Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The end of the world is upon us!

The planet is dying!

Earth is on fire!

Rose read the signs of the protesters around her with a mixture of anger and amusement. Anger, because they were right. She was here, at another bloody protest, shouting outside Parliament yet again to demand that something— anything— change. The Doomsday clock projected on the sheet slung over the fence filled her with dread as it always did.

Climate change protests usually left her feeling the most helpless, after anti-war protests of course. Righteous anger was well and good when she was among a crowd of like minded protesters, shouting the same shouts, calling out what they all knew to be true with voices that were raised louder together in hopes that anyone would listen. But she would leave and go turn on the news to see another hurricane, another fire, another record heatwave, in the same bloody program that would praise the stock market and record profits—as if the two weren’t directly related.

And yet, amusement.

The organizers of this particular protest were a bit more… creative than some others she’d been to. The student leaders had obtained department store mannequins from somewhere and dressed them up in recognizable costumes of world leaders, celebrities, and executives, little painted signs hanging around their necks with name tags just to drive home their points, and zip tied them to the gates. A particularly strong burst of wind had already stolen several of the wigs, leaving the mannequins bereft and bald on their perches.

She was pulled from her amused reverie by the sound of the protest chants growing louder, interspersed with jeers and boos as a security team crossed the street to Parliament Square towards them. Rose squared her shoulders and raised her sign higher, joining in the shouts and jeers. Shouts went up on both sides, calls for them to disperse echoing across the security bullhorn, unnecessary but predictable posturing from the law enforcement that Rose had come to expect. These kinds of things followed a very predictable pattern when one attended enough of them, which she had.

From large, bridge blocking rallies with real leadership organization to these smaller, student led protests she heard about through the Reddit forums and grapevines, she attended each one she could. She did her best to attend as many as her work schedule allowed, even if it meant only being able to pop in for her breaks or running straight from work to the event. The rush was always worth it. Even a day at work that had her dead on her feet to the point of collapse could be saved and re-energized by a good chant, march, or demonstration. Being part of a collective, feeling like she was doing something worthwhile for a change— it was better than going home to her empty, lonely flat anyway.

She dreaded the upcoming winter, when the gatherings would be less frequent. She would spend far and away too much time alone, in the miserable loft she felt was more akin to a prison cell than home. The cold air always permeated the walls, the old industrial windows and too tall ceilings seemed to ensure that no amount of warmth could fight it back. The pre-furnished flat was far too sterile and neutrally colored for comfort as well.

Not to mention, the time alone with give her far too much time to think.

Rose pushed the dread aside forcefully. It would overtake her soon enough. She wanted to enjoy the moment while it was here.

She far and away preferred an organized protest, of course. People trained in the protocol of civil disobedience, demonstrations, and activism were the ones that led to real change, but there was something to be said for these smaller, student or otherwise unaffiliated group protests. The energy was more manic, more invigorating. She felt more at risk of being recognized, but at the same time more like she could slip into the crowd unnoticed due to the unorganized bustle. The more unruly crowd was havoc on her anxiety, but she was also stubbornly determined to overcome that fear. One could not fear crowds in her line of work. She’d come a long way in her self-induced exposure therapy, her fear only spiking now when she was caught in a surge and couldn’t see the edge of the sea of people. So, if she stayed near the back, or near a landmark she could orient herself to, she was perfectly fine these days.

Absolutely no memories of pushing, pulling, grabbing hands, crushing bodies, falling beneath feet… not today.

Student protests used to give her a chance to be in a crowd of people her own age as well, to slip in amongst them like she belonged and pretend, just for a moment. She could still pass off at first glance, maybe as graduate student if someone looked too close at her face. She certainly had the world weary, overworked look about her.

In the past year or so however, she found these unorganized and unaffiliated protests lacking. Protests, in Rose’s opinion (as useless as she felt it may be), should not have a set end time. Protests that politely ended at six on the dot, as stated on the flyer, were easily ignored. A mild inconvenience and annoyance at best. Even now, security was only posturing weakly for the assembled news crew— a single, bored and annoyed looking reporter— yawning and gabbing at each other more than paying attention to the crowd.

The crowd was gathered in Parliament Square and there they had stayed—interrupting no business, no traffic, and nothing more than passerby’s radios with their chanting. There were no organizers passing out flyers with information about the movement or chants. They merely did call-and-response shouted over a cheap bullhorn. The assembly had no medic station, no volunteers passing out water, or extra signs. There were no demonstrations or group activities, no songs or speeches. Rose could think of a dozen little things that would have made their presence here more effective, but the unorganized crowd couldn’t even chant in one voice. She gave them credit for having gone all out with the props, but one connection in a theatre department could account for all of them easily, so it still didn’t seem organized so much as it had been convenient and showy.

All in all, Rose was underwhelmed, but she threw herself into the action anyway. The chanting helped to clear her mind of her own worries, focus on the issue at hand, live in the moment arm in arm with the crowd around her. Figuratively, anyway, as this group wasn’t exactly a collective. The majority of them protesters weren’t even wearing masks, an easy way to tell they were obviously more interested in feeling like heroes than being part of something. More than anything, it was a group of highly individualistic savior-complex do-gooders, and youths too inexperienced to know better.

Which, she thought scathingly, she supposed she was not much better. It’s not like she did any of those things personally, though she was dedicated to the theory and practice of it, she was no organizer herself. That would require having control of her own life and choices and more time to spend not under the thumb of a tyrant than a few unpredictable hours here and there a week. She longed for a collective, a community, to call her own, but she made do with crowds instead. Alone, yet surrounded by people, it was at least familiar to her.

She could never decide if that was that more or less lonely.

The agreed upon time for the protest was drawing nearer, and the already unorganized assembly was getting restless. They’d accomplished nothing, predictably, and loud grumblings could be heard throughout the crowd of “Waste of time,” “Stupid bloody government,” “What’s the point?” She ground her teeth to keep from yelling at them: “Us, you lazy, bloody wankers! We’re the point!”

The next few seconds happened as if in slow motion. One bored security guard nudged another and pointed at the retreating crowd with an obnoxious, arrogant chuckle.

An overzealous student threw a bottle. It was nothing more than a half-empty bottled water, and it landed at least a meter away from any of the security personnel, but all of their eyes locked in on it at once as it came to a stop.

Time froze.

Fuck she hated student protests sometimes. Unorganized, untrained, think they’re invincible students who didn’t realize that just that one act of ‘aggression’ had undone all their work. The one bored reporter that had already been filming them from afar would have the news play the clip of the throw and the bottle hurling through the air to death, editing out the pitiful landing. The batons the security team were already whipping out would be overlooked and over justified, and there would be dozens more of the same regurgitated arguments about the ‘right way’ to protest, rather than any discussion on what they’d been protesting, or the overzealous use of force that would come next from the police.

Was it fair? Absolutely bloody not.

Did that change anything? No again.

Rose lowered her sign, anger at the entire situation bubbling in her gut, threatening to rise to the surface. Just this once, she wanted to join in more fully. She wanted to push to the front, let herself be arrested, let it plaster every news clip, every magazine, let her presence there do something. Maybe the breaking news of her being arrested at the protest would overshadow the first act of aggression being by one of theirs, and maybe it would help. Maybe she could finally say something worthwhile if the cameras on her were unscripted, candid, and Saxon wasn’t breathing down her damn neck the entire time. Making sure she never voiced an opinion too divisive, too forward. Too her own.

Didn’t stray too far out of line or too far away from the carefully curated persona he trapped her in.

Maybe the bad press would be enough to… she shut the thought down. It would never be enough. He owned every damn aspect of her life except her name. How she’d had the foresight to insist on a stage name at sixteen years old— insist on it hard enough it was written into that ironclad contract that crafted the prison cell of her life— making it the one thing that worked in her favor that he had to follow as stringently as she had to follow the rest… she’d never know. Even Donna, her one friend and ally who knew almost the entire truth of her situation, had applauded her for that small victory.

She couldn’t give up her anonymity. The thought of it alone frightened her more than any crowd. A snarl rose to her lips, her anger at the protest fed by her anger at her own situation and near blinding her with fury. She took one purposeful step forward, though even as she did so she was unsure what her purpose was.

 She was stopped.

A large, warm hand clasped onto hers, tangling their fingers together and jerking her to a halt. The feeling of another person’s skin settling against hers gently for the first time in longer than she could remember cut through the anger clouding her mind. It set her nerve endings alight, and her entire being narrowed in on the small point of contact. For the length of one breath, it was the only thing that mattered. The crowd blurred into the periphery of her consciousness. It was as if nothing existed but her, the warmth of another person, and the turn of the earth beneath their feet.

On the next breath, she remembered herself, and why the feeling of the touch of another person was so unfamiliar to her. She shoved away panic and reached back for her anger in order to handle the stranger’s far too intimate touch.

Rose whirled to her side intent on biting the person’s head off for touching her so familiarly when her eyes locked onto the most piercing shade of blue she’d ever seen.

The intensity in the eyes that met hers knocked the wind from her lungs. The world around her dulled even further as her focus narrowed in on those eyes, and the face that held them. What she could see of him anyway, above the mask obscuring his lower face, was striking: angular features, a little bit older, a little bit worn—this face had seen it all. Sorrow, joy, grief, and wonder. And it was all reflected back in his intense stare that seemed to touch the depths of her soul.

In the brief seconds his gaze held hers and they stood frozen, staring at each other, Rose had the all-consuming thought, “There you are.”

It felt right.

His eyes crinkled in the corners, the mask rising up a bit in a way that indicated that a smile was hiding below, and she felt a responding one grow on hers. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to see beneath the mask and study the rest of his face. He tugged on her hand, leaned down a bit closer, just enough to be heard over the chanting of the crowd, and whispered one word.

“Run!”

Rose dropped her sign and ran.

The stranger pulled her along for several blocks, weaving in and out of the crowds of people on the streets until the sound of the chanting in Parliament Square faded into the traffic noise of London. Along the run, Rose stole glances at him, taking in the rest of his form. The man was tall, around a head and a half taller than herself, and dressed in dark wash denims, a dark green jumper, and a worn leather jacket. He had close cropped dark hair that looked like it would feel silky smooth beneath her fingers. A blush crept over her cheeks at the thought, and she was grateful for the mask that still covered her lower face, though it was quickly becoming an irritation the longer they ran.

The strange man seemed to agree, and he ripped his own mask off after a block or two to reveal a strong jawline, a gorgeous, prominent, Roman nose, and soft lips quirked up in a grin. He glanced over at her, smile widening when she fumbled with her mask with her free hand in response.

He kept his pace to a light jog to match her shorter legs, but she could tell he was holding back. His lithe form seemed designed for running, and his still even breathing indicated that he did a lot of it. His posture was straight and relaxed, his running almost mechanical. He seemed pleasantly surprised with the way she kept up, her own lungs still moving open and freely in the brisk air. She picked up her pace, prompting him to do the same, and a laugh was torn from them in tandem and left behind on the wind.

Eventually, they slowed to a stop and the stranger tugged her just inside an empty alleyway, far enough off the street to be out of the way of other pedestrians but close enough to the mouth of the alley that she felt no anxiety. Few people showed her that kind of consideration: Her mum, Donna, Mickey, when he bothered to see her. People who understood her past or present situation and why she might be jumpy around them. The kindness of this strange man squeezed at her heart painfully, but in a way that felt good. Like stretching a sore muscle.

They stood still for just a moment, smiling wildly at each other, neither of them realizing that their hands were still clasped together. Instead, she noted with delight a handsome mole on the side of his face that had been pointed away from her on their impromptu run. Their eyes met again, and again she was struck by the piercing blue color of his irises, and the depth of emotion in them. His were eyes that hid nothing, clear as they were, and she saw again the intensity from before. A mixture of lingering sadness, deeply ingrained and interwoven with anger—no, grief— but also a sense of wonder. As if he’d seen the whole world and the horrors and beauties it held in equal measures, and was unable to let go of either. Before Rose could think of anything to say, her mind racing to find anything that wouldn’t embarrass her anyway, he beat her to it.

“You were gonna march up front,” he accused, pointing a finger at her.

Oh, even his voice was lovely. Gruff, and playful, with a thick, working-class, Manchester accent that made her knees feel the slightest bit unsteady. The actual words he said took a few seconds longer to process as she fought to keep her focus.

“What do you know?” She asked, her question coming off far more flirtatious than she’d intended, even to her own ears. “I only took a single step forward!”

“Well, what’d you do that for?” He chided, playfully. “But, no, I could see it on your face. Well, in your eyes, anyhow. Looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out, you did.”

His eyes flashed with amusement and…interest? She couldn’t tell if she actually saw it there or just wanted to.

Rose sighed, her anger from the moment returning briefly, though the hindsight of being away from the protest helped her maintain her calm. She rubbed her forehead with her free hand, still not noticing of their hands still tangled together between them.

“Those students,” she complained.

 “How do you know they were students?” He interrupted.

She shot him a glare, which did nothing to deter the amused grin on his face. She fought the answering smile that tugged on her lips in seemingly natural response to his.

“Who else would organize a protest that disorganized, but still have that many people? Trained protesters or organizers would never aggress against security. Plus, there were no organizational banners, sound equipment, presenters, medics, people giving out water— it was obvious that it was all about chanting and makin’ a scene. I reckon a college campus is one place a flyer might be seen by a lot of people, and that’s enough organizin’ for a crowd, but not a group.”

The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and Rose’s face heated under the open look of appreciation on his face.

Not appreciation, she told herself firmly. Just…impressed by her deductive reasoning.

 “I knew I recognized you,” he said, lightheartedly accusing again.

Rose’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t impossible that he recognized her. She’d been recognized out in public before, but it happened so rarely— especially with wearing masks— that each time was utterly panic inducing. She tried so damn hard to keep her personal image distanced from her stage persona, her only avenue for a semblance of normal life. Her eyes darted around the alley, where he had her alone, and finally she realized their hands were still clasped. She jerked hers away quickly and ignored the flash of hurt that crossed his eyes.

 And the disappointment and longing that rose up in her chest from the loss of his warmth.

But if he recognized her… the best case scenario she could imagine is him selling the story to some gossip rag and it getting picked up by those celebrity stalking channels. She’d only been able to attend protests with such regularity for so long because she worked so hard to maintain her anonymity, but one whiff of press and people would start looking for her at protests. She’d have to stop, because she would hate for any causes to get ignored because people were more interested in her than the actual protest.

And her one real outlet for freedom would be gone.

Not to mention how Saxon would punish her if the attention was unfavorable.

“You do?” She whispered, dread filling her tone.

He seemed so… kind, so genuine. She’d not been afraid when he’d taken her hand and pulled her along, he’d purposefully not taken her more than a foot inside the alley. He’d been one of the only other people at the protest wearing a mask, which she had initially applauded as him giving a damn, but was it just to hide his face? Both reasons, maybe, as it was for her?

“Yeah!” He continued, cheerfully. “I saw you at the Trafalgar Square protest a few weeks back! You were helpin’ pass out water and masks.”

Rose blinked, the unexpected information processing slowly. She had been at a protest in Trafalgar Square recently where she’d helped pass out water and masks. It had been a volunteer position that she’d signed on for eagerly after the organizers had posted a sign up link on their Reddit forum, which she followed religiously. It had been the only one she knew she could make for certain, with her inconsistent work schedule. Though not an active member of the organizers, she was active enough on the forum that they recognized her username and invited her happily.

The man had not only been at another one of the same protests, but he’d seen and remembered her? And his recognizing her didn’t have anything to do with Bad Wolf?

He tugged on his earlobe, looking sheepish, as she stood there gaping at him.

“Sorry, is that weird? Didn’t mean to be creepy. Just, got an eidetic memory, me, and it’s hard to turn off.”

If anyone else had said that to her, she would immediately scoff at the humble bragging, but he seemed to be genuinely just expressing a fact and offering an apology for it. This mystery man was piquing her curiosity more and more.

“Is that supposed to sound impressive?” She blurted, the teasing, flirting tone returning to her voice unconsciously.

His wide smile returned instantly, and Rose’s heart skipped a beat. Blimey, but he was handsome. Rugged and unconventionally attractive, but his features were so unique, and his eyes were so thoughtful, and his smile was so sincere. She blushed at the direction her thoughts had once again taken.

“Sort of, yeah,” he admitted with a wink. “I’m the Doctor, by the way.”

“The Doctor? Is that supposed to sound impressive?” She snorted. “Doctor who?”

“Just the Doctor,” he replied evasively. “S’what all me mates call me, anyway, all two of ‘em. Plus, me sister and colleagues. But it’s Noble. James Noble.”

He thrust his hand forward with a cheeky smirk on his face and Rose took it immediately, having missed the feeling of his warm hand in hers. He offered so much of himself so easily, she thought in wonder. In just one sentence she knew his name, that he had a sister, few friends, and a professional enough career to have colleagues and not coworkers. And yet she got the feeling, from the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his features, that he didn’t often share details about his life, let alone with strangers.

Did he feel it too? That sense of knowing?

As she wrapped her hand around his once more, a spark of electricity shot up her spine. His fingers closed around her hand, pressing their palms together, and she delighted in the warm, dry, strong grip. His hand was so large his fingers wrapped all the way around her hand as she stared at them clasped together and an ember of arousal sparked in her lower stomach. She’d always been one to admire a man’s hands, and his were some of the most gorgeous she’d ever seen. Large, with long and thick fingers, calloused by work and slightly dry— she wondered if that meant he washed his hands a lot— and she noticed several thin, silvery, crisscrossed scars across the backs of them.

Sexy.

She looked up, away from their joined hands, and their eyes met again. Once more she was overcome with that sense of knowing him, like her soul was straining towards him and threatening to jump ship from her body to get to his. She could tell this time that he felt it too, or something similar, from the way they both stood frozen in place, gazing into each other’s eyes.

The deafening sound of dozens of sirens rushing past them startled them out of their trances. He stepped to the side, unconsciously, blocking her view of the street. No, she realized, mouth parting slightly in shock, protecting me. He was blocking the view of her from passersby, all the while not releasing her hand, all without even realizing it.

“Rose Tyler,” she said, a bit breathless.

“Nice to meet you, Rose Tyler,” the Doctor responded.

His tongue wrapped around her name like he was savoring the feel of it in his mouth, and the sound of it coming from her lips made her face hot, and no doubt a bright pink.  

He angled his body once again, this time to stand next to her, and tangled their fingers together again. His palm sliding against hers felt like sliding into a favorite pair of jeans, or your own bed after a long absence: perfectly fitted, familiar, and comfortable.

  “Run for your life!” He encouraged with a wide grin.

With a laugh, she let him pull her from the alley and back out onto the street.

They ended up retracing their steps a bit and found themselves walking hand in hand through St. James Park, discussing various protests and demonstrations they had both been to over the years, and found out that they had been a few more of the same ones. Before Rose knew it, they were clinging to each other to keep from falling over laughing as they recounted various mishaps that had occurred.

“A bird shit on him? You’re havin’ me on!” Rose laughed.

“Absolutely not, Rose Tyler! I’m a man of my word. Man o’ many words, me. But I’m tellin’ you, right on his noggin. You should have seen it!” The Doctor vowed, also chuckling.

Already she adored his laugh. He was reserved with it for the most part, soft quiet chuckles and wide happy grins more than boisterous open laughter. But when something caught him truly off guard, a bark of laughter would escape from his chest and his head would tip back and show off the handsome line of his throat.

“Oh, you know they paid top dollar to keep that out of the press,” she snickered, imagining a frantic palace staff member running around juggling a dozen phones.

Conversation with the Doctor was a whirlwind. He jumped from topic to topic with a speed and energy she could barely keep up with, yet somehow he managed to weave them together. He seemed to know everything: history, and geography, politics. At some point he went on a several minutes long rant about how under-appreciated ants are, getting genuinely riled up on their behalf. Which only led to him angrily complaining about humans as a species in general, before calming and bumping her with his hip, a fond “Present company excluded, of course,” which prompted another no doubt unattractively bright pink blush to rise to her cheeks.

Rose laughed harder than she could remember laughing in years, listening to his stories and ranting with equally rapt attention, enraptured by the openness on his face and the way he talked with his hands, even with one clasped tightly with hers still.

He let go only once, briefly, as they walked, as a man rode by on a bicycle with a toddler on the back in an adorable little bucket seat. The little girl dropped her stuffed rabbit as they passed by, and the Doctor bent down to scoop it up and jogged after them to hand it back to her before she could even cry out. Rose’s heart fluttered at the goofy grin he gave the child, and again when he strode back up to her and grabbed her hand without hesitation, continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption.

She chimed in here and there, fully content to just listen, but each time she did he would pause to consider her words as if they were greatly important, tilting his head or raising an eyebrow.

After a time, she started to get a better sense of the man who walked beside her. There was a hardness to him, hidden beneath the exuberance and the playful smiles, but that could be read in the straight line of his back, and the close crop of his hair. It could be seen in the worn leather armor, and in his knowledge of geopolitical events and history, and the anger and grief in his clear eyes. She wasn’t sure how she felt walking and in hand with a soldier, but that sense of knowing him— along with listening to his obvious disdain for the government— relaxed her.

 Or maybe it was the way his hand and hers fit together so perfectly.

The touch of his skin against hers still drew her attention, perhaps more than it should’ve, and sent delightful tingles all the way up her arm. Usually, the touch of other people was almost painful, particularly when her touch starvation was as strong as it had been lately, without even her mum around to suffer through hugs with. Brushes of fingers against hers in the café, or arms against each other on the Tube, were like rough, scratchy wool being drug across her skin. Even familiar touch, such as hugging Donna, made her uncomfortable and edgy.

She wasn’t sure what it was about the Doctor’s touch that soothed her. Maybe it was the way his grip was firm but not tight, as if he was also enjoying the contact immensely but would give her the space to break away if she so chose. Maybe it was the way it felt undemanding, and the ease between them. Their fingers laced together with comfort that seemed paradoxical to how much larger than her hand his was. She decided it simply didn’t matter what the reason was and let the heat of his palm soak into hers, and the firmness of his grip keep her tethered to the earth when his thumb began to absently stroke the back of her hand.

They must’ve circled the pond three or four times, completely absorbed in each other’s company before Rose’s phone rang. Her heart clenched at the shrill sound of her ringtone, the only one she had set as a different sound from the default, so she always knew when it was Saxon calling. Unconsciously, she squeezed his hand tighter as her dread mounted, and felt his grip tighten in return. They came to a stop, and she pulled the phone out of her pocket, staring at it as it rang in her hand with dismay.

“Rose? Do you need to get that? I don’t mind,” the Doctor assured her, seeing the look on her face.

“Yeah,” she said despondently. “It’s my boss. He’ll keep ringing if I don’t answer. I just— don’t want to,” she finished lamely.

A near overwhelming urge to tell him, well, everything, almost brought her to her knees. Something deep within her, from a place she’d never felt before, screamed with such force it felt physical. Only years of discipline kept her from breaking down right then and there. She had no idea where the rush of it came from, as she’d never even told Donna anything directly, just let her piece it together for herself. There was still much she didn’t know, and she’d been stubbornly pulling information from Rose for years.

The Doctor nodded in solidarity, throwing her a soft grin and jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"How about I go get us some food for the ducks?” He offered.

Butterflies blossomed in her stomach, beating back the sickening feeling with their wings until she felt light again. So far, being around him had felt as easy as breathing, but this small gesture—this unspoken signal that he didn’t want their time together to be over yet— took her attraction for him over the line to a full blown crush.

“That sounds fantastic,” she replied, smiling.

He gave her one last squeeze on their joined hands and walked away. The lingering warmth and tingle his touch left behind gave her the courage to answer the phone. She drew the hand he had just dropped to her chest to savor the feeling and accepted the call.

“Hullo,” she greeted neutrally.

"Little Wolf!” Harold Saxon’s grating voice snapped. “Where the hell are you?”

Rose sighed. He always wanted to know where she was, no matter how many times she told him off for it. She knew he tracked her keypad access of her flat building somehow, another reason she loathed the soulless place. He’d boasted heavily of the security features of the building the day he’d ‘gifted’ the loft to her, and she’d known instantly the electric keypads and security cameras weren’t for her benefit. She never allowed her mum, Donna, or Mickey over for that reason, which made the loft all the lonelier, but kept their privacy and hers to an extent.

With the added benefit of they never had to see firsthand how sad her life was.

“None of your business, Saxon. I’m not in the studio today.”

She heard his fingers tapping on the desk across the line and shut her eyes to block out the memories of other times she’d heard him tap the same staccato rhythm on that desk. It always preceded a vicious tongue-lashing, a screaming match, slamming drawers and doors and hands down on the desk to make her jump. He hadn’t hit her in years, but he kept her just enough on edge that the fear, the anticipation, never went away. He’d learned early on how to leverage her past with Jimmy to his benefit. He’d stepped seamlessly into the void Jimmy had left, making sure that broken, beaten down part of her never fully got back up. The yelling itself wasn’t always preceded by the tapping—he liked to catch her off guard too much for that— but the tapping never occurred without the yelling.

“One would think, my dear Wolf, that with your contract so close to being up you would be more motivated to put in extra hours. The studio can always decide not to renew your contract.”

Underneath the misery, the small seed of hope hidden in her heart perked up. She knew her contract was coming to an end, but rarely let herself think of it. She had a near superstitious belief that acknowledging her freedom on the horizon would spell her doom. This was the first time Saxon had mentioned it himself, though the end date was only a little over ten months away. She knew his threat about not renewing her contract was empty as well, but as if she fucking cared.

“I’m scheduled six days this week between studio, interviews, and rehearsal,” Rose reminded him, struggling to keep her tone neutral. “If I do too much extra, I’ll blow out my vocal cords.” Before he could interject, she added, “Or hurt myself and be unable to perform, even lip-syncing.”

“Valid argument, little Wolf, except one would think,”

God he loved that insufferable phrase.

“That would mean you’d be at your flat, resting. The flat that the studio so generously provides for you.”

She ground her teeth, the tapping fingers on the desk still tapping out the four count rhythm of his anger.

She fucking hated that flat, and spent as little time there as possible, even if it did mean running herself into exhaustion. When she had her rare time away from the studio, she refused to stay there and would schlep all the way across London to stay with her mum rather than stay a single second longer in the industrial prison cell Saxon had ‘provided’ for her. At least, until her mum moved out of London a few months ago. With her final tour and the end of the contract coming up, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He worked her like a dog to beat her down, and she knew he was wringing her dry for all he could, building up a backlog of songs he could release for years down the line. Anything she produced during this time would belong to him anyway, and he must’ve had three or four albums worth already, just waiting.

“Did you call just to tell me you know I’m not home? Rather invasive, don’t you think, Harry?”

Even through the phone line, the slamming of his hand on his desk made her flinch. Why did she keep provoking him? She knew he hated when she called him that. Ten more months and she’d be rid of him, she just had to survive until then. Saxon could and would make her life in the meantime a living hell, as he’d been doing the past nine years. She knew it could get worse though, she’d had many stretches of time where he been particularly awful and petty because of her refusal to back down.

But, however he might try to keep that broken, beaten down part of her from getting fully back up, but neither he nor Jimmy had ever fully pushed it all the way down either. And though he made her pay in spades for every second she fought back, she’d never quite mastered taking it all lying down. No matter how much it hurt, rolling over and accepting it was worse. Always.

Tour dates with near impossible turn arounds, filming music videos that made her stomach churn, a million interviews bombarding her with questions about the persona Saxon had crafted for her. Every gossip rag and media outlet plastered with her face, the newest puppet Saxon shoved at her to cause a scene, headlines slandering her at every turn. Long nights and late recording sessions that went on long after even the janitorial staff was gone. Keeping her caged in that ivory tower of a flat.

“You know, those royalty checks end as soon as this contract does,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Unless you do want to re-sign.”

“I told you, I’m still thinking about that,” Rose lied. “I just…I want to spend more time with my mum, less time in London.”

The small concession, letting him think she might re-sign the contract with just minor alterations calmed his heavy breathing. The tapping on the desk stopped and she heard him lean back in his leather chair.

“We’ll see what contract negotiations brings in a few months, my dear,” he said lazily. “I want you in the studio. Now. I’ve just bought a new song for you, and I want a demo, immediately.”

Another shackle of her contract. He chose her music. She’d managed to pass of a couple of her own songs over the years, but none of the ones she was truly proud of. None of the ones that spoke to her heart. And the music he chose for her was usually just one more thing to hate. Senseless, meaningless, pop drivel. Good enough for a radio hit, good enough to a night at the club, but nothing that made people think.

Bad Wolf was a joke, and dwindling sales numbers in the last few years that attested to that were the only way she’d passed off any of her songs at all. People were sick of meaningless, bubblegum pop. They wanted songs with actual lyrics. And her songs had done well, but not well enough for Saxon to loosen the reins even a little bit more. Rose was thankful every damn day that Bad Wolf was only mildly popular, and only in Great Britain. If she’d become a real sensation she’d never escape him.

“I’ll be there in the morning,” she said, steeling her voice as much as she could.

She opened her eyes and was almost surprised to see the park around her instead of the soulless white walls of her flat or the studio that haunted her. Green grass, blue-green water, and the lovely, grey London sky met her, and a deep breath of the fresh park air helped sharpen her resolve. As did looking up and seeing the Doctor walking back to her, slowly, a cup of duck food pellets in each hand and a crowd of ducks trailing behind him. His tall frame walked with a grace she wouldn’t have thought possible, carefully maneuvering around the ducks with ease.

She saw his lips moving, his head turning side to side, and she realized with amusement that he was talking to the ducks. Who was this man, with his sad eyes and scarred hands, who spoke gently to the birds and angrily about the world? Who looked up at her now and met her staring eyes with a smile that warmed her like sunshine?

Saxon’s voice faded into the background as she grinned back at him.

“I’m busy, Harry. I said I’ll be there in the morning,” she said over the top of his yelling.

And then, Rose did something she had never had the courage to do in the last nine years Harold Saxon had owned her life.

She hung up on him.

Chapter Text

“Oi, Spaceman!” Donna’s sharp voice snapped him out of his thoughts, which had once again drifted towards Rose.

Rose, the girl he had been struck dumb by at the Trafalgar Square protest, with her sunshine and whiskey colored eyes, the way her smile lit up her whole face even through her mask, the wild, graceful beauty in her movements, and the gentle compassion in her voice. He’d been so struck by her he’d been unable to do more than stutter out a thanks for the water she had gently placed in his hand and struck by her again once the demonstration started in earnest. The passion that leaked from her every pore, her voice rising above all others in the chants, yet falling soft and reverent for the songs, her beautiful eyes closed while she swayed gently in the breeze for the moments of silence. As if even when the world around her was still and silent, there was music only she could hear.

Rose, who had blazed with righteous fury in Parliament Square, a depth to her anger he wouldn’t have thought possible for one with such kind, soft, compassionate eyes.

The Doctor didn’t know how he knew that her anger was coming from such a place, but one look at her rage and he had known it wasn’t just due to the protest and its unfortunate turn. It was deep, and personal, and full of nuanced understanding of the situation at hand. Her anger called to his and he’d rushed forward and grabbed her hand before he could even register that he’d moved. Only to then be struck dumb a fourth time by the way those sunshine-whiskey eyes had turned on him like fire. The connection of their gazes had gentled the fire, but not without sparking an ember in him he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Rose, who consumed his thoughts so wholly that he was even able to block out the incessantly annoying music Donna insisted on blaring through his car stereo.

“What in the hell are you smilin’ at, dumbo?” Donna grouched. “And what’s got you so distracted?”

“Oi, who are you callin’ a dumbo?” He griped back, still grinning. “Genius, me, and you know it.”

The same playful, familiar script they’d been following together since they were kids. The Doctor would tell anyone that would listen that his twin was truly the brilliant one, even as much as they bickered, but the playful ribbing and deep familiarity warmed him to his core.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d engaged in it, despite her calling him dumbo regularly. The last time he remembered repeating his lines of the script had been standing at the airport, years ago, willing her to stop crying.

“Don’t do anything stupid over there, dumbo,” she said, her eyes watery despite her voice carrying its usual fire.

“Oi, who are you callin’ a dumbo? Genius, me. And you know it,” he stressed, winking at her. “I’ll be fine, Donna, I promise. I’m a medic, and I’ve got a good platoon. We’ll have each other’s backs.”

The boarding call sounded, and he gave her one last tight hug, kissing the top of her head.

Years later in his hospital bed, when the doctors finally allowed him company and she’d rushed in, eyes red rimmed and watery once more, she’d run up to him and slugged him on the arm. His doctor had protested loudly, but Donna had just screamed louder, as was her habit.

“What the fuck did I tell you? I told you not to do anything stupid, dumbo!”

He knew she wanted him to retort, to follow the script, to give her the reassurance that he was alive, and there, and whole.

But he wasn’t.

The words didn’t come.

He shook himself from the memory, relieved to find that it only slightly dampened his mood. Took him down from fully giddy to a mere contemplative contentment. Even when being pulled from his happy thoughts meant that he couldn’t fully block out the overly commercialized pop still making its way piercingly through the radio, his mood stayed relatively high. He snuck at glance over at Donna where she sat in the passenger seat, and she was staring at him with a curious expression on her face. Something stuck between shock and confusion and happy?

Bah, she was so emotional. He could never figure out what all was going through her mind. He’d thoroughly disproved the concept of twin telepathy while they were in primary school, winning a science fair award on it much to her ire, and had never gotten the hang of other people’s emotions either. They were usually a complete mystery to him, a character flaw of his that often had him coming off as rude—more than he meant to intentionally.

Except Rose. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and in those expressive brown eyes, so openly he felt like he was staring into her soul. It felt like she was staring into his in return. Hers he could learn to read, when she displayed them so openly. More than that, he found that he desperately wanted to learn her emotions, and all her little moods. He wanted to catalogue her every micro-expression meticulously.

“Well?” She sputtered, digging her heels in despite her confusion.

“I dunno, Donna!” The Doctor exclaimed, exasperated. “Can’t a bloke be in a good mood?”

“A regular bloke, sure. A Spaceman? Not sure I’ve ever seen it.”

“Why did I agree to drive you to this meeting if you were just going to insult me the entire time?” He sighed. “When is that brother-in-law of mine coming back with your car? Why can’t you take the Tube?”

Donna pursed her lips and examined him, and he clenched the steering wheel tighter, trying desperately to hang on to his good mood under her scrutiny. What had caused him to be in such a good mood again?

Oh, yeah.

Rose.

He wondered what kind of music she liked, wondered if he would like it too. Would she like his music? A vision of Rose sitting in his flat, thumbing through his records and humming flashed through his mind. He imagined settling one onto his record player, extending his hand to her, and spinning her around his small living room.

The dopey grin returned to his face.

“You’re doing it again!” Donna screeched. “You either discovered real aliens or—” she gasped loudly, pointing across the console at him and ignoring his attempts to bat her hand away.

“You met a girl!”

The Doctor frowned, glancing sideways at her.

“At my ripe age? A girl?”

“‘At my ripe age’” she mocked, “Har har, the whole nine extra minutes you have one me once again—”

“Nine minutes and thirteen seconds,” he interrupted.

