Archive of Our Own ^beta

You can't name it, not right away.

You stumble around in search of easy substitutes, because everything that exists has to have a name, and at some point you realize that even this falls under that category, that it's a tangible occurrence worthy of its very own title, so you think and you wonder and you use words like friendship or team, but they leave a bitter taste on your tongue that lingers for far too long. You don't like anything bitter or sour, so you treat yourself with a dose of the cure that only makes it all so much more complicated, but you feel so numb if you don't that you still do it willingly. You're stuck in a loop.

She is bright, like the sun and the stars and her happy eyes on a rainy day, she is light in a world that is filled with dark, and you feel as though the sun rising before you is truly something new, even if you know that it's not. You're centuries old - you're a thousand years old - you're literally ancient, but some mornings you feel so young, as if no one has ever done all this before, even though you're walking a road that others have already discovered before you. It's a run-down path, filled with footprints of souls braver than yours, and you can't see the end of it.

Because how could you? No one knows their own future. Not even you do.

You've met her one year, three months, seventeen days, thirty-two minutes and fifty-one seconds ago and it all started with "Run". You're still running and she runs alongside you, only on mornings like this, you wonder if you aren't running away. From what? You still don't know the word.

Her name is Rose Tyler. You are the Doctor. And no matter the term, she happens to be the cherry to your sundae, the biscuit to your tea, the blanket to your winter night. Without her, everything is dull, lacking and cold.

You wake up one morning and you greet her first thing, of course you do, and you go about your day just as always; regular things, nothing out of the ordinary, and then you freeze and you drop your empty cup and you don't normally do that because you may be clumsy, but you're still not human, you don't just drop things like that. But this time, you do. It shatters into a hundred and four pieces and you don't kneel and gather them because you can't move.

You suddenly realize that you finally slept through the night without a single nightmare.

Nightmares define you. They laugh in your face and tread through your mind as if they own it, and you don't try to stop them, because you belong to them. The past shapes the future and you don't defy it. Wouldn't cross your mind. You don't even try to.

But she, she's Rose and she has her own ideas, and even in your mind she puts her foot down and has her own way with things. Always has. That first day when she turned you down, you told yourself, no. I'm not going to ask her twice.

You didn't follow through on that promise. You asked her twice, and since then she's been roaming the place as if she owns it, just like your nightmares used to do. Only she doesn't hurt - not exactly - she pokes and prods and rearranges things, but she never brings you pain. And now, one year later, you visit New Earth and you feel like a New Doctor because you sleep through the night and the only thing you remember in the morning is her arm looped through yours and the scent of fresh lilacs, her favorite flowers, which she keeps in her room.

She makes you disagree with your own opinions. She makes you think in feelings and not facts. She makes you laugh when your lips remain pursed in irritation. She adds sugar to your tea and picks out your tie.

You say friend and you wince, because it's so inadequate, and your vocabulary has never felt so small. You have never felt so small and so big at the same time.

Her name is Rose Tyler, and maybe that's really all you need to say.

:~:

You hold her hand and watch her fall asleep on the sofa. You hold her because just moments earlier you thought you might have lost her. You know the texture of her skin better than your own, and whenever you read of happiness, it's her you see before your eyes.

You're not human. You never were.

You feel like you're human. You shouldn't.

Every day brings her closer and you'd be a fool not to realize that you are the propeller that that keeps this whole thing moving forward. No, it's not that she doesn't make an effort. It's that you keep pushing the boundaries and soon enough calling her a friend never happens anymore because it makes you feel angry. You don't define her, she's just Rose, and when you plant a chaste kiss on her forehead for the first time, you pretend not to notice the surprise in her eyes as you pull away six seconds too late. It's all natural, you tell yourself. Whatever this is, millions of her people do it. Your people, not so much, not really. But then you haven't been around them much.

Probably because you destroyed them.

The thought makes your hearts sink because you've almost forgotten. It was all blonde hair and brown eyes and adventures and anxiously baited breaths. It was all Rose and no nightmares and no definitions to the thing, not yet, not now. And now it all comes crashing down on you, because if there is one being in the whole universe that doesn't deserve happiness, it's you. To hell and back, it's you.

Nightmares return that night, an unwelcome reminder of your abandoned duty to The Great Guilt that you forgot about because you only have one mind and you've been dedicating it to her. You have two hearts, one brain, yet you consider yourself to be driven by logic. Something's flawed here and you know it.

