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Rose stared at her reflection, plucking at the end of her teeshirt. Mickey had finally sodded off, thank God, distracted the moment he realized the TARDIS had a games room.
Rose didn’t remember that room ever existing before, but she was grateful nonetheless. She needed a moment alone with her thoughts. Perhaps that wasn’t good for her: time alone tended to lead to spiraling, resentment, and imaginary arguments spoken aloud to an empty room. But she needed space to reflect and not worry about what expression her face had morphed into. Keeping up a front for Mickey—for anyone, really—was just too exhausting right now.
Today was the second time in, what? a week? that Rose had felt entirely replaceable. Sarah Jane had been one thing; after the initial jealousy, Rose had been almost comforted by the knowledge that the other woman was out there, a contingency plan of sorts, a resource when Sarah Jane’s fate inevitably became her own. But Reinette?
The Doctor had left without a question. He hadn’t even hesitated. He’d briefly tried to convince Rose—and, perhaps, himself—that he was doing so for the timeline. Madam de Pompadour dying at the hands of animatronics? It would break history irrevocably.
But Rose and the Doctor had been in many situations designed to break history irrevocably. And never before today had the Doctor so willingly given up everything to put it to rights.
Actually. No. That was a lie. The Doctor was nearly always willing to give up everything. But never before had he seemed so willing to give up her.
He’d been rushing around the stilled spaceship, connecting wires, concocting a plan like it was a banana daiquiri.
“If I go through, the connection to the ship should crumble,” he explained in his most high-energy tone, sonic buzzing almost without ceasing. “The robots won’t be able to teleport back; they’ll have no escape. I should be able to defeat them and get history back on track!”
“And then come back, yeah?” Rose asked, hovering. She hated hovering. She wished he would give her instructions, but more than that, she wished she could make herself useful without those instructions. Reinette probably could, she thought bitterly. Reinette would probably have already taught herself to fly the TARDIS given five minutes and three precise questions.
The Doctor paused, but only for a moment. “Weeeeeelll…. no,” he said, letting out a short, sharp breath. “Technically not. But I’m working on a plan! Here, hold this.”
He pointed at a makeshift lever and Rose hurried over toward it and wrapped her hands around it. Bare metal chaffed her fingers as she stared at the Doctor in bewilderment. “So you’re just… goin’ in with no pre-set plan of how to get goin’ out?” she demanded, incredulous.
He paused again, a little longer, and winced. “Yep. Basically.”
Then he mounted his horse and galloped towards a tapestry dividing this world and the other. “Lever! Pull!”
Rose did. The machine behind her, useful for something or other, whirred, and the Doctor charged through the tapestry.
Rose held on. The machine behind her began to shake, and the lever between her hands started to hiss with steam. Rose gritted her teeth, sweating, but finally was forced to let go with a cry of pain as the metal became unbearably, burning hot.
She yanked her hands back, palms blistered, and realized that everything had gone still, and the tapestry that had been on the wall moments before had disappeared.
She stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror now as she’d stared at the blank ship wall, Mickey’s relentless questions peppered behind her. The moment the Doctor had returned, she’d demanded whether the lever had been important, whether or not, if she’d just kept hold, if he’d been able to come back.
He’d looked surprised. “Oh! No, no. I just meant for you to give it a quick pull.”
Of course. She seared the skin of both her palms trying to give him a way back to her, and he hadn’t even wanted her to.
He’d wanted to go back for her. Rose couldn’t get that out of her head. She wasn’t sure what had stopped him, whether the tech broke or Reinette had decided she couldn’t come, or what, but the Doctor had made the conscious choice to risk getting stuck again just to bring her along. It made Rose’s stomach ache. She’d been used to the feeling of insecurity—it had haunted her through most her childhood, through primary and secondary school, and beyond. She knew she wasn’t much: barely an education, no father, no future.
Yet, when the Doctor came along, all of that had changed. He had made her feel like she was something impossibly important, improbably precious. Her Doctor, her first Doctor, had made her feel like she meant something to him on the deepest level possibly. Sure, he could be rude, closed off, ornery. But he made Rose feel as though she was uniquely special to him.
This new Doctor… she wasn’t sure that he did.
Perhaps it was because he was young, or at least his face was. Rose certainly felt differently towards him on a physical level; Cassandra had been spot-on about that. He was undeniably sexy and charming, so of course she wasn’t the only one who noticed, and of course it made her feel more possessive and jealous. She didn’t want anyone looking; she was his, and he was hers.
Except, so it seemed, he wasn’t.