“A woman then, fine,” she continued, ignoring him. “You met a woman.”

He sniffed, attempting to remain impartial under her inspection, but couldn’t help but feel a bit offended. A woman? No, he didn’t meet just any woman. He met Rose.

Rose would like Glenn Miller, he thought wistfully.

“You did! That idiot smile is back on your face!” Donna yelled in victory. “Tell me, tell me, tell me—”

“Blimey you’re annoying,” the Doctor groused. “I’m not tellin’ you anything, there isn’t anything to tell.”

He itched to actually tell her everything, a first for him, but couldn’t resist riling his twin up.

Donna’s retort was interrupted by the driver in front of them slamming on their brakes. The Doctor threw out his arm across her chest protectively as he slammed on his in return, narrowly avoiding hitting the back of the fancy vehicle. He honked angrily and was rewarded with a middle finger from the driver’s side window. The car took off, peeling away from them with a squeal of their tires, and he followed a bit more cautiously. He pulled his hand away from his sister, just as she was batting it away, and patted the dashboard comfortingly. His poor car. He’d just changed the brake pads last week thankfully, but she let out a pitifully rumbling noise that sounded expensive. He sighed.

Silence filled the car as they worked to steady their breathing following the near miss. Well, silence from Donna and himself. Unfortunately, the pop music drivel she insisted on playing no matter how much he protested was still pouring from the speakers with unholy tenacity. The one thing on his car that refused to break was that damn stereo.

“Somewhere in the world there is a father and a mother

And the father is a son who has a mother

The mother has a daughter, who gets married to the brother of the mother

And they're all just tryna multiply with one another.”

“Oh, what is this garbage?” The Doctor complained, gesturing at the stereo with contempt. “That is utter nonsense!”

“It’s Bad Wolf!” Donna defended. “She’s the most under-appreciated in the business, she is!”

“Under-appreciated? She’s on the radio with this rubbish! Probably gettin’ a fat check from it, too, and an even fatter head,” he ranted.

“And so they keep on twiddlin' them thumbs

Skiddly-dee-da-dum

They gonna keep on twiddlin' them thumbs

Skiddly-dee-da-dum-dum.”

“You cannot tell me that isn’t gibberish,” he said seriously.

“You missed the best part, with running your damn gob. If you actually listened to the lyrics you’d like it!” Donna retorted.

He scoffed. “The lyrics that don’t make any sense? Now I know I’m the smart one.”

“You don’t even know Bad Wolf,” she hissed.

“And you do?”

“Yes! As a matter of fact, I do!”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise. His sister was a talent manager, he knew, but she was usually extremely tight-lipped about her clientele to keep their privacy. He knew she was good, had some relatively well-known names on her CV, but usually up and comers. He might not know much about Bad Wolf—nothing at all, admittedly— but he’d heard the name floating around for years. She’d started gaining popularity around the time of his discharge from the army. Too long in the game to be one of Donna’s.

She saw the question in his eyes before he asked it.

“No, I don’t represent her. If I did, I’d’ve never let her sign with this damn studio,” she said ruefully. “She’s got real talent, and not only do they overlooked that in favor of mostly pop garbage, but they also treat her like shit. This song is the closest thing she’s been able to put out towards anything meaningful, and she had to hide the meaning in the nonsense. She’s genius, I’m telling you.”

The Doctor was shocked by the venom in her voice. He kept quiet, willing her to continue. It wasn’t rare to see his twin worked up in a rage, but something about the carefully controlled anger she was exuding was different. Normally, Donna raged like a forest fire. Bright and brilliant and hellbent on destroying everything in her path but burnt out quickly. This was a deep, seething, fury.

It reminded him of the surprising amount of anger he’d seen in Rose in that brief moment.

“Saxon Studios,” she said the name like a curse, “Has her under one of the worst contracts I’ve ever seen. Ever. I don’t know how they get away with it. I’ve been trying to help her untangle it for two years on the side. Eventually she gave up and decided to just let it run out, but she’s still got just under a year left and… fuck it’s like she’s in prison sometimes, Jamie.”

Donna’s use of his childhood nickname was telling to how serious the situation was, and how deeply Donna felt about it. He reached out and squeezed her hand, and she gave him a grateful smile.

“She signed when she was sixteen,” his sister continued in a sad voice. “A ten year contract that gives her producer—not even the studio! — full rights to her licensing, image, songs, intellectual property—everything. Anything she produces while under contract is theirs in perpetuity, no royalties, no residuals. With the lock they have on her image, Saxon has complete control over her public persona, any and all tours, media appearances, what she wears in public. What she eats. It’s tyrannical to begin with and Saxon takes it to…well to say to the extreme would even still be an understatement. She couldn’t even tell me any of this ‘cos of the NDA clauses.”

“How’d you find out?” The Doctor asked, appalled.

“Pieced it together mostly. S’like playin’ damn twenty questions with her, she’s so evasive, but she opened up a bit eventually. Bit like you that way, actually. She started skirting around tellin’ me things, like ‘Oh, my producer wouldn’t like that. Oh, none of those relationships were real, just for publicity. Oh, I wish I wrote my own music. Mr. Saxon buys all my songs for me, I don’t get any say. I’d love to get tattoos one day; don’t you think they’re lovely?’”

The Doctor pulled the car into the garage in contemplative silence. It did indeed sound like a miserable career choice, but at least she got something out of it. Even as a mildly popular musician, she’d been working for nearly ten years, Donna had said. She had to have raked in a nice little fortune. Enough she’d never have to work again in her life, if he had to guess. He felt for her, knowing what it was like to be stuck in an army contract with no way out and just having to wait til it was up. It sounded like she’d be out soon though, so he pushed the troublesome, uncomfortable sympathy out of his stomach. Donna was much better at helping people anyway.

He had so much nicer things to think about. Like Rose.

“Don’t think I forgot you changin’ the subject, Spaceman. I wanna hear all about your mystery woman when you pick me up later,” Donna chimed as he parked, unbuckling her seat and clambering from the vehicle nearly before it stopped moving.

“I can’t pick you up later, I have a student thing,” he reminded her. “And there’s not anything to tell! I had one decent conversation with someone at the protest this weekend that I was thinkin’ about, alright? Happy?”

“The protest your students set up? I thought you hated student protests.”

“I do. And it wasn’t with a student, just someone else who came. She was—”

“I knew it was a ‘she’!”

“Yes, alright?” He ground out through his teeth. “The person who I had a single nice conversation with happened to be a woman. Don’t you need to get to work?”

“Did you get her number?” Donna ignored his question, leaning on the door and looking torn.

She desperately wanted to stay and pull information from her brother like teeth, but her meeting with Rose was only five minutes away and the poor girl got so little free time.

“No,” he sighed, conveying the one piece of information that truly did dampen his mood. “We forgot to exchange numbers. But I’m sure I’ll see her around.”

Donna wanted to scream in frustration, until she saw the wistful look on his face.

“Optimism? From you?” She teased instead, smiling.

Her brother laughed, staring off into the distance for a moment, a soft smile on his lips. That was an expression she’d never seen from him, especially since he returned from his tours. It made her heart soar for him. It even soothed her irritation that she’d have to take the Tube home, since Shaun was out of town for work with their car.

“Yeah, Don,” he said softly, still smiling and returning her use of their childhood nicknames. “Yeah I guess it is.”

A few hours later, the Doctor got a text from his sister with a link to a YouTube Video: Thumbs by Bad Wolf—Lyrics on screen. The text read: Watch and listen, Spaceman. You’ll see what I mean.

The Doctor rolled his eyes at her insistence, but he figured one three minute song wouldn’t kill him.

Back in his office after his lectures, he closed the door and pulled the link up on his laptop. The first verse was the same meaningless nonsense he had heard earlier, and he nearly shut it off in anger, but then he remembered what Donna had said about the hidden meanings of the song beneath the rubbish.

“Somewhere in the world, they think they're working for themselves

They get up every day to go to work for someone else

And somebody works for them and so they think they got it made

But they're all just working to get paid the very same.”

Oh. That was actually quite good. Was this song—this mainstream, pop song with a nonsense opening and a catchy chorus— criticizing capitalism and promoting class solidarity? In a four sentence verse? He listened more intently, leaning forward to read the lyrics better as they came up on the screen.

“Somewhere in the world you got a robber and a bank

And the bank robbed the people

So the people robbed the bank

And the police came to get him

But they let him get away

'Cause they're all just workin' to get paid the very same

'Cause that's just the way of the world

It never ends 'til the end and then you start again

That's just the way of the world

That's just the way of the world.”

It was. The song was actually discussing redistribution of wealth, talking about how hopeless it feels to live under such a system, and again reinforced class solidarity. The rest of the song also spoke out against propaganda, urging listeners to not believe what they hear and not fall in line. And hell, Donna was right. He did like it, and it was genius.

The girl had some pipes on her too. Her riffing melody near the end was excellent.

Eagerly, he scrolled through a playlist of her songs on YouTube, and was severely disappointed to hear no more insightful, weaponized poetry in the few videos he sped through. There was a video essay on one of her other songs, but the first few minutes revealed nothing more than some information about which of her past lovers the song was about, and why. Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, he settled back to watch it, glancing at the clock on the bottom of the screen and determining it was a good way to kill the last twenty minutes of his workday.

He thought back to Donna saying that all the relationships Bad Wolf was known for being in were PR stunts and wasn’t surprised when several other videos were trying to tie specific songs to specific exes though cork board and string theories. This one, however, Not Another Rockstar, seemed by consensus to be about some idiot whose name seemed vaguely familiar, who had apparently abandoned her to a mob of crazed fans in some type of jealous rage. There were videos of the incident, shot on shaky personal cameras, and despite himself he felt genuine horror and anger on the girl’s behalf. It seemed very real, as the singer had cried out for help and the camera person had panned over to the figure’s retreating form and back over to where she had been but had disappeared beneath the crowd.

The video went on for far too long before some good Samaritan had drug her from the middle of the crowd and into a waiting car. He winced in sympathy at the shell-shocked look on her face as the door closed and the video cut off.

The Doctor pulled up the song and was pleased when the lyrical credits at the beginning listed her as the writer. Here was that same level of skill. Though the subject matter was vastly different, the difference between her credited songs and the ones she simply sang, was purpose. Both of her songs were meant to accomplish something. This one, it seemed, meant to accomplish the ending of that prat’s career. Once he reached the chorus, it was obvious why there was no debate on who this particular song was about.

Talk about me, make it all about you

Caught you ripping your jeans, and that’s when I knew

You’d leave me dead if it set you apart,

And I’m like, oh goddamn, not another rockstar.

He felt a sense of vindictive satisfaction on the girl’s behalf, as well as a wave of appreciation for his sister for helping her.

There were a few interview clips with promising titles: Bad Wolf gives her opinion on… but he gave up after the first couple, irritated by the scripted soft responses she gave.

He automatically rolled his eyes heavily at the first one, the first time he’d actually paid attention to what Bad Wolf looked like. Long, straight, peroxide blonde hair, heavy makeup, a wide mouth with a plastered on smile. The stereotypical image of a popstar, he scoffed, before remembering that yes, that was exactly correct.

Everything about the performer seemed so fake. The Doctor was unsure if that was his own bias towards the celebrity industry or what Donna had told him coloring his opinion, but the impression the singer gave was simply ingenuous. Even her speaking voice sounded wrong as it came out of her mouth, enough so that it actually shocked him when she gave her first interview response. He wouldn’t have exactly called it posh, but it was certainly manufactured.

Idly, he found himself drawing comparisons between the singer and Rose. His thoughts had drifted back and forth between the two all day, wistful reminiscing of their walk through the park tangled with Donna’s comments, so it wasn’t surprising. Rose’s short and wavey, more natural, honey-blonde bob that just brushed the tops of her shoulders enticingly, her subtle makeup that highlighted her natural features— like those stunning sunshine and whiskey eyes— and her charming South London intonation.

Even the cozy, soft pink sweater and denim overall dress she’d been wearing was in contrast to the revealing, glittery, swath of fabric that clung to the Bad Wolf. He supposed the image she was presenting was meant to be entertaining as well, but knowing what Donna had said about how the studio controlled even what the poor girl wore in public, he imagined he could see the uncomfortable set of her shoulders in the revealing clothing. Once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it, and he was similarly struck by how small she looked. Not just thin, though she did look like she should naturally have more curve to her that simply wasn’t there, but delicate. Fragile.

But there was also steel in her ramrod straight spine.

Again, he thought of Rose, and the anger in her eyes. Unbidden, a horrifying intrusive thought— of Rose being the one trampled beneath a crowd, which was entirely plausible given the types of protests she said she frequented— rose to his mind and gripped his heart in a tight, icy hand. A shudder went down his spine as he forced the image from his head, reminding himself firmly that Rose frequented crowds. She knew how to deal with them. He also firmly reminded himself that it wasn’t his place to worry, even if he wanted it to be in the future, if by some miracle he met her again. To dwell to heavily on such an intrusive thought was just inviting misery.

With a heavy sigh, he closed the lid of his laptop and rubbed at his eyes with a heavy hand. He had to admit Donna was right, that he’d unfairly judged her, but the rest of it was out of his hands. His sister— his brilliant, fiery sister— would help the girl and that would be that, and she’d still walk away with her riches, even if Donna had said she didn’t get royalties or residuals from her work. He scoffed at himself, shaking off his unnecessary worry for the popstar. Just because she reminded him vaguely of the girl he was stupidly besotted with doesn’t mean he needed to dwell on her. Once she could run off with her millions, he was sure she’d be just fine.

Pushing Bad Wolf firmly from his mind, the Doctor checked his watch and grinned, jumping up and swinging his leather coat over his shoulders.

There was a small demonstration happening near campus, a café chain storefront was striking for better working conditions. One of his favorite students, Bill, worked there and had invited him. She’d even given him a red bandana with a wide smile, proudly exclaiming they would all be wearing them. He’d quirked an eyebrow, impressed at their knowledge of the symbol of the American labor right movement, and she’d shrugged and told him it was the suggestion of one of their regular customers. He pulled the bandana out of his coat pocket, unsure how to incorporate it, before he shoved it back in, letting it hang out of the pocket limply.

Good enough, he thought, eager to rush out the door.

Eager, because if he was lucky, Rose would be there.

It was a one in a million chance, but for some reason, he liked those odds.

The red bandana hanging from his pocket reminded him wistfully of the red string of fate, and he imagined that for just a moment, he could see it knotted around his pinky.

Letting all thoughts of Bad Wolf fade into the past, he let the unfamiliar feeling of hopeful, blossoming optimism warm him and pull him towards his future.

Chapter Text

Rose shifted nervously in her seat, waiting for Donna to arrive. Her loud, bold, friend was often at least a few minutes late, so she wasn’t worried, but sitting in the unfamiliar office building once more had her heart pounding in anticipation. She’d given up on finding a way out of her contract, but Donna was still determined she could find some kind of loophole that would help her. That would entitle her to something once the contract ran out.

Rose was unsure why she kept even meeting Donna to discuss it. The woman was more than just a friend now, and they’d met dozens of times outside of industry events and her office to go to lunch and let Rose pretend to be normal for a few hours. But Donna would text her with an idea and that spark of hope that lived in Rose’s heart no matter how hard she tried to douse it would flare up, only to be inevitably blown out again.

It was a vicious cycle that she wished she could just stop and let the next few months just pass, but giving up just wasn’t her. Jackie Tyler’s daughter didn’t give up. Rose Tyler, aspiring activist and advocate, didn’t give up. Rose Tyler, who had spitefully named herself after the Big Bad Wolf and not the meek victim of the fairytale, did not give up.

So, she sat, and she waited for Donna.

She burst through the door like a whirlwind, purse and lunch bag and coat in hand and knocking the door wide, causing Rose and the receptionist at the desk to jump. They shared a look, an amused grin on Rose’s face and an exasperated one on Astrid’s.

“Oh good, you’re already here,” Donna was already talking a mile a minute. “Sorry I’m late, my Spaceman of a brother drove me today and almost got us in a wreck! Can you believe him? Always nattering on about ‘oh, genius, me’ but his barely functional damn car…”

Rose followed her through the hallway to her personal office, listening to her ramble with amusement. Donna spoke of her brother often with such affection and exasperation in equal parts that Rose almost loved the man herself. Donna didn’t offer many personal details about him, only stating that he was a college professor of some science-y subject or another, that he grunted more than talked, and that they were twins— though you couldn’t tell by looking at them, she insisted. Since she was complaining about him more often than not, Rose knew the variety of nicknames Donna had for him, but not his real name, which she found amusing. She knew the man was fiercely protective of Donna, often driving her to work when her husband Shaun was out of town with their car.

Rose wished she had a brother like Donna’s. Her mum was a force of nature herself, had raised her as a single parent with very few other family members, but Rose had always wished for a large family.

As they had often over the past few days, her thoughts drifted to the Doctor. She wondered what his family was like. He had mentioned a sister himself briefly, but the rest of their conversation had been less personal and more about sharing stories of their activism, and then the ducks, and then people watching around the park, and then favorite foods, which led to them getting ice cream…

Once more she cursed that she hadn’t gotten the man’s number. They’d been so comfortable chatting together from the start that she’d forgotten that she didn’t know him as long as it felt like. When the streetlamps had turned on, and the air had turned too chilly to continue their endless looping walks, or huddle on the park bench, they’d simply parted ways with a lingering hug, and a ‘see you later,’ ‘not if I see you first.’

It wasn’t until she got home, and she grabbed her phone to text him goodnight with butterflies in her stomach that she realized.

Did he have a big family? Did he want a big family? Rose blushed to herself. That was a simply ridiculous thing to wonder about a man she’d only met once, and had no way of knowing if she would meet again.

God, she hoped she would.

She wondered if he would be protective and fierce like Donna’s brother. He’d already shown a bit of protectiveness in the way he’d unconsciously shielded her from the street. The way Donna groused about her brother saying, ‘oh, genius, me,” reminded her of the Doctor’s sheepish admission of his photographic memory, though she wasn’t sure why. Donna’s brother seemed to be playfully bragging while the Doctor had been almost hesitant to admit his skill, but Rose shrugged it off.

Donna deposited her armload onto her desk with a huff and Rose giggled in amusement at her friend’s frazzled state. She was always like that, so full of life it poured from her like her body just couldn’t contain it.

The Doctor was exuberant like that too. Rose loved people with big personalities, people that refused to make themselves smaller. Maybe that was why Donna, and her brother, reminded her of the Doctor.

Or maybe it was just that she had a silly crush and couldn’t keep her mind from straying to him every few seconds.

Donna collapsed into her chair and Rose sat across from her with a wide smile. Donna was still chatting while she put her purse and lunch away in the bottom drawer of her desk, but she stopped mid-sentence when she looked up at Rose.

“Oi,” she snapped, “What are you smilin’ like that about?”

Rose’s grin widened at her friend’s exasperation.

“Can’t a girl just be in a good mood?” She teased.

Donna froze for a second and burst into loud laughter.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today,” she said between giggles. “Something must be in the air.”

Yes, Rose agreed to herself. The smell of leather, and motor oil, and cologne, and warmth… she blushed and ducked her head.

“I just…well I met someone this weekend and—”

“You’re the second person that’s said that to me today! Blimey, something must be in the air. I hope it isn’t contagious; I’ve been exposed twice!”

Rose laughed. “You’re married!” She accused.

Donna smiled wistfully and hummed in affirmation before slapping her hands on the desk excitedly.

“Alright, let’s get into it! I’ve got a solicitor friend, Ianto, he’s married to my brother’s best friend, and—”

“Donna, I can’t go to a solicitor with this,” Rose sighed. “I’ve tried that before and they won’t listen. They hear the name Saxon Studios and practically toss me out on my arse. Plus, it would breach the NDA.”

“Right but if I told him—”

“You’re not supposed to know either!”

“But I do—”

“Donna,” Rose sighed deeper, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t care about any of it. The residuals, the royalties—they’re pennies at best. The intellectual property might’ve been an issue if he’d let me write anything on a regular basis, but the ones he did let me record aren’t even worth fighting over. It’s only two songs anyway, only one of which I even care for. And no one even hears it the way I meant them to anyway because of how big a joke Bad Wolf is!”

“But your image—”

“That’s the beauty of the stage name, yeah? And he can fuckin’ keep that too. Once this is over and I can just be Rose Tyler, I’d rather never hear the words ‘Bad Wolf’ ever again. I’ve done a good job insisting my ‘Bad Wolf’ persona doesn’t look anything like me. She’s just a caricature. See the popstar you expect to on the surface, and no one looks deeper, yeah?”

“It’s not right that he’s taken—”

“Ninety-eight percent of the profits? Donna, I know. And I know I signed the contract underage and under duress, and I know how he’s broken it over the years that could technically get me out of it, but the problem is that I can’t prove any of it! No one will go up against the studio solicitors, especially not for me, when I already have a case file against Jimmy with Saxon’s name on it as a character witness.”

Rose stood up, angry, and began pacing in front of Donna’s desk and hugging her arms around her torso. Familiar, angry, helplessness settled in her stomach, killing her warm thoughts of the Doctor. He was so intelligent, and obviously had a good job. She remembered how he referred to his colleagues instead of coworkers, and the fact that everyone called him the Doctor. He had a working-class accent, but an educated vocabulary to say the least, further proof of his intelligence. If he knew any of this about her contract or about her past, he’d be right to laugh at her as he walked away.

She’d been stupid to fall in with Jimmy, stupid to run away from home, stupid to sign the contract Saxon presented her with to get away from him, and stupid to let herself imagine anything romantic happening with the Doctor over the past few days. When that contract ended, she’d have nothing: barely any savings, no flat, no job she could list on a resume due to the NDA, no A-levels, and no future. She’d gotten her equivalencies years before, but with no job experience she could speak of, she knew they were useless.

She’d have her freedom though, and that was enough for her for now. Freedom was something she’d never experienced. Not since the day her mum slammed the door to the flat she’d grown up in behind her when she’d first run off with Jimmy. And any hopes she might’ve had of getting away from him and earning her freedom then had been shattered the day she’d signed with Saxon Studios.

At the time, at sixteen, Rose Tyler had been a very scared, very broken little girl. She had no secret aspirations of being a musician, no real desire for it either, but she’d been strong armed by her then boyfriend into singing for his band when one of their members didn’t show up. Drunk or high somewhere, catatonic, she’d imagined. Jimmy didn’t even know if she could sing or not, he’d been more interested in ripping her shirt half open right there in the bar and pushing her in front of the drunken crowd just to garner attention.

Saxon had been there that night. And he came back the next three consecutive days she sang. Jimmy reluctantly replaced his vocalist with her following the bar’s enthusiasm and the owner’s invitation to return, so long as Rose was leading. All four nights, he spoke with Jimmy and the rest of the band, playing into their egos, making big promises. Hanging around and flashing a wad of cash, plying the band with weed, coke, and molly, while Rose watched uncomfortably in the corner.

Her share of the money— paid directly to an account Jimmy didn’t know she had by the bar owner— would be enough to pay herself out of the lease with enough for a bus ticket out of London left over by the end of the month. She just had to be patient.

Saxon was pressuring them into signing, and Jimmy was salivating at the mouth for it. He’d had a taste of what Saxon’s money could buy and he wanted more. But he was greedy and kept holding out, hoping to entice a better offer out of him. By the third night, the offer still hadn’t gotten any better, and Saxon threatened to withdraw entirely.

Jimmy had beaten Rose black and blue in frustration when they’d returned to their dingy little flat. It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of the worst. She could still remember with vivid crystal clear accuracy the way his angry eyes had flashed, the way her traitorous knees had locked into place even as she was screaming at herself to run. And worst of all, the way her broken body had been unable to keep him from taking his frustration out on her in other ways.

When Saxon returned the fourth night, he had two contracts with him: The same one he’d been offering Jimmy’s band, and one for a solo artist.

Jimmy’s anger had been like nothing she’d ever seen at that point, but when he launched himself at Saxon, three security personnel he’d brought with him caught him before he’d taken two full steps.

He’d yelled for her as they carried him off, but she’d watched him go with cold, calculating eyes, every part of her screaming in agony except her numb mind.

Saxon offered her five grand up front, enough to pay off all the debts Jimmy had left in her name. The contract she’d read that night had been good; she’d thought. Reasonable offers, such as the studio would take 75% of profits earned, which he assured her was generous for a newbie, and over the next five years she would be responsible for three albums, and if they sold well, three tours. At the end of the five years, if she re-signed, there were clauses for more negotiation, more creative freedom, even incentives for her to go to uni online. She’d no clue if the terms were any good, based on industry standards, but to the child of a single mother on a council estate who had never been further than Cardiff? It seemed too good to be true, regardless of whether she wanted to be a singer or not.

She’d asked for one small addendum. Some nagging thought in the back of her mind reminded her she didn’t want to be famous and never had. The voice reminded her that it was a means to an end that would leave her better off in five years than she could ever imagine— but only if she could walk away in five years.

“I want a stage name,” she’d told him firmly. “I want it in the contract that no one— no one— gets to know my name. I don’t even want you to use it around other people in the studio.”

“I’ll have to rewrite the contract,” he mused. “But it’s doable.”

“Then I’ll sign it. After you change it.”

“Do you have any idea what you’d like to be known as, Little Red?”

He’d reached over and tugged on the drawstring of her red hoodie with brazenness, making a sickening feeling rise up in her, piercing the veil of numbness for the first time since Jimmy’s hands had touched her skin the day before. She hadn’t missed the looks Saxon had been giving her those four nights, and she wasn’t stupid. She knew she would be walking into the lion’s den, completely on her own.

She’d glanced down at the red hoodie she worn, overly large and hanging off of her, cloak-like, trying to cover as much of her battered body as she could. All she’d known was that in that moment, she was sick of being the victim, sick of being controlled by the narrative around her and all she wanted was to earn a way to go home. In that moment, she would’ve done anything, become anyone, to leave behind the burning feeling of unwanted touch. Anything to warn Saxon that he might have her backed into a corner, but he was not the one that put her there, that wounded animals were not to be approached, and he was not the hero of this story coming to rescue her.

“Bad Wolf,” she had said. “I am the Bad Wolf.”

At first, the words rang in her ears like a promise, like a goal. She could become so vicious that no one would ever touch her again. She could grow big sharp teeth and big sharp claws and devour the world, leaving her overly large red hood behind. She would rescue herself. She would create herself, create a life far away from what she had been living. As the Bad Wolf, she could take her words— the poetry she’d written as an outlet for her pain— and scatter them into the universe, messages to lead other people in her circumstances to there, the point of reinvention.

The crossroads she stood at led down two paths: day and night. She could see down neither of them, both were shrouded with the unknown, but one was shadowy— a return to the life she’d known on the estates, begging forgiveness from her mum, seeking a job somewhere where she would wither away— and one was golden. Brand new, adventure, uncertainty yes, but the promise of potentially changing her entire life for the better.

The next day, Saxon brought her into his office and showed her the new contract. He gave her champagne and encouraged her to drink it despite her hesitation. Everything after that was a blur for several hours, maybe days, but when she’d come to, she had signed to Saxon Studios. The contract was on the table next to her in the posh hotel room he’d set her up in, and she’d nauseously flipped through it trying to piece together what happened.

It wasn’t the same contract.

Her signature adorned every page.

No solicitor would listen to a disheveled, beaten and bruised sixteen year old girl with not a penny to her name. No cops would even accompany her to Saxon Studios, if they even deigned to speak to her. Not that that had surprised her— they’d turned a blind eye to goings on at the estates for Rose’s whole life. They’d heard her speak and heard only her lower-class accent rather than her words, saw her poor and battered appearance and made up their minds without even giving her the time of day.

Her mum slammed the door in her face, and so had Mickey.

The flat where she’d lived with Jimmy had already been cleaned out, the office claiming that they’d been months behind on rent that she was now stuck with, while Jimmy had posted bail and skipped town. With her dad’s guitar, one of the only things of his that she’d had.

Reluctantly, she returned to the hotel, not knowing what else to do, or where else to go. Her keycard had blessedly opened the room back up, but it hadn’t been empty. All these years later she didn’t remember the threats that he’d made, but she remembered how he’d grabbed her by the throat, and how he’d promised it would be easier if she just agreed. She remembered how tired she’d been, how defeated she’d felt, and how despite how desperate she’d been, no teeth or claws emerged.

So, she’d agreed, in a voice that came from outside of herself.

And he’d left.

And the cycle repeated until he didn’t have to threaten her to work every day, into the sound booth or the costume fittings, or into the chair to bleach her hair while her scalp burned. He threatened her with the NDA, reminded her over and over that he was a very rich man, and she was a chav that hadn’t even finished school. He threatened her with his fists, following through on those threats sparingly, but effectively when she fought too hard back. The police let her file charges against Jimmy, because Saxon agreed to be a witness, but even the victim advocate wouldn’t help her press charges against Saxon, and eventually they told her to quit wasting their time.

Her bruises from Jimmy healed, and then her bruises from Saxon from the hotel room. He was strategic with hitting her after that, which was more than she could say for Jimmy, and the bruises stayed hidden. He was with her constantly the first year. Every single day, no matter what she was doing, he was there, keeping her in line. She wouldn’t even see a stage for months still, but he paraded her around in costume—less revealing at first while he still was ‘training’ her— and dictated what she ate, who she spoke with and how. Real singing lessons sharpened her voice from garage band good to something she felt an ironic sense of pride in. He’d insisted on a dialect coach to rid her of her lower class accent, and she quickly found that the less of her real voice slipped through, the slower he angered.

Patterns to his ire began to emerge, and she began to avoid it entirely some days, eventually for weeks, until a day came by that she couldn’t remember the last time he’d done more than shove her around. Patterns could be predicted to steer physical into verbal, verbal into merely derogatory, and eventually, he simply would call her stupid and simple and sigh when she made mistakes because of course she did. She was too stupid to do any better.

As the first full year went by, another pattern emerged, more evident than the patterns in Saxon’s behavior.

No one called her Rose. Not her hairstylist that bleached and burned her scalp every six weeks like clockwork. Not her costume designer, who kept insisting Saxon restrict her diet further. Not the sound mixer who shot her pitying looks when Saxon kicked him from the studio when he was particularly angry. Not Saxon himself. No one.

It was a hallow victory, but a victory nonetheless, and she clung to it like the sole plank in a shipwreck. Bad Wolf no longer rang in her ears with promise but stabbed her with mockery.

By the time the album emerged, full of songs far too provocative for a now seventeen year old to be singing, Bad Wolf’s persona had taken rough form.

By the time it was selling well enough for her to start being invited to interviews, she had started to separate the persona from herself and find comfort in the disassociation.

By the time her first tour came around, and she was nineteen, she lived in the Bad Wolf personal almost full time, only letting Rose emerge when she was with her newly reconnected mum. Rose Tyler no longer felt real at that point, having been shoved so far down inside herself for so long. Rose Tyler felt like the costume by then, one that she donned to make her mum happy. When she was alone, which was really only in the prison cell Saxon called her flat, she felt as though she was neither. Not Bad Wolf, and not Rose.

She was no Wolf.

She wasn’t even human.

It took a couple more years to reach a comfortable enough place to separate herself from the persona more. Getting her equivalences helped, as it gave Rose Tyler a bit more identity, made her more real, though it still felt like a mask. She had one thing that belonged to her name, and it became the step up she needed to begin clawing her way from the grave she’d buried herself in. As she began getting into the protests and activism, Rose Tyler began to grow stronger. Her own name sounded less hollow in her ears when she gave it away, the more she repeated it to herself in the dead of night, in her lonely bed. By the beginning of the eighth year of her contract, Rose Tyler might have been the loneliest person in London, but she had found her way back to herself. She had forged a way back to herself.

She was Rose Tyler, if only to herself, and her mum who she still held at arm’s length for her safety, and slowly opening up to Donna, but she was Rose Tyler, nonetheless.

It was the last piece of herself she held sacred in those dark times, the only part of herself that she had full control over. Even if she didn’t feel like a real person, the mask was hers, and she hoarded it all the same.

And it was the only thing she would walk away from this hell she’d been living in with. No amount of Donna’s searching would result in anything different.

“Donna, I’m beggin’ you. Stop,” Rose sighed, “Just stop. I appreciate you trying to help me more than you can know, but you’ve been trying for two years. I can’t keep getting my hopes up. It’s only ten more months.”

Donna stood and walked around the desk, stopping Rose’s pacing with a hand on her arm.

“I know, love, but I’m worried what he’s gonna do in those ten months. You’ve already said the stalking is getting worse.”

Rose scoffed out a sardonic laugh.

“Might as well be wearing a damn ankle monitor at this point. I get a text or a call nearly every time I leave the loft, or if I don’t get back by a certain time. I know he can’t treat his other contracts this way. He spends too much time on me.”

“You could come stay with me,” Donna offered again, gently. “Shaun wouldn’t mind, I’ve already asked.”

Rose looked up at the older woman’s kind face and the sincerity it held, and her heart clenched. She’d just been thinking about how she’d always wanted an older brother, but here was this strange woman who had come to care for and try to protect her out of nothing but the goodness of her own heart. If she wasn’t already the closest thing Rose had ever had to a sibling, she was certainly trying to be. She’d been a constant and solid reassuring presence in her life for two years now, though they didn’t get to meet up often due to Rose’s schedule. She didn’t realize how much she’d come to rely on the older woman, or how much she seemed to care for Rose in return. She’d already long considered Donna her best friend, her only real friend, but she still held her at arm’s length.

Meeting Donna had been the best thing that came out of her industry career. She’d been at some awards show after party, absolutely desperate to leave in her exhaustion. Saxon had her on a tour with back to back performance dates across Great Britain and a few smaller ones across the EU trying to garner more international attention for Bad Wolf with middling success. She’d been in Amsterdam that morning following her seventh night of concerts in a row when he’d flown her back to England for the program. She’d been fine with it for the most part, tired of course, but almost grateful for the opportunity to have a night where all she did was sit and watch instead of performing.

Except, at the after party, Saxon was practically pimping her out in more attempts to raise her celebrity status.

He shoved her at musician after musician, actor after actor, even a director known for having wandering hands, insisting that each one buy her a drink. Most of them had taken one look at the ridiculous costume he had her in— she refused to think of what he forced her to wear as clothing— and had agreed eagerly. By the third, she was near stumbling in exhaustion and intoxication, begging for water or anything besides another drink. None of the men seemed to notice or care about her glazed eyed expression or slurred words, or the way the world upended on itself each time Saxon forced her to finish her drink or pulled her by her elbow to the next one.

In pulling her from one to another, Rose finally stumbled free of his hold and latched onto the nearest woman she saw. The shocked redhead had shouted in outrage when Rose first clung to her arm, nearly dragging her down with her, but one look at Rose’s pleading eyes turned that outrage into a protective fury. She’d wrapped her arms around Rose and guided her towards the bathrooms, screaming obscenities when Saxon tried to insist he would get her home.

In her drunken and exhausted state, his voice had made Rose tremble in misery, whispering into the strange woman’s neck, “Please, no.”