You scream out as the fire in your mind burns and this time around, she knows you well enough to barge into your bedroom and find you there, rumpled sheets, broken glass of water down on the wooden floor, sweat or maybe tears - you admit to yourself in silent shame - staining your face. There is panic in your eyes and you both know it, but she knows you well enough by now not to say anything much.

Doctor, she says quietly, Doctor, she chants and it's not you who holds her, it's she who holds you, and you can't tell if it's your breath or hers or your heartbeats or hers because for just a moment, you are one and the same.

She doesn't mention it in the morning, but when you next enter your bedroom you find the broken glass replaced by a vase.

And in it, you find lilacs, and you spend three whole days inventing something that will keep them alive forever, because that's the one thing you can sustain, three flowers given to you by a person whom you still can't name.

Her name is Rose, and maybe that's all you'll ever be able to say.

:~:

Nightmares return and you toss and you turn but you never knock the vase over and the flowers never wilt. You ache in places you didn't even know existed. Pain... You know pain. It's safe and comforting in its dim, cold shadow. But as much as you know pain, you also always know the cure.

Something is wrong? Infirmary. Find a shot, a pill. Antidote. Anything. Pain is gone and it's only your hearts that still ache. But how do you cure that which does not have a name?

Apparently, with Rose Tyler. Rose-friend-Tyler. Because when you're around her, it really doesn't hurt, although you don't feel entirely right. Is it right to feel a knot at the base of your stomach, to only be able to inhale and exhale fully when she's around, but then also feel your hearts beat out their erratic melody that you can't keep up with when her eyes curiously peer into yours? Is it right that when you do sleep, and provided you don't dream of the past, it's her that you see behind that light mist of slumber, it's her fingertips that trace paths across your parted lips, it's her that laughs with careless abandon on a beach you've never been to; is it right to feel borderline depressed whenever her attention drifts elsewhere, to be so possessive about someone who will never be yours?

You think of her being yours and you smile like a fool, and just like that it hits you that it's her your body has been aching for.

It's her your mind has been asking for.

It's her you've centered your entire existence around.

Your knowledge is so vast, a thousand years worth of discoveries and studies and research, but it's all rubbish right now, because this is oh so new and yet still so old, just as you are. And so many have felt like this before you, but then again they haven't, because no one has known her like you do, and no one has known you like she does, and-

And no one has... Made you feel. Not the way she does now. That's why it's all brand new, and when you realize all this, how timeless and endless and ordinary but special it all is, you blink and look at her and for once, just this once, you see so very clearly. Perfect, undisturbed clarity.

Later on, in your own empty bedroom, long after she has gone to bed, you try the new word the way others may try on new clothes. You stand on the soft carpet, barefoot, sans suit jacket and tie, and you tremble as your lips form to accommodate the new sound.

love

You whisper it once, twice, and then twice more. She always shows you how to feel and not think.

You throw your logic out of the window and let out a bark of relieved laughter, because it has finally been assigned a name.

Her name is Rose Tyler, and you are in love with her.

:~:

You talk a lot but you never really speak. You wish you had more excuses to lend her your coat because she returns it and it smells like rain and her skin. You stare at her lips instead of her eyes when she talks and you spend a whole night pacing around for no particular reason, only to run into her when she wakes up and to embrace her spontaneously, because why not, because you need to, because she laughs into your shoulder as your fingers mischievously tickle her ribs.

It's not just you and her because you don't know how to deal with this. Others go on dates and get engaged and married and have a family and get a divorce and fight over child support. You don't want to get engaged, married or divorced, and you don't want to fight over anything at all.

And you don't know if she loves you back.

You're still not quite comfortable with the term, but the excitement it brings you tells you that this is the right one.

So you take on one more person, someone she has probably spoken to about love on numerous occasions, Rickey or Mickey or-

Right, Mickey.

And you don't like it. You were possessive before, but now you are downright jealous, and the man is lucky if he gets as much as two minutes straight spent with her without you around, and that's good because she is Rose and you aren't friends and no one else should be allowed to be not-friends with Rose.

You stutter in her presence and even you remain aware of the fact that you're rambling and she shakes her head at you with a smile. You imagine kissing her full lips until you both are gasping for air and Rickey probably knows but you don't care, not as long as she doesn't find out too.

It's too difficult to put into words.