Rose sniffled and pulled at her shirt again. Her reflection copied her. She’d rather liked this outfit when she’d put it on that morning. She’d braided her hair the night before so that when she woke up, it’d be pretty and wavy. Not that the Doctor noticed. And she’d given up long ago on expecting physical compliments from Mickey about anything other than her bum in certain jeans.
Now, looking at herself, she just felt heavy and dull. Reinette had been so elegant, so poised. Rose slouched. Her facial features had no definition. Mickey’s comment a few days previous about how she should lay off the chips floated back into her mind, and Rose furiously tried to stamp it down, but it just wouldn’t go away.
The pain in her gut grew. Eyes burning, Rose turned and stormed out of her room and into the nearest bathroom, which was curiously further away than she recalled.
She got down on her knees, threw open the toilet lid, and stuck her fingers down her throat.
W / T \ Y
The Doctor turned slowly in his swively chair, rubbing the 18th Century paper between his fingertips. He had grieved many times before, so many times it was almost more habit than emotion, but this time he could help but be a bit practical about it all.
Death, for once, had likely saved him.
Taking Reinette out of the timeline would have been a grievous error. In hindsight, even briefly so, the Doctor realized that. Reinette was a figure so very integral to history—and, yes, yes, so were all humans, but not all humans were a household name centuries into the future. He’d convinced himself it would just be a quick lark: he’d take her to a few new planets, show her the most beautiful places he could think of, and then lead her back home.
But he knew himself. He’d already grown attached, and with more contact he’d only grow more attached. One trip would turn into a dozen, and Reinette would either die somewhere out in space, or she’d miss the time of her death entirely. Both would be catastrophic to history, just as catastrophic as her being murdered by robots.
The Doctor sighed wistfully and slipped the letter back into his pocket, giving it a little pat. Reinette had been so fascinating. She’d been everything he’d imagined she would be: witty, clever, brave. He would have loved a change to get to know her better.
The snog, though. The snog had been a bit much, even if it had been a bucket list item. Eh, what could you expect from the French, though. Human beings were so challenged at seeing things platonically.
The TARDIS tugged in his mind. For a moment, the Doctor thought she was scolding him for being a hypocrite regarding his own very-not-platonic feelings towards a certain blonde, but then he realized the tug was more instant than remonstrative. Frowning, he hopped to his feet and let his ship lead him down a maze of hallways, stopping him in front of the bathroom.
The door was open and Rose was inside, vomiting.
Fear turned his chest cold. The Doctor raced into the bathroom, sonic already in hand. Was she injured? Ill? Had the robots given her some sort of drug that had interacted poorly with her 21st Century human biology? Why hadn’t he thought to check sooner? How had he left her so bloody unattended?
He fell to his knees beside her, hand on her back. Rose flinched, mid-gag, and shied away from him. “Please go,” she whispered, tears on her cheeks. “I don’t wantcha to see me like this.”
“Rose, tell me what’s wrong,” the Doctor pleaded, brushing hair out of her face. She didn’t have a temperature, and the sonic was saying nothing was amiss. What had happened?
Rose shook her head, curling up into a ball and lowering her face to her knees. Before she hid though, the Doctor had caught an expression that surprised him: shame.
“Go away,” she repeated, voice muffled. “I’m disgustin’.”
The Doctor’s eyes widened. Rose. Rose Tyler. Disgusting? “Rose,” he said gently. “You’ve met multiple Slitheen. I should think you’d understand what disgusting is.”
He was hoping for a laugh, but instead her chin snapped up, eyes red with tears and anger. “Why, ‘cause they’re fat?”
“No!” the Doctor stared at her in bewilderment. “Not-because they destroy worlds, Rose! And wear human beings for skin!”
Rose’s face crumpled and she wrapped herself up tighter. “I know, I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I just feel so…”
His stupid, slow, thick thick thick Time Lord brain finally connected the dots. “Rose…” the Doctor whispered, taking her face in his hands. She tried to shy away and hide back in her knees, but he didn’t let her. “Did you…” The words stuck in his throat.
She lifted her chin, ashamed but defiant. “Make myself sick? Yeah.”
He stared at her a long moment, then dragged her into his arms, cradling her into his chest. Stupid Doctor. Stupid, stupid Time Lord. “Why?” he whispered, voice cracking as she started to cry again. “Why would you intentionally make yourself ill? What brought this on?”
Or, scarier thought: had this been going on a long time?
No, the Doctor decided immediately. No. He would have noticed.
Right?