From there, Rose’s memory of the rest of the night was a blur, but she knew Donna didn’t leave her side for a second. She woke up, dry mouthed, head pounding, and covered in sweat, in Donna and Shaun’s guest room, dressed in loose flannel pajamas. The awful, revealing dress Saxon had forced her to wear was crumbled up in a ball on the floor on the other side of the room, as if it had been angrily thrown. A glass of water, a few painkillers, and a note on the nightstand soothed her fears as soon as her head stopped spinning enough to read it, and when she’d sheepishly emerged Donna had refused to let her leave without eating a whole stack of pancakes. She’d also seen right through Rose’s scripted lies about her intoxication and exhaustion.

Since that moment, Donna had inserted herself into Rose’s life. She started with checking in on her daily, and then insisting they meet for coffee or lunch whenever possible. She latched onto Rose’s arm at every industry event she could get herself invited to, guiding her away from Saxon when she could but merely being around when she could not. She didn’t push Rose into telling her about her situation, but she didn’t let her brush it aside or lie either.

Donna checking in on her every day had led to her being the only person in Rose’s life to see the patterns, of Saxon running her into the ground until she was too tired to fight back, until she collapsed. Her knowledge of the industry as well helped her to ask the right questions, the ones Rose could answer without violating the tyrannical NDA he had her under.

She vowed to help, and just knowing that someone had her back had helped Rose to stand up for herself more. Someone who Rose felt comfortable talking about the situation with, anyway. Her mum was wonderful, but they’d only reconnected after Rose turned eighteen after nearly three years of no contact, already two years into her contract with Saxon. She didn’t want to risk that relationship by giving her mum reason to judge her stupid life choices or make her worry.

Donna, Rose was convinced, was the most important woman she’d ever met.

She pitched forward and wrapped her arms around Donna’s waist, burying her head in her shoulder. Donna let out a surprised yelp and froze for half a second before her arms came around Rose’s back and hugged her fiercely. Rose didn’t often initiate physical contact, and Donna was good about respecting that boundary, but Rose couldn’t think of any other way to show her appreciation and affection for her friend in that moment.

The two women pulled back from each other after a few minutes, both a little watery eyed, and Donna gestured for them to sit back down.

“I’m not going to stop looking for ways to help you, Rose,” Donna vowed, but raised her hand to still Rose’s objections, “But, unless I find something actually promising, I’ll keep it to myself.”

Rose smiled softly at her and nodded her consent, prompting Donna to beam and clap her hands.

“Alright, well, since you here anyway— tell me about the someone you met,” she said, playfully.

Chapter Text

Rose’s face fell, and she ducked her head, wringing her hands in her lap. If Donna had asked her when she’d first came in, Rose could’ve talked forever about her too short afternoon with the Doctor, but now she’d been reminded that she had nothing to offer him. If he was even interested, if they ever even met again. The chances of that were slim, even with the multiple coincidences of them attending some of the same protests and demonstrations.

“I don’t know, Donna,” she sighed. “I just kind of got slapped in the face with the realization that I… I don’t have anything to offer a potential partner, except this baggage. It’s not really fair of me to try and pursue someone right now. With the contract ending so soon, the next few months are going to be god awful and then after that I don’t even know what’s going to happen.”

Donna opened her mouth to argue, but now that Rose was talking, she couldn’t stop the way the words tumbled from her mouth.

“But he was so good,” she sobbed, before Donna could protest. “I looked into his eyes and god— it felt like I’d known him my entire life. More than that. We only spent one afternoon and evening together, and I get this feeling that if he did know any of this— well, he’d have every right to laugh in my face and run away but he wouldn’t. Fuck that sounds stupid,” she muttered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“Tell me about him,” Donna insisted gently, extending tissue box to her.

Rose took one with a soft laugh. She was such a mother hen.

“He’s smart, absolutely a genius if I had to guess, but he didn’t make me feel stupid about it—”

“That’s a first,” Donna muttered under her breath.

“And thoughtful,” Rose continued. “We walked around the park for hours, until Saxon rang me, stalkin’ me again, and I thought for sure it would ruin everything. But he just offered to go buy us food for the ducks to give me privacy to take the call. He didn’t even suggest leaving, he made sure I knew he wanted to spend more time with me. And he talked to them, Donna! He talked to the ducks.”

“That’s so sweet,” Donna cooed, resting her head in hands, elbows on the desk.

“I hung up on him!”

“Your man?” Donna looked startled by the sudden shift in Rose’s frantic tone.

“Saxon! He wanted me to drop everything and go to the studio to record a new demo, but I told him no and hung up.”

 Rose let out a humorless laugh, remembering how livid he had been the next day.

It was rare he came down to watch her record songs any more, not really having an excuse to anymore since she was a seasoned professional, but that day he’d made it his personal mission to torture her and had made her redo the song dozens of times. He’d also kicked out the sound mixer, so it had just been the two of them in the recording studio.

He’d learned years ago that was an effective way to punish her as well, to keep her on constant alert and edge, while he barely had to do anything. Just leer at her while she was forced to record the provocative lyrics of the songs he bought for her, sit between her and the door, and make occasional comments about hearing the rest of the staff leave the building and the soundproof recording booth, and tap those damn fingers.

The real punishment, however, was the latest puppet he’d procured to force her around with. He always set her up with some new PR relationship when he wanted to punish her from some perceived slight. To taunt her with the fact that he controlled her life so much she could never have a real relationship, he’d force her out with some new up and coming musician he was toying with about signing a contract. Some idiots who were eager to do whatever it took to break into the industry, including fake dating Britain’s most notorious pop play girl, Bad Wolf.

Saxon had announced to Rose at the recording session that he planned for them to ‘date’ for several months before having an explosive breakup that would coincide with releasing the newbie’s demos and kicking off Rose’s final tour of her contract. Since his band was signed to open for her, it would garner the attention Saxon wanted, both from the gossip rags and fans interested in the messiness of it all. This was the dozenth or so of such relationships, but Rose held on to the knowledge that it would be the last. Most of them had been fine. Some of them were good coworkers, some had failed to make in the industry and disappeared, to Rose’s envy. Only one had been truly horrid beyond just the situation itself. She tried not to think of Adam Mitchell often, about the fear he’d left her with, or the part she’d played in the downfall of his career in return.

Pushing, pulling, grabbing hands, crushing bodies, falling beneath feet… Adam’s coward face at the far end of the crowd closing in on her, turning and running, leaving her for dead…

Donna snapped her back to the present conversation, literally, with a knowing, sympathetic look. She was used to Rose’s thoughts wandering off in that direction. Embarrassed, she nodded in thanks, and muttered an apology for her distraction, which Donna waved off.

“Is he a looker, then?” Donna prompted, bringing her back to the present. “Your new man?”

Rose flushed, the Doctor’s handsome figure bursting to the forefront of her thoughts. Donna raised her eyebrows in amusement, flustering her more.

“He’s not my anything,” she insisted. “But, yeah.” She let out an involuntary, dreamy sigh, to Donna’s obvious amusement. “He’s tall, and has these gorgeous broad shoulders, and oh, he has just absolutely lovely hands. All big and warm and rough—”

Donna choked on a swing of her coffee, laughing, “Rose!”

“Amazing eyes, he’s got—” Rose gushed, ignoring Donna’s insinuating looks. “He’s so intense, like everything he feels is right there just under the surface, like a storm. God, and a jawline that looks carved from stone, like one of those old Roman statues.”

Donna hummed appreciatively at Rose’s description, and she blushed again a darker pink and ducked her head.

“I sound like an idiot,” she wailed, burying her head between her hands.

Her friend clicked her tongue sympathetically and laughed again.

“Yeah, a bit,” she agreed, teasing. “But that’s how you know you’ve really found something, you know?”

Rose hummed noncommittally. Maybe. Maybe in a few months, once the contract was over and the dust settled. Surely she’d find something for a job, and surely she’d see him around, if they kept going to the same protests. She just had to be patient. A piece of cake, really. She’d been waiting for her freedom for nearly ten years. More, if she considered her time with Jimmy. The thought strengthened her a little.

The likelihood of running into the Doctor again so soon was tiny anyway. The only things on her radar for the near future were a few small demonstrations, like one this afternoon at her favorite coffee shop that her favorite barista, Bill, had told her about.

Rose and Donna chatted for a little while longer about bits and bobs, like how Donna was getting along with her husband out of town for business, their trying for a baby, the receptionist Astrid’s plans to go on a cruise soon, and other meaningless topics. It made Rose ridiculously happy. She didn’t have any other girlfriends, didn’t have many other friends at all. She had a few celebrity acquaintances she enjoyed and would love to be friends with further, the same with some of the backup dancers she’d worked with over the years, but that would involve too much loss of control over her anonymity. Most of her childhood friends had fallen to the wayside due to the demands of her job, even Mickey for the most part, who she hadn’t even spoken to in nearly a year. Even her mum she didn’t get to see as often since she’d moved to Ireland with her new husband a few months ago.

After an hour or so, Donna reluctantly had to get to her next meeting, but she promised to text Rose to set up a dinner or coffee date sometime soon, and Rose left feeling lighter and more grounded. Even with the looming deadline to figure out what she was going to do with the rest of her life, things were looking up. The next few months were likely going to be some of the worst of her life, but the light at the end of the tunnel made it all seem less daunting. Even if she couldn’t see past it and imagine what her life would hold even a year from now, knowing it would be different was enough.

She thought of the way the Doctor’s eyes held wonder and grief in equal amounts and the fleeting thought she’d had about how he seemed to have seen all the beauty and horror the world had to offer and could let go of neither. It bolstered her resolve. It didn’t have anything to do with him, per se, but the philosophy behind the thought: how all the good things didn’t always soften the bad things, but at the same time, the bad things didn’t spoil the good things or make them less important. She’d been letting her bad things spoil her good things for too long and had forgotten the beauty to be had in the world, in the mundane. She wasn’t free just yet, but she didn’t have to keep acting like she wasn’t human. She didn’t feel as though she was, but she just needed to learn, she supposed.

Whether she saw the Doctor again or not— and she desperately hoped against what was advisable or plausible— her chance encounter with him, as well as her reminiscing on her meeting Donna, watered the seed of hope that had long lived in her heart, but she’d refused to acknowledge. He’d inspired her, inadvertently, just by his jour de vivre in beautiful contrast with the obvious haunting in his eyes. There was a balance to be had, and she was determined to find it for herself.

Rose made her way to her favorite café with a skip in her step, stopping off at her loft to retrieve the signs she had made and change into something cozier. The demonstration was going to be held outside, and it was definitely October weather now, so she pulled her favorite leather coat from her closet with a grin. Sliding it onto her shoulders, the well-worn leather settled around her like an embrace, and the smell made her think of the Doctor.

She may’ve resolved that particular issue had to wait, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t daydream.

Reaching the café, she greeted Bill with a brief hug, and the barista filled her in on the strike’s proceedings so far with a wide grin. She’d tied a red bandana into her afro stylishly today, a nod to the American labor right’s movement that Rose had told her about when Bill first mentioned the strike to her. Rose beamed to see that she’d taken it to heart and smiled wider when Bill’s girlfriend left the picket line to come greet Rose as well with another red bandana tied around her neck like a scarf.

Closer inspection yielded that all the striking workers had incorporated red bandanas onto their person somehow: in their hair, around their necks or wrists, tied to their belt loops. Rose had also tied her hair up in one, as she always did when she went to union or worker solidarity protests, and for a brief moment, she felt that moment of collectiveness and solidarity shining through her.

She’d found activism and advocacy work by chance when she’d studied history for her equivalencies and had attended a small local union protest in her old neighborhood. She’d had to be careful about attending larger demonstrations at first, having not quite worked out the balance she had now between her Bad Wolf persona and her life, but once she started insisting on wigs and had been able to change her natural hair enough to maintain her anonymity, she’d thrown herself into whatever she could.

Part of the change had even come from her interest and study in labor rights, her research leading her down a rabbit hole of American politics and movements, how music had played role in it, eventually leading her to her inspiration for attempting to separate her public and private personas through the careful application of wigs and costumes. Though Donna, her mum, and the few coworkers she had fair enough relationships with teased her for being ‘Hannah Montana,’ Rose drew her inspiration in truth from Dolly Parton’s successful separation of her life and work. Through that separation, she was able to maintain her semi-regular appearances in public activism spaces.

Saxon— through his ever changing team of personal assistants— carefully controlled her social media accounts, but through trial, error, and pushing, she’d learned what she could and couldn’t get away with posting. Slowly, her modest following had come to expect that Bad Wolf posted about certain things: election dates, information about heritage history months in the UK, larger celebrity petitions for more divisive political action— so long as there was a big enough group on it first. Interviewers rarely brought up her political activism, limited as it was, but those interviews were her favorites. She was still limited in what she was allowed to say, but at least it was more substantial than talking about her latest PR relationships or promoting the meaningless songs Saxon bought for her.

But her real passion was in on the ground work. Union organizing specifically was her absolute first love, coming from a working class background and knowing what it was like to have your work exploited. Being able to see the change that unionizing brought in real time was incredibly fulfilling. In a perfect world, she’d be a trained organizer, could do canvasing, set up tables on busy street corners and talk to strangers about issues. She’d write music that meant something and be a part of the musical heritage she admired so much. She’d speak with real activists and lecturers and do sit ins and get arrested and—

Her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a playful tug on the end of her ponytail, and a low Northern burr in her ear.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor’s blue eyes sparkled when she whirled around and met his gaze. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

Chapter Text

The universe seemed determined, the Doctor mused with barely restrained delight, that he should keep running into Rose Tyler— universal whim that for once he was more than happy to abide. He watched with amusement and a spark of smug satisfaction as a pretty pink blush warmed her cheeks when she spun around and saw him there. He’d almost convinced himself he’d been imagining the admiring glances she’d been giving him the other day, baffled as he was that she might find him attractive, but he was certainly not imagining the flush on her face now. Or the way her eyes subtly flickered from his face to his chest and her pupils expanded ever so slightly.

Oh, the ego boost of being checked out by Rose Tyler.

In return, he did nothing to hide the way his eyes roamed over her form. The snug jeans, soft t-shirt, and blue leather coat she wore today, her hair tied up in a high ponytail, all accentuated her figure very flatteringly. The pink on her cheeks darkened and spread to her ears when she saw him return her appraising looks, which made his grin widen in response. He was surprised to see she wasn’t wearing a mask, as she had been at the two other protests he’d encountered her at, but he saw one peeking out of her back pocket when he walked up and surmised that she had just arrived, since she was standing at the edge of the crowd still, and like him, had simply not donned it yet. He also noted the red bandana tied in a knot in her hair, leaving delicate tendrils of honey-blonde hair to frame her face enticingly, and beamed.

Had she been the customer Bill said suggested them? Her bandana looked far more worn than his or the ones he saw on the striking workers; a washed out, muted red, softer and older cotton. It might’ve even been vintage, but regardless, it certainly wasn’t new or, he imagined, purchased for this protest. With the blue coat and the style she had it tied in, knotted atop her head, she looked like a modern Rosie the Riveter. Rose the Protestor. Rose the Activist. Rose, the fantastic girl who had been the forefront of his thoughts so strongly the last week he could almost believe he manifested her out of thin air.

“What’re you doing here?” Rose blurted out, cringing adorably after. “I mean, I’m— I’m happy to see you! Just surprised and—”

“One of the baristas, Bill, is a student of mine. She invited me,” he interrupted her stuttering explanation, still grinning.

The Doctor folded his arms across his chest in a deliberately arrogant postering, nearly crowing in victory when her eyes flickered down to his chest again. This was quite possibly the best day of his life, he mused, beating out even the days he received his MD and his PhD.

“Student?” Rose asked, looking back up at his face.

“Yeah, I’m a professor at University College London,” he said, trying to downplay the role in his tone to counter his rapidly growing ego. “Physics and astronomy, me. Bill’s taken a few o’ me classes— though she can’t seem to settle on a major!” he called out the last part teasingly, seeing Bill waving at him enthusiastically.

“Declaring a major is a prison, professor!” She called back happily.

The Doctor laughed, turning his eyes back to Rose. She looked shaken, rubbing her hands together in an uncomfortable, self-soothing motion.

“Rose? Are you alright?”

He reached out instinctively and gently set his hand on her shoulder and she jumped slightly. He let go immediately, cursing himself for acting with such audacity with her once again. It was bad enough he’d taken her hand the other day, though she’d seemed to get over the shock quickly and enjoyed the contact just as much as he had. But that didn’t mean he could do more. He hadn’t even thought when he’d reached out and playfully tugged the end of her ponytail a minute ago, the teasing gesture had just been so natural.

“Yeah, course!” She responded too quickly; a fake smile plastered on her face. He didn’t like it. Her real smile was enough to knock the wind out of him, but this one was strained, and uncomfortable. “So, big hot shot professor, eh? That must be exciting. Bet you get all the students going,” she tried to tease.

Her eyes widened as she realized what she said, and his blood moved distinctly south even as hers moved north, coloring her face once again in a darker, more brilliant flush. She blushed far too easily for someone who looked that fucking tempting with her cheeks stained with color. It would be the death of him, he just knew it.

“I mean, I bet you’re a good professor! Get them into the subject and— blimey, I’m makin’ a complete fool of myself,” she trailed off into a mutter, covering her face with her hands.

“Nah,” he said, doing his best to sound casual when all he really wanted to do was shout in excitement. And maybe call Jack just to brag, something he’d never had the desire— or opportunity— to do before. “Most of my students, it’s hard to even get them to stay awake. Got some good ones like Bill that just like to learn anything, but for the most part s’just a job. A real annoying one at that,” he scoffed.

“Just a job?” Rose asked, her tone incredulous. “Being a professor at UCL?”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, conceding to the unvoiced point behind her words. He was also grateful for the distraction, as rambling about the failures of academia was certainly one way to drain his growing desire.

“Alright, it’s a bit posh,” he admitted. “But really, the teachin’ is the only good bit. Can’t stand the rest of it most of the time.”

Rose’s face scrunched up in adorable confusion.

Fuck, he didn’t know if he’d ever even thought the word adorable that many times in one day, let alone about a single person. Maybe it was his giddiness and distraction that was robbing him of his more expansive vocabulary or maybe Rose Tyler was just adorable.

On top of being drop dead gorgeous, intelligent, passionate— and somehow interested in him? The self-loathing part of him reared its ugly head with a strength that nearly sent him running. He was surprised he hadn’t run already, surprised he hadn’t run last week the moment he realized he was beginning to feel more than a passing attraction to her. But Rose Tyler had a magnetism that was drawing him in, keeping him planted in front of her, and he would rather wrestle with his guilt and self-hatred than pull away.

Gravity. Rose Tyler felt like gravity.

“What else is there to being a professor besides teaching?” She cringed again and quickly added, “Sorry, that’s probably a stupid question. I didn’t go to uni.”

The Doctor was stunned out of his thoughts with a sudden certainty— he didn’t know where it came from— that she was painfully insecure about the admission and would’ve rather not told him, but that she felt she had to. As if she thought that if she didn’t and he found out later he would be mad. Her expressive brown eyes were awash with shame and anxiety. He was struck with an almost irresistible urge to cradle her beautiful, sad face in his hands, to shower her with assurances and praise. His hands twitched towards her almost before he could catch himself.

He had to remind himself that no matter how he felt towards this girl, how it inexplicably seemed like he’d known her for lifetimes, they were still barely friends. Acquaintances more like, but he gave himself the liberty to claim friendship, if only to keep from bursting at the seams with yearning for her.

“Yearning,” he scoffed to himself, though the self-recrimination was weak. Despite his internal argument that he was too old to yearn— and that he didn’t know her long or well enough to do so— he knew it was the appropriate word, and it made him nearly flush himself. Had he ever yearned for a woman before? A specific one, that is, not just the general desire for companionship. He didn’t even think he’d yearned for River, despite their tumultuous relationship, or Jabe, despite the short-lived passion of theirs.

“Not a stupid question, Rose Tyler!” He settled on maintaining a light and teasing tone, hoping it would set her at ease. “I’m not one to tell my students there are no stupid questions, ‘cos there definitely are, but that isn’t one. Can’t know what you don’t know, no?”

Rose laughed, subdued but genuine, at his silly statement, sparking up another flare of pride in him.

Hesitancy and vulnerability shone in her eyes, and underneath that, he saw interest and longing. A genuine thirst for knowledge and something that spoke not to a lack of it, but a deprivation of it. He was unsure where the certainty of that impression came from either, but once it settled in his mind he felt the truth of it in his gut with even more surety. Something was holding Rose back, but he couldn’t place his finger on what.

She’d said she had a job, or at least, her boss had called her while they were in the park, and her clothes spoke to being well worn and comfortable, but also well maintained and higher end. Department store, but not boutique. Vintage maybe— particularly the loved blue leather and the worn bandana— but not hand-me-downs, or cheap either. They fit her well and bore no signs of distress, like rips or stains, but spoke to being cared for and used. Her hair was obviously dyed, if her naturally darker brows were anything to go off of, but the soft honey-blonde was done well enough it could pass for natural easily, speaking to the quality and time it took to maintain.

Her thick South London accent spoke to a working-class background similar to his own however, and the signs of exhaustion he could see on her face— that she’d attempted to cover with makeup— spoke to long working hours. He couldn’t discern what these things meant in concert. Working class or poor background, no higher education, yet a job that pays decently well— enough to have good money to spend on her appearance— but the job was grueling.

She was an enigma he wanted nothing more than to get to the bottom of.

“Anyway, some professors, like me, have to do research and get published and present their findings to other knobheads in order to get funding and prestige for the university. Doesn’t go to us, I’ll tell you that much,” he joked. “Then, other professors doin’ the same thing want your help on their projects, sometimes companies want to use your research for somethin’ and you gotta help them. Then there’s stuff at the university, like hosting presentations, events for students, events for donors who want to feel like they’re getting something out of giving the school their money… it’s a fat lot of politics and annoyance.”

At some point during his ramble, her lips had parted into a surprised little ‘O,’ which stalled his train of thought in its tracks when he took notice of it. They were so pink. He wondered if they were as soft as they looked.

“Are you two actually going to join the picket, or are you just going to stand there flirting?” Bill yelled at them, followed by a sharp yelp as her girlfriend smacked her shoulder.

The dark pink flush returned to Rose’s cheeks, and the Doctor felt the tips of his ears warm as well. She glanced up at him through her lashes shyly, but she was grinning. A real smile this time, the kind that took his breath away. The tip of her tongue poked out from between her teeth, effectively short circuiting his brain again, as she pulled her mask from her pocket and looped one end around her ear. The disappearance of her smile behind the mask as she situated it fully cut him sharply with disappointment, even though her eyes still indicated its presence.

She nodded her head in the direction of the picket and stuck out her hand. He stared at it, momentarily frozen, but when she began to withdraw it with a furrowed brow and saddening eyes, he surged forward and snatched it up. He laced their fingers together and almost sighed at the feeling of peace that settled over his shoulders at the contact.

He couldn’t remember the last casual contact he had with a person, before the day he’d impulsively grabbed Rose’s hand in Parliament Square. He simply wasn’t big on touch, even before he’d gone and got himself blown up. Now it seemed like every nerve ending in his body was calling out for it and the simple warmth of her hand in his made him dizzy. How long had it been since someone touched him so familiarly? His sister gave him occasional hugs, her embrace always comforting and familiar, but never touched his skin. Jack had drunkenly kissed his head a few times…

Rose tugged him out of his thoughts and towards the picket line and he grinned eagerly, and he fumbled to put on his own mask one handed but refused to release her. However long it had been, Rose was here now, and this time, he had no intention of letting her go.

Chapter Text

They stayed on the picket line until the end, the workers packing up at the café’s scheduled close time in satisfaction of having interrupted the full day’s profits, but neither wanted to part so soon. Especially since the picketing hadn’t really left them much time together. They lingered after Bill and the rest had waved goodbye, standing awkwardly and nervously until Rose had blurted out, “Chips?”

The Doctor’s eyes crinkled in the corners, betraying a wide smile beneath his mask that made matching one tug on her own lips, and they reached for each other’s hands in tandem. They took off running, ripping off their masks and laughing as they had that first day, heading nowhere particular. After that moment of tension was broken, it was like it had never been there in the first place, and they immediately fell into talking and laughing like they’d known each other for years. Rose led the way to her favorite chippy, blushing when he held the door open for her, and laughing at his distraught expression when he didn’t have his wallet.

“What sort of cheap date are you?” She teased with a laugh.

She nearly smacked herself in the forehead. Couldn’t she go five minutes without sticking her foot in her mouth around this man? She was a goddamn celebrity, with years of media training, and one handsome professor made her forget how to act under pressure? She snuck a fearful glance at his face, anticipating annoyance—or worse, that he was about to let her down gently about misunderstanding— but saw an amused and smug quirk of his lips, and the smooth arch of his eyebrow raised in question.

“Is this a date?” His expression seemed to ask.

That spark of what she was hopefully interpreting correctly as interest was back in his gorgeous blue eyes again and she felt lightheaded with desire underneath his gaze. That arched brow and arrogant look were enough to kick her heart rate up several notches, but the appraising look in those eyes had a low fire of arousal burning in her stomach and lower.

“Come on then, tightwad. Chips are on me,” she said, not answering his unasked question.

Dinner at the chippy turned into walking the evening streets of London hand in hand, talking about anything that cross their minds. At one point, she didn’t remember when, her free hand came up to clutch at his arm as well and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She loved the smell of well-cared for leather that drifted from him, but she wished that the barrier of his coat was gone so she could feel his body heat through his jumper. Or even better, that the jumper was gone as well, and she could feel his skin. Trace the outlines of his muscles and tickle the hair on his arms with her fingertips. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt desire so potently, strong enough to overcome her usual discomfort with physical touch.

Rose focused her attention on listening to his deep Northern burr to distract from the lustful thoughts that were demanding attention, but his gruff tone and baritone voice didn’t help. Especially when he was talking about something he was passionate about, waving his free hand around wildly but keeping the one clasped with hers perfectly still so as not to jostle her. “Such deliberate care in his actions,” Rose thought with wonder. Right now, he was talking about some colleague he disliked, some younger professor that was apparently a complete know-it-all, and yet somehow still bad at his job.

“Oh, come off it,” she teased. “There’s no way his name is actually John Smith. I think you forgot his real name ‘cos you don’t like him!”

“Ye of little faith!” He exclaimed, faux offended.

He whipped out his phone and pulled up the faculty website, showing her with another smug look on his face, but she snatched it up and scrolled away from the younger professor’s (whose name was indeed John Smith) profile until she found James Noble. He let her, his smug aura increasing, and she wondered if it was due to her obvious interest, or due to what she would find.

James Noble, M.D., PhD.

“Oh,” she thought, feeling faint.

Oxford University. Major in the Royal Armed Forces. Oxford again. Associate Professor of Physics, Professor of Astronomy. A string of awards and prizes, accolades and publications.

A picture that was obviously a few years old, though the man in it somehow looked older than the one before her. The haunting behind his eyes was closer to the surface, his face slightly gaunter and more withdrawn. No smile bringing out the crinkles around the corners of his eyes.

She passed his phone back to him wordlessly, dazed, though she’d meant to put her number in it when she’d taken it. A medical degree and one in astrophysics? Not only was he a genius, but apparently superhuman as well. And what had made him choose such a drastic career change?

The haunted look in his eyes in the photograph, the Royal Armed Forces listed between his degrees. Rose could read between the lines, but she wanted to know. Everything. Even in the face of the mountain of insecurity it brought up in her, her curiosity made it surprisingly easy to get over for the moment, and when he asked for her number, she gave it to him eagerly.

She was fascinated by the casual way he spoke about things, as if he didn’t doubt for a second she knew exactly what he meant, as if it didn’t even cross his mind that she wouldn’t. She had feared that after she told him that she hadn’t gone to university he would begin to belittle her intelligence, but not a single thing changed in his demeanor. And she found that in listening to him speak in that way, she learned things. Even the way he complained taught her things, such as how ridiculous it was, apparently, for a person to have several PhDs in similar fields, as he ranted about John Smith being a pretentious arse. She picked up on what he was talking about as he continued, and he never cared if she interrupted with a question.

The Doctor was simply born to be a professor, she thought with a laugh. Murky details of a fantasy she would definitely be exploring later in her flat tugged at the edges of her attention span, but she pushed them aside.

Time for that later.

Time for him now.

She succeeded in brushing him off asking about her work with vague details about working ‘for Saxon Studios,’ which he’d seemed to take well and without prying. She simply complained her job was time consuming and that she didn’t like thinking about it when she didn’t have to, and he’d respectfully nodded and agreed.

The respect of her boundaries shouldn’t have made him so much sexier, but it did.

As they walked, like a scene in a movie, a street performer playing the violin greeted them with a melodious waltz. Immediately, Rose was swept away in a daydream of the Doctor sweeping her into his arms and waltzing with her, right there on the London sidewalk. Though he didn’t seem the type, particularly for public displays, she could imagine it perfectly and she vowed that no matter what it took, she would get that dance with the Doctor someday. Maybe it wouldn’t be that night, on that street corner— though they stood and listened for a few minutes and leaned into each other— but Rose knew beyond a doubt that it would happen.

The end of the night came far too soon. She desperately wanted to ask him to spend the night with her, but he had already mentioned having an early morning and a long day the next day. Not to mention her hesitancy to allow anyone into her flat, knowing that Saxon would know, and the fact that she hadn’t been with anyone in… god, years. Not since her last tour, and nothing consistently since she and Mickey called it quits when they were nineteen. If that could have even been called consistent, she scoffed to herself mentally.

He did insist on walking her back to her flat, asserting he wanted to be sure she got home safely. Rose hesitated but agreed on the stipulation that he only walked her to the door of the building, claiming her neighbors were too nosy, which was indeed true. He agreed easily, once again respecting the boundary she set with no question and once again making her itch to jump his bones.

At the door of her building, he gave no indication of surprise at the relative wealth of the area or building. She stood with near trembling anticipation, projecting her desire for him to kiss her good night so strongly she swore he could hear her thoughts.

The Doctor wrapped an arm around her waist and rested a hand lightly on the small of her back, holding intense eye contact with her until her breathing caught in her throat. As he leaned down, her eyes fluttered shut automatically. His free hand came up and lifted her chin with a crooked finger, the tender touch sending sparks through her. It was the most intimate gesture she’d ever been on the receiving end of, though he only touched her with the one finger to accomplish it.

He brushed a light kiss against her cheek and pulled away.

She wretched her eyes open in devastation, only to be struck mute by the confident—arrogant— smirk on his lips. She could read in his eyes how proud it made him that she so openly wanted his kiss, and in that, a desire to draw this out, the teasing, and flirting, and dancing around their attraction. To draw it out until they both ached with it, knowing full well the other wanted them, but let it build and build until they collided.

The thought was hopelessly romantic and made her more than a little uncomfortably damp. Oh it was not the dance she wanted, but it was a dance nevertheless.

Rose could tell the moment he realized she caught on to his game as well, as a questioning look passed over his features. She set her jaw and gave him her flirtiest smirk. The one that read, I’m game if you are.

And so, he left for the night.

Her flat was painfully lonely and cold, but deep under her covers she brought herself off twice to the thought of his arrogant smirk and sparkling blue eyes. And once more to the thought of his strong, warm hands, particularly the way the span of them had covered nearly her entire lower back as the heat of his palm burned into her even through her shirt.

The next day, her desire to spend more time with him, as well as the new resolve from her conversation with Donna and that spark she’d admired in his eyes, led her to doing something she had never done, in nearly ten years of being in the industry.

She made an appointment with Saxon, of her own free will, for her next off day.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Rose and the Doctor texted constantly, and made plans to meet up at several more protests and demonstrations. There was almost always something happening on campus that he was inviting her to, or Bill told her about, and though she couldn’t go to most of them with her busy schedule, she got butterflies in her stomach every time her phone buzzed with an invitation from him. With her last tour coming up in a few months, rehearsals, costume fittings, interviews, and preparing for the new PR relationship Saxon was forcing her into were wearing her ragged.

She had yet to meet up with him again, and though it had been less than a week, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about being in his presence again.

Two weeks after she and the Doctor had met, she’d woken up to a text from him wishing her a good day, asking if she was free later. Another followed with a link to a digital flyer for a larger event on Sunday. Though she had to respond in the negative, the happy butterflies in her stomach stayed with her all the way up until she entered the lift at Saxon studios. She opened her phone and reread the text four times on the ride up, steeling her resolve, before locking the device and pocketing it as the door dinged her arrival.

If things went well today, maybe she’d be able to answer his next invitation more favorably.

Saxon’s perpetually frantic assistant Lucy, with whom Rose had barely shared more than a dozen words in passing since she’d been hired, let her in immediately. Rose cursed to herself. She’d been hoping for a few more minutes to prepare for entering his office. The space brought back awful memories, and she avoided meeting him here usually at all costs. It was in this room she’d signed her life away, alone, frightened, and confused. It was this room he usually drug her into to scream at her, this room where the back of his hand had first struck her cheek.

 But she strode in, back straight, and mask on.

"Little Wolf!” Saxon exclaimed delightedly. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You never visit your dear old producer. One would think you were avoiding me.”

His beady eyes roamed over her figure with a frown, and she let the small victory of his disapproval in her attire fuel her. She’d purposefully worn her baggiest trousers and jumper that could be considered professional and had swept her hair up into a bun she held in place with hair sticks. He preferred her hair loose, she knew, and he’d hated when she’d cut it short.

“Are you finally ready to discuss re-signing your contract?” He continued, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “I’ll only agree to a five year this time, little Wolf, you’re getting too old.”

“No, but thank you,” she breathed deeply to keep her voice civil. “I’m still thinking about that. I need to talk to you about this schedule you’ve got me on.”

“It’s the same schedule you’ve been on before leading up to a tour,” he responded, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, but as you pointed out, I’m not so young and resilient now.”

Rose thought his insistence that she was getting old was a load of bollocks, but whatever kept his roaming hands off of her. Let him think her old then. Though she hated the idea of some other young musician falling under his trap since he’d lost physical interest in her after her twenty-fifth birthday, she couldn’t help but be relieved. She did certainly feel ancient sometimes, however, under the weight of it all.

“Firstly, I don’t need these constant rehearsals. I’ve been doing this for almost ten years now. I could do the choreo in my sleep. We’re still six months out from the tour, and we’ve already hired the dancers. I guarantee they don’t need all this either— and if you keep pushing them like this, they’ll quit. You’ll have to hire new ones at double the pay to ensure they’re good enough to learn the routine on short notice. It’s excessive, unnecessary, and I can’t keep up with them, and the new recordings, and the interviews, and the PR shit.”

Blunt, direct, to the point. Play on his wallet with the idea something would happen to affect the tour, as he didn’t care about her.

A long moment of tense silence passed while he regarded her intently. She forced herself not to waver, thinking of the Doctor’s text in her pocket like a talisman.

“What is it you’re proposing?” He said finally.

“Rehearsals down to two days a week, eight hours max. Two days a week for interviews, recordings, and whatever PR outing with Mitchum you plan. But nothing outside of London, and nothing longer than a regular eight hour day, from now up until the tour.”

“Malcom,” he corrected.

“Malcom,” she repeated sheepishly, allowing him to gloat for getting to correct her, as she had intended. “I get Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays off until the tour.”