Nightmares stubbornly remind you that you aren't supposed to feel content with your life, let alone so alarmingly happy, and one night you barely keep yourself from screaming out the word in Mickey's face, the word, because he ruffles her hair and he shouldn't and you don't like it. You're never scared, but now you feel afraid. You're throwing yourself between one task and the next, adventure to disaster and disaster to rescue mission. Then one day, you end up in France and she waits five and a half hours for you to come back for her. You run away without even meaning to because the alternative is to combust, set yourself on fire and cry out the words, let it all consume you and her and everything and you still don't deserve it, you don't deserve the pleasure and you don't deserve the loss.

The next morning, you find her in pain.

Pain. Your old friend that you've been neglecting because you have her and she is so much better that you still forget even when you remind yourself. You no longer know how anything works within the confines of your own mind; it's all chemical reactions and it's all science but it has nothing to do with mathematics and it could never be expressed in any other way than through actions.

You find her in pain.

What's wrong, Rose? Are you ill? Where does it hurt? Does it hurt at all? How? Why? Since when? Come, I need to take a look, come Rose, we'll get you up in no time, come, you must, you have-

She shakes her head and says "I dunno, jus' everywhere. Leave me alone, Doctor," and you ponder the options but then Rickey-Mickey comes along and calls you a complete moron and you're about to show him the door but then he asks you what you've been doing the previous night and...

And you say you've been trying to save somebody, that's what you usually do, it's kind of in the job description, but then he asks "Yeah? And who'd save Rose?"

...

Your throat is parched, your mouth is dry, your hands are trembling and the dull ache you've been living with becomes unbearable, and she doesn't look you in the eyes for the next few days, and you know what you did wrong - you know it's about the French woman who kissed you - but you don't know why. You don't know why it hurts Rose and you don't know why it hurts you.

Her name is Rose Tyler, and she deserves better.

:~:

You stick to your new resolution with moderate fervor and non-existent enthusiasm. You've hurt her once through getting too close and backing off; the mistake must never be repeated. You school your features until your smile is not too wide and close your eyes when the word pours out of them like liquid candy, too sweet and probably unhealthy. For her, if not for you.

Rickey the Mickey stays behind somewhere along the way and then it's just the two of you again, and under those far better circumstances your resolve melts much too fast. You've never thought of your feelings but now they cover your vision and take on a solid shape. When you first realized what it was, it was all burning hot, shivering and unstable. Now, it's burning hot, but also steadfast and you can never doubt it again, not when you finally find trust in the way she rests her head against your chest when you embrace her, not when you hear her call your name when she is happy to see you after you've spent no more than an hour apart.

You stumble and fall and find forgiveness and now that you think of it, no one has ever felt this way before, they couldn't have; not like this, not for her, not for you.

And it just doesn't go away.

She is quick glances and sharing your straw in your banana milkshake and watching her hold back inelegant words when she tries and tries and tries to sew the hole in her favorite jeans. She is lazy mornings in the galley over a cup of tea and brief kisses on the cheek and arguments that are like summer rain, intense and swiftly forgotten, and you are just one thing. Just one.

You are helpless.

If there is one thing you want, just one, it's her. And even your word starts to burn your tongue when you whisper it to yourself as you look at your favorite photograph of her, because this is more than that and her language lacks the vocabulary, while yours never even considered feelings of the sort. You think in impressions and happy moments and you no longer consider it to be wrong, and she still doesn't know.

It's just the two of you, and the nightmares melt away along with your initially firm decision to keep some distance. Distance never existed, not between you and her, and no amount of self-restraint can ever change that, you think one night and you let go of the invisible chains that kept you in place.

You still wake up at night but you never knock down the stack of books that's piled up on your nightstand, and you aren't screaming, but you are panting for breath. Because you are alone and it has never felt wrong before, but now it does, and when you open your eyes, your thoughts travel to her room, adjacent to yours, in which can be seen the steady rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps soundly, unaware of the war you've already lost.

You know her name better than you know your own, and if nothing changes you just might go up in frantic flames.

:~:

You still don't know if she wants you to do it on the day when you finally break.

Your life is all laughter in the face of danger and she takes full part in it, but while for her danger lurks around every corner, for you there is only one risk; just one.

Losing the stars that you've found in her eyes.

You've almost lost her, and Rassilon, if it's not agonizing then you don't know what else could be. A hundred years of torture for the sake of one day with her sounds pathetic and simply idiotic, but if you were given the choice, you wouldn't think twice.