Rose shook her head, pressing her nose into the lapels of his jacket. “I- I- I used to-“ she hiccuped, then took a shaky breath. “I used to have an eating disorder. Back in high school. I just… I saw the magazines and the popular girls and I wanted to look that way, too, but it was never enough. It got so bad, but I sorted it out and got better. But today, I just…” She pressed her chin hard into his shoulder, body trembling. “You’ve made me feel like nothing, Doctor. Like I’m just a tiny speck—not in the universe, but to you.”
Guilt settled over him like a blanket of sleet. The Doctor shut his eyes, cradling the back of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant—“
She drew away, wiping her eyes. “Yes, I know,” she said shortly. “You didn’t mean to make me feel replaceable. But ya did. And the old you never did. And I just- I don’t- I don’t understand why that changed when your face did.”
She wouldn’t meet his gaze, which was probably for the best, because the Doctor had no idea what his expression looked like right now. Probably dark, probably angry, but not with Rose; never with Rose. With himself.
Because she was right. Completely, 100% right.
“Rose-“ he began, then took in where they were: sitting on a hard, cold floor of the TARDIS bathroom. This wasn’t the place to have this conversation.
He reached out and cautiously slipped his hand into her own. “Can we go somewhere more comfortable?” he asked. “I would… like to discuss this more.”
An extremely rare phenomenon, and Rose knew it. She locked eyes with him sharply and gave a quick nod, almost as if she was afraid he would change his mind.
The Doctor helped her up, hands lingering on her waist, on the perfect curves of her equally perfect body. He couldn’t understand how such a stunningly gorgeous, practically flawless, woman could ever feel so insecure about her appearance to the point of making herself vomit. But he’d seen the mags she and Jackie read, and he knew bits and pieces about Earth culture regarding weight and the expectations for women’s beauty. Things improved in the future, through it was gradual, but in Rose’s time the standards for women were actually logistically impossible to accomplish.
It was a sign of Rose’s exhaustion, or maybe (he hoped and prayed) that she was open to forgiving him, that she let them walk with his arm around her waist. He led her to the kitchenette and busied himself with a kettle, feeling like she needed a cup of tea.
“You should eat something,” he suggested. “We’ve barely had time the last day or so and you just lost all the remaining nutrients by…” He stopped himself, feeling like he was sounding blameful.
“ ‘M not hungry,” Rose mumbled, picking at the hem of her shirt. She sat at the counter on a futuristic chair that had the appearance of a barstool, but an invisible back for more comfortable sitting. Her shoulders rolled forward in a slouch that was sure to make her neck and back ache later on.
The Doctor decided not to fight her on the food front, at least right now. He stared at the boiling water, trying to collect himself. Finally: “You’re right.”
“I’m always right,” Rose responded with a weak attempt at playfulness. “Good start.”
He let himself smile, but quickly sobered again. “Rose, every day that you’re with me, every adventure we embark on, it reminds me of how fleeting time is. How fleeting your time is.”
She looked up at him, gaze hardening. “I’ve told you a million times, Doctor, I’m not leaving ya.”
“Yes.” The Doctor appreciated the reiteration. It sent a thrill through him every time, something that was a strange mix of dread and hope. “But the implied word at the end of that sentence is “voluntarily.” You won’t leave me voluntarily. You won’t choose to leave me. But there are circumstances…”
Rose tossed her hands in the air. “Of course there are!” she exclaimed. “That’s how everyone lives, though! You could walk to the store for some chips and get hit by a car and die. No one knows what’s gonna happen; we in human-town live with that every day. But you can’t live like that every day, or you’ll go insane.”
He’d never thought of it like that before, how normal fearing the loss of a loved one was. But still… “Yes, true, but Rose, a companion’s travel span is not usually long. We see so much danger.”
“So do police men and firefighters and people in the military.”
Oh, she was stubborn, this one. The Doctor planet his hands on the counter and bowed his head between his arms. He inhaled, reaching out to the TARDIS for help in trying to articulate. So many years, so many words, and he still could not. Articulate.
The TARDIS hummed encouragingly in his head, which wasn’t qualitatively helpful, but was still appreciated.
“The point still stands,” he said, pushing on. “Whether it’s normal or not, I live in constant fear of- of losing you.”
Rose’s gaze went soft. “You’re not gonna.”
“Again, we return to the “voluntarily” bit,” the Doctor groaned, dragging his hands through his hair and rumpling it up a bit. He started to pace the kitchen, water steaming and bubbling on the counter a few feet away. “So I’m going to ignore that. My old self, my last self, he wasn’t… traveling with you was still so fresh. It felt endless and timeless and all of that. But when he—well, I—sent you away that time with the Daleks, things became real. And when you nearly died to come back to him—well, me—things became even more real.”