Saxon was quiet for a long moment, staring at her intently. She struggled to keep from squirming in her seat anxiously, to keep the firm and determined look on her face. She refused to let him intimidate her, but a part of her was scared that she’d angered him. He could be so unpredictable, and this was the first time she’d been so outwardly demanding.

“I can agree to parts of that, Little Wolf,” he said finally, drawing out the words slowly as if he was still thinking. “There’s plenty we can do that won’t take you outside of London for the next few months, certainly. But I have to insist on keeping you on Fridays and Saturdays— I’m sure you understand. Those are prime spots for interviews, and people will expect you to be seen with Malcom on the weekends.”

She made a show of starting to argue but then closing her mouth as if considering his point and sighed.

“You’re right,” she grumbled theatrically. “I’d really like to have one weekend day off though. Sunday, maybe?”

A slow nod from Saxon made her heart soar and she let a real smile touch her features, subdued, but genuine. The reaction seemed to stun him somewhat, so she pushed forward.

“So, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday off works then? And Friday and Saturday for PR?”

Rose started to stand, smiling at him widely, waiting for him to argue as she knew he would.

“I’d prefer if we kept three days a week for rehearsal,” Saxon sneered. “Three full days off a week would be too much room for… complacency. You know what they say about objects at rest.”

His expression shifted as he looked her up and down with disdain and a rush of satisfaction nearly made her mask break. She was vindictively glad that he disliked her clothing, that he thought it made her appearance less appealing. So much of her appearance was dictated by him and the tyrannical hold of her image he had, even as Rose. If she wanted to maintain her anonymity, she still had to make concessions even when she wasn’t acting as Bad Wolf. The contract explicitly forbade tattoos, for example, though she had always wanted them. Even her shoulder length bob was the longest she could grow her hair out if she wanted to keep using wigs successfully, as any longer would affect the way it would fit on her head. Her figure and weight had to be carefully maintained to fit the image of Bad Wolf he wanted from her, though the constant rehearsals and stress kept her there regardless of his restrictions on her diet. Her clothing was the one thing she really could use as armor against him, and it was grimly satisfying to be successful in it.

“So, just Sunday and Monday then?” She sighed, the fake smile dropping just a bit to show carefully curated disappointment.

His eyes lit up at seeing her own happiness dim, as was his usual. He delighted in crushing her beneath his feet and this was no different. She knew she had him on the hook as soon as she’d presented any happiness he could then rip out from under her.

“Yes— conditionally. So long as things can be scheduled that way, we will do so, but if I can only get interview slots on those days, then that’s too bad. You’ll do them.”

Rose knew it wasn’t an empty threat, but it was still better than nothing. Better than she’d really hoped for. She fought to keep the shock and glee off her face as he gave her exactly what she’d been working to negotiate towards. She’d known her request would get shot down, had aimed high on purpose to have room to let him browbeat her down to what she really wanted, or at least, what she thought was the most realistic. She had four other counters worked up on her phone’s notes app, having anticipated the argument to last all day. The working hours themselves would still be inconsistent on interview and PR days, but that still left her with two days a week off relatively consistently. And if rehearsals were limited to eight hours a day and followed the same scheduled starting time they always had, that left her off in the afternoons by three.

Five evenings a week, free to do whatever she wanted? Consistently?

She could find somewhere to do volunteer work on a real commitment. She could go places regularly and make friends. She could sign up for an online class— or find one in person if it was on her days off!

She could see the Doctor.

The pause she took to settle herself and not betray her elation was long enough to seem as though she was debating his offer. She settled back in her chair, perched on the edge.

“What about studio time?” She asked cautiously.

Saxon sighed heavily and she held back a flinch.

“You know I like you to record right away when we purchase new song rights, because we like to push them before trends change—" he started.

She’d heard that excuse dozens of times, whenever she complained about him forcing her to come in as soon as he bought new material. She knew it was a load of shit, that he just wanted her at his beck and call. Especially because he hadn’t released anything new in months, despite her recording at least an album’s worth in the past two months alone. She knew he was just building up a backlog of recordings for him to release long after her contract was over, to keep milking her imaging and middling popularity as long as he could.

“But I suppose we can hold off until we have enough material to justify maybe one, full eight hour day once a month that you could do instead of interviews.”

Her heart leapt. One less interview day even? And no more expecting her to drop everything and run over? He was playing at something, offering her too much. Likely, he was trying to sweet talk her into re-signing.

“Whatever,” she thought, “Let him.”

She’d keep letting him think she was considering it, for as long as she could. Especially if it got her this. This freedom.

“Alright,” she agreed seriously. “If you think that’s best.”

She stood once more and made to leave, ready to bolt from the office and run all the way across London in her excitement.

“You should come to me with your problems more often, Little Wolf,” Saxon purred, standing himself and sliding around his desk. Not quite into her personal space, but close. “Imagine if it could just be this easy all the time, instead of you fighting me tooth and nail on everything.”

Rose clenched her hand into a fist but kept the even mask of calm on her face. She gifted him with a Bad Wolf smirk.

“You enjoy fighting with me, Harry,” she reminded him. “Wolves don’t just roll over.”

She strode from his office, his inky laugh sending shivers down her spine. Somehow, despite getting exactly what she wanted, she felt like she’d lost that round.

Chapter Text

Rose texted the Doctor back as soon as she hit the pavement outside.

Boss let me go early, so unexpected free day! Anything good?

His reply came before she hit the end of the block walking back to her loft.

There’s one in Hyde Park at four, some women’s rights group. My last lecture gets out at three. I could pick us up some coffee and meet you there? I owe you for chips.

She checked the time on her phone and groaned. It was only noon. She wanted to see him. Wanted to share her unexpected victory with him and revel in his steady presence.

Can I come to your lecture? Flew from her fingers and across the chat before she processed typing it out.

The three little dots that indicated his typing lasted a small eternity as her heart pounded in her chest.

Fantastic! Here’s the address… I’ll be there at 12:45 to set up.

An underlined address loaded a map directly to the location when tapped. Rose checked the distance and eta, debating the merits of getting a cab. If she walked, she could stop by her flat and change but risked not getting there early enough to talk to him before the class started.

Be prepared to take notes, Ms. Tyler. There will be a quiz later.

A cab, she decided, could just as easily stop at her flat and a store for a notebook and pen along the way, and still get her there sooner.

And would be far less uncomfortable than walking through London with damp knickers.

She arrived at the designated address five minutes before he said he would be there and stood outside the classroom nervously.

“This was a terrible idea!” Rose thought to herself, fiddling with the sleeves of her coat and second guessing the casual outfit she’d changed into.

Students were staring at her as if they knew she didn’t belong there. The Doctor would see her and know she didn’t belong here. She was just about to text him and tell him that something came up when he appeared in the hallway.

She saw him first, his tall, lithe frame and worn leather coat distinctive in the crowd of milling students. He even stood out against the older folks in the crowd she assumed were other professors. His ramrod straight spine, his intense gaze, and his dark clothes all betrayed him as different. Alien. Leather amongst tweed, a soldier’s intensity against a backdrop of academic posturing. He was a man who had lived, acted, and fought while others stood to the side and thought about and debated— or worse, ignored— the world around them. God, how she admired that about him. How she wanted that to be her— to be someone who did things, and took a stand, and fought for what was right the way he did. She was under no illusion it hadn’t hurt him; she could see it in his eyes, but it was better than the things that had hurt her, she thought. At least his had meant something, even if that was perhaps a naïve way to think of it.

Her nervousness increased seeing the confident set of his shoulders and determined stride. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing, and didn’t care that he stood out. Another contrast against herself, who desperately wished to blend in so much of the time. The crowd of students parted for him obligingly, taking note of his obvious authority. She wished again that she had a fraction of that confidence. She struggled with the urge to run but was so captivated by watching him that she was frozen in place.

And then, he saw her.

The serious mask that he had been wearing disappeared and his bold grin emerged like the sun escaping from behind the clouds. It lit up his entire face, changing his countenance immediately and showing off the crinkles around his now sparkling blue eyes. Rose couldn’t believe that beatific smile was for her. She didn’t think anyone had ever looked that happy to see her before, besides maybe her mum. He even increased the pace of his already long strides, almost switching to a light jog to reach her.

“Rose,” the Doctor breathed her name warmly as he came to a stop in front of her.

His eyes were locked on hers with concentration, like he was trying to see himself in their reflection, but also familiarity. Rose felt a tension leave her shoulders that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying, but once it was gone, she realized it had been there since he’d left her in the steps of her building last week. She’d been both idly and consciously thinking of him all week, talking to him of course through text, but also wondering about him, fantasizing— a little more than she was even willing to admit— but she hadn’t realized something that now seemed incredibly silly to have not noticed.

She’d missed him.

“Doctor,” she responded, letting the depth of her warmth and affection fill her voice.

The tips of his ears turned red, a reaction that blossomed joy in her stomach. He was so confident, to the point of arrogance even, with the knowledge that she found him attractive. But a hint of affection made him stumble?

She wanted to make him stumble again and again. It made him more real, less lofty and unobtainable. She wondered how he would respond if she did something innocuous, like kiss his cheek. She wanted to try.

She stepped forward boldly and placed her hands on his chest, raising up on her tiptoes, and pressed a featherlight kiss in the intimate space between his mole and the corner of his mouth. She’d planned on aiming for his cheek, but upon raising herself up on her toes, her eyes had locked onto the little patch of skin, and she was brushing her lips against it before she even made the decision to. She let herself down in the same movement, not lingering, eager to see his reaction.

“Thank you for letting me come,” she added, again infusing her words with affection and sincerity. Her face was flushed from the boldness of her own action, particularly the unexpected diversion of her intended course.

His reaction wasn’t at all what she was expecting, but it shot a thrill through her, nevertheless. His eyes met hers again, the blue receding in favor of dark, lust blown pupils. Only after her heart began racing did she realize he had heard a double entendre in her words that she hadn’t meant to be there. His reaction to her accidental turn of phrase momentarily stunned her, thoughts racing and fragmented at the revelation of not only his perception of her— as one he undoubtedly was thinking about amorously— but also the direction those thoughts of his took. At least one preference of his was revealed quite clearly, and oh could her imagination compensate and fill in the gaps on the rest.

Her initial shock at his desirous eyes shifted, and a sly grin bloomed on her lips. His eyes darted down to them, and a matching expression appeared on his face.

And she was so glad she’d talked herself out of wearing a skirt.

He blindly grabbed for her hand and tugged her into the classroom.

Rose laughed, feeling freer than she had in years, as he tugged her all the way down to the front. He slung his satchel on the podium with a loud thud, letting go of her hand with a squeeze. He hastily began plugging in his laptop and setting up for his lecture, and Rose jumped up on the first row of tables to admire him while he did so.

“So, what class is this anyway, professor?” She asked, drawing out the word playfully.

His head shot over to her and fuck if her knickers weren’t already drenched…

“Intro to Astronomy,” he replied with another smirk.

The words came out thick and gravely and he cleared his throat while she unconsciously shifted on the table. Jesus his voice was sexy. How was she going to sit through an entire two hour lecture listening to him speak? He’d said four words to her since she’d been here.

“Oh! I’d hoped it was one of your astronomy ones,” she admitted. “Not that physics isn’t interesting, but at least I know a thing or two about astronomy.”

“Well, good thing you’re here to learn,” he responded, and then made a grunt of triumph when his laptop finally connected to the projector. “S’why I always get here early,” he admitted. “This damn old laptop doesn’t like these damn old projectors. And this damn old professor doesn’t like either.”

Rose laughed.

“You aren’t old, Doctor,” she chided him.

“Thirty-eight feels ancient around these students sometimes, I’m telling you,” he chuckled.

"It’s all relative,” Rose waved her hand dismissively. “I feel old around teenagers too, and I’m not even twenty-six yet.”

The Doctor stiffened. His motions fiddling with the laptop stilled and his eyes flicked over at her again. This time however, they looked stricken. Rose’s stomach clenched.

That’s physics too though, right?” She said quickly, trying to cover for the anxiety now making her ears ring. “I mean, some people live more in twenty years than others do in eighty. S’not the time that matters, it’s the person, yeah? And my best friend is your age too, and she’d kick your arse if you said she’s old—”

He was still for another long moment and Rose felt tear sting the back of her eyes, cutting herself off before she could keep rambling. If he decided the age difference was an issue, what was she going to do? Nothing she supposed, it would be his decision, and she would move on eventually, but god could she handle the hurt? She braced herself for having to stand up and walk out, to lose out on the one bright spark of hope she’d had in years. She was certain that losing him would be the worst heartbreak she’d ever experienced— just the idea of it hurt more than any of the half-life relationship hopefuls that had been ruined over the years by her inability to commit to anyone.

Not for lack of want or trying, but because any hint of lingering affection she showed for anyone would result in Saxon yanking her away. She’d once been forced to spend three weeks in America on D-grade late night talk shows because she went out twice with a bloke that she met in a coffee shop. She’d spent one afternoon eye flirting with one of her new backup dancers at rehearsal once and had never seen the girl again. All of that paled in comparison.

Losing the Doctor to this wouldn’t even have anything to do with Saxon. He would be rejecting her, directly.

She didn’t know if that was better or worse.

Eventually, his shoulders relaxed. He took a deep breath and met her eyes, a soft smile on his face. Relief crashed into her so hard she felt dizzy when she heard him whisper, “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Another second passed and he was back to his fiddling. “That, Rose Tyler, is the theory of relativity. Sort of. Einstein!”

“Oi, no need to make wisecracks.”

“No, Albert Einstein proposed the theory of— oh you little minx,” he laughed, realizing she was joking.

He looked impressed by her quick witted comment, and she preened.

He hit a final keystroke on his laptop and the entire wall behind him lit up with stars. Rose’s jaw dropped and she was on her feet before she knew it. It was breathtaking, even as a still image on a lecture room projector.

“Doctor,” she breathed with hushed reverence. “What is that?”

“The Pillars of Creation, photographed by the JWST. Deep space telescope,” he exclaimed. “Gaseous clouds in the vacuum of space, about six to seven thousand light-years from here.”

A little red light appeared on the screen and Rose looked over at him in amusement as he wielded a laser pointer like a magic wand, but she followed the light obligingly with her eyes.

“The gas and dust are forming new stars here, and at the same time, the gas and dust are eroding due to the light of the new stars that have already been formed.”

“It’s the most amazin’ thing I’ve ever seen,” she said truthfully. “You get to just… look at this stuff all the time?”

“I might’ve had a hand on the telescope project at some point,” he admitted.

She hummed, unconvinced by his faux humble brag, but unwilling to tear her eyes from the projector to glare at him in disbelief.

“Oi, I’m trying to be humbler. My sister is always telling me I’ve got too big a head.”

Rose laughed, reminded of Donna and the way she complained about her brother. It must be a professor thing, she mused.

A timer went off on the Doctor’s phone, and he groaned, explaining to her it was his reminder that class started in five minutes. He told her he was strict with his students about waiting outside until five minutes before, and sure enough, as if on cue, people began to trail in. The intimate atmosphere that had surrounded them evaporated, but Rose couldn’t find it in herself to be disappointed. She was too eager to listen to his lecture. She snatched her purse off of the table and turned back to him.

“Where do you want me?” She asked.

She didn’t want to take up space from anyone actually in the class, and assumed he would point her towards the back, but was hopeful that she would get to stay up front. Surely no one else wanted to sit right in front of the professor. But then again, when the professor looked like that… it was too bad it wasn’t a physics lecture, where he would possibly spend an amount of time turned around writing on the board.

She thought for a moment— though it was lost in the bustle and chatter of the students piling in the room— that she heard him hiss under his breath in response to her question.

“Fuck,” she imagined he might’ve said. “Everywhere.”

And now she was back to ‘oh, this is going to be torture.’

He guided her with a hand on the small of her back to the front row, to the table right in front of the podium where she had sat just moments before. No one else occupied it yet, which suited her just fine, so she slung her purse back on top and dug out the notebook and pencil she had stopped to pick up. She tried not to feel embarrassed as nearly every student in the room pulled out laptops instead and sat quickly.

“You brought a notebook?” the Doctor asked quietly in amusement.

“You told me to,” Rose reminded him with a tongue-touched grin.

If his eyes had been dark before, they were pitch black now. Her breath hitched at the way his expression drifted from amusement to pure desire. It was a wonder she didn’t combust under the heat of it, though she certainly felt as though she might.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Do you always do as you’re told?”

His voice was dark, his accent thicker in the gravely tone that absolutely screamed dominant. The question itself set her alight as much as his tone, giving her a none too subtle cue into exactly what he wanted the answer to be, confirming her earlier musings very satisfactorily. Shock and desire in equal measure parted her mouth as she suddenly struggled to breathe.

His jaw dropped at his own boldness in time with hers, but he shut it quickly with a click of his teeth slamming together.

“Rose, I’m sorry—” he tried, eyes flickering nervously between her and the still incoming crowd of students. Rose looked back at them as well and noted that none of them sat closer than the third row.

It wasn’t embarrassment that made her cheeks flush at the realization. Front and center, she should have felt as though she was on display for the rather large class that was assembling behind her, but she didn’t. Oh, she felt on display, but as though it was for him, and him alone, and the thought sent her heart racing.

“No,” she interrupted. “But I guess it depends on who’s tellin’ me.”

Another alarm went off on the Doctor’s phone and he pulled away, shooting her another heated look that was full of promise.

Chapter Text

Her galloping heart was grateful for his retreat. What the hell had that been? She’d done flirting. Hell, she’d flirted with him on multiple occasions now. That was not flirting.

That was foreplay. Plain and simple, he had been pure seduction and dominant baiting in his question and tone.

She’d never put much thought into that kind of thing, had never really had the opportunity to experiment or investigate any kind of sexual preferences for herself, but it was evident immediately that she was more than interested. At the very least, she was interested in whatever it was that the Doctor was throwing at her now. She’d certainly never considered herself to be submissive— she was rather disdainful of authority in general, particularly since she’d been trapped her whole adult life in a contract that dictated her every move— and typically she went out of her way to flagrantly disregard what people told her to do. As much as she could, anyway.

After Jimmy and Saxon, it was no wonder she’d never put any thought into it.

But now, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She couldn’t stop thinking about the Doctor’s natural confidence and authority, his much greater life experience, and how it might translate into incredible pleasure. His gruff, commanding voice instructing, guiding, correcting, praising her. Those incredible, handsome hands she’d admired— and already fantasized about— tying her up in knots, spanking her, shoving his large fingers in her mouth to keep her quiet, manipulating her body however he wanted it…

It took nearly ten minutes for her thoughts to stop spiraling, her heart to stop racing, and her cunt to stop clenching, before she could pay attention to what he was saying.

The projected image of the Pillars of Creation was gone behind his head, replaced with information about an upcoming exam, and she sighed, relieved that she hadn’t missed anything important. After a moment’s hesitation, she scribbled down a quick note with the information on the screen, just in case.

She never knew what could be on that quiz later.

Two hours of torturous heaven later, the Doctor called an end to the class. Rose was disappointed and relieved in the same measure and let out a deep sigh.

Watching the Doctor teach was amazing. He knew everything and it was all so fascinating. Her mind was racing with the influx of new information, both exhausted and exhilarated. She wanted to know more. How did they know it rained diamonds on Uranus and Neptune or that the moon Europa had oceans that were sixty miles deep? How the hell was she supposed to sleep at night knowing that the universe was increasingly expanding and already infinite and there were a hundred billion stars just in their galaxy alone?

She could spend the rest of her life learning, if learning was always like this.

At the same time though, his magnetism wasn’t keeping just her mind engaged. And no matter how subtly she tried to shift in her seat, her movements seemed to catch his eyes. She couldn’t be certain, as she’d obviously never watched him lecture before, but she thought he might be showing off a little. Going a little too in depth to answer every question, bragging about his own research, subtly passing a bit of shade on some colleagues that only a few students chuckled at. She was positive that arrogance had never been so sexy.

Most of the students ducked out as fast as they could when he called out that they were finished for the day, not even fully packing their bags before exiting the room with their items still in hand. Rose couldn’t imagine being so blasé about classes, if she’d been given the privilege to go to uni. It rankled her that they took it so for granted.  A handful of students however, lingered around the classroom chatting with their classmates and strolling down to the front to speak with the Doctor.

Rose sat and waited patiently, grateful for the moment’s reprieve to collect herself before having his undivided attention again. She was torn between wanting to still go to the demonstration in Hyde Park with him, to draw out the tension further as he had done last week or finding the nearest flat surface she could crawl on top of him on. She half listened to the questions that were being asked of him, interested if someone brought something up that would result in another rambling answer, but most were just asking questions about the exam, or topics from other lectures she had no context for. Regardless, she felt content to sit and wait for him, reading back over the notes she had taken with satisfaction. She even had questions written down for herself, and felt her own sense of smug superiority that she would have the privilege of asking them later.

Later, when they were alone, and he would answer in that lecturing voice, and maybe she’d call him professor again to see if she could get that dark look out of him that sent shockwaves down her spine. Or maybe he would ask her questions, and she’d have to try and answer them while he gave her that look and tried to distract her.

A small bit of insecurity and fear nagged at the back of her mind that the questions she’d written down were stupid ones that he would scoff at. She didn’t really think he would do that, he was far too kind, but still she worried. The worry, along with her spiraling fantasies, warred within her and she didn’t realize how distracted she’d become until she was startled out of her reverie.

A body slid into the seat next to hers, catching her off guard and making her jump slightly. She fought a blush that rose to her cheeks at being caught so distracted, desperately hoping that she hadn’t been projecting her lustful thoughts all over her face. She had a sinking feeling, however, that was exactly the reason someone had chosen to come all the way over to her to sit down.

She glanced over at them from the corner of her eye, not wanting to be on alert unnecessarily if it was just a person sitting while they waited for their turn with the Doctor, but her initial suspicion was confirmed when her glance revealed the man was staring directly at her. He blatantly ignored the closed off body language she knew she was exuding— turning away from him, staring down at her notebook, crossing her legs— and leaned against the table, propping his head up in his hand. At her sideways glance, he had a haughty expression on his face that revolted her.

The Doctor’s smug smirk was the confidence of a man that knew his advance was wanted, his arrogance fully revolving around his own intellect; never— that she’d seen so far, anyway— putting anyone else down for theirs. This man, however, wore the expression with an air of entitlement. He had nothing to back up his arrogance, save for the belief that he did. A wild belief, in her opinion, for a man younger than herself in an introductory level class.

Rose sighed to herself and resolutely ignored him, closing her notebook and shoving it into her purse. She told herself firmly that no one would’ve seen her face while the Doctor had been lecturing, save for him, and at most only the students who’d come down to speak with him at the front would’ve noticed her flushed countenance— and only then if they’d bothered to glance her direction, which they had no reason to do.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” the student began. “Definitely would’ve been paying better attention towards the front of the classroom, that’s for sure.”

Rose closed her eyes briefly to keep from rolling them, and to pray for patience from a higher power she didn’t think she believed in.

“Are you thinking of enrolling in the program? Doin’ some class audits to see if it interests you? You seemed pretty interested, probably took better notes than half the students in here,” he continued. “It’s a pretty great class, Dr. Noble is brilliant.”

“Yes, I’m here for Dr. Noble,” Rose replied steadily, though she doubted the man would hear the unspoken—but still clear— meaning behind her words. Not. Interested. Not in him anyway. “He is brilliant. Fantastic, even.”

She had no idea what it meant to audit a class, and she hoped her vague answer wouldn’t mean anything that would get the Doctor in trouble. Auditing sounded bad, though the student said it casually, as if was a normal thing a prospective student would do. She also didn’t like the implication that he’d been watching her. It creeped her out to think that he’d been sitting up in the higher tiers and staring down on her. It was the same creepy, slimy feeling she got being on stage; when people looked at her as an object, rather than a person. At least she knew people were watching her then.

She momentarily wished she hadn’t changed from her baggier clothing from her meeting with Saxon, though she wouldn’t call her leather jacket and jeans revealing, especially from behind. Though, some people viewed modest clothing as a challenge, and she’d even learned to walk a fine line with that. Her natural inclination towards baggy jeans and hoodies from when she’d been a teenager had to be abandoned as she learned to straddle a fine line between the desire to hide entirely— as if it would somehow make up for how much was revealed in Bad Wolf’s costumes— and the reality of how to effectively hide, right in the middle.

It was all costumes in the end, when you barely felt human, she supposed.

“Oh, you’re just here for Dr. Noble? You already know him?”

“Yes, he’s my—” she cut off hesitantly.

What was the Doctor to her? They weren’t quite dating, not really, though since they’d exchanged numbers they certainly talked all the time, and the flirting was more than a bit heavy handed, as she’d noted earlier. A friend? She supposed that would work, given that she didn’t want to talk to this knobhead at all, let alone about her relationship with the Doctor.

“Oh! Is he your dad?”

Rose let out a wordless exclamation in anger. Her father? Was he blind or just stupid? There was no way he truly thought that! The Doctor certainly didn’t look that old, nor did the two of them look anything alike. Was he really just saying that to put him down, his professor, to try and make himself look better in comparison? It angered her not only on the Doctor’s behalf, but on her own. What kind of idiot thought that was an effective strategy for anything?

“Sorry, I should’ve known! Course, he is,” the idiot continued, ignoring her outrage entirely. “Only prof’s kids sit so close to the front of the room, especially when their dads don’t want their pretty daughters around us heathens, eh?”

He sat up in his chair and tried to nudge her with is elbow, far too overly familiar. Rose leaned away and felt like steam was going to blow out of her ears any moment, they were so hot with anger.

“The Doctor is not—” she began to snap furiously, but she was cut off.

“Did you have a real question, Toby, or are you just making a fool of yourself and terrorizing my guest?” The Doctor’s cool voice sounded from directly in front of them.

Rose sagged in relief.

Standing there, towering over them with his arms crossed and anger flashing in his eyes, she felt as though she should be scared of him. He was obviously attempting to look frightening, and he was succeeding on all accounts. His chest was puffed up and his biceps flexed under his leather coat, his lithe form looked poised, like a panther. And his eyes, which she was so used to seeing filled with warmth, were ice cold and piercing. Yes, everything about him screamed that she should be scared of him. Everything about her screamed that she should run, far, far away from an angry man. She could barely stand to be around men who talked too loudly most days, it was ingrained in her DNA at this point. And anger? Anger was to be avoided at all costs.

Except…

The Doctor didn’t raise his voice. His tone was calm and even. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, solid as a statue, unmoving. She felt guarded. Protected. Safe.

The Doctor was angry, but he made her feel safe.

Despite his icy cold eyes, Rose felt warm all over.

The student, Toby, blanched angrily and whipped his head up to meet the Doctor’s thunderous expression. He jumped backward in his seat, whatever retort he had been about to spit at the Doctor dying on his tongue. He shrunk under the Doctor’s withering look. His bravado disappeared entirely, and Rose once again noted his youth, even in comparison to herself. And in comparison to the Doctor, though she also thought that she might now be stuck comparing all men to the Doctor— and finding them woefully lacking— for the rest of her life

“Just—just makin’ conversation, Dr. Noble,” he stuttered.

“I see. And has no one ever taught you,” the Doctor growled, “First of all to ask if a woman is interested in having a conversation with you, and second of all how to tell when it’s unwanted? Or are you just so used to women acting that way around you that you can’t tell?”

“Fucking hell,” Rose thought. She wasn’t going to make it out of this room without fucking him.

She certainly wasn’t going to be able to stand for at least a minute, her knees were fully weak, and she was made of arousal. It was every atom and fiber of her being now. The professorial fantasy would have to wait— she needed this Doctor. The commanding, arrogant, stern man in front of her now, and the possessive aura she could feel rolling off of him. She definitely hadn’t missed the way his accent laden voice had hardened when he said “my guest” either. The possessive tone was ringing in her ears and making her blood sing in her veins.

She could almost imagine him standing there with smoke rolling out of his mouth, dragon like, before he would snatch her up and carry her off back to his lair, and oh did she wish he would. She wished he would grab her and wrap her in his arms and shout his possession to the world, make her repeat it back to him to affirm his claim.

“Jesus, Tyler, get a grip!” She thought, trying to shake her head to clear it.

“Wh— what! You can’t—!” Toby stuttered, turning his head back and forth between the Doctor and Rose incredulously.

He stared at her, as if waiting for her to come to his defense. When she did not, fixing him instead with an even stare, he slammed his hands on the table and pushed away, his chair toppling backwards as he jumped to his feet abruptly with a loud clattering sound. The slap of his hands against the table, and the chair banging first against the table behind them, and then on the floor, all echoed loudly through the tiered lecture hall.

Rose just barely didn’t manage to hold back a flinch at the startling noise. Her body didn’t react, she was too well conditioned for that, but her eyes clenched shut for the briefest second. The heat in her veins disappeared in a flash, replaced by a wave of ice that flash froze her to her seat. She forced her eyes open, attempting to push past her reaction before it was noticeable. However, her eyes locked on to the Doctor’s immediately and she saw the spark of recognition on his face.

Of course, he would recognize it.

He was brilliant after all, and it didn’t necessarily take a genius to put it together.

With his strange familiarity that he somehow used to read her mind, and the haunting in his own eyes, and her bone deep wish that he would not notice—of course he would.

She flushed with shame, waiting for the look of derision, or worse, pity. The only change in his expression that she saw was the slight clenching of his jaw.

Before she could react, the Doctor had Toby by the back of his jacket and was hauling him up the stairs, one arm twisted by his wrist behind his back. The door rattled as he wrenched it open, and the student yelped as the Doctor shoved him into the hallway outside.

“I’ll be telling your advisor about this,” he growled. “You’re not welcome back in this, or any of my other classes. Go.”

The door closed, quieter than it had slammed open, and the empty lecture hall air was thick. Rose fixed her eyes on the projector, where his laptop had gone into sleep mode and was projecting just his background picture. It was the same picture from the beginning— the Pillars of Creation. She stared at it and forcibly kept her breathing even, grounding herself one breath at a time against the tsunami of certainty that this would be the end of them, whatever it was that they were.

She heard him walk back down the stairs, but she kept looking at the screen.

She heard him stop next to the table, and felt his eyes on her, but she kept looking at the screen.

She heard him sit next to her with a quiet sigh, but she kept—

He took her hand, gently, and uncurled the fist that she had clenched her fingers into, soothing the indents her nails had made with gentle strokes of his thumb.

She turned to face him, shocked.

Neither of them said anything and his face remained unreadable, but he continued to massage her hand open. She watched, fascinated by the way his large hands dwarfed hers, and the surprising gentleness in them. Without a word, he reached across and took her other one, which had already slightly uncurled, and gave it the same attention. Only when he was finished did he look up and meet her eyes.

She saw no pity. No derision.

No questions.

No anger.

Not a trace of judgement on his features. Only gentle openness, understanding, and want. Not desire, it was nothing so simple as that. She would hesitate to call it yearning as well, because while romantic, the emotion still held an air of selfishness that simply was not there in the Doctor’s expression. To yearn was to want for yourself, however innocently. What she saw in his want was nothing more than herself reflected back in his eyes, as if he was wordlessly telling her “I see you, and all I want is for you to know that.”

“Are you ready to go?” The Doctor asked.

With you? Yes.

Absolutely anywhere.

Chapter Text

The Doctor collapsed onto his sofa, feeling like he’d been awake for days. The twelve-ish hours he had been awake had been a rollercoaster, the likes of which he hadn’t been on in years.

“The full spectrum of human emotions was not meant to be felt in a single damn day,” he grumbled to himself.

He raked a hand over his face in exhaustion, trying to wrap his mind around it all.

Rose’s reaction to Toby’s outburst could barely be considered more than a long blink. It could’ve been just a reaction to the noise as anyone might do when a loud sound happens close to their face. She’d been tense when he’d seen the boy talking to her, but no more so than other students in his class attempting to ignore unwanted advances from their overly zealous peers.

She certainly hadn’t been uncomfortable enough to warrant the flash of anger that threatened to turn his vision red when the prat had invaded her personal space and tried to touch her so familiarly. The spark of anger in her eyes, and in her voice before he’d cut her off, had easily shown that she was more than able to take care of herself and hadn’t needed him to step in, but more than that, the way she’d visibly relaxed at his presence when he stepped in anyway should have made him elated. She hadn’t been offended when he let his possessive anger override his judgment and he’d overstepped, she’d been relieved. And, if the glazed over look in her eyes while he’d berated the student had meant what he thought it did— he should be crowing in victory.

Her long, punctuated blink could have meant nothing. But he knew it didn’t, and he couldn’t think of anything else.

In that brief second Rose’s sunshine and whiskey eyes had clenched shut, James Noble had never been surer of something in his life. And it scared the hell out of him.

Her reaction had been nothing and yet he’d flown into a rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Not even in the depths of his grief and anger following his discharge had he felt like that, like a vengeful god that would call down fire and destruction on her behalf. His anger was explosive as a rule, but this had gone so far beyond anything he’d ever known, and he’d circled all the way back around to cold and calculated.

And he supposed that was for the best. God knows he didn’t want to frighten her any further, and Toby was a prat, but he didn’t actually deserve anything worse than getting tossed out by the scruff of his neck and the stern talking to he knew his advisor would give him. He didn’t know how he managed to push the anger away by the time he made it back down to her, but something inside him had cooled when he saw her staring so resolutely at the projection.

But could he trust that he could control his anger in the future?

He’d never been able to before, impulsive and reckless to a fault even before and… well, reckless men got themselves blown up.

Worse than that, reckless men got other people blown up or otherwise hurt. He rubbed at the mass of scar tissue on his shoulder as his head spun.

Then there was the other revelation that he’d been thrusted with no warning. She wasn’t even twenty-six fucking years old. And here he was, near forty, lusting after her like a disgusting piece of shit.

Not even twenty-six.

A victim of abuse.

Clearly insecure and ashamed of her lack of education, and despite his personal feelings on that being a load of rubbish, she still felt that way.

He was a perfect storm of everything that she should steer far, far away from, and if he was a better man he’d walk away. If he cared for her the way he thought he might, he’d walk away.

But her smaller hand had taken his as they left the lecture hall, her other one coming up to rest at the bend of his elbow as it had last week when they strolled through the streets of London. Her soft voice had admitted to him that she didn’t feel like going to Hyde Park any longer, but in the same breath asked if he wouldn’t mind if they went for a walk, because she didn’t want to go home.

She’d known all that already— her past, her insecurities, her age. His profession(s) he knew she’d seen before she’d handed him back his phone, and he’d seen the way she’d shut down briefly outside the café when he first mentioned being a professor. She might not have known his exact age, but he knew he showed his age far more clearly than she did, she had to have known he was older. She was so fucking intelligent; he had no doubt that she’d even considered that he might have anger issues from his time in the army. And still, she’d shown zero hesitancy. She’d met him beat for beat at every turn.

The flirting, the teasing. Fuck, the teasing. He was just as guilty of it. Hell, maybe even worse, considering he’d pulled back from kissing her at her flat last week despite the fact he was so hard he could’ve shot off in his pants just from snogging, like a fucking teenager. He’d pulled back partially for that reason, and partially to test the waters. Did she really want him as much as he thought she did? As much as he wanted her? It was so damn hard to believe. He knew where his talents lay, and knew how most people saw him. Too big ears, overly large nose, tall and too thin with his runner’s body instead of bulkier muscles. Haunted eyes and a sharp tongue and a soldier’s haircut, even ten years later.