She is your lifeboat and you cling to her desperately; inhale the smell of her new shower gel and her favorite shirt and almost crush her in your needy embrace. And normally you'd pull your lips away after giving her a peck on the cheek, but this time you just...don't. It's not a decision long overdue. It's not even a choice. It's something that almost happens every day and this time, you just don't stand in its way, you surrender to it and it slips through your defenses almost right away.

She doesn't move and you pull her closer because in the back of your head you expect her to put an end to it any second, but you remember how she always went her own way and exactly against your predictions, so when her lips capture yours after you stop for breath you aren't surprised as much as you are relieved. For the first time in months, you feel as though you are breathing freely, even though both of you are gasping for air during the brief reprieves you grant yourselves in between each moment spent savoring the taste of the other, and you don't stop, you really don't stop.

Life pauses and for once, just this once, you don't catch up with it. You remain, with her, timeless and weightless and you don't even think to say the word. You don't think about anything, your mind blissfully empty, senses in complete overdrive, and the world is her and she is the world and you've read about magic and you've read about infinity, but you never believed in it, not until this moment.

Her name is Rose Tyler, and she definitely does love you too.

:~:

It hits you that this is only the beginning about three weeks later, weeks so intoxicating that if you were to take a drug test in the infirmary, it'd probably come out positive due to the amount of endorphins that flow through your system. It's always been her - only her - and you know this now, and the ache is no more because she's here, you can stare at her lips all day if you wish so, and when she starts always holding your hand when you go outside you take it one step further and wrap your arm around her, and it's a little uncomfortable but you both make do because it's exactly what you want.

You don't slow down, but in a way you do. The universe slows down around you and she is the center of it, and if you don't go outside for three days in a row you don't even realize, because you disregard time even if it flows in your veins.

You still don't say the word, and neither does she.

You think you don't need to because it doesn't carry the full meaning that even your actions can't quite convey, you can't show it through your locked lips and you can't show it through tending to her twisted ankle; can't express it through the way you look at her with utter adoration when she guides a slightly dazed elderly man home and you can't admit it to others when they refer to you and her as a lovely couple. It feels private and sacred and vulnerable and perhaps it's fine to never say it or hear it, as long as you feel it.

Only it does bother you. How there are no words to describe the way you feel. How every language feels inadequate. So you search through your mind like an encyclopedia, and it's dusty and you can't find a thing between the pages filled with Rose, but eventually you remember the word your people disregarded as obsolete thousands of years ago, and you construct a careful plan of telling her in the right place, at the right time. You know her so well, and you're in so deep that plunging even deeper doesn't scare you, your armor long gone, your soul exposed to her kind eyes since months back. You know it's more of a formality than a necessity, but you still want to do it right.

But she is reckless and unpredictable and so very human, and your hearts stop beating for a whole few seconds when one night, as she is drifting to sleep, you hear her mutter something into your chest.

She says the word, and it's in relation to you. She says I love you, Doctor and she is warm and soft and so is the feeling that creeps inside your hearts upon hearing her declaration, like a blanket that you really couldn't do without. A word that previously felt so inadequate nearly makes you grow a pair of wings, and you quietly chuckle at your own lack of better judgment; you, who never stops talking but never really speaks, you never realized that it's not words that give us meaning, but we who shape and define them. A confession so empty when coming from the lips of others is like a golden light that swoops over you and gently tends to all your wounds when coming from her.

Words spill from your lips like a flooding river, and they're all brand new, and you are all brand new, and you don't stop whispering them even long after she's already fallen asleep, because there is so much to say and once you've started you can't put an end to it that easily.

You stay awake the entire night but you never leave her side, and your hearts don't calm down, they won't stop their uneven, erratic, easily excitable rhythm, you won't coax them into cooperation, because it's you and it's her and you've waited for this long enough, and you can't wait to start the rest of your life, and something tells you that this is a feeling that will linger by your side faithfully for the rest of your days spent with her; exhilaration that doesn't have a beginning and thus cannot possibly have an end.

After months and months of frantic tumbling amidst your unexplainable feelings, that night, you finally find the words you've been looking for all this time.

You are the Doctor. She is Rose Tyler. And the word you've been looking for all along is hers.

Because that's what you are. Completely, utterly hers.

:~:

A/N: Felt like some Ten/Rose and here it is. I've never written in this style/tense (?) so any feedback is more than welcome. Thank you for reading! :)