Rose watched him quietly, fixated on his short rapid steps back and forth across the kitchen.
“The concept of losing you became more real,” he admitted. Things were getting scarily vulnerable, but he felt that Rose deserved it, always, but especially after everything he’d put her through in the last few weeks. “Getting close to someone, it- it comes at a risk. Everyone knows that. The closer you get, the bigger the risk. So- what I’m trying to say- what I mean is- I simply-“
He stopped, trying to catch his breath, trying to organize his thoughts, then bounded across the kitchen to stand directly in front of her. “Rose Tyler. I was scared.”
She blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Scared to… lose me?”
“Yes, but, also…” he gulped. “Scared to be hurt. Scared to get so close that to lose you would be like- like- like losing one of my hearts. Maybe even both of them. That- that losing you would kill me.”
Rose stared at him, eyes wide. He was drifting so dangerously close to the truth, so close to things that he could never, ever say to anyone.
But Rose wasn’t anyone. She was Rose.
“You can’t be scared to…” Rose drifted off, touched her teeth with her tongue, and tried again. “People can’t be scared to love, Doctor. If it all ends anyway, don’t you—shouldn’t we all make the most of it while we can? Live and love and all of that to the fullest?”
She made a point, and it was one he’d made to himself as well, many times, as he constantly tried to justify his actions in getting as close to her as he had gotten.
The thing was, he just wasn’t sure if it was true. The greater the love, the greater the loss could instead be seen as the greater the loss, the greater the love, but when he was alone late at night and deep in the Time Vortex, he spent much more time dwelling on the loss than the love. Dwelling on the death instead of the depth of connection. Dwelling on the pain of having an expiration date instead of the pleasure of exploring a relationship to its fullest.
And yet, maybe that wasn’t a failing in the sentiment, maybe it was a failing in him.
Rose must have seen his gaze turn inward, because she reached out and twined their fingers together. “I know that you are gonna to be the one with the greater loss,” she said softly. “When time or death or whatever eventually rips us apart. Not because I don’t l- not because I don’t feel it the same way, but because you’ll have to feel it for so much longer.”
He nodded, wondering where she was going with this.
“I’d never expect- I wouldn’t ever ask-“ her gaze flicked to his lips then almost immediately back up again, cheeks tinging red. Something stirred in his stomach, a pulling, tugging, longing sensation that was harder to resist than even the discovery of a new species out there in the universe.
Oh, Rose Tyler. if only she knew how badly he wanted her to ask.
The pressure tightened on his hand and Rose’s jaw tightened along with it. “I guess what ‘m tryna say is that we don’t need to be more than you think you can bear. But don’tcha think that what’s even more powerful than loss is… regret?”
It was like someone had tripped a wire in his brain. Someone had flagged a sensor, all the lights had come on, everything was awake, alert, alarmed, even.
Not once, in all of his 900 years, had he thought of it in terms such as those.
What did keep him awake at night, the rare times he needed to sleep? Was it the faces of his companions and friends, their last moments, their pain and suffering when they left him or he left them?
Or was it the thought that they would never have another adventure? That they hadn’t gone here instead of there? That they hadn’t stopped to breathe certain air or dipped their toes into a certain ocean or tasted a certain delicacy or-
“Doctor?” Rose asked, expression cautious. “What’s going on? You’ve gone…”
She gestured at him and he realized he was physically vibrating, mind reeling and reconfiguring as rapidly as it could (which was, for him, quite rapid). Regret. When Rose was gone—even just the hypothetical sent a bolt of pain through him—what would he regret?
Looking back at her, he knew.
“Rose Tyler,” he said, voice low, and took her hands again. “In all of this universe, all of these planets and stars and supernovas, you are the most important piece to me. And not telling you that would be the biggest regret of my lives.”
Rose stared up at him with wide eyes, practically glowing as her face broke into a grin.
He grinned back, letting out a surprisingly shaky breath. Why had he been so afraid to let her in in this way?
Everything ended. The Doctor was more used to that than he liked. He was tired of losing people, tired of having to move on, tired of needing to say goodbye before he was ready.
But he would never, ever grow tired of this. Of looking into someone’s eyes and being able to show her how much you loved her, even if you couldn’t quite find a way to say it yet. He would come to miss this someday, he would come to miss Rose someday, to long for her grins with the tip of her tongue poking out, for the bounce in her step, for her mad laughter at his horrible TARDIS driving.
Miss her. But never regret her.
“How long are you gonna stay with me?” he asked for probably the hundredth time, not that he was counting.
She let go of his hands to cup his face instead. “Forever,” she told him firmly. “As forever as I can.”