But when he leaned down and heard her excited gasp, it woke something inside him he thought long dead. He did not just want Rose Tyler, physically.

He wanted to worship Rose Tyler, to bring her to the heights of ecstasy with his touch, to get drunk off her taste and drown in her.

And he wanted her to be his.

For a full week since that near kiss, he’d been deliciously tortured by fantasies of Rose Tyler and her pleasure. He wanted her underneath him, writhing and screaming his name, he wanted to mark her for the world to see as his, and simultaneously keep her all to himself. He wanted to horde every bit of her, like a dragon in his lair; to lay her down on satin sheets and feast on her until she was incoherent and trembling before he drove his cock into her silken heat and claimed her over and over.

He wanted her arse red beneath his hands, her honeyed voice reduced to his name, please, and more, bound and begging.

So, he pulled away.

And how did she react?

Utter submission, immediately. She’d understood his game instantaneously and met him with a smoldering gaze that all but conceded to him, without question, without hesitation.

And today, she’d taken his teasing, flirty little text to heart like a creature straight from his dreams and fantasies. He’d been unwilling and unable to stop the domineering question, “Do you always do as you’re told?” from flying from his lips, and despite his verbal apology he couldn’t find it in him to be truly sorry once she’d responded: “Depends on who’s tellin’ me.”

He didn’t have time in the moment to analyze if her response had been submission in and of itself, or a bratty little challenge, and he couldn’t tell now which he’d prefer. If given the opportunity, he was sure he’d find out that whichever it was would be the one he’d favor, because it would be the one she had given.

Fuck, he cursed himself. He shouldn’t even be entertaining these thoughts any longer. No amount of justification of ‘Rose knew, and she still wants to,’ should make him so comfortable with it. It was a cop out, an easy excuse to justify giving in to his desires— but he should be telling himself that those desires needed to go. If her age wasn’t enough of a reason, his temper should be. He shouldn’t expect her to be exposed to his anger, especially considering what she’d apparently been through. He should break it off with her now, tell her the difference in their age was too great. He should—

He should call Donna.

Before he made any decision for himself, or on Rose’s behalf, he should ask his sister. She was so much better with people than him. He could ask her what she thought about it all, vaguely enough that he didn’t give away Rose’s unfortunate past. Easy enough, since he didn’t know a damn thing about it himself. Surely his brilliant sister would know what to do about continuing to court Rose.

And Jack…well, his friend would know what to do about the rest, if he got up the nerve to bring it up to him.

He picked up his mobile to send a message to Donna and his heart leapt when he saw a text from Rose.

Forgot to tell you, I finally got my boss to agree to a regular schedule! I’m off every Sunday and Monday now, and guaranteed no more shifts longer than eight hours for at least a few months.

The text was accompanied by a confetti popper emoji, and he chuckled. As he read it, a second text from Rose popped in.

Which means you’ll be seeing a lot more of me! I’m signin’ on for the full universal tour. Stuck with me now, you are.

A winky face emoji at the end blew him a kiss.

He dialed his sister and tried to ignore the warmth in his soul until he could get an expert opinion. Donna, blessedly, answered on the third ring.

“What is it? Who’s dying?” She shouted in lieu of a greeting. “Mum? Grandad?”

The Doctor pulled the phone away from his ear with a wince.

“No one is dying, Don,” he grumbled. “Why would I know that before you? Especially about mum?”

“Oh, thank god,” she sighed. “Ok, who are we killing? Is that mum?”

“Donna!”

“What? You never call me— ‘scuse me for thinking it was an emergency, Spaceman!”

He heard her slam something down, her purse on the table he assumed, and heard a masculine voice in the background, call out unintelligibly.

“No, he’s fine, Shaun,” Donna called back, not bothering to muffle her shout to her husband over the receiver. “You are fine though, yeah?” She asked, more quietly.

“Yes, I just… I need some advice,” he ground out, rubbing his forehead.

“And you called me?” She asked in disbelief. “Not Grandad, or Jack?”

The Doctor sighed heavily, leaning back on his sofa. The leather of the sofa rubbed against the leather of his coat with a sound that made him grimace, but he was too bone tired to move to shuck the jacket off.

“Yeah, I— I want your opinion on something,” he admitted. “S’that alright?”

“Of course, Jamie,” his sister said softly.

He heard her moving through her house and then heard a door close with a soft snick. For all her loud, abrasive behavior, his sister was a kindhearted individual. He was grateful to hear that she was ensuring his privacy and her attention.

 “What’s wrong?” She asked.

It almost felt wrong to unload this on her. He was the older sibling, no matter how old they got, it was his job to take care of her. To him, it didn’t matter that they were twins, or that Donna was the way Donna was. Part of it came down to the fact that he’d always felt ancient, and his problems were usually so heavy. He’d never confided in her in this way, never sought out her help so explicitly because he didn’t want to burden his younger sister with his problems.

His protective instincts for Rose, however, were clashing with his protective instincts for Donna, and he couldn’t deny that Donna was simply the best person he knew to help.

He told her everything.

Almost everything. His sister didn’t need to know about his sexual preferences, thank you very much.

He told Donna about taking her hand, and the running, and the instantaneous feeling of “I know you,” that had struck him so deeply. He told her about the flirting, and how he’d forgotten to get her number because he’d simply forgotten they weren’t already more. He did his best to fumble his way through a description of the familiarity and comfort he found in her presence, blushing to the tips of his ears at how ridiculous it sounded to speak it out loud. He told her of the joy he felt at the miracle of running into her again, and his anxiety about her obvious insecurity around the biggest part of his life, and how her hand fit in his, and how staggeringly beautiful she was. He even stutteringly admitted to catching her looking at him with appreciation, despite his appearance, and to his surprise Donna made no comments— disparaging or otherwise.

Her accepting silence made the words spill out faster, when he began to talk about what had happened that day.

He told her about Rose’s wonder at seeing the universe, and how right it felt to look over while he was lecturing and see her there. By the time he got to explaining the incident with Toby, he was up and pacing. Remembering the incident made the emotions flare up once more; the jealousy he had felt when his student had sat next to her, while he was still reeling with the knowledge of their age gap. His voice dropped into a low grown when he described how seeing the younger, more age appropriate man sit next to her like he belonged had blinded him with envy— before he noticed how uncomfortable Rose was, and he’d all but kicked out the students he was talking to, so that he could rush over.

He collapsed back into the sofa with a grunt before describing her reaction to Toby’s outburst and the protective rage he’d flown into, how it had almost brought him to his knees in fear that he might be scaring her. And finally, he divulged his fear about being around her further because of his anger issues.

“I mean, fuck, Don, she’s only twenty-five, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she’s been a victim of abuse?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, nausea rolling in his stomach once more. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I shouldn’t even be considering it anymore, should’ve stopped the second she told me her age, but now? I don’t even know if I can be around her; I’m terrified I’ll hurt her.”

“Are you still having anger issues, Jamie?” Donna asked seriously, the first comment she’d made since he began his long rant. “You told me you quit going to see Harriet because you had a handle on it.”

The Doctor was unsurprised that was the first thing his sister chose to comment on.

“I thought I did, but I’ve always been short-tempered,”he admitted, ashamed.

Clenching his fist and pushing through the instinct to clam up, he forced himself to add the question that was really bothering him, though he so rarely acknowledged the issue it made his stomach churn.

“And what if I get caught off guard and it triggers a flashback, and I lash out? Or in my sleep?”

There. Elephant in the room acknowledged. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d admitted— out loud or to himself— that he did have PTSD. Though it was still unnamed, he knew Donna would understand. His brilliant sister had taken it upon herself years ago to learn far more about the disorder than he ever had, and had no qualms about bringing it up, despite his reluctance to confront it anywhere outside of therapy, or his own mind.

“But you haven’t had an episode in years,” she reasoned. The Doctor cringed and stayed silent. “Spaceman?”

“I haven’t told you about an episode in years,” he said haltingly. “And they are a lot better now, which is why I stopped going to see Harriet. Got to the point she was pissin’ me off more than helpin’… Whoever told that woman she could help people with PTSD…” he scrubbed a hand down his face in exasperation.

“Remind me to slap you next time I see you,” Donna growled. He sighed. He deserved that.

“Just…what do I do?” He asked miserably.

“I— I don’t know,” she admitted, slowly. “But I don’t think the right answer is dropping her, or ghosting her, or whatever. Or being a self-sacrificing git about it!”

He almost smiled at the fire in her voice before it softened again.

“I don’t know what to tell you about your anger, and about her possible reaction to it. I can tell you I think you should go back to therapy if you’re worried about it, and I think that would help, but that’s up to you. But I can tell you that I don’t think you should worry about her age.”

“It’s a thirteen year difference. I mean— I’m damn near forty. If she was a bit older, maybe it wouldn’t matter, but—”

“No, listen. Hear me out,” Donna interrupted gently.

Her softer tone of voice surprised him, and he listened intently, sensing the gravity of what she was about to say.

“She’s not a kid, and if what you’re sayin’ is right, she hasn’t been a kid in a long time. She told you she’s independent, so it’s not like you’ve got anything you’re hanging over her head. People might look and judge, but they do that anyway. And if you’re worried about there possibly being a power imbalance— well, do you remember that girl I was tellin’ you about that I’m helping? Bad Wolf?”

The Doctor hummed in affirmative, rubbing his forehead to try and ease the tension headache setting in. He remembered vividly the parallels he’d drawn between the woman he’d seen in those videos and Rose, and he was unsurprised Donna had done the same, even without knowing her.

“She signed that contract when she was sixteen. She quit bein’ a kid then and there, if she hadn’t already. That producer of hers holds every bit of power he possibly can over her, and he was able to get there because he swooped in to rescue her from a shitty, physically abusive boyfriend. That’s manipulative, that’s abuse. You wouldn’t be doing anything like that to this girl of yours. She’s just as much her own person as you or me, and you’re not tryin’ to sweep her off her feet and disrupt her life. Yeah?”

A sliver of hope worked its way up, cracking open his heart.

“Get back into therapy, Jamie. Be honest with her, find her boundaries and meet her where she’s at. Take it slow if you have to. But don’t give up. You seem to have found something really special, and I’d hate to see you lose it by being a dumbo.”

The Doctor grinned, despite his exhaustion, “Well, good thing I’m a genius then.”

Donna’s warm laugh filled his ear, and it healed something in him. He’d kept her at arm’s length for far too long and she was far more forgiving than he deserved.

“And you aren’t ‘damn near forty, dumbo, because I refuse to be ‘damn near forty.’ We don’t even turn thirty-eight officially until next month. Quit unnecessarily aging yourself.”

The Doctor grimaced at her— admittedly teasing— words, realizing he had inadvertently misled Rose by being dramatic. He’d have to correct that. He could see the way her tongue would poke through her teeth as she teased him about it though, and suddenly the correction didn’t seem so awful to have to make, if it meant seeing that smile pointed his way.

And maybe he could spend time with her that day, if he told her with enough advance that she could get the day off. That perked him up as well. Spending an entire day with Rose, going off on an adventure together, maybe even taking her to meet Donna and grandad— if things were still going well.

Blimey, how he wanted that now that he’d seen the image in his mind. Oh, how his grandad would love Rose, how Donna would love Rose. The two of them together would be the death of him, but it would surely be the most fun he’d ever had beforehand. He could imagine Rose ganging up on him with Donna to tease him, tongue between her teeth, but coming in closer to assure him, maybe kissing his cheek again. And if she was right there then he might as well lean down and kiss her— he cut of his imagining with a shake of his head.

Blimey, but he was a besotted sod.

He said his good nights to his sister, who ended the call with one last, cheerful jib at him not to be an idiot. He attempted to follow that advice as he tossed and turned in his bed, torn between his selfish desire for Rose and his guilt. Halfway between asleep and wakefulness, hazy dreams plagued him. Dreams of Rose’s clenched eyes and ramrod straight spine, of loud bangs that set both their hearts racing, and of banging his fists against an insurmountable, blank, white wall— knowing Rose was on the other side but being unable to get to her.

The heart clenching terror of that vision somehow faded into softer ones: sitting and laughing with her in the grass as wind whipped her hair around, another where she had her lips curled back over her teeth in a mischievous expression, with laughter in her eyes. Her small hand in his as they danced, so caught up in each other that the rest of the world faded into nothing.

The Doctor woke the next morning feeling oddly well rested despite his shifting dreams, and full of a cautious resolve. He wasn’t usually one to believe that dreams were anything except an unconscious mind regurgitating thing it had seen in a senseless jumble of meaningless imagery, but in this one instant, he was willing to allow that his unconscious mind might’ve been trying to tell him something. Deep down— not very deep at all, in reality— he knew that even if it was rocky and tumultuous, keeping Rose Tyler in his life was the only option. The dream of that blank white wall, the gut wrenching horror and pain of knowing she was unreachable on the other side, had been enough to convince him.

Following his sister’s advice, with a stomach full of lead, he booked an appointment.

Chapter Text

Donna rubbed her forehead tiredly after ending the call with her brother. Blimey what a mess. Her heart hurt for her poor, kindhearted brother, and for the girl he was so obviously besotted with. She added the still nameless figure to her running mental list and felt the weight of it on her shoulders.

She felt guilty bringing up the additional details of Rose’s experience to reassure him, but she had a gut feeling that if anyone would respect that information, it would be the Doctor. And if it helped him, and in turn helped her, she knew Rose would want him to have it.

The scant details the Doctor had given her about his girl had of course reminded her of Rose, regardless. Her young friend was never far from her mind. It almost made her laugh, in an ironic way, that for years she’d thought of attempting to set the two of them up, but had put it off with the idea that after Rose’s contract was up would be the best time. Not to mention the way the Doctor would fight her tooth and nail if he knew she was trying to set him up with anyone. Still, she’d really imagined the two of them getting on— or utterly loathing each other.

Either way it would’ve been entertaining.

Now, they had both seemed to find someone else right before she had the chance. Oh well. Rose seemed as equally besotted with her new bloke as the Doctor did with his girl, and she couldn’t begrudge either of them. Rose had been damn near giddy when she’d told her she ran into her bloke again at her favorite café, despite her anxiety regarding getting into a relationship while still under the contract. Donna had gently prompted her, telling her it was a sign from the Universe, and Rose had eagerly snatched the encouragement and ran with it. She’d been so proud when she texted her earlier and told her about standing up to Saxon and demanding a regular schedule, Donna couldn’t help but want to meet the bloke that had given her friend the push and kiss him herself!

Even if she did still think the coincidence of both Rose and the Doctor meeting someone else at the exact same time was bloody infuriating—

Wait.

It couldn’t be— right? London was a bloody big place, the odds were fucking astronomical. Even if the Doctor had mentioned his girl’s age being the same as Rose’s. And that he suspected she had a past that sounded unfortunately similar… And Rose frequented random protests all the time, whenever she could…

There was no way. Surely it would’ve come up by now.

She shook her head and laughed to herself. Of course it would’ve— even if it was just to discuss the fact that his sister and her best friend had the same name! And really, one of them must have mentioned the other’s name to her at some point and she’d just missed it— but there was no way she would’ve missed ‘the Doctor’ coming from Rose or vice versa. It was just an ironic coincidence, and one that was unfortunate. Well, unfortunate in theory. She was still on the fence of whether the two of them would have gotten along or killed each other.

And unfortunate in that it meant there was still one more girl on her list.

Still, she was grateful that her experience with Rose over the past two years meant she was able to share some advice with her brother. And at least now she wouldn’t have to keep putting off their meeting, if she wasn’t able to orchestrate a blind date for them. Maybe Rose and the Doctor’s new girl would even be good for each other.

Chapter Text

Following that day in his classroom, things seemed to slow to a crawl, and Rose couldn’t help but be grateful. She still wanted him like she wanted her next breath of air sometimes, but the intensity had frightened her a little. Not him, not in any way, but the depth of emotion she felt for him so damn quickly had terrified her. Especially for that brief moment in his classroom where she had thought he was going to break it off. They hardly knew anything about each other, though there was that soul-deep connection she couldn’t deny, and she wanted more. The passion and intensity was breathtaking, but that feeling, that knowing and that sense of rightness, that was what needed to be nurtured if they wanted this to last.

And oh, did she want it to last.

She was grateful when for the next few weeks, they went on real dates, in addition to a few smaller protests: coffee and a stroll in the park, dinner and a long conversation over drinks, long meandering walks exploring whatever piqued their interests. Her new, more regular schedule left her free to see him several nights a week, and had her evenings open to call or FaceTime when she couldn’t see him in person.

She spent her Monday mornings and early afternoons at the soup kitchen in her old neighborhood, far away from her loft and the snooty rich folk that turned their noses up at her. She volunteered there a few times before, particularly on holidays, and the two organizers, Teagan and Nyssa, were thrilled when she told them she wanted to start coming on a regular basis. She forced herself to limit her time there to only one day a week, though she itched to do more, she still needed at least one day a week off to actually rest, despite how much she detested being in her loft for any length of time. She also began searching for online classes that she could take, or free classes in the city, and every spare second throughout the day was used to text him about some thing or another.

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered every time her phone chimed, and it was a message from the Doctor. He responded quickly, unless he was in class, and conversation topics seemed endless. Mostly, they texted each other random questions to get to know each other. She learned he was the older sibling, and his family was Jewish, and his favorite color was dark blue, like his car. He confirmed that he did love running and went on a run most every morning, and he loved to travel and had been to every continent either for fun or research, even Antarctica.

He sheepishly admitted he had been being a bit dramatic and that his thirty-eighth birthday wasn’t officially for a month yet, on November twenty-third. She teased him mercilessly for his flare for the dramatic but had secretly been pleased. She wondered— if things were going well by then— if they’d be able to spend that day together. She felt a bit foolish for wishing it, surely he would rather spend it with his family, but she couldn’t help but fantasize about the chance to spend an entire day with the Doctor, maybe even meeting his family.

More practically, she was also pleased that at least the date would be easy to remember. Donna’s birthday was the same week, though she was unsure of the exact day. Her boisterous friend changed the day each year to suit her needs, claiming it was her right as a twin to celebrate on whatever day she wanted so that she didn’t have to share it with her brother. The Doctor seemed to care much less about his birthday than Donna did, but Rose already itched to make it special for him, though she attempted to stuff the urge down, at least until the day got closer.

They went to a small protest outside a shelter that had been exposed for mistreating the animals there, and she learned that he loved cats, but was apprehensive about dogs, which she found amusing. The protest went on until one of the staff members came out, glowing with pride, and announced that the upper management had all resigned from the public pressure, and that more than half of their animals had been adopted after the backlash went viral online. The crowd had cheered, and the Doctor picked her up and spun her around in a hug that left her breathless.

She asked about his research, and he texted her a link to a paper that made her head spin within the first paragraph. But his name was listed first before a string of others, so she slogged her way through it over the course of a full day, even bent over it during her lunch break at rehearsals. She’d had to google a dozen words per page— and asked a few questions of one of her dancers, who she knew was studying math on the side— but had a good enough understanding of it by the end that she’d been able to ask a question that earned her a paragraph long explanation. It clarified nothing, but he said ‘good question’ at the end, and she’d blushed the rest of the day.

She continued to be evasive about her own job, though he didn’t ask many questions out of respect for the boundaries she’d already set in place regarding the topic. The normal lies well-rehearsed cover story she typically gave— that she worked for a traveling dance company— felt impossible to pass off to him. She wanted to be honest, for one, but she wanted him to stick around. Wanted that he would, potentially, be a bigger part of her life. And if he was— if she was able to hold onto the Doctor the way she desperately wanted to— eventually he would want to see her perform, if she gave him that standard lie. So instead, she gave him as few details and half-truths as she could.

She told him she’d worked there for almost ten years, and no, she didn’t like it but a job’s a job. Rose told him that her dream job would be to get into union organizing, to help people advocate for their own rights. From there, conversation naturally flowed away from the topic of her work, much to her relief. He was attentive, asking at least as many questions of her as she did of him, and so utterly respectful it made her ache.

He was never upset when she couldn’t text back for hours at a time for work, or that she didn’t contact him most of the day on Saturday, after finally meeting Saxon’s newest signee that he was setting her up with. The two of them made her feel so disgusting the rest of the day she couldn’t bring herself to. She’d taken a boiling shower and scrubbed the feel of them off of her skin and curled up in her too large bed under the covers for most of the afternoon. She slept fitfully and felt nauseous until her phone buzzed. Checking it blearily, she was surprised to see that he’d sent her a little video.

She opened it up cautiously and been delighted to see a shakily taken video of the Doctor climbing up into a tree, untangling a kite from the upper branches and cursing. She lurched a few times as he became unbalanced, but relaxed when the video ended with him back on the ground, having handed the kite to the little girl waiting on it, and walking towards whoever held his phone with a gruff, ‘Are you filmin’ me? What the hell, Do—” as it cut off.

The text that accompanied it said, ‘Hey mystery girl, hope you enjoy this video of my idiot brother. He has you in his phone as just the sun emoji, by the way? Have a great one!’

Rose fell back asleep clutching her phone and smiling.

They spent every second they could in each other’s presence in some way. She even attended another of his lectures, a physics one, just to see the other side of his work. He showed her around campus, to his office where she could only peek inside because the sight of his desk did things to her insides, and seemingly to his too by the way his eyes darkened and he led her away. He took her to the lab where he did most of his research and babbled on about gravity and time dilation and the stars, promising to take her to the big observatory telescope sometime to show them to her up close.

He also offered to take her out into the country with his grandad’s telescope, and she was eager to agree to both options, her mind wandering salaciously regarding both scenarios. She imagined his low, murmuring voice in her ear telling her about the stars as he sat or stood close behind her, encouraging her to keep watching the sky as he ran his hands along her body and showed her stars of a different kind. She imagined doing the same to him, of taking his cock in her mouth while he maneuvered the telescope into place, while he lectured at her, and she did her best to make him lose his train of thought.

She thought of him laying her down on a blanket under the stars and making love to her, sweeter than any she’d ever known, and she wanted.

They went to a larger anti-war protest and shouted until their voices were hoarse, and he once again pulled her away from an altercation, this time tossing her up over his shoulder with one arm around her waist and one under her bum, and he spun her away from a counter protester while she shouted over his shoulder. An hour later, she’d had to tug him away from one too, grumbling to herself about how unfair it was that he just picked her up when she had to grab his arm and pull for all she was worth just to break his attention. She noted with appreciation once again how his anger was calm and quiet, how he tore into the counter protester with a flurry of facts and statistics, overwhelming them with his overactive gob rather than just attempting to be louder, or bigger.

They spoke of lighter topics for the most part, steering away especially from the truth he’d seen in her eyes following the incident with Toby, but she found herself wanting to discuss it with him. She didn’t know if she could tell him everything with Saxon, both out of still held fear and the NDA, but she could tell him about Jimmy and how it all started. And if it lasted— if they lasted— she had plenty of time. There was no rush, no deadline. The end of her contract looming closer was a goalpost, she told herself firmly, not a finish line, nor a dead end.

And she loved the conversations they had now. Their conversations had never been boring or had a dull moment, but she adored learning more about him. He told her over dinner about starting med school a year early and about enlisting in the army at eighteen because they’d put him through the rest of it. He’d graduated with his MD in an accelerated program at twenty-three, which stunned her, but he’d just chuckled and told her it was only the coursework. The real training had been his next five years in active-duty military service as a medic. He was vague about his time then, speaking only of being stationed in Syria— which he spoke of with reverence for the country and people, and expressed a deep desire to return some day, under better circumstances. He didn’t talk about what he’d seen, military-wise, but instead he talked about meeting his friend Jack, and how the entire experience had robbed him of the desire to continue being a doctor.

So, he’d discharged at twenty-eight, came home and picked up astrophysics, and earned his PhD by thirty-three. He had been teaching ever since.

He also told her that his MD was why everyone called him the Doctor. His friend Jack had started it when he’d first mentioned going back to school for a PhD in physics, his lifelong second love. His fellow students picked it up quickly while he worked for his doctorate, after they’d learned of his MD, and his colleagues at the university had picked it up when Jack came in on his first day as a professor to buy him lunch. He also confessed that no one had really ever called him James, and that Jack had called him ‘Doc’ long before the Doctor, his mum and sister called him Jamie, or ‘more unflattering nicknames,’ he had muttered. His grandad called him ‘son,’ or ‘my boy,’ which Rose thought was incredibly sweet.

She asked him what his past girlfriends had called him, and he’d shot her a filthy grin that made her blush all the way up to her scalp.

That was the hardest part about this new, slow path they were taking. He’d pulled back a lot with the overtly sexual looks, the innuendos, but she still knew they were there, just under the surface. She got herself off over a dozen times by now to his filthy, “Do you always do as you’re told?” and she craved more. She’d never considered herself a sexually adventurous person— she’d never gotten the chance—but now with the chance sitting in front of her, a sinful dream in black leather of all things, she was down.

Oh, how she wanted everything his wicked, sexy, voice could promise her. She was ready to fall to her knees at the restaurant table if he told her to with that arch in his eyebrow. She knew, she just knew, that he was a man used to being obeyed, and that he would expect nothing less behind closed doors. He would be commanding, rough and gentle at the same time,expectant and yet patient, and oh so giving.

She knew he would be domineering. Dominant.

And she was surprised to learn that she wanted that, and all it entailed. When she wasn’t with him, she scoured the internet for information about that kind of thing, desperate to not embarrass herself when the time came, and the more she read, the harder it was to keep to his slow pace.

Until he asked her about her day, or her favorite movie, or her childhood. And it would return back to not quite innocent, but appropriate levels of admiration. The distractions were welcome, but as were the accompanying butterflies when he seemed to genuinely care about each of her answers, and whenever he referenced something she’d already said.

It took Rose no time at all to admit to herself that she was falling for him, faster than she could even keep pace with.

She just hoped that what he’d taught her about objects falling at the same rate and speed was true for this form of falling as well.

Chapter Text

The topic of music came up on their third date, when he’d picked her up outside her flat. She was able to keep putting off him coming in and now had a reason to with the unspoken moratorium they’d placed on intimacy. They’d argued and discussed playfully throughout dinner and their now customary stroll through the park, and he simply could not believe that she enjoyed American country music.

She’d defended her stance as honorably as she could, citing the greatest of the greats— Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and Deford Bailey—and even brought up American folk music and how it diverged. The intertwining of Appalachian and Scottish Irish heritage, and how it was more than music, but a form of storytelling—even a form of news back in its day.

Folk music, and country by extension, had conveyed news of events hundreds of miles in remote areas, she’d told him eagerly.

Rose showed him how folk music was making a resurgence as part of smaller forms of activism and resistance, and how modern country singers were reclaiming the genre from the overly patriotic propaganda he was thinking of when he thought of country music. Reclaiming, she stressed, because country music had always been progressive before it was propagandized. Even artists in other genres were branching out and incorporating country and folk elements.

It was the longest she’d talked uninterrupted in a very long time. Maybe ever.

She got so excited she didn’t realize she talked most of the way through dinner, his good- humored arguments having dropped off without her notice, and well into their walk in the park. She spoke in a rush, waving her hands animatedly and tugging on him when she thought of something else to share, until she looked up and saw his face.

Raw, wild, open adoration danced across the Doctor’s features. His eyes were soft, crinkled in the corners with a smile, and his smile was soft as well, encouraging and warm. A spark of electricity shot all the way to her fingertips and toes when their eyes met, and she knew in that moment that he saw all the way into the depths of her soul.

And he liked it. Her soul.

She felt lightheaded, blushing a probably violently unattractive shade of pink, clamming up and muttering an apology. She wasn’t sure why, besides apologizing for taking up space was instinctual for her, but she also felt mildly angry at herself for apologizing. He wasn’t bothered. The Doctor had been listening, asking questions and everything, not just tuning her out and humming here and there. But once she was aware of it, the weight of his undivided attention was too much. The vulnerability of being seen so deeply— and the potentiality for being rejected for what he saw there— left her tender and open, laid bare before him and filled with primal fear with the knowledge of her own fragility.

He pulled them to a gentle stop while she ducked her head and fought her tears. She felt that crooked finger under her chin again, tipping her head up to return the connection of their gazes.

She forgot how to breath.

“Tell me more,” he whispered.

So, she did.

His music was the topic of conversation of their fourth date. Big band, swing, and early rock and roll, and he was pleased to discover that Rose knew quite a lot about that genre as well.

While he was treated to no more pleasing lectures in her excited, melodious voice, he enjoyed the back and forth discussion just as much. Something had changed between them following that night, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it was like a new level of intimacy he’d never experienced before. Physically, they maintained a respectable, almost old-fashioned distance— hand holding, walking arm-in-arm, small touches— but her eyes shone with a new trust that he vowed he would not take for granted.

Again, he was surprised by how much knowledge she had about American music specifically, not just about the music itself but about the history. Jazz, blues, early rock and roll, she had at least a passing knowledge of nearly everything, and an interest in all of it. He felt like an old fool when he pulled out his tangled cord of wired headphones and offered her one while they walked through the park once more, laughing at how out of date he was with technology. He didn’t understand the flush of pink that colored her cheeks at his offer— though he’d admired it— until they began to walk again, and the short cord kept them intimately close to each other. She’d wrapped both her arms around one of his, and pressed in tightly against him, leaning her head on his bicep.

He felt the spin of the earth under his feet.

Chapter Text

On their fifth date— after they’d attended a speech by the PM outside Downing Street and joined the crowd in jeering at the arsehole— they wandered into a music store, searching for records. To the Doctor’s delight, they found a strange contraption Rose didn’t recognize. He’d excitedly dropped her hand, which she’d been disappointed in for only a moment until she saw the glee on his face. He reached out to touch it, before pulling back and glancing over at the man minding the register, who rolled his eyes and nodded reluctantly.

He made a strange pinching motion with one hand and wove his other hand through the air above the contraption like a conductor, and strange, humming music filled the air. A gasp burst from her lips at the sound. It was electric, but not. It was unearthly, and beautiful, and odd.

“Just like him,” she thought.

He looked back at her with a wickedly smug expression, and she flushed, ducking her head away from his intense eyes and focusing on the way his hands hovered in the air and manipulated the sound.

That was just as big of a trap.

His long, gorgeous fingers moved dexterously though the air, each motion deliberate and calculated, producing clear notes and vibratos with ease. Distantly, she heard an impressed whistle from the cashier, but all of her concentration was dedicated to watching his hands and being mesmerized by the humming music.

“What is that?” She breathed when he finished.

“Theremin,” he said proudly. “’S an instrument. These antennae,” he gestured, “Generate an audio signal, and the pitch oscillation is controlled by proximity. One hand act as a grounding plate and completes the circuit, producing sound, and the other modulates it. And because humans are humans, we made it into music.”

Rose could tell it was an overly simplified explanation, but not one that was dumbed down. Just condensed. He cut out all of the technobabble but none of the principles, and again his casual demeanor of not talking down at her filled her with joy.

“Show me,” she demanded.

The Doctor guided her in front of the theremin and showed her how to position her hands before she guided them into the air above the instrument where he indicated the signal field was.A godawful noise tore through the air, and she jumped, startled, and the jostling of her hands made it worse. She yanked them back in shock and turned on him, embarrassed. He laughed gently, but not mockingly, as if he’d anticipated the sound. Her eyes darted nervously over to the cashier, who was also rolling his eyes again at the, apparently expected, failure.

“Well how do you do it then?” Rose demanded, playfully angry.

“Ah, any physicist worth his salt can play the theremin,” he said with that same falsely humble manner he’d discussed working on the telescope with. “’S the instrument of science, space, and Star Trek.”

Rose blinked in surprise and then laughed.

“Oh, go on then! Show me some Spock,” she giggled.

He stepped back in front of the theremin and wiggled his hands and eyebrows playfully, before delicately passing them back into the field. Beautiful, eerie music filled the air once more, and she was captivated again by his look of concentration, and the steady movements of his hands.

“You just have to be delicate,” he murmured. His fingers on his modulating hand moved in a slow, tight circle as he spoke.

Rose’s fingers practiced mimicking his later that night, several times. Her broken cries were nothing like the eerie sound he had produced, but when she imagined it was his fingers once again making those tight circles, she also imagined that he would believe it to be music all the same.

Chapter Text

On their sixth date, the Doctor spilled his coffee on himself with a quiet muttered curse, an endearing look of consternation wrinkling his forehead. No number of napkins helped as the liquid soaked into his jumper quickly, and he grumbled about the lesser quality of the fabric in comparison to a true wool jumper, and he finally admitted defeat. He couldn’t walk around in a sodden jumper, especially not in early November.

Rose nodded in disappointment, thinking their date was coming to a sad, early end, but he’d grabbed her hand and tugged her to his car. When she asked where they were going, he gave her a confused look.

“My flat? So I can change?” And that was that.

He pulled her up the stairs as if her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest, only dropping her hand to unlock the door. Before he walked in, his hand came up and brushed the door frame gently. Her obsession with his hands had intensified greatly on their last outing, so her eyes naturally followed his hand almost without thought. His large, calloused fingers traced so lightly and reverently that Rose couldn’t help but peer curiously at the spot he had touched. Once his hand was removed and he pushed his way into the flat, she saw that it wasn’t the door frame itself he had touched, but a little brass plate, a half cylinder really, that was stuck to the wood, angled towards the flat.

Curious, her fingers reached up and touched it too, tracing the raised symbol in the middle that looked like the branches of a tree. She kept her curious touch light, as she had seen the care he touched it with and didn’t want to disturb it. He barely seemed to notice the action, as if it was a ritual he did each time he passed through the door, the same way her hand habitually flicked her lock closed with her pinky when she turned her door handle.

She looked up and he was watching her from just inside the door, holding it open, and she flushed, unsure if she’d done something wrong by touching the object. His expression was unreadable— unusual for him— but not angry, and he still held the door open, so she hurried herself inside.

By the time he closed the door behind them, Rose had decided his flat was her favorite place she’d ever been.

Dark blue walls the same color as his car, covered in dark wood bookshelves that were at max capacity with books, gadgets, and viney plants. A comfortable looking, buttery-yellow leather sofa with a variety of throw blankets draped across the arms and back created an inviting little nest. She could easily see which side he favored by the well stained coffee ring on the end table, and the folded pair of reading glasses next to it. An arm chair sat on either side, all within reach of the chest in the middle that served as a coffee table, facing the bureau of multi-colored apothecary drawers that held the TV and a record player.

It was eclectic and well-loved, every inch.

The space was small, but bigger than it seemed when she looked down the hall and noted not just a bedroom, but an office as well, and a full bathroom. Off to the side, there was a kitchen with a truly ancient looking stove, a gleaming copper kettle set on top, and a kitchen island covered in more stacks of books, papers, and bits and bobs. It felt like a home. Full of color and life, smelling of the Doctor’s warm, rich scent.

