hugged him for herself, for the version of her that had sobbed on that ruddy beach, for the version of her that had carried on this long, long year. And she hugged him for the Doctor—her Doctor, with the Northern voice and the tough leather jacket, because it was him, right there. For the Doctor she hadn't been able to touch in Norway, the image that had looked at her with so much despair before he'd been cut off, because it was him, too, right there. For the Rose that would wake up tomorrow and not know anything about this. Two universes rescued, alien Angels defeated, but she'd never remember how it felt to hug this Doctor.

And she hugged him for Will. Because he was right there, too.

They didn't speak until they broke apart. When she began to pull away from him, she gave him a teary smile, knowing she probably looked peaky and awful. Makeup running. But he didn't seem to notice if she did; he was following her smile with hooded lids. She trailed her hand down his left arm, the last bit of contact before she turned away to grab her bag.

But when that hand reached his, he took hold of her wrist, hard. Fervent.

Rose stopped, yanked gently to a halt, and looked back at him questioningly.

"Rose…" The Doctor's eyes were on her hand, and then on her face. "Rose—"

She turned fully around. Obliging. "It's okay," she said slowly. Forcing another smile. "S'like you said. See you again before you know it, yeah?"

If she did. If she ever did. If that was true.

She trusted him.

The Doctor closed his mouth, pressing his lips tight together in a line, stiffening. His face and eyes and frame froze up for some reason. Then hardened it all, practically angry, and jerked her back to him, back into a kiss. Rose let him, trying to remind herself to make that good too, no matter how surprising it got. Because this would be forgotten just like the rest. The Doctor seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Finally, they split apart, Rose in need of much more air than he was. He gazed at her as she backed away a few steps, until her heel hit the cloth bag still on the ground.

"Miss ya," the Doctor murmured, lifting a hand.

"You too," Rose replied thickly.

And he turned, like someone had pressed a slow-motion button at him, and went back into the Tardis. The door creaked, the door shut, and Rose took in the wood and the color and the windows and the light. Needing it to be just as perfect, just as real, in every one of her dreams from now on. She'd got the feeling her mind had been slipping, lately, and even if she was going to forget all of this by morning—she hoped some part of it would remain deep enough to get a good likeness when she slept. Maybe for years to come.

The whirring started. The wheezing and groaning. The light flashed on, off, on, off, and the Tardis began to fade out of that field. Rose stayed exactly where she was, hair rumpled, eyes bright. Knowing that there would be at least one pair of eyes on her through the time machine's viewscreen until the whole thing disappeared. She lifted a hand the way the Doctor had, in a halfhearted wave. Trying not to crumple right there in the snow.

When she could barely see its outline, engines almost completely gone in the air, Rose said, "See ya."

She said it to the Tardis, and she said it to the Doctor. Then she looked up, and began walking down the field.

It was nighttime.

And the stars were different.

And Rose was going home.