Against her will she imagined herself curled up on the sofa opposite of him, reading while he graded papers, bringing him tea while he fussed and complained. She imagined cooking dinner in the small kitchen and him coming home and wrapping his arms around her from behind or arriving home herself to find him waiting and pouring glasses of wine. She imagined quiet, sleepy mornings with his head in her lap and slow music playing from the record player next to the tv and swaying in each other’s arms. Not really dancing, just holding each other close, resting her head on his chest and listening to his heartbeat.

Coming home together, breathless and exhilarated from the thrill of running from a protest as they had that very first day, the door barely closing behind them before he was pressing her back into it and snogging her senseless.

“Make yourself at home,” his voice called, startling her out of her daydreams. “I won’t be a minute.”

Rose wandered through his living room, brushing her fingers across the tomes on the shelves and admiring the wide range of titles, running a hand across the variety of cozy blankets and wondering which was his favorite.

“Shouldn’t have told me that,” she called out teasingly. “Now you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back a giddy squeal at his immediate response. Lightning fast, she whipped out her phone and shot off a quick text message to Donna, who had been periodically pestering her for information for days regarding her dates with the Doctor, despite Rose’s evasiveness. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to share the information with her, she was her best friend after all, she had just been basking in the glow of newness, happiness, and intimacy she shared with the Doctor. And Donna was getting increasingly infuriated by the fact that they hadn’t shagged yet, as if it did not frustrate Rose as well. She liked that they were taking it slow and getting to know one another, but unfortunately, the more she knew the Doctor, the more she wanted him to shag her on every flat surface that she saw.

His response now however, had her bursting at the seams with joy, unable to keep it to herself in her elation.

In his flat! She sent with a confetti popper emoji.

Donna’s response was near instantaneous: What?! After you’re done getting your brains shagged out you better call me! A second text followed: Be safe. Send me the address if you need to.

Rose allowed location sharing access to Donna but sent her a winky face emoji.

She closed her phone and shoved it back in her pocket just as the Doctor exited his bedroom. He had indeed donned a new jumper, her favorite one to see him in— the dark olive green he’d been wearing when they first met— but had forgone putting his ever present leather coat back on. She pretended to be admiring his books still, but surreptitiously snuck glances at him, admiring the lean form of his body without the concealing coat. He was more muscular than he looked under the leather, though still built for running, his shoulders even more broad without being swallowed by the coat.

When her roaming eyes reached his arms, where he was in the process of rolling up his sleeves, she stopped pretending that she wasn’t looking. She turned fully to face him and crossed her arms over her chest, letting her thoughts project across her face with a teasing grin.

He smirked back, finishing with his sleeve, but said nothing. The unreadable expression on his face from the doorway was long forgotten as he eyed her.

“Would you like to pick out a record?” He asked, gesturing to a stack of them on the tv stand cabinet. “I’ll make us a cuppa if you want?”

It was all she could do to hold back a crow of victory as she skipped over to his stack of records. It was so domestic, pulling his stack of records into her lap and plopping down on his sofa, listening to him in the kitchen make the familiar noises of preparing tea. Despite where she wanted the evening’s direction to end, she vowed to make the most of every second of it, to live in the warmth of the moment without getting ahead of herself.

His records were predictable following their conversation and the music he’d played while they walked through the park like a scene from a movie. Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Harry James. She struck gold and pulled the record from the stack with a grin. She returned the stack to its place and carefully examined his record player, happy to find that he was nearly identical to her mum’s and placed the record with practiced ease.

“Find something you like?” He asked, returning to the room with their mugs.

The tea was still brewing, so he set them down on the coffee table and made to continue over to her side, but she held up a hand, smiling with her tongue in her teeth.

“You stay there!” She demanded, mischievously. “It’s a surprise.”

His eyebrow arched in amusement, but he obediently stopped in place, crossing his arms benevolently. The indulgent look on his face in combination with his stance was pure dominate posturing. Tolerant, adoring, and generously agreeing to her demand, but openly displaying that he was allowing the interaction more than following. The look set her on fire, the heat rising from her lower abdomen all the way up to her cheeks. His smirk barely changed, but his eyes sparkled enough that she knew that he knew how he was affecting her.

Her choice in records was now a little on the nose, but it was too late to go back now with him watching her like that. She dropped the needle with less than steady fingers, and after a few seconds, the sound of Glen Miller’s In the Mood filled the flat.

He laughed, breaking the tension between them once more for the time being.

“You know, I still can’t believe you like all this older music,” he admitted, settling himself down on the sofa. “Even my grandad teases me for liking it.”

Rose walked over and sat next to him a respectable distance away, so it was easier for them to face each other and still talk, but she turned sideways with her feet tucked under her. She leaned her arm against the back of the sofa, propping her head up. He reached forward and grabbed both mugs, passing her the smaller of the two— a wonderfully vintage looking thing with a pattern of thistles that she loved instantly. His mug was round and modern, with bold lettering that said, “Trust me, I’m  a  the Doctor.”

She cradled the teacup in her hand, curled up against her chest, letting the warmth of it sink into her bones. The porcelain felt delicate, but not fragile, and the thistle pattern had a slightly raised texture when she brushed her thumb over it, and the motion was soothing.

“I like newer music too,” she argued, lightheartedly.

“You like new music that’s made to sound old,” he teased. “Which is better than most of the garbage on the radio these days anyway,” he continued with a scoff.

“There’s nothing wrong with pop music,” she defended, feeling strangely hurt. “There’s nothing wrong with music that’s just for fun.”

And there wasn’t. She just didn’t like making it herself. She’d never been able to work out if it was because she didn’t like the music, or just didn’t like the choice being taken from her. Same as with Bad Wolf’s image, she truly believed there was nothing wrong with being a fun chasing party girl, everyone deserved respect and decency no matter how they acted. She just didn’t like being forced to act that way, the disrespect that came with it, and not being able to push back against it. Some of the people she would almost consider friends within the industry were truly like that, and she enjoyed their company and their stories when they met up. For a while, she’d even tried to slip into the lifestyle herself and make it more real, back when she was living in Bad Wolf’s skin almost full time, but she was never able to make it stick because it still felt forced.

“But so much of it is meaningless,” he dismissed with a grimace. “It’s all about breakups, or love songs, or partying. No real lyrics, just catchy enough to get stuck in your head.”

“Not everything needs to be so serious, just because that’s what we enjoy, Mr. Academic,” she retorted dryly. “And there’s more to pop music than that anyway. It can be just as valid as a method of protest too— look at Hozier. His newest album is fully anti-imperialistic, and he talks loads about politics. Or Macklemore— he’s producing his own music just so he can speak out for what he believes in.”

“A rarity,” he conceded, rankling her.

He didn’t know how hard it was to get to the point where fame was stable enough to speak out like that. Where a fanbase was large enough producers couldn’t say no, where one voice wasn’t drowned out in favor of what would sell. Even being able to use personal money to produce music, without being tied to a label, was a privilege.

She also fought against another sting of pain at the way he had said love songs were meaningless. Surely he didn’t mean… love was meaningless? Right? Not when she was falling for him so rapidly…

“It’s popular for a reason,” she said, feeling uncomfortable and angry. “And not everyone can get to the point they can utilize their platform that way.”

“And not enough people that do get that far even try.”

Were they arguing right now or was she getting unfairly angry for reasons she couldn’t begin to tell him? Why was she even being so defensive over an institution and a career she loathed? She knew he was just jaded against any big industries, as she herself was, and she should not be taking it so damned personally.

“Just abort, change the topic!” She told herself firmly.

“The demonization of pop music is rooted in misogyny,” she growled instead. “It’s made popular by largely female audiences, and made up of largely female artists, both of which get infantilized to the point that any opinion expressed is ridiculed. Not to mention the rampant exploitation in the industry.”

Take the hint, Doctor. Take the fucking hint. Use that magnificent brain of yours and realize you’re being an arse!

“Yes, and I’m sure it hurts their feelings ever so much. Probably use their wads of cash as a hankie,” he grumbled.

Each word was a stab directly to her heart.

Change. The. Topic! Rose! She nearly screamed, digging her nails into her scalp where she propped up her head to keep her eyes from watering in frustration. The record playing was suddenly too loud, too abrasive, the teacup in her hands too hot, too burning.

“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You can’t tell me you actually like that stuff, Rose!”

“It’s popular for a reason,” she repeated, the defense sounding weak to her own ears.

“Oh, alright,” the Doctor sighed, setting his mug down on the end table.

She watched him place it directly over the top of the discolored ring already staining the wood, staring at it uncomfortably hard to ground herself.

She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t ever tell him. He’d hate her, not just for keeping it a secret, but for who she was. And it didn’t matter that she was forced to be that person, she still was Bad Wolf. Even one of the only two songs she’d written herself that had been produced was about a breakup, as he’d complained. Did it even matter? Less than a year now, and she wouldn’t ever be Bad Wolf again. She’d have nothing left over from the past ten years of her life except scars and memories. She didn’t need to tell him, and she hadn’t wanted to anyway, because she’d been so afraid of his judgement and pity for her stupid mistakes.

So why did it hurt so bad?

For the first time, she didn’t want to be around him. Even if it meant going back to her flat to be miserable and cold and alone.

Maybe that’s all she’d ever be. Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe…

“You know who really does a fantastic job though?” He continued, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “That Bad Wolf girl.”

The world ground to a halt.

What?

“My sister loves her, and she insisted I listen to this one song of hers— oh you’ve gotta hear it if you haven’t, Rose, it’s fantastic. Hidin’ the message in plain sight!”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She was hallucinating. There was absolutely zero chance that Doctor James Noble just told her—after viciously complaining about the industry as a whole— that he liked Bad Wolf? Britain’s most vapid popstar, according to most.

“First time she made me listen to it, I’ll admit, I thought it was meaningless rubbish like the rest, but that’s just to start the song, to hook people in. Then it’s all about class solidarity, and income inequality, and suddenly even the beginning of it makes sense, it’s talking about how people move through the world without realizin’ how it’s all interconnected. It’s genius.”

He jumped up and stopped the record player before taking his seat again and pulling out his phone. He didn’t even mention that the rest of her music was exactly like what he’d been complaining about. He cursed under his breath while he fiddled with his phone, his large hands struggling with the touch screen endearingly, but after a few seconds, the first beats of a song began.

Her song.

One of only two she’d ever written that Saxon had allowed to be produced, precisely because he didn’t understand that there was more to it than the seemingly nonsensical first verse and he hadn’t bothered to listen to the rest. Exactly as she’d intended. Exactly as the Doctor admitted to being fooled by at first.

The only song of the two she truly cared about.

That’s just the way of the world,

It never ends til the end and then you start again,

That’s just the way of the world

That’s just the way of the world.

He was humming along, out of key and out of time. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

Chapter Text

It was three weeks after she attended his lecture when he texted her with an address, a time, and a question mark. She checked the time and saw he was in the middle of a class, hence the brevity of the text she assumed, so she replied with a simple thumbs up and set her phone back down.

“Who’re you textin’?” Malcom asked, his tone friendly.

They were on a lunch ‘date,’ at a highly visible café in a part of London she rarely visited of her own free will. She was grateful for the overcast early November sky as they sat outside, as she was forced to wear the long blonde wig she’d attached to the Bad Wolf persona, and no matter the temperature, the sun always made the damn thing too hot. Despite the clouds, she had a big pair of sunglasses on, thankfully able to forgo the fancy makeup she normally wore with the wig because of them. She was freezing, but the tradeoff was fine she supposed. When this was over, she could exchange her wig for the comfortable jumper in her purse and maybe surprise the Doctor and attend his last lecture before they walked over to whatever protest or demonstration he’d found for them this time.

Or maybe she’d run back to her flat and pick out something nicer and try to tease that sexy appreciative look from him, maybe tempt him back to his flat. Maybe more. She imagined the dark look that would flash over his eyes if he saw what she was wearing now, her Bad Wolf costume far more revealing than anything she’d worn around him yet. She wouldn’t let him see it, but the thought of his eyes darkening as he took in large expanses of her exposed skin was a tempting one. Still, she had a nice warm dress that paired well with her favorite coat that she’d rather wear, and she had a feeling he would like that too.

It was blue, after all.

She smiled in pleasant anticipation.

“My friend Jamie,” she said, obscuring the nature of their relationship— undefined as it was— with the gender neutral nickname. She wasn’t stupid, she knew he reported everything back to Saxon. “Don’t worry though, I was just saying I was busy. I know Harry doesn’t like us to be distracted on these outings.”

She rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses, resolutely attempting to ignore the paparazzi she could see around the corner. At least they weren’t mobbing the restaurant this time.

Bad Wolf wasn’t that popular of a performer, thankfully. Her shows sold decently well, not filling up stadiums, but it wasn’t unusual to have a few thousand in her crowds. Her music mostly thrived in the clubs, which she was fine with, as it helped keep her anonymity that people weren’t obsessed with her.

But she was popular entertainment. She was an unfortunate favorite—or least favorite, depending on how you looked at it— of most gossip rags because of the dozen or so PR relationships Saxon had set up over the years. Many with explosive ‘breakups,’ heartbreak songs, and other bullshit those vultures ate up, loving to speculate which of her supposed exes each song was about, as if any of the ones Saxon purchased for her had any meaning at all. There was absolutely nothing wrong with a woman dating around, even if it wasn’t for Rose, but they treated Bad Wolf like dirt because of it. As if she wasn’t just a young woman, theoretically enjoying her youth and her fame. Fuck she hated this industry.

“Nine more months,” she sang to herself.

“Why do you call him that? You know he hates it,” Malcom said, frowning into his coffee.

Rose fought the urge to roll her eyes again, lest she get a sprain.

“Another sycophant,” she mused. He hadn’t struck her as the type, but what did she know? This was their first public outing, having only met once at the studio since Saxon had told her about him, and they’d only discussed logistics. She’d been too caught up in the practiced dance between herself and Saxon— too preoccupied with doing whatever it took to keep his hands off of her while simultaneously keeping him satisfied enough— to do much more than notice Malcom looking at her with familiar, disgusting appreciation. It made sense, however, with as much attention as Saxon was giving him and his band, that he would be so worshipful of their lord and master.

Their puppeteer.

“Because he hates it,” she said, as if it was obvious. It was to her.

“You don’t like Mr. Saxon?” Her date sounded shocked.

How could she not be full of adoration and gratitude for the man who had plucked them from obscurity and into a life of fame? Ugh, time to really put on that damned mask.

“Mr. Saxon and I have known each other a long time,” she laughed, laying a hand on Malcom’s arm and fighting back her displeasure. “We butt heads, but in the end he’s my producer, and Bad Wolf wouldn’t be what she is without him.”

“Wasn’t that the god’s honest truth?” She thought bitterly.

“Alright,” he agreed easily. “So, what do you normally do on these dates?”

Rose shrugged, sipping her water, wishing it was tea. Or whiskey.

“Depends on the person. The paps don’t get close enough to record what we say, so as long as we act the part it doesn’t matter. I’ve offered advice about the industry; we’ve had regularly pleasant chats. One guy recited pi to a hundred digits because he got so nervous, and honestly? I was impressed. What would you like to talk about?”

“You,” he answered instantly.

“Ah. One of those,” she thought with a sigh.

She’d have to nip that in the bud quickly. She’d let Adam get away with believing they had something real for far too long— enjoying the attention he’d given her, shamefully— and it had bit her in the arse when she’d finally told him off after he got too forward. He’d nearly got her killed in his anger. At least his abandoning her to a mob had been public enough that the relationship had been called off earlier than planned. Saxon hadn’t even been mad, since the publicity had been in her favor for once. He’d even been pleased enough to allow one of her songs to be recorded and produced, the one that had led to Adam’s career fizzing out with a whimper.

You’d leave me dead if it set you apart

And I’m like, oh goddamn not another rockstar.

Unlike some of the songs Saxon purchased for her that led to speculation in the tabloids about which of her past ‘lovers’ the lyrics were referencing, the publicity of Adam’s abandonment of her to the mob had vilified him greatly, and there were no doubts regarding who that song was about. She’d taken vindictive pleasure in it at the time, had been pleased that it briefly became her most popular song, but the heat of her anger died out quickly in the face of the very real near death experience becoming nothing more than more marketing fodder for Saxon.

“You want to talk about Bad Wolf?” She deflected with a faux amused chuckle. “Alright, I suppose I’ve been in the game a while, so I can understand having questions.”

“Why a stage name?” He asked, staring at her with uncomfortable attention.

“I didn’t want to give too much of myself to the world, I suppose,” she answered honestly.

“What’s your real name?” Malcom pressed, leaning in closer.

She sensed an edge of true flirtation in his tone. “Fucking newbie,” she thought, shaking herself out of her memories.

“Private. Classified. Locked behind the most ironclad contract NDA you’ll ever see in your life, so give up,” she told him cheerfully, but with an edge of ice cold steel just under the surface. “My real name is mine, and not even Saxon can legally tell it to you. Or even use it.”

Instead of being deterred as she had hoped he would be, Malcom’s eyes sparked with interest. He thought she was flirting back with him.

“What if I guess it?”

“I’m not fucking Rumpelstiltskin,” she growled.

“Just Rumpelstiltskin? Anyone else is fair game then, big, Bad Wolf?” he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow, attempting to look seductive. He looked like a fucking jackass.

She looked at him in disgust, for the first time really taking in his appearance. Saxon had said he was some new pop-punk, alt type, but all Rose saw was a brand new black leather jacket that was laughably unworn and had far too many buckles to be practical. She pushed away thoughts of the Doctor, unwilling to even let him linger in her mind. The Doctor was for Rose, and she couldn’t be Rose right now.

Hyper aware of the camera that was still snapping pictures, she summoned the Bad Wolf from within her, letting her settle on top like a second skin. Nearly ten years of donning the persona, disgusting as it felt sometimes, made it comfortable. She’d learned to think of the persona itself as a costume, further distancing herself from the actual costumes Saxon forced her into and giving herself an extra layer of protection. Now, sliding into Bad Wolf’s skin was as easy as quirking her lips a certain way, crossing her legs and leaning forward, and pulling her sunglasses down just enough to look at Malcom over the top of them.

“Listen, Mitchum,” she began, drawing out the words in Bad Wolf’s adopted accent.

“Malcom,” he interjected, sullenly.

“Don’t care and I never will. That’s not a challenge. You want to know how many of these fucking PR relationships Harry’s made me do in ten years? You are unlucky number thirteen.”

She stroked his arm with the hand she had laid there earlier, twisting her lips up into a seductive, mocking smirk. She could tell him that he, and every other one of those relationships, were punishments for some perceived wrongdoing. That they were just another link in the chain that kept her trapped, just another stone that kept her weighted down. She could tell him that Saxon’s interest in him, and his band, were only because he was using them to beat her down.

He'd figure it out soon enough though. Surely, he could already feel the puppet strings pulling at his limbs.

All she could do was protect herself.

“I’m not here to be your friend, or your introduction to the industry, or anything else. I’m here because I only have nine months left of my contract and I just want to ride it out. Smooth sailing. You and me? We can be pleasant and cordial coworkers, but you better learn how to act-- quickly. To me, and for the cameras.”

She removed her hand slowly, trailing it down his forearm and back to herself, not betraying the disgust she felt in the action, how she’d go back to her flat and take a shower so scalding that it burned off the layer of skin that had touched him, so she wouldn’t ever touch the Doctor with the same hand. She’d miss his lecture, but she’d rather that than dirty him.

Not letting on how disassociated from the limb she felt, she picked up a tomato from her salad and popped it in her mouth, hating the flavor as much as always, looking to the world as if she was enjoying her favorite chocolate anyway.

“Smile, Mitchum,” she purred, leaning back in her chair. “This is what you signed up for.”

“I signed up to be a musician,” he growled, distinctively not smiling.

Better him than her, to get in trouble with Saxon later. She doubted the producer would do more than yell at Malcom anyway. He wasn’t some beaten down, malnourished, teenage girl with nowhere to go.

“Neither are you,” she reminded herself fiercely. “Not anymore.”

“And yet you’re a puppet,” she retorted, laughing louder than was necessary. “Same as I am. Get used to the hand up your arse. Maybe you’ll learn to enjoy it.”

Vitriolic. Crass. Representative of exactly how she felt about the situation. As best a warning as she could possibly give him, as close to advise as the man would take, with his nose so far up Saxon’s arse for the moment.

“I hear you’re Saxon’s favorite toy,” he taunted, “Are you sure you’re not just jealous someone else is getting attention?”

“Saxon’s favorite toy,” she thought numbly. “One he keeps playing with long after he broke it out of refusal to let it go? Or his favorite because he’s broken it in?” Apt either way.

“Oh, I think I’ve held the title and the spotlight long enough,” she waved her hand magnanimously. “I certainly won’t fight you for it. In fact, let’s make a deal,”

Malcom leaned forward, interested.

“I’ll stay out of your way with Saxon, fulfill allll our little obligations for this PR stunt with the expert knowledge I bring to the table— and hell, I’m in a good mood— I will even give you some tips.”

“And in return?”

Bad Wolf tilted her head down, peering at him over her sunglasses once more and smiling predatorily.

“You stay the fuck out of my way and my business,” she growled. “Understood?”

Malcom swallowed uncomfortably. His discomfort both satisfied and discomforted her. It seemed she’d finally grown those teeth and claws she’d wished for so long ago, but they were unwieldy. She lashed out with them too ferociously, and to wildly. Malcom was not the one who deserved her ire.

“Understood.”

“Excellent. Now, you’re going to stand up, you’re going to give me a friendly, appropriate hug, and you’re going to watch longingly as I leave, because that’s what the cameras want.”

Chapter Text

Her cleansing shower took longer than she anticipated. She hadn’t thrown up after donning the Bad Wolf persona in a long time, but she’d taken one look at herself in the fogged up mirror after her first shower and felt revulsion. Her second shower had burned, and now, jogging up ten minutes late to the campus quad, her skin was still lightly pink and stinging under her coat, dress, and tights. Her harsh scrubbing with her exfoliating glove had helped her immensely to feel clean, but she was glad she’d had the foresight to touch Malcom with only her non-dominant hand. The Doctor liked her on his left, so his dominant hand was free, and her right side was thankfully Malcom-less.

Jogging up to the crowd, he was easy to pick out. He stood back a bit, far enough away he hadn’t bothered with his mask yet and was checking his phone every few seconds. His frequent checks were interspersed with scanning the crowd with his hawklike gaze. Her heart beat faster in anticipation. She liked the idea that he was looking for her with such intensity. His eyes finally landed on her approaching form and the warm smile that split his face helped her to finally, firmly settle back into Rose Tyler. She sighed in relief, jogging over to him as an answering smile crept onto her face.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, my work meeting ran over,” Rose danced around the truth with practiced ease.

His warm smile widened as she wrapped her unsullied hand around his arm and squeezed. “That’s alright, Rose! I’m glad you made it,” the Doctor replied, happily.

“So, what’s this one for?”

His smile turned sheepish, and he reached his free hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know,” he admitted. “I just heard some students talking about it in the hallway and I…uh—”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I just wantedtoseeyou,” he said in a rush.

Rose beamed, her tongue poking out between her teeth gleefully, the butterflies in her stomach back in full, joyful force.

Before she could second guess herself, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed that taunting little space between his mole and the corner of his mouth, purposefully this time. Less chaste than the one she’d given him outside his classroom, she lingered a few seconds and pulled back her head but stayed on her toes to meet his eyes closer to his level.

“I wanted to see you, too,” she said, pouring sincerity and affection into her voice as best she could. “I missed you.”

Settling back on her feet, she was graced by the reaction she’d hoped for the last time she’d performed that gesture. His ears were flaming red, not just the tips, but the whole shell of them. His mouth was parted slightly in shock, and his free hand was pressed lightly against where she’d kissed.

“I adore you,” she whispered, but the words were prevented from reaching his ears by the squeal of the bullhorn that pierced their senses at the exact same time.

They both winced, turning away from each other and towards the assembled crowd.

“Thank you all for coming,” the announcer greeted them. “We’re here to demand change and to demand protection for the most vulnerable population among us!”

Rose and the Doctor shot each other panicked looks, tensing to run. If he’d invited her to an anti-abortion rally, she was never going to let him live it down. She was already playfully imagining telling the story at their wedding.

“Tens of millions of murders occur at the hands of the British alone every year—”

Tens of millions? Bit of an extrapolation, unless they’re addin’ regular old ovulation to abortion now. Which actually wouldn’t be that surprising.

“We keep them in cages and use them as slaves and after we murder them, we consume their flesh. Animals are not food! Animals deserve the same rights as you or me! PETA opposes speciesism, a human-supremacist worldview, and…”

Rose turned her face into the Doctor’s arm to hide her laughter, pressing her lips together as tightly as she could, but she couldn’t keep her shoulders from shaking. His face was equally buried in her hair, his entire frame trembling from holding back his laughter.

“So, in addition to today’s demonstration, we’re going to lie down on the ground and observe a moment of silence for the millions of innocent animals slaughtered needlessly!”

Rose shook harder. A die-in? For PETA?

“So, comrades, lay down with me! We oppose the laboratories! We oppose the food industry!”

The Doctor pulled away from her and she looked up to meet his eyes, which were swimming with tears of laughter. He jerked his head to indicate they should leave, but she smiled at him, poking her tongue through her teeth and pulled him down to the ground with her, laughing at his pained expression. He shook his head even as he was bending his legs to join her.

“No, no Rose, come on,” he whispered. “I’m too old to lay on the damn ground for a cause I don’t even agree with. And it’s bloody freezing.”

“Suck it up, you big baby, you’re the one that didn’t bother checkin’ before dragging us here,” she teased, lying flat on her back and turning her head towards him.

“Oh yes, because you were drug kickin’ and screamin’ against your will,” he muttered, laying down next to her. “And don’t think I won’t get you back for that comment, Rose Tyler,” he warned, turning his face to hers.

“Promises, promises,” she sighed with a playfully longing tone, adding a tongue-touched grin to ensure he knew she was teasing.

His eyes darkened, the indulgent mirth of his expression transforming into something that turned her bones liquid. Her teasing grin dropped, her mouth parting in shock at the expression on his face. It was like the look he’d given her outside his lecture hall after her accidental innuendo, or after he’d bluntly asked, “Do you always do as you’re told?” or the wicked grin she’d gotten in response to asking about his past partner’s nicknames for him, but all dialed up to an eleven. If she’d had any doubt before about exactly what he wanted from her, they were absolutely gone.

And if she’d had any doubts about how much she wanted to give it to him, she couldn’t even remember what they would’ve been.

“You want to try that again?” The Doctor growled.

“Nope,” Rose squeaked, wincing at how needy her voice sounded, even in her own ears.

The Doctor rolled up on his side, facing her, propping his head up on his elbow so he could look down at her. “I think, you’ll find, that you do. Because you may have me down on the ground now, but turnabout is fair play.”

His free hand came up slowly, deliberately enough she could track his movements with her peripheral vision, and he traced the edge of her jaw with that same crooked finger as before. The one that haunted her most wonderful dreams and fantasies.

“But I don’t play fair,” he finished in a low, dark whisper.

Her heart stopped beating entirely. He was finally going to kiss her. Right here, on the ground, in this middle of this comedy of errors. Her bones were already liquid, her leaking arousal dripping from the edges of her knickers and running downwards, she could feel it on the inside of her thighs and more. If he kissed her right now, she was convinced he could snog her right to an orgasm, here on the cold ground.

When his finger came up under her chin, she tilted up eagerly, prompting a chuckle from the back of his throat.

“Stop laughing and kiss me, dammit!” She screamed mentally.

With her head positioned the way he wanted it, his hand slid around to the back of her neck, cupping the back of her head and holding her still, his eyes dark and wide.

“I like this dress,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her hair.

“Doctor,” she breathed, close to begging. “James—”

Before she could even revel in the way his eyes brightened at her impulsive use of his first name, a sharp pain burst alight along her hip— causing her to cry out. She jumped reflexively, turning towards the source in confusion even as she pushed herself closer to the Doctor unconsciously for protection. His arms drew her in automatically, tight against his chest as they both looked up at the short, angry and red-faced, middle-aged man that stared down at them.

“What do you think you’re doing? Making a mockery of our protest?” He spit out savagely.

“Did you just kick me?” Rose asked in disbelief.

“Did you kick her?” The Doctor’s voice echoed, low and severe.

He stood slowly, pulling Rose to her feet and turning her so she was tucked into his side and behind him slightly, with his arm wrapped around her front as a barrier. He utterly towered over the man before them, who was already looking like he regretted the very day he was born in the face of the Doctor’s anger. The Doctor was protective fury; vengeful, thundering anger. His eyes flashed like a storm, and she might have imagined it, but for a moment it seemed as though he was shaking with the effort of holding himself back, and it was like the rumbling of a distant thundercloud.

“Are the two of you wearing leather?” Another voice asked, this time coming from behind Rose.

Rose turned, keeping her side pressed against the Doctor’s back and within the reach of his arm that curled backwards around her, to see several angry women walking up to them. The rest of the small crowd, thirty or so people, had either risen to their feet or propped themselves up off of the ground to watch the conflict. While she and the Doctor had been on the edge of the gathering, as she tended to try and stay, the people that had risen had encircled them fully. Her heart sped up so fast in her chest that she felt dizzy.

Surrounded by a crowd that was closing in on her, no matter how small the crowd, was her biggest nightmare. After Adam had abandoned her, she’d never forgotten the crushing feeling of being lost in a sea of bodies, being knocked around against her will, and being unable to see a way out. That crowd in particular—a mob of her very few crazed fans, who were mostly men— had been much taller than her as well, and she’d slipped under the weight of them pressing against her. If she’d fallen fully she would’ve been trampled, and she still had no idea how she’d gotten out relatively unscathed. She knew there were videos of the incident, but she’d never been able to stomach watching them.

Unlike the fear she lived in of men like Saxon and Jimmy, which she could control for the most part, this fear was wild and overpowering, as it rose up with no warning. She’d done her best to beat it, since she lived so much of her life in crowds, but this one was actively closing in on them.

She held her trembling hands up in surrender towards the advancing women, and stuttered out, “But we bought them used already, they’re both vintage. It’s better for the environment.” She had no idea if that was true of the Doctor’s coat, or if the argument held any weight, but she was grasping at straws and fighting rising panic.

“Listen,” the Doctor’s voice rose loud enough to speak to the man in front of him and the women in front of Rose. “If we aren’t welcome, then we’ll just leave. Soon as you answer for kicking my companion—”

“Is that what we’re callin’ it now?”

“Excuse me?”

The Doctor took a step forward towards the man threateningly but, feeling him move from her and exposing her side, Rose panicked and latched onto his arm that was still curved around her protectively with a short yelp. His head whipped between her and the man in front of him, who grew bolder at the Doctor’s halt.

Rose was frozen, her instinct to run seemingly vanished except for the explosive energy that filled her limbs with no outlet. The shorter man who had kicked her was screaming at the Doctor now, but she was unable to make out the words he was saying as they blurred into a dull roar in her ears. The women in front her had ceased advancing, their angry expressions shifting into near concern as her panic mounted, but even as her eyes acknowledged that fact, her panicked mind couldn’t comprehend it. The throbbing pain in her hip from the short kick she’d received was far stronger than it should have been as her body was torn between past and present.

A louder shout sounded, and she was being spun, the world blurring in front of her eyes.

She finally unfroze, her arms instinctively coming up to protect her face, just as strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and her body was pulled protectively into a warm, solid chest. She felt drops of something warm, wet, and too thick to be water splash on her face and she saw red on the Doctor’s shoulders dripping down and falling onto her face.

She screamed, raw and anguished.

Her vision blurred into red, black, blue. So much red. How was there that much red? Had he been shot— stabbed? How would she help him? He was going to die, and she was so fucking useless—

“—nt! Rose! Rose, it’s paint! Listen, you’ve got to list—” his voice faded in and out, but she couldn’t hold onto it. She clawed at his chest, pushing him away and drawing him closer all at once. His arms were caging her in— protecting her— suffocating her.

His hands came up and held her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. She couldn’t for several moments, her eyes darting around in panic, before the frantic wild eyed expression on his face drew her in. His eyes were clear and blue and steady, and he held her still, giving her something to ground herself to. She became aware of her hyperventilating breaths and the stream of nonsense that was pouring from her mouth.

“Please don’t, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean— please don’t be hurt,” she begged, repeating herself over and over.

“I’m not hurt, love, it’s paint,” he said, his voice strained and desperate to reach her. “Please, precious girl, you’ve gotta take some deep breaths for me, just breath with me.”

He took an overlarge deep breath, encouraging her to do the same, slowly guiding her into deeper and more steady breathing, never taking his hands from her face or letting her look anywhere but his eyes. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, smearing the paint, but the motion gave her something else to focus on.

“Good girl, that’s it, just keep breathing,” his voice was gentle and steady.

As she calmed and her body relaxed minutely, and her blood stopped rushing so strongly in her ears it blocked out the noise of the world around them, she became aware of approaching sirens, slamming doors, and indignant shouting. She jolted, her head turning nervously towards the sound, but he gently pulled her back.

“Don’t worry about that, love, just keep your eyes on me,” he murmured.

“That’s— that’s easy,” she said, her tongue thick in her mouth. “I like lookin’ at you.”

His lips quirked up in a small smile, and a relieved laugh bubbled from his chest. Rose still felt somewhat dizzy and unbalanced, her heart rate still slightly elevated, but the crushing panic that had blanketed her was fading, and her mind was working sluggishly now, rather than not at all.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, love,” the Doctor told her.

Her dizziness was further chased away by the resurgence of butterflies in her stomach at his use of the endearment. Her cheeks grew warm, and she knew he felt it under his hands and saw the pink rising to the surface of her skin, because his smile turned knowing.

“No, I do,” she insisted, ashamed. “You tried to have us leave and I should’ve listened. We both knew these people are unreasonable, it’s my fault we got in this position, and then I freaked out and you—”

“It’s nobody’s fault except that fucker that kicked you,” the Doctor growled. “If I got my hands on him—”

“No!” Rose exclaimed, a little too loud. “No! I don’t ever want you to do that!”

Panic began to rise in her again, threatening to overwhelm her once more, but she was desperate to make him understand. Her hands, still clenching the front of his shirt, shook once more, this time from the force with which she gripped the fabric.

“Don’t,” she begged. “Please, I couldn’t stand it. You can’t get hurt because of me, and I couldn’t stand to see… to watch you—”

“Hurt someone else,” he finished morosely.

She nodded, calmed slightly by his understanding.

“I’m not worth that,” she whispered. “And you’re a doctor. You’re the Doctor.”

The Doctor looked like he was going to argue further, his thumbs stilling where they were still stroking her cheeks and his mouth opening as if to speak. A beat passed, and he closed his mouth with a click of his teeth slamming together, and his hands slipped from her cheeks as his arms wound around her back and crushed her to his chest. Deciding she still wasn’t close enough, he bent and slid his arms to her waist, lifting her when he stood back up. She threw her arms around him and tried to bury her face into his neck but yelped and pulled back when her hand touched something wet and thick. The paint.

“Oh, your coat,” she lamented.

He set her down gently and pulled back just enough to try and twist around and see his own back, prompting a burst of laughter from her. He turned back with a goofy grin, though his eyes were still soft.

“S’alright,” he said, “Laugh it up. Me best coat covered in paint and you’re gigglin’.”

“Doctor, that’s your only coat—”

“Excuse me,” a stern voice interrupted.

Rose and the Doctor turned towards the interruption in unison, immediately on guard. The Doctor wrapped his arm around her waist again protectively, tucking her partially behind him at his side. A police officer with a scrunched up face stood before them, looking for all the world like she’d been personally spited by the happiness of others. She exuded a general aura of disagreeable, the kind that it wouldn’t matter what kind of opinion you’d express; she’d find a way to argue. Even her name seemed disagreeable, the badge on her chest gleaming with the name Slitheen emblazoned. Her nose was wrinkled in distaste, her eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them with scrutiny.

“We need to get a statement from you regarding the altercation that occurred,” she said. Despite the declaration voicing no opinion on the situation, nor even one being necessary, her tone was overly judgmental.

“Right, actually, yes,” the Doctor started, relaxing a bit on his protective stance. “That man over there kicked my Rose, while we were lyin’ down, and then while he was screaming at us, that other woman over there came up behind him and threw a bucket o’ paint at us. I’d like to press charges on them both.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she wrote down no notes, but Rose couldn’t bring herself to care when she was floating so high on the Doctor calling her “his” Rose.

“What were you on the ground for?” She questioned.

“We were participatin’ in the protest!” The Doctor responded indignantly. “We were around when it started and joined in for a lark.”

“What prompted the man to come up and interact with you and your… partner?”

“Assault, you mean,” he growled back at the judgmental officer. “He assaulted her. Unprompted. As I said, we were participatin’ in the protest.”

“That is in direct contradiction to the statement we’ve received from him,” the officer sniveled.

Rose rolled her eyes. Of course it was!

The officer whipped out a pocket notebook, finally, flipped to the last page, and began reading aloud: “Witness states that the other subjects in question— described as a tall man in a black leather coat, dark hair, and an average sized woman in a blue coat and dress, blonde hair— were engaging in lewd behavior and became argumentative when asked to cease, becoming more and more threatening as altercation continued. Subjects were unnecessarily combative, prompting bystander to respond in a defensive and non-violent manner, i.e., distraction, in attempt to deescalate until officers could arrive.”

Rose’s jaw dropped. Non-violent?

“This is beyond ridiculous,” the Doctor argued. “There are cameras on the side of these buildings, let me just call campus security. I’m a professor here.”

“We’ll take care of that, sir,” the officer interrupted. “For now, the two of you are being detained and we’ll continue questioning at the station.”

“What?” Rose blurted. “You can’t just detain someone for no reason, you said you were just takin’ our statements. And this entire situation could be cleared up if you’d just watch the bloody cameras!”

“And we will obtain that footage and analyze it. At the station.”

Rose couldn’t help it. She burst into laughter. Irrepressible laughter bubbled from her throat, and the officer’s already pinched face became darker in anger, causing Rose to laugh harder.

She was finally getting arrested at a protest. For a cause she didn’t support— an organization anyway— and an altercation that interrupted the Doctor about to finally kiss her.

A bloody stranger had kicked her in the hip while the Doctor had been driving her to near insanity, while some bint with a bullhorn screamed at them about leather! She was also relatively certain that both the man that kicked her, and now the officer— since he’d given his statement first— were implying that she was a prostitute. As if the Doctor needed to pay for a prostitute, like he wasn’t the sexiest bloke on the fucking planet.

The Doctor’s hand gently touched her arm, getting her attention, and she looked up to see his concerned face. She continued to laugh, tears beginning to sting the corners of her eyes. Her day had started with the argument with Malcom at the restaurant, she’d thrown up and burned off a layer of her own skin in disgust, and she’d damn near snogged the man she was pretty sure she was falling in love with on the ground at a PETA protest! She’d been assaulted, faced with her actual worst fear and had the worst panic attack she’d had in years, only to come back down and do full 180 into pure joy when the Doctor called her his, and now the two of them were being detained by the human equivalent of a damn canker sore.

“If you won’t come willingly, I will be forced to restrain you,” the officer warned.

“You’ll do no such fuckin’ thing,” the Doctor spat in warning, “She’s clearly still havin’ a panic attack. If you’ll remember, she was fucking assaulted.”

Her hysterical laughter died down into hypoxic little giggles. To call what that git had done to her assault would be funny as well if it weren’t so fucking sad.

“Will you be coming willingly?” The officer pressed, setting her hands on her hips in a way Rose assumed she thought was threatening.

“Absolutely not,” Rose giggled. “But I suppose I won’t make a fuss.”

“Rose, we absolutely do not have to comply with this—” the Doctor interjected. “It’s utterly ridiculous.”

“Doctor, I just want to go home. This way’ll be quicker, yeah?”

Bone weary exhaustion crashed over her at the admission, killing the last of her giggles. He searched her face with skepticism, protective worry etching frown lines into his cheeks and furrowing his brow, but ultimately, he nodded. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tucking her firmly into his side, and turned back to the officer.

“Alright,” he sighed. “Lead the damned way.”

Chapter Text

Three hours later, Rose was dead on her feet. They were still sitting at the precinct, but the officers had finally gotten the camera footage from the surrounding buildings. The far kinder officer that had questioned them at the station assured them it wouldn’t take long to go through the footage and offered to bring them another cuppa, which the Doctor had accepted but Rose had refused. Police and police stations brought up too many bad memories and her stomach was too volatile to hold anything. Off-handedly, she recognized she should be worried about that, having only picked at a salad for lunch, hours ago, but even the thought of something from the ancient looking vending machine in the corner made her nausea return.

The Doctor’s arm was still wrapped around her shoulder protectively, and the officers had given him a large plastic bag to throw his paint splattered leather coat in, so his body heat soaked into hers through just the thin material of his jumper. She’d taken her coat off and draped it in her lap to try and savor it. Unfortunately, the chairs were too uncomfortable for her to snuggle into his side the way she wanted to, but she did her best. Her back ached from the twisted position, but she resolutely kept her head on his chest, keeping herself calm by his heartbeat. It was the most they’d ever huddled together, though she hung on his arm and laid her head against him often, and she was torn between the joy of it— of how right and wonderful it felt to be cuddled up at his side— and the exhaustion of the situation.

His sullen attitude hadn’t gotten much better either— particularly after the station officer explained that the man who had kicked her and given his statement first had told the responding officer that she was a prostitute, as she’d suspected, which had been part of the reason behind their detention— so for the first time, they sat in relative silence together. The silence itself wasn’t uncomfortable, though she itched to pester him with questions, to tease him, for a semblance of normal, she simply did not have the energy to.

Rose shut her eyes and tried to shut out the rest of the world, focusing on the warmth of his body against hers, the rise and fall of his chest under her head, and the occasional kiss she felt him press into her hair. If she could just ignore the buzz of the station around her, and the uncomfortable seats, and the smell of paint that unfortunately overpowered his normally wonderful masculine scent, she could almost imagine they were somewhere else. Cuddled up together, alone, maybe on the park bench where they’d spent several hours together the day they’d first met. And they would stay once again until the street lights came on and the chill drove them away, even their shared body heat not enough to warm them, but this time he would take her back to his flat where they could warm up together. They could crawl into his bed, back into each other’s arms, pull the comforter up, and block out the world.

Eventually, the station officer stepped out of the room where they had been reviewing the footage and the Doctor reluctantly nudged her up, offering her an apologetic expression. The officer gave them a soft smile and an apology of his own. Rose resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the ‘good cop’ routine and tried to be grateful that the man wasn’t being a total arse on top of being a cop, at least for the moment. It was a welcome change from the way officers normally treated her, both at protests and when she had still been trying to pursue a case against Saxon.

“Well, as expected, the two of you are free to go, unless you’re looking to press charges for the kick,” he stated.

“Yes—”

“No.”

The Doctor and Rose spoke at the same time. Rose shot him a look for attempting to speak for her, which he returned with one that was incredulous and slightly angry that she said no. Rose could tell his anger came from being mad at the man, and from his knowledge that she wasn’t pressing it because of her opinion that she wasn’t worth the fuss, not at her, especially when it dissolved quickly into sad resignation.

He nodded, squeezing her shoulder in apology.

Relief crashed over her. If he had kept pressing, she wouldn’t have been able to explain why it would be useless, or why the seemingly kind officer’s attitude would change immediately when he saw she had another case file under her name. Or why there was another case file under her name.

Or why she couldn’t possibly, regardless of any of that, because it left a trail that Saxon could find. As it was, she’d barely kept her panic in check at their detention. If they’d truly been arrested… she didn’t even want to think about what he might’ve done. She was barely managing to keep the Doctor a secret from him, and that was only possible at all because of the way Saxon had backed off in the last few months. Her demanding to stay in London until the tour might keep something from happening like when he’d sent her to America for almost a month after going on a couple of dates, but she was also far more careful than she used to be. No, she wouldn’t dare risk leaving anything Saxon could find, especially not over something so utterly inconsequential, when so much was at stake with the Doctor, and her new freedom.

“No,” she repeated, turning to face the officer. “I just want to go home.”

“Alright, well, here’s my card. Let me know if you change your mind within the next couple days, yeah? Sir, you can also press charges for destruction of property within the next couple of days, even if you manage to get your coat cleaned. Technically, there’s no statute of limitation for either, but it goes better if you do it quickly. Let’s get you processed out and you’ll be good to go for now, though.”

Another tedious half hour found them finally standing outside the station, staring at each other. Neither of them had a wallet, and she couldn’t use her phone to pay for anything, as it had long since died while they sat at the station. The Doctor’s wallet was once again forgotten in his office, and Rose hadn’t bothered to bring anything but her ID, keys, and now dead phone, assuming he would drive her home. She steeled herself against the exhaustion that was weighing her down, preparing for the long walk back to his car.

“Hold on,” he said, “My sister works near here, she can give us a ride back to the university. Let me call her?”

Rose nodded and sat on the steps while he walked a few feet away to make the call. She contemplated texting Donna, once her phone was charged as she had several unanswered texts from the woman pestering her about the night before at the Doctor’s flat, but she was too emotionally drained to explain the wild array of emotions she’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours. And hear the woman complain more about how she and the Doctor still hadn’t shagged yet. Donna had had a near fit, calling her to demand why her location was at her own flat, after she’d not heard from her and had opened it to check on her. She’d briefly explained the not-quite spat they’d had, and her friend had reluctantly agreed that it made sense why she’d gone back to her flat instead. She knew the pestering texts were only to distract her from her first public outing from Malcom, god bless Donna, but she just hadn't the energy to respond, even before the protest.

Donna had also teased her that she’d hadn’t yet told her the name of her new bloke and accused her of hiding him until she could ‘secure the bag,’ so Donna wouldn’t be tempted to steal him. Rose had teased back that she could know his name once she introduced them, and that yes, it would be after they’d shagged, because if he wasn’t good, she wasn’t keeping him. The two of them had laughed themselves hoarse but after her friend had hung up, Rose had laid awake for hours, imagining introducing the two of them. She’d hesitated to even talk about Donna with him, despite the fact that she was possibly the most important person in her life, because of how intertwined her relationship with the older woman was with Bad Wolf. But she wanted it so badly, for two of the most important people in her life to meet— but now, if they did, the first thing Donna would ask would be if they’d done it.

God, she’d wanted to shag him tonight.

She wondered longingly if he would let her spend the night with him anyway. Curling up in his warm, protective embrace for real sounded just as wonderful. She wanted it so badly that, for a moment, she could already feel the cozy warmth of his jumper that she would steal to sleep in swallowing her frame, feel the delicate porcelain of the thistle patterned mug in her hands, and hear the soft music coming from the record player. She wanted nothing more than to melt into his arms and feel him draw the blanket up over them, and drift off to sleep, safe and protected.

Somewhere Saxon wouldn’t know where she was, where the world couldn’t reach her.

She wanted it so desperately, and she was so confident that he would allow it, that she settled onto the steps of the station with the certainty that it was only a matter of waiting for him to get off the phone, and it would be reality. This experience had changed something between them, and despite knowing there would be a difficult conversation sooner rather than later regarding her panic attack and what had triggered it, she couldn’t help but think that it was for the better. They’d never been platonic, not with the flirting and the heated looks and the near kisses, but they’d danced across the line between romance and commitment. However, the Doctor had all but declared his commitment today, with his possessive and protective statements.

Rose had been prepared for one or both of them to be frightened off by any show of real commitment— not for lack of wanting on her part, but fear of rejection or retaliation— but she was surprised at how fiercely she wanted to cling to it instead.

She’d known she wanted it, him, but the thing between them that had changed had taken that want, that desire, and transformed it into need. His protective strength, his gentle steadiness, it was everything she’d been missing and everything she needed to toss her rulebook out of the window. She’d never felt as safe and supported as she did with him. It frightened her, given her past mistakes, but not enough to hold her back any longer.

Rose had made her decision. It was time to tell him. It was time to tell him everything. Time to lay herself bare and accept the comfort and support and understanding that she knew he would give her. Determination settled over her as she settled back to wait on him to return from his phone call.

She watched with amusement as he spoke with his sister, his expression going from sheepish, to indignant, to miffed, to indulgent and laughing within the span of a few minutes.

The way he spoke about his sister was so loving, even when he was telling her about how stubborn and annoying she was, it was always followed up by, ‘oh, but she’s fantastic,’ and some story about how she had done something he deemed particularly brilliant. He admitted openly that they bickered like cats and dogs, but also that he’d do anything for her, his little sister. It warmed her from a place deep in her heart to see that he treated his sister like one of the most important aspects of his life, and despite the circumstances, she couldn’t deny that she was happy to meet the woman. Especially after the text she’d sent her with the video of the Doctor climbing a tree to retrieve a child’s kite and telling her that her name in his phone was just the sun emoji, which made her lightheaded every time she thought about it. She hadn’t been brave enough to ask him about it yet, but she loved imagining it popping up on his phone every time she texted him.

“Oi, genius, me-- and you know it!”The Doctor retorted into his phone with a snort.

He was returning over to her and smiled when he looked up and saw her already looking at him.

“Yeah alright, see you soon, Don,” he said, hanging up and folding his lithe frame down next to her. He sat a couple steps below her and leaned back on his elbows, their heads at an approximate height from the posture. “She said she’d be here in five, which means we have at least ten,” he informed her.

Rose snorted out a laugh, “That sounds like Donna.”

Her best friend was always late like that as well, always moving in like a hurricane. Though it had scared her to bring the two sides of her life together, now that she’d decided to tell the Doctor about Bad Wolf, she simply couldn’t wait. If he knew about Bad Wolf, he could know about Donna, and Donna could meet him, and everything would be perfect— as much as it could be for now, up until the contract was over. She still didn’t know what would happen after, but even the task of surviving the next few months seemed easier now.

She had Donna. She had the Doctor.

What else mattered anyway?

The Doctor laughed, and some of Rose’s exhaustion lifted with the sound. The silence was comfortable again for a few moments while Rose gathered up the courage to say what she wanted to say. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her knee to get his attention, her butterflies returning when he smiled at her softly.

“Thanks,” she said, her throat constricting with emotion. “For takin’ care of me. For caring.”

Not exactly the depth of emotion she wanted to express, but as usual, the Doctor had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts.

“Course,” he replied, keeping her same level of casual, but letting his emotions shine in his eyes. “I know how it goes.” A flicker of understanding passed between their eyes. A few more moments of silence relaxed them further.

“Did you mean what you said?” She asked, not bothering to nudge him for his attention this time.

Though her voice was quieter, she knew he heard her, knew that he understood what she was really asking, for confirmation of what she felt was true already in her heart, but wanted them to be on the same page, nevertheless.

“Depends on what you mean,” he murmured. “Said a lot of things today. Meant most of ‘em.”

“When you said… when you said, ‘my Rose,’” she whispered. “Did you mean that?”

Her bravery and surety faltered as the question lingered in the air between them. Now that it had been vocalized, now that it was outside the safety of her heart, the chance that she could be wrong, that he could say no was still there.

Instead of just turning to face her again, he lifted himself up until he was on the same step as her first. Her heart raced when his hand came up to cradle her jaw and lift her eyes to his. His thumb stroked her cheek, and her eyes fluttered shut briefly as she leaned into his palm. She couldn’t remember the last time someone touched her as gently as he did.

“How would you feel about it if I did?” He questioned softly.

“James,” she breathed, “Please just tell me.”

“I love it when you say my name,” he said instead.

The Doctor pulled her in as he bent down, crashing their mouths together tenderly, but firmly. His lips were just as soft as she’d imagined they would be, and he was just as controlling and gentle as she’d fantasized. He captured her bottom lip between his and swiped it with his tongue, eliciting a gasp from her that he took advantage of to slip into her mouth. She let him control the kiss, but returned it enthusiastically, attempting to pour ever bit of her adoration into brushing her lips against his, the tangle of their tongues together. Even the way their noses bumped into each other as they pulled each other closer made it more real.

He kept steady control of her head as she clutched at the front of his jumper and melted, passionately ravaging her mouth until she was breathless. He pulled back, panting himself, and dropped his forehead to hers.

“Fuck, Rose,” he groaned. “Yes. My Rose.”

“Are the two of you bleedin’ finished?” An angry, female voice called out, interrupting the ecstatic sob that escaped Rose’s lips.

A familiar angry voice.

“Didn’t realize you got arrested for public fucking indecency, Spaceman, and that you’re lookin’ to go for it again. You do realize you’re still at the police station?”

Slowly, Rose turned away from the Doctor, who was sighing but chuckling to himself softly, oblivious to the way she’d stiffened.

Her eyes confirmed what her ears had already told her. Donna was hanging out the driver’s side window of her familiar car to shout at them, and her jaw dropped in recognition.

“Rose?”

Chapter Text

“So let me get this straight,” Donna asked, her blue eyes— the same blue as the Doctor’s, Rose cringed— flashing at them from the rearview mirror. “The man you’ve been seeing, the one you told me about weeks ago, is my twin brother, and you had no idea?”

Rose had just enough mental capacity to recognize that her tone wasn’t angry or accusatory, but incredulous.

“It would seem that way,” Rose muttered, her face warm and red. “He always said little sister…”

She hadn’t been brave enough to look over at the Doctor, who had been suspiciously silent, since he’d dropped her hand like a hot coal after she’d taken it for comfort. The rejection stung painfully, especially so soon after she’d thought they were finally moving towards something real. At first, she thought it was just embarrassment at having been caught snogging by his sister. She’d quickly realized, from his stony silence that held no hint of the adorable flustering she’d seen in him when she showed him affection before, that was not the case.

“And you, dumbo, you’ve been going on and on and on about this girl and you neglected to mention her name? Actually— how were no names mentioned this entire time? By either of you? Not even enough to say, ‘oh my sister and your friend have the same name, isn’t that wizard?’”

Rose couldn’t even be excited to hear that he’d talked about her when all he did was shrug. She hadn’t realized, until their conversation the night before, that she’d never mentioned the Doctor’s name to Donna. It had been a mere coincidence. The Doctor, on the other hand, she had purposefully not spoken with about Donna. Her friend was so connected to her life as Bad Wolf that it was impossible to separate them. Not to mention that, despite how deeply she felt for him, it really had only been a month.

“How do you two know each other?” The Doctor asked coolly as his only response. Rose could tell, even without looking, that the question was directed at her.

“Donna’s my best friend,” she said softly, looking down at her lap. “We met at work. Told you I worked for Saxon Studios, yeah?”

“What exactly do you do for Saxon Studios, Rose?” His voice held a hard edge that only hours ago had been in her favor.

Protective and suspicious, angry on his sister’s behalf. He clearly believed she was on some secret mission to sabotage Donna or something, and if his anger didn’t pierce her so deeply she’d be touched by his concern for his sister’s career. If it didn’t mean it was her on the other end of his barely concealed temper.

If just moments ago she hadn’t thought she’d finally been safe and maybe even loved.

“Oi, don’t take that tone with her,” Donna snapped. “She’s got an NDA; she’s not hidin’ anything from you.”

“Must be a pretty big fuckin’ secret to require an NDA,” he snapped, viciously.

“But it’s one I know the details of, dumbo, so knock it off! Quit acting like there’s a damn conspiracy going on and apologize to your girlfriend.”

Rose turned and leaned her head against the window, a sob rising up in her chest. She’d had a brief glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t work it out, that he would assume it was all just a big, strange coincidence, but he was too intelligent for that. He’d picked up on the nervousness she had displayed immediately, and with that uncanny ability he had to read her mind, he’d known there was more to it than happenstance. His descent into anger had been gradual, the longer the silence stretched on with no explanation, and with the lack of Donna or Rose laughing or otherwise discussing. The tense silence between the three of them compounded until he was utterly seething.

“Just tell him, Donna,” she cried out, begging her friend for help, feeling more like a child begging her older sister to fix what she could not. “I can’t, you know I can’t.”

She couldn’t— the safety she thought she’d finally found had been what was giving her the strength to tell him, when she’d made the decision to. Now she couldn’t find it in her to leap the hurdle, desperate as though she was to.

Donna sighed and stayed silent for a moment before speaking.

“Jamie,” she started. Rose’s heart clenched. She remembered the Doctor telling her that his sister called him Jamie when she was trying to be nice. “Do you remember what I told you about that singer, Bad Wolf?”

Rose met her eyes in the rearview again in surprise, and Donna flashed her an apologetic look. Rose’s dread mounted.

“Yes,” the Doctor said through gritted teeth. Donna waited, saying nothing. “I see,” he said finally. “And in nearly a full month, that didn’t come up? Not even when we talked about Bad Wolf?" Again, directed at her. She curled in on herself further, but didn’t answer.

“Please,” she begged to herself. Any moment now, the Doctor would realize— he would see how upset she was, how frightened. Her Doctor would come back, and this angry man would be gone, and she could tell him—

But, what more could she say? He clearly didn’t care. Both she and Donna had told him that she couldn’t have possibly shared it with him so soon, before she could be sure about him, but he still cared more about his fucking ego than about her. He wouldn’t even pause for her to tell him that she was going to tell him tonight.

Everything was shattering around her.

She also would have thought he would’ve understood her hesitancy to open up fully beyond that as well, given his response and understanding following her reaction to Toby. She knew that he knew, at least vaguely, what she’d been through. She’d known he had anger issues but never imagined they would be directed at her like this. At least, not so soon. She found that she couldn’t even defend herself in the face of it, old instincts to curl up and shut up taking over. She’d never even thought to try and guard herself against the Doctor, she’d been so sure of her safety with him. She’d been so sure that he would understand.

The pain of it felt brand new, despite the hundreds of times she’d found herself in the exact same position. How had she gotten it wrong again?

“Donna, you can let me out here,” he said icily, after moments of silence waiting for Rose to respond.

Hot tears rolled down her face, but she would not beg him to stay or to listen. She’d been begging people to listen to her for years. She knew how useless it was.

Donna didn’t argue. She pulled off to the curb and he was gone nearly before she stopped, slamming the car door behind him, making her flinch.

Rose didn’t watch him go.

Chapter Text

Somehow, Rose went back to business as usual. No matter how her head pounded from crying, or her limbs ached from curling into an unmoving ball all night— after three days spent in bed, mourning, not even bothering to go to her volunteer hours on Monday— her alarm went off at five thirty a.m. as always. She forced herself to move woodenly though her loft, to dress in her soft exercise clothes and tie up her hair. Her wig left a burning, itching trail across her skin where it touched her before she tied it up as well, and the one piece of toast she’d eaten mechanically sat like a lead weight in her stomach.

She felt numb.

Her mind moved sluggishly, but she was surprised that it moved at all. She’d expected more, but her mind had simply shut down instead of facing the pain. She kept her phone off the entire weekend, unable to stand the texts and calls from Donna checking in on her, and the lack of anything from him.

She didn’t cry again.

The day after that was easier. Rising in the morning before dawn as usual, her head ached from lack of sleep and little food, but her mechanical motions got her through. As she’d told Saxon only weeks before, she could do the choreography in her sleep, and she managed the entire rehearsal in a disassociated fog. A few of her backup dancers, whom she was friendly enough with to chat on breaks, asked her hesitantly if she was alright, but she’d brushed them off.

A week went by, and she started trying to convince herself the Doctor had been a dream. It helped, marginally, to imagine him as a mere figment of her imagination, a product of her exhausted and lonely mind.

“Of course he hadn’t been real,” Rose told herself chidingly. There was no other option for a girl like her. A stunning, kind, brilliant professor, giving a stupid, Estate chav like her more than a sideways glance in the street? Come off it, Tyler, get your head out the clouds.

She returned Donna’s texts with brief, vague responses, assuring her that she was fine. They hadn’t even really been together, she told her friend, there was nothing to truly break off.

“Yes. My Rose,” echoed in her mind until she collapsed in utter exhaustion at the end of each day.

She kept herself busy, going back to the soup kitchen on Mondays— not allowing Teagan and Nyssa to pry into the week she’d missed— and filled the free time she had been spending with the Doctor on extra volunteer hours, or just wandering around London, trying to feel human again. To feel human at all, if she even knew what that meant any more. Anything to not be in her empty, lonely flat, alone with her thoughts. The place was too cold, too impersonal, to draw any comfort from. The November air chilled her to the bone, settling so deep in her marrow she knew she’d never be rid of it.

Weeks went by glacially slow, and the numbness hardened into anger. If she let something as silly as a breakup with a man she hadn’t really even been in a relationship with get her down… well that just wasn’t her. No matter how much it hurt, Rose Tyler got back up. She’d been pushed down for too long, let herself be made small for too long. She wouldn’t let him— some figment of her imagination— make her feel bad about doing what she had to do to survive. Protecting her identity was survival, and he hadn’t even tried to understand. He hadn’t even tried to understand. He hadn’t even let her explain. He’d been so sure he knew the lot of it that he’d thrown it all away and hadn’t even texted her once.

She fell into a deep, simmering fury at him, and tried with renewed vigor to convince herself that she’d imagined him. The fury only lasted when she stoked the flame however, falling into melancholy the instant she let her guard down once more. Her fitful sleep was full of dreams that cycled between watching him walk away over and over— the face that she couldn’t bring herself to see him make in real life shifting between anger and pure hatred— to seeing him come back with apologies on his tongue so sincere she would wake up and the renewed heartbreak would make her breathless all over again.

She refused to cry, though, after those first few days. He wasn’t worth her tears.

She finally agreed to meet Donna for lunch, after nearly a month. She felt awful about missing her birthday a few days before but hadn’t been able to overcome that fact that it was his birthday as well. Twins. Her faint daydream of being able to spend the day celebrating with him and possibly meeting his family stabbed at her in alternating anger and numbness.

Donna had offered to meet at her favorite chippy, but Rose declined. Like everything else in her little world, the restaurant was too heavily associated with him now. She hadn’t been back there since the faraway dream of her night with the Doctor, where her phantom had forgotten his wallet, and they’d haunted the streets of London together.

She’d been spending too much time alone, she mused. She was becoming too poetic for her own good.

Puppets do not write poetry.

Getting out to see Donna would be good. If her fiery friend could keep her thoughts and opinions to herself— which, counter to what one might believe when it came to Donna, she was capable of— she had a spark in her that helped Rose feel alive as well. She had missed her friend and thought with renewed determination that she would not let the Doctor’s ego take Donna from her too. He would go back to being her best friend’s nameless brother, and the Doctor that held her hand was not real.

Her walk to the sandwich shop was almost cheery. Almost invigorating. The cold, early- December air bit at her lungs sharply, and the pain was physical and real. People were bustling about, Christmas lights twinkling in every window. Only eight months of her contract remained, and she had enough saved that maybe she could leave London, and get away from the ghost that was following her, that stood at every crosswalk like a reminder of the different direction her life almost went in.

The thought of traveling also reminded her of him, how he’d told her he’d been everywhere, and teased her about her dream to drive across America. Even pushing the reminder aside, the dream felt more realistic than it once had. Even in her turmoiled state, she did feel more awake than she had in years, more human. At the very least, she simply felt more. Between her volunteering and getting out of the flat on a regular basis, and slowly but surely beginning to actually believe she could make a life for herself outside of Saxon’s crushing grip, everything around her felt more real.

Maybe that made it hurt more, but she didn’t think it was a bad thing.

Maybe all the Doctor would be to her was a dream, and now that she was awake he would disappear, like dreams always do. But that didn’t make him less. He’d been a catalyst, the inspiration she needed in seeing a life for herself that was worth living, but she had to be the one to make it a reality. New resolve strengthened her, pushing away the fog and numbness, the cold air sharpening her mind. Her friend, her best friend, waited for her at the end of her journey today and that was real too, Rose thought, with a bright surge of determination.

At the end of it, she would always have Donna.

Her stomach almost growled for the first time in weeks when she entered, and the aroma of freshly baked bread hit her nose.

Rose saw the red shock of Donna’s hair almost immediately when she looked around the dining room. Her friend’s vibrancy and warmth was so bright that it had to literally grow out of her, to be declared as soon as one saw her.

She saw it only second to the Doctor’s piercing blue gaze narrowing in on her.

The flood of emotions she’d barely held at bay enough to function for weeks now crashed over her like a tidal wave, threatening to take her to her knees and drown her right there on the checked tile floor. Dizzily, she noted his ever present leather jacket on his shoulders and an odd spark of happiness amongst the rest of her riotous emotions that he’d managed to get it cleaned after the paint. It made him both more and less real. More familiar, exactly the way her yearning mind and heart saw him in her dreams. More like a phantom as well, however. Unchanging. But he was beautiful, and real, and right there, and staring at her with an emotion in his eyes she didn’t dare try and decipher.

She couldn’t face it.

She turned on her heel and walked away.

“Don’t cry, don’t give it away, not here and not now,” she chanted to herself, pushing the door open far more aggressively than strictly necessary. She barely made it out to the sidewalk when a hand clamped around her wrist and Donna’s harsh voice broke through the recitation.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she snapped. “The two of you idiots are going to sit down and work this out like adults if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“No!” Rose protested, pulling her wrist back. “There’s nothing to work out. He didn’t care to hear it then, and he won’t care to hear it now. You and I both know that that,” she pointed at the building, “Is the most stubborn man in existence! I don’t have a damned thing I need to explain to him.”

“You tell ‘em, honey!” A stranger shouted from across the street in a thick American accent.

Rose glanced over in shock and saw a handsome man with his hands cupped over his mouth shouting at her in encouragement, another man standing next to him shaking his head in fond exasperation. He tugged on the first man’s arm, pulling it away from his face and clasping their hands together to tug him away, the two of them laughing with intimate familiarity and making her heart clench painfully.

“Rose, both of you have been right messes the past few weeks, if you would just talk, I’m sure there’s an explanation. Probably a stupid one, knowing my pillock of a brother, but won’t it be better to know at least?” Donna reasoned.

She hesitated. Would it be?

Would knowing why he did such a complete 180 on her in his understanding nature help her sleep better at night? Or was ambiguity better than confronting the fact that she knew it was because he thought her too stupid and worthless? Knowing for certain threatened to crumble the fragile sense of worth she was forcing together. She already barely held on to it through nothing but sheer determination, and no small dose of delusion.

Donna took her hesitation for an answer and tugged her arm again.

And Rose was weak.

She couldn’t deny that she held a spark of hope still deep within her that it was a simple misunderstanding that could be cleared up. Couldn’t deny— though she’d been trying for weeks— that she missed the Doctor so fiercely it ached. Couldn’t deny that her dreams were still full of visions of their potential futures: home in his cozy flat, Donna and Shaun on the couch while she perched in his lap, a Christmas tree lit up in the corner and a menorah on the windowsill. Every want she’d ever had now additionally colored by sleepy kisses exchanged over tea, heated kisses exchanged over wine, angry, passionate shouting— anything besides this bleak, lonely existence crushing in on her once again.

Anything besides the cold that had settled into her bones and the repetitive nightmares of him walking away, while Saxon and Jimmy whispered over and over in her ears how it was her fault. Always her fault.

Against her better judgement, she allowed Donna to pull her back into the sandwich shop. She kept her head bowed, refusing to look up and see if he had disappeared while she and Donna argued. She let the older woman guide her to their booth and slid in after her without raising her head. She could feel him staring at her from across the table and her heart was pounding, but she kept her head down until—

“Rose,” his gruff voice greeted.

Her head shot up, drawn to the sound like a moth to flame. Their eyes met and a spark of electricity shot up her spine, near tangible in its intensity, before a cold wall descended, cutting off his emotions before she could decipher them. Cool disinterest masked his face. No trace of his warm smile, his eyes crinkling in the corner. No eyebrow arched in interest, or brow furrowed in thought. There was simply nothing.

Her heart was not broken, she told herself firmly.

It was crushed. Pulverized and ground to dust beneath his heel.

Anger would be better than disinterest. Anger was at least passion. Anger meant he at least felt something for her.

“Doctor… Noble,” she greeted him back coolly, adding his last name as an afterthought to avoid the familiarity of his nickname. It stuck on her tongue thickly, but the brief flash of hurt in his eyes was worth it. Vindictively, she was glad that her faux indifference hurt him.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” Donna shouted. “The two of you act like I didn’t catch you with his tongue in your damned throat not three weeks ago.”

Rose flushed furiously. “Thank you, Donna,” she said, clipped. “Was there a specific reason you orchestrated this… reunion?”

This trap.

“Well, yes,” she blustered. “To tell you both what utter gits you’re being.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been caught in the middle of it, Donna, but I can assure you it won’t happen again,” Rose responded, struggling to keep her tone even.

“Too bloody well right it won’t,” the Doctor muttered.

“What is that supposed to mean, Spaceman?” Donna said, exasperated. The Doctor remained stubbornly silent.

The waiter came around with trepidation and took their orders while the three of them intermittently glared at one another in terse silence. By the time their food came around, Donna had given up on getting her brother to engage with either herself or Rose, to Rose’s relief. They ate in tense silence as well, Rose picking at her food more than eating. Successfully enough that Donna didn’t notice, with her sharp, mother-hen eyes. Not successfully enough, she was uncomfortably aware, that the Doctor didn’t notice.

“So, Rose,” Donna began with a falsely jovial tone. “Go to any interesting protests lately? You’re always doin’ that, mm?”

Rose shrugged listlessly. “Not as much lately. Been busy.”

“You’ve never let that stop you before,” Donna accused pointedly. “You’re always goin’ on about how ‘the man keeping you busy on purpose is what’s keepin’ you from being able to protest.’”

She shrugged again, stabbing at her food with her fork. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s workin’.”

“Really? Even with that big one that happened on Guy Fawkes Day?”

Rose cringed. She and the Doctor had been planning on going to that together. She’d not gotten out of bed that day at all instead and felt so guilty about it that she’d donated twice of what she’d originally planned on, which was enough to bleed her wallet painfully, but she reasoned that she wasn’t wasting the money on anything else if she never left her flat again anyway. She’d gotten better about getting out again after she stopped wallowing, but that had only been a couple of days after the fallout.

“Er, no,” she said uncomfortably. “Donated some money though. Couldn’t not participate at all.”

The admission provoked the first response from the Doctor since his muttered comment when she’d first sat down. Another scoff echoed across the table, derision dripping from the reaction. Her wounded heart pulsed achingly.

“I know it’s not as good as going,” she shakily defended herself, “But it’s better than nothing.”

“I’m sure,” he droned, as if bored.

Even keeping her eyes fixated on the table, she could see the way he rolled his eyes in her mind. Tears stung at the back of hers and she looked up, suddenly fierce and furious. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, about anything! But it wasn’t nothing. I gave them nearly a thousand pounds!”

His eyes met hers, cold and livid, and she flinched back. That thunderous anger turned on her once more. She hadn’t been able to face it in Donna’s car that night, and seeing it now nearly shattered her. How could he look at her like that? As if she’d never meant anything to him, as if he hadn’t been the one to protect her since the day they’d met?

“Oh, and I’m sure that made you feel really good,” he hissed, each word twisting the knife in her gut. “A whole whopping point oh five percent of your hard earned riches given so generously to the poor and desperate?” His tone was acrid, dripping with sarcasm and venom like she’d never heard.

Berated, heartbroken, and infuriated, her face heated to a near painful, burning red, she slammed her trembling hands on the table and pushed herself up. Fighting to keep the rest of herself from shaking noticeably, she grabbed her coat and purse and exited the booth without looking back at either the Doctor or Donna. She paused only briefly to tersely speak to her friend.

“Donna, it’s been lovely to see you, but I’m leaving now,” she ground out before she practically ran out of the shop, not even bothering to put on her coat.

At least she had her answer.

Ambiguity would’ve been better.

Chapter Text

Blinded by his ire as he was, the Doctor didn’t notice his sister stand and lean across table until her fist connected with his shoulder in a painful jab. It startled him out of his spiraling thoughts, momentarily throbbing in time with the painful aching wound on his heart.

“What the bleeding hell was that for?” He growled, glaring at his twin.

“That was beyond rude, James,” Donna hissed scathingly.

The Doctor’s stomach dropped at his twin’s use of his given name, rather than ‘Doctor,’ or ‘Spaceman,’ or even ‘dumbo.’ He knew he didn’t deserve a ‘Jamie,’ but he couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him James. Had she ever?

Rose did.

“I love it when you say my name,” he’d whispered to her before he’d kissed her.

Before the entire world upended and dumped him on his arse. He couldn’t even tell if he was truly, properly angry, or if he just felt like he should be. An aching numbness had settled over him the moment he’d stepped out of his sister’s car three weeks ago, and he was only just now feeling anything at its true force. From the second she’d walked in, the heavy fog that had blanketed his mind for the past near month had lifted, and the brutal reality had crashed around him.

She’d lied. Directly to his face. Over and over again.

Had she though? Hadn’t she told him everything she could, within the confines of a standard NDA, let alone one as tyrannical as what Donna had described to him? Had she lied, or had he just been too stupid to read in between the lines and he was lashing out due to his bruised ego and wounded pride? 

No, he scoffed. Of course she had-- even if just by omission. She'd made an aesthetic out of a working class background, knowing she had millions of pounds padding the space between the two of them and all the causes she pretended to support. Causes that even just a percentage of that unearned wealth could create real change for, rather than people like him-- and like who he'd thought she was-- having to use their limited free time to fight tooth and nail for.

“That was cruel and unnecessary,” Donna continued, her voice layered with anger, disappointment, and sadness.

“’Scuse me if I don’t exactly care that the pop princess is upset that I—”

“You don’t get it!” Donna shouted.

He halted, hearing the true, raw pain in her voice.

“Rose doesn’t have any money! Not like you’re thinking anyway. I told you how awful that damned contract is, they’ve been taking close to ninety-eight percent of everything.”

The Doctor blanched. Ninety-eight percent? How was that even legal? How much was ninety-eight percent of a relatively popular popstar’s profit? How little was two percent? Not nothing, surely, but it couldn’t be much more than what he made, if it was at all. Mental calculations flew behind his eyes. Two percent of ten million, split over ten years… that’s poverty level wages. Even double that— but her flat? And that’s assumin’ equal distribution over the years— how long had it taken for any profit to come in?

“All the shit you see in the media, even the damn flat she stays in, they’re all label expenses to make her look the part. She’s never even let me in the damn place. She’s ashamed of it.”

Ah.

Ah, fuck.

“The clothes she wears everyday—that’s Rose. The girl who spends every damn second of her free time at protests, or soup kitchens, or other volunteer work— that’s Rose. It probably took her years to save that money, and she donated it anyway!”

He felt icy shock all the way to his core. He met Donna’s blue eyes with his own, shocked to see unshed tears in hers on her friend’s behalf.

“It’s that bad?” he whispered, disbelieving his ears.

Donna nodded grimly before continuing. “That’s on top of all the other exploitation. I know you’ve seen it, the way she’s constantly exhausted, the inconsistency of her work schedule, until recently? She only fought with Saxon to get that changed for you, because she wanted to make your relationship work!”

Guilt hit him like a lorry, knocking the air from his lungs. He had noticed that— she’d even mentioned it— but he hadn’t thought it would have been something she’d fought for, and certainly not for him.

“It’s all by design so she can’t live a life outside of it all, to keep her trapped. He even forces her into those awful PR relationships just because he likes how uncomfortable it makes her. Forces her with those men like she’s nothing but a doll for him to play with,” her voice rose to a shout by the end, louder with every word, with each word hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Jealousy and possessive fury he had no right to feel surged in him, followed by a crashing wave of realization and shock.

The video he’d seen. The mob closing in on her, her small body disappearing beneath the crowd of men, groping and grasping at her. The way she’d panicked at the die in, so blinded by her fear that she’d screamed, a sound that still tormented him in his dreams. He’d thought it had just been a delayed reaction to the kick, but it had been that and more, and yet still her biggest concern had been that she thought he’d been hurt. She’d been upset about his coat on his behalf.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

No, no, no. His poor, sweet Rose. He’d abandoned her— more than that.

“And I told you about how he dresses her, makes her act and eat in certain ways in public, not even picking her own music. She’s nothing more than a puppet— a prisoner— and you’ve gone and told her it doesn’t matter!”

The Doctor was on his feet in seconds, running out of the shop in the direction he hadn’t wanted to admit he’d watched Rose leave in. Chances were slim, she could’ve slipped down any number of side streets, but he knew where her flat was, so he headed in that direction. He had to get to her before she entered the building though, he’s never get passed the passcode entry. He doubted that any of the other snobs that lived there would let him in, and even if they did he didn’t know which flat was hers. He wasn’t above banging on every door to find her, but no doubt he would be kicked out before he could manage to.

After a few minutes of full sprinting, he spotted her honey blonde head bobbing in the distance.

“Rose!” He shouted, uncaring that dozens of eyes shot him nasty looks he elbowed his way through throngs of people. “Rose!”

Her small figure slowed, and he knew she’d heard him. He slowed himself as he neared, not wanting to bowl into her, and took in the way she had her arms wrapped around herself. Her shoulders were curled in, shaking slightly, and her head was hanging lower than he’d ever seen it. Rose Tyler was a force of nature at the rallies, protests, and marches they’d attended together in the month proceeding their separation, and while he’d seen a more vulnerable side of her on a few of their dates, he’d never seen her look so defeated. It hurt him to see her like that and hurt worse to know he’d caused it.

In that moment, the Doctor knew four things. The first was that he was sprinting headlong down the path to falling in love with Rose Tyler, if he hadn’t already reached the inevitable, crashing end. In fact, it was falling, and he was tumbling unimpeded through the open air towards his doom. He’d been right, weeks ago, when he’d recognized the pull she had on him. Rose Tyler was gravity. Nothing would slow his descent, and he didn’t have to be a physicist to know what would happen when he hit the ground.

The second thing he knew was that he couldn’t tell her.

He knew it as well as he knew the sun was a star, that space was a vacuum, and as well as the pain that had taken up space in his heart over the last three weeks. Not only had he hurt her, unforgivably, but he knew he would do so again. He was too broken, too old, and too angry and she deserved so much better. She deserved someone who would not explode in anger around her, who wouldn’t add to her burdens with their own. Not only had Rose been abused in her past, but the controlling nature of the contract she was bound under now had no doubt also come with untold baggage, and she didn’t need an old soldier’s guilt on top of it, or someone who felt first and thought later. He’d started seeing a new therapist after his phone call with Donna, and while Grace was leagues better than Harriet ever was, progress was too slow to even imagine putting Rose through that on the chance that he might get better.

The third thing he knew was that once her contract ended and Rose Tyler was once again a free woman, she would disappear.

She would fly so far away, and so fast, and never be seen again, and she deserved nothing less. The strength and conviction with which he knew this truth furthered his strength in both his surety that he was in love with her and his inability to tell her. She would be able to do anything she set her brilliant mind to, and would never have to look back on anything, including him. And it terrified him. Should he beg her forgiveness now and seek to once again earn her affection, his days with her would be numbered. He would watch the clock run out day by day until inevitably, she would disappear.

And the fourth thing the Doctor knew is that it would hurt. Worse than almost any pain he’d ever endured. Worse than walking away from Donna’s car, knowing Rose was inside and hurting. Worse than the past decade of loneliness he’d been letting make him jaded, his hatred of himself keeping him from letting anyone get too close. Worse than the combination of every heartbreak he’d ever experienced.

Watching Rose disappear, if he allowed himself to love her first, would kill him.

Hurting himself now would make it hurt less in the long run, and in this sum zero game where there was no other probability besides her loss, he chose to protect himself— and her, because he would never dare to hold her back— and end it now. He would tell her, however, because he owed her that much.

He told himself unsuccessfully it had nothing to do with the pain in her sunshine and whiskey eyes and his longing to soothe it away. Nothing to do with the way his arms ached to be filled with her again, his heart nearly straining out of his chest to be closer to her. Any anger he might’ve had, any confusion that caused him to lash out, was all gone in the face of Rose’s hurt. Hurt by his words, his actions.

“Never worthy of her,” he told himself scathingly. “This just proves it.”

She waited, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, her head still hung low. She hadn’t even put her coat on, and she was shivering in the late November air, but she made no move to unwrap her arms from around her torso.

“Rose,” he whispered. His voice was too reverent, too adoring, too familiar. “I’m— sorry,” he said lamely. It wasn’t as if he didn’t feel remorse, he just couldn’t convey it. No words would ever be enough to express his shame for hurting her, nor the sorrow for having to let her go.

Her head popped up marginally, as she eyed him with suspicion. Finally, she jerked her head towards an alley off to the side, indicating for him to step inside so they could talk out of earshot of other pedestrians. It reminded him painfully of the day they’d met, of their racing hearts and hopeful smiles. Even then, he realized, there had been signs that he had missed. The sharp fear in her eyes that he didn’t understand fully until now when he said he recognized her. She’d been telling him, unintentionally, since the very first day.

How dare he have had the nerve to be mad.

How dare he have acted the way he did towards her, towards Rose, even if he was mad? Once they stood still again, her head lifted enough for her to give him a withering stare, arching one eyebrow expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, trying to infuse the word with sincerity. “After you left, Donna told me—”

“So, you only feel sorry for me,” she cut him off bluntly and met his eyes with ferocity.

Her eyes blazed like molten, liquid gold, rendering him near speechless. He could see that she was trembling, and it cut at him even deeper to think that he’d scared her with his foolishness, but she was still staring him down. She was so brave, so strong. But she wasn’t supposed to have to be strong, or brave, not around him. He’d vowed— he’d sworn— he would never hurt her, never make her afraid.

He'd let his anger take control of him and he’d hurt her irreparably.

“No! I mean, yeah,” he stuttered, faltering under the heat of her eyes. “Yeah, it’s a bloody bad hand but that’s not what I meant.”

Her eyes narrowed and he felt like prey caught under the eyes of a lioness. No. A wolf.

The way her lip curled up in a snarl was distinctly lupine.

“I let my anger get the best of me, again,” the Doctor professed, trying to keep his knees from buckling, from kneeling in front of her in supplication. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but he knew her kind heart would give it to him. “I—I don’t know if I even was angry or just confused and hurt that you hadn’t told me. I didn’t have the right to be either.”

“You don’t have the right to be— oh,” Rose snarled over top of him and then cut off in surprise.

The Doctor couldn’t help but let out a wry chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. He took a steadying breath to continue, and the cold air pierced his lungs, and he remembered that Rose was still holding her coat instead of wearing it.

“Rose, you should put your coat on, love,” he told her, wincing when the endearment slipped out unconsciously.

He told himself that the spark of emotion in her eyes when she heard it was more anger at him but couldn’t fully repress the primal pleasure that rose up in him when she wordlessly slung her coat around her shoulders. He did, luckily, suppress the way his muscles instinctively began to shrug off his own coat to wrap it around her. The thought came unbidden to the forefront of his mind forcefully, the image of Rose wrapped in the black leather, warm and protected.

Protected by him, surrounded by him.

“Stop,” he told himself firmly. “She’s not yours to protect, and especially not to lust over, you damn coward.”

“I didn’t have the right to be,” he repeated, “And I’m sorry. I started painting you out to be this spoiled rich girl who goes to protests in her free time to make herself feel good, because I— well, I was just reacting, not thinking. I was hurt, but I know I shouldn’t have been. If I’d have thought for two seconds and just talked to you…” he trailed off, shaking his head, upset that he wasn’t able to articulate himself very well.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said quietly. “I wanted to tell you that first day in the park. I wanted to tell you every single day. But I couldn’t. James, you have to understand that. And I was so scared to tell you— for you to find out the truth of me— and have you judge me for it. I didn’t want you to find out that way. I was planning on telling you that night, NDA be damned. I had made up my mind to trust you. Please, you— you have to understand.”

Her admission, the way she near begged him to understand, her use of his name— it all cut through straight to the heart of him. To that place inside of him that desired nothing more than to protect her; possess her. To bundle her up away from the world and anything that would harm her, anything that would put that sorrowful tone in her voice. But it had been him.

“I couldn’t, James,” she whispered raggedly.

“I love it when you say my name,” echoed once more in his mind, and he knew she heard it too.

His reaction the night Donna had picked them up at the police station had been purely emotional. He’d been overwhelmed, and already angry from the events of the day, and it all spilled over to the point he couldn’t untangle the separate emotions. Grace had tried to ensure him that was a natural response and that he’d done well to remove himself from the situation before his anger could overwhelm him further, but she’d also been berating him for three weeks to talk to Rose, to tell her that, and he’d been unable to do so. Still too angry, and too ashamed of his anger and his reaction to let himself risk being around her again.

“I had no reason to act like that, no right to at all,” he repeated again, to himself and to her. “You had your reasons for not telling me and I didn’t listen. Besides just the NDA— we’d only known each other a little over a month. You had your reasons and then I bloody well went and did the exact thing you were scared of and judged you for it.”

For several moments, time seemed to pause between them, as they wordlessly contemplated the other’s confessions.

He pretended he didn’t see the hesitant, hopeful longing in her eyes, growing the longer they stood there. He pretended he didn’t see her shift from anger, to understanding, to practically shaking in restraint of holding herself back from him. Her expressive brown eyes and open book face were both projecting longing at him so loudly he could almost hear her thoughts, begging him in her honeyed voice for them to go back to what they had been. Begging for him to embrace her.

But the only real sounds that surrounded them were the bustling ambient sounds of London and the steady stream of self-recrimination in his thoughts that told him to run far, far away from Rose Tyler. It was the last bit of protection he could offer her. Protection from him, which he should have given her as soon as he realized he was too dangerous for her to be around that day in his lecture hall, but had been too selfish to do so.

“I’m not askin’ you to forgive me, Rose. I just— I just wanted you to know.”

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and set his shoulders. It was time. He’d said his peace, and it was time to part ways. He had no reason to further darken her doorstep, and soon enough she’d forget him, as she should. Though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, he turned away, and pretended he didn’t see the crushing heartbreak crash over her face. He was hurting her, again, but at least this she would move on from. He turned on his heel and walked away.

“You aren’t exactly on the streets either, professor,” she shouted after him, her accusation dripping in disdain even as her voice shook.

He looked back in shock, horrified to see big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

“What?” He asked incredulously before he could stop the question from leaving his mouth.

“I said that you aren’t exactly a paragon of virtuous poverty either, professor. Judgin’ me for thinkin’ I might have some money and that made me incapable of caring for the causes we rallied for? While you sit up in your academic ivory tower? Shut the fuck up, Doctor.”

Her voice shook from barely restrained anger, her teeth bared as she hissed at him, and the force of it struck him with a jolt.

He’d forgotten.

He’d forgotten the anger he’d seen in her on that first day. The pent up rage that shimmered just beneath the surface, vicious, and primal, like an animal thrashing against its restraints. The wolf he saw in her just moments ago wasn’t just her strength, but her rage. Her anger was just as present as his, just as raw and hurt, and trapped.

Didn’t he know what it felt like to be trapped?

“Everything you have was handed to you on a silver fucking platter, genius,” Rose continued vehemently. “And you still act like you’re better than me? Piss off! I might be stupid but I’m not worthless.”Her angry words pounded into him, but they were fading in his ears even as he struggled to hang onto them.

Trapped.

She was trapped. He couldn’t protect her.

He was trapped. He couldn’t protect anyone.

Deaf, the only sound he could hear was the ringing in his ears, not even his own breath, though he could feel it painfully burning in his lungs. Smoke and dust in the air obscuring everything, not a hint of light piercing the cloud of it. Trapped.

His legs pinned by the weight atop them, his left shoulder pierced through and pinning him to the ground like a butterfly to a board. His chest unable to fully expand from the rubble above him. Trapped.

Flashes of light as the dust settled, unable to tell his hearing even returned in the haunted, deathly silence that surrounded him for god knows how long. Finally, voices, the surety of his demise being wretched away from him against his will, forced once again to reckon with his trapped state instead of just dying.

“Doctor?”

He couldn’t protect her. He couldn’t protect anyone. He couldn’t stop anyone from collapsing around him and turning into dust. Gwenyth gone. His entire regiment gone. The Gelth…

A soft hand touched his, and he jolted, jumping back. His heart was pounding as his vision unblurred and the concerned face of Rose Tyler was in front of him, far closer than it had been. Her brows drawn tight over her eyes in concern. Her eyes. Sunshine-through-a-glass-of- whiskey eyes, her lashes still wet with tears.

“James, it’s ok,” she said, raising her voice slightly to be heard over his racing thoughts.

“Don’t,” he croaked.

Don’t touch me, don’t come closer, don’t call me that. I don’t deserve it.

“Shh, it’s ok, it’s just me. It’s just Rose.”

Just Rose? He bit out a humorless laugh, though it was the farthest thing from funny. Just Rose?

“Let’s get out of the cold, yeah?” She suggested, her voice calm, steady, and even. Betraying no hint of the anger she’d shown earlier, or the betrayal he’d hurt her with.

Just Rose, she says, as if that’s not the most wonderful, real thing that anyone has ever been. Just Rose, as if she wasn’t the black hole that was consuming him. Breaking him down to his subatomic parts bit by bit. His thoughts were jumbled, but his focus narrowed as she reached out and gently took his hand in hers and tugged him along. Her grip was solid and grounding, cold and firm. It was oh so wrong, but oh so right.

Against his better judgement, he let her drag him through the streets of London and focused solely on her hand in his once more.

Nothing else. Just Rose.

Chapter Text

Rose hated that she knew the way to his flat so easily, even after almost a month had passed since the single time she’d been there, but she led him through the streets with ease. Any second, she thought she’d make a wrong turn, but the directions were burned into her mind from his home to her loft, because for weeks she’d laid in bed and thought about how easy it would be to wind up on his doorstep. More than once her feet had taken her too close, all on their own, while her mind wandered in the numb should-have-beens and never-weres.

But, she supposed, it was useful now. His flashback was a bad one, she could tell from the way he stiffened, and his breathing grew fast and labored. She stifled her curiosity at what it might’ve been that set him off. She didn’t think it had been anything she’d said, but more likely came from a thought he’d had, or some association his mind made. She knew all the signs, from the way his eyes flickered as he saw not what was before him now, but what had been, the way his hand shot up to his shoulder as some phantom pain struck him. The way he kept repeating his words to himself, just under his breath, as they walked through the streets.

“Just Rose,” he muttered. “Just Rose.”

She didn’t know how to take in the fact that he was repeating her words to soothe himself. Was he drawing comfort from her presence? Or had he merely latched on to the words themselves? She tried not to think on the utter derision in his voice as he said it, or how it slowly morphed into a plea.

She couldn’t snap him out of it as he had done for her that day in the crowd, he was farther gone than she had been, and if he lashed out at her, she was much less capable of dealing with it than he was for her. So, she simply guided him home. He would come to eventually, and she would just have to be patient and hope that the familiar flat around him would be an easier transition than the cold streets of London.

They reached the door to his home quickly, and she was able to coax him into passing her his keys. She guided him to the sofa, wrapped an afghan around his shoulders, and set about preparing him a cup of tea. The thistle patterned mug he’d given her weeks ago taunted her from its place in the cabinet, begging her to wrap her hands around its warmth once more, but she closed the door as silently as she could and wiped the tears from her eyes.

They hadn’t reconciled. She just couldn’t leave him like this.

She told herself she’d do the same thing for anyone, and while it was true, she knew it also wasn’t. She wouldn’t go this far, or care this much. She could’ve called Donna. She should’ve called Donna, and let her take care of him, but she knew that he wouldn’t want that, with his stubborn, stupid pride.

She only made one mug of tea.

Rose carried it over to him and was able to encourage him to take it. The warmth in his hands seemed to stir him back to reality, bring him closer to the present, and he took a sip. His expression loosened, not quite relaxing, but not so drawn and tight either. His breathing deepened, and he collapsed back onto the sofa.

Rose nearly collapsed herself in relief. She sat tentatively on the other end of the sofa— which she refused to think of as her spot— and waited, playing with the tassels of another throw blanket that was slung over the back. She watched as one of his large, handsome hands came up and rubbed at his face, shaking slightly.

“Rose,” he muttered to himself once more.

“Rose!” He jolted forward suddenly, his voice louder and stronger. Searching for her.

“Here,” she called softly, not wanting to risk startling him, but wishing to reassure him of her presence.

His piercing blue eyes were locked in on hers in a second. Fear flashed in them as he scanned her form, and she could see the fog lifting as his brilliant mind raced once more.

“You’re here,” he breathed out, and was that— reverence in his tone?

No, surely not. It was just surprise. Maybe gratitude, if she was being generous. Weeks ago, she might’ve indulged herself in thinking it might be adoration, but she was beyond such silly ideas now.

“I am, but if you’re alright, I can leave now if you’d prefer. I just wanted to make sure you were ok,” she told him, as evenly as she could.

Oh, how she did not want to leave. Even with the strain between them, his flat still felt like home. Only minutes inside and she was warmed from the frozen Rose-cicle she had been when they first came in. It would have taken hours, or a painfully hot shower, at her loft to thaw so thoroughly. The high ceilings and industrial windows, the white, soulless walls, and the quiet, empty space, were so cold compared to the cozy blue-and-brown home he had here. Where viney plants climbed every available surface of the bookshelves, stuffed with more knowledge than she’d ever read in a lifetime, and personal touches lingered on every object and piece of furniture. From the soft worn leather sofa to the apothecary drawers painted in a dozen soft colors on the cabinet that held his record player, life seeped out of every corner.

Phantom music, Glen Miller’s In the Mood, played in her mind, and her heart clenched.

“No,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Stay. Please.”

Her wandering eyes fluttered back to his, and she was nearly lost in the depths of sorrow in the fathomless blue.

“Ok,” she whispered back. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

Things changed.

It hurt.

But not more than the three weeks they’d been apart had hurt.

There were no more lingering touches, or glances. No more innuendos, or cheeky flirts.

There were no more kisses. He did not take her hand. He did not call her love, or precious, or his.

They didn’t mention it: the change, the past, their fight, their separation, or his flashback.

They spoke of none of it. Rose knew only that she couldn’t stand to be near him— but she couldn’t stand to be away from him more. And quickly, as if it had never been anything else, they developed a tentative friendship. Intimate, and certainly deep, but platonic. So strictly platonic that she continued to tell herself that she’d imagined those first few weeks. The Doctor that had held her, and kissed her, and wanted her was a figment of her imagination and lonely dreams, and did not ever actually exist.

She refused to mourn him. He wasn’t real. The Doctor she had now… he was enough.

He was everything. Brilliant, witty, kind, and brave. Thoughtful. He remembered how she took her tea and her allergy to cinnamon, and her work schedule, and every detail of every little story she told him of her childhood. He texted her with new adventures for them to go on throughout London, branching out from just their fondness for protests and rallies as those were few and far between in the winter months. They explored museums and botanical gardens, went to plays and restaurants, sent each other funny texts about their days, and had uncomfortable dinners with Donna staring daggers at them both. They set a routine of movie nights in his flat, every Sunday, where they sat on the far opposite ends of the sofa, and she drank tea from the thistle patterned mug. They joked, and threw popcorn at each other, and she pretended that the distance between them was normal. And they were happy.

She didn’t miss him.

She wasn’t cold.

She continued to spend Monday mornings and afternoons at the soup kitchen and found a free online class that she sped through the coursework of, so she found another, and another. History, anthropology, and astronomy. One of those things was not like the others, but she refused to confront it.

She bought him chocolate coins and let him teach her to play the dreidel and met and fell in love with his grandad that called him ‘son’ and ‘my boy,’ and met his mum that called him Jamie, who disliked her greatly. She broke her own heart over again when she remembered that his family would never be hers now, no matter her closeness to Donna or how sweet Wilf was to her. The Doctor gifted her a book on the stars for Christmas, even though she spent the day volunteering once more.

She never called him James.

She told him she was sick for New Year’s, and watched the fireworks from the wide, cold windows of her loft, sitting on the floor with her arms around her knees, telling herself very firmly that she hadn’t skipped the party he and Donna had invited her to because she still wanted to kiss him.

She didn’t miss him.

She wasn’t cold.

January passed in a blur of activity, as Bad Wolf had pre-tour interviews, or photoshoots, or small performances almost every Friday and met with Malcom in public every Saturday, or sometimes vice versa. Rose saw the two of them together on the magazines she passed in newsstands on her way to the Doctor’s flat and pretended she didn’t. She spent her long day in the studio that month pouring her heart into music she didn’t listen to and nodded dutifully when Saxon told her they’d be hits. She didn’t mention the songs she’d written as an outlet for her grief. She didn’t sing them for herself either.

She left feeling as disgusting as she ever did after spending time in Saxon’s presence and took a shower that burned her skin, scraping off the layers the water didn’t penetrate with her exfoliating glove that left her skin burning and pink for hours afterwards. Malcom’s presence disgusted her less, but still left her feeling so disgusted with herself she often turned off her phone until Sunday morning came back around. Neither she nor the Doctor mentioned how they did not speak on Saturdays, or why.

Rose even let him come to her flat.

The Doctor joked that he’d never seen it one day, and she thought she might’ve seen a flash of hurt in his blue eyes, so their next adventure was the quick, familiar path back to her loft from their favorite café. The one she had once dreamed that they’d reconnected at, where the imaginary ghost of him had tugged her ponytail playfully and almost kissed her at the end of the night.

“Such silly, far away dreams now,” she told herself with a wry shake of her head.

She unlocked the door to the loft and was surprised that the shame she associated with the space was lessened when he strode in. His dark leather coat stood out boldly against the white walls and neutral color palette of the pre-furnished assemblage, but instead of being a stark reminder of how she didn’t fit into his life, it was a reminder that he fit into hers. The resolve that she held that this prison cell she called her own would only hold her a while longer strengthened, and she began to believe that when she came out on the other side, maybe she would have a flat to call home for herself too.

Somewhere warm and colorful, with books, and viney plants, and a record player.

She told herself it was only because she was so bad at imagining the hazy, still too far to see clearly future, that the home she conjured up in her mind looked so similar to his.

When she imagined herself in that possible future, she imagined that didn’t miss him.

She imagined that she wasn’t cold.

Chapter Text

They drove up the coast one day at the end of January just to get out of the city. On the drive, the Doctor told her how he came by his car, the love and work he’d put into it over the years, and the funny name he called it— her— in his head.

“TARDIS,” he said, stroking the dashboard lovingly while Rose absolutely did not look at his hands.

When she asked where he came up with the name, he laughed, and she didn’t admire the strong angle of his jaw as he told her it was a fantasy he’d had as a child of a blue spaceship that would take him wherever he wanted to go.

“Time and relative dimension in space,” he explained the name further.

When he’d first bought the car, the color had brought up the long forgotten dream of his childhood, and he’d taken to calling her TARDIS fondly, and she did her best to take him where he wanted to go.

They sat on TARDIS’s hood on a cold, grey beach, and she told him of Jimmy Stone, and how she’d come to be the Bad Wolf, because no one was around for miles, and because the ocean always made her cry. His talk of freedom, of travel, of time and space, reminded her of all the things she’d never had and never would. She told him little white lies, not letting on how bad any of it truly was because she couldn’t stand for him to think less of her than he no doubt already did, but it felt good to tell him any of it at all. It was the first time either of them mentioned Bad Wolf at all, even in passing, even though all she said was that her relationship with Jimmy ended when she met Saxon and gave him no more details than that.

When she was finished, silence hung over them. She stared resolutely at the crashing waves with her knees up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Rose tried to tell herself that it was alright to have told him all of that, that it was the kind of thing friends talked about. Even if they hadn’t before. But it was no different than the stilted explanation he gave once upon a time of his military service. Bare minimum explanation of where he had been, and why he was no longer a medical doctor. Where she had been, and why she was no longer just Rose Tyler.

Why she was no longer human, no longer his, even if she mentioned neither.

The Doctor hesitantly reached over and took her hand for the first time in two months, and she felt the turn of the earth beneath them. It felt right, and warm— like she could see in color again— and she laced her fingers though his and looked up and—

He pulled away.

She didn’t miss him.

She wasn’t cold.

Chapter Text

February came, and he and Donna took her out for her birthday. Donna pushed her by her shoulders into an unfamiliar bar, the Doctor’s loud laughter bouncing off the walls in time with his sister’s, and together they guided her right up to the bar. Rose was laughing too, happy to be with her two favorite people who were not fighting for once, and they both greeted the bartender with joy and familiarity.

“Doc! Donna! What a sight for sore eyes, I haven’t seen you two in here for months.”

The bartender was handsome— pretty even— with a youthful grin, thick dark hair, and bright blue eyes that were reminiscent of the Doctor’s. Older than they should be, especially in comparison to his boyish grin, and brilliant. The clear spark of intelligence in his eyes couldn’t be hidden by the cheeky, flirty smile and wink he gave the twins, though Rose suspected he often used such tactics to hide his cleverness.

“Jack,” the Doctor greeted warmly.

“I saw you last week,” Donna responded. “At your flat.”

“But not here,” Jack winked. “You never come see me at work.”

“Because you’re working,” Donna rolled her eyes and smiled.

Jack passed the two of them drinks they didn’t order and finally noticed Rose standing slightly behind them. He leaned on the bar and flashed her a megawatt smile, eyes twinkling, and flexed his arm not very subtly.

“And who might you be, gorgeous? Captain Jack Harkness, owner and proprietor of the Game Station here. Whatever you want, doll, on the house.”

Rose rolled her eyes playfully but beamed. The Doctor and Donna had both told her of the Doctor’s best friend and his flirty nature.

“Jack—” the Doctor’s voice growled in warning.

Rose patently ignored the shiver it sent up her spine, and leaned on the bar, grinning a flirty, tongue-touched grin at Jack. She preened internally with delight at the way his eyes darted down quickly to her mouth and darkened ever so slightly. At least someone paid attention to her.

“Rose Tyler,” she said, making her tone purposefully sultry. “I’ll take a Jack… and a coke.”

Jack burst into laughter. “Oh, Doc, I like her. We’re keeping her.”

The Doctor was not tense by her side, his jaw was not clenched, eyes not narrowed. There was no reason for him to be anything but jovial and open, as he had been when they first came up to the bar, and Rose refused to acknowledge that he was.

She refused to hear the way he grumbled to himself, “That’s not even your drink. You like screwdrivers.”

How did he even fucking know that? If she’d ever told him that, and she couldn’t remember if she had, it would’ve been once. Bloody photographic memory, she reminded herself. Not because he actually cared to remember.

She shook her head, ignoring him vehemently, taking the drink when Jack gave it to her and slamming it back spitefully.

The Doctor was right.

It was bloody disgusting.

It burned like fire when it mixed with the painful tightening in her throat and the churning of her stomach, the sweet stickiness of the soda coated her tongue in an unfamiliar way. She managed to not make a face, but only barely.

Donna told Jack happily that it was Rose’s birthday, that she was her friend and the Doctor’s. Jack’s cunning eyes flicked between her and the Doctor a single time, a furrow forming between his eyebrows, and Rose turned around uncomfortably to watch the rest of the bar.

Taking it in for the first time, she was pleasantly surprised. The space was cozy and intimate for a bar, but the true attraction was the small stage at the far end. A projector screen flashed lyrics at her as another patron crooned into a microphone wildly off key.

“Karaoke?” She turned pointedly to Donna with an excited grin. Donna smiled softly at her and shook her head.

“Not my idea, sunshine,” she said.

Rose cocked her head in confusion, but Donna simply grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to face the Doctor, who was smiling at her, uncharacteristically soft as well. It made her heart clench, both his expression and Donna’s term of endearment for her that painfully reminded her of the text she’d sent her from his phone, while they were still strangers.

He has you saved in his phone as just the sun emoji, by the way.

 “Thought you might want to… just… sing. For once,” he muttered.

She blinked in shock and froze, her heartbeat picking up as those damned butterflies that refused to fucking die fluttered in her stomach for the first time in weeks. No, she told herself truthfully for once, they fucking lived there. She was just struggling to ignore them in the face of the kind gesture and his soft eyes and the reminder that he once looked at her like she was the sun.

She’d started to see him as the moon, since then. Cold and distant, yet so close he felt within reach. Something to look on with yearning, wistfully inspiring, providing light in the darkness. Mercurial and ever changing in mood, yet a strangely steady and consistent presence in her life, even when she could not see him.

Odd, how the mind makes such associations.

“Where do I sign up?” She blurted out, in lieu of thanks.

Jack directed her to the iPad at the end of the bar to choose a song, and she was grateful for the space it meant putting between her and the Doctor. She would have to purposefully choose songs that would not give anything away. Not that there was anything to give away, she reminded herself resolutely.

“Just singing,” Rose mused.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed singing. She didn’t hate performing, not the way she hated some of the rest of being Bad Wolf. She hated the way people undressed her with their eyes, with her already wearing so little, and hated the provocative lyrics and choreography that she had no choice in, but it could be fun, sometimes. When the crowd was right, she let herself get caught up in the energy of it all. Soundchecks were fun, especially when they let some VIP fans in. She got to sing whatever she wanted at them and wear regular clothing— fancier than her own, but not as revealing as the on-stage costumes. She almost felt like a real performer those times, like the people there were actually excited to hear her.

But the last time she’d performed as Rose had been with Jimmy’s band, and she’d hated every second of that. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d sang in the shower.

Her head swam with possibilities, energy beginning to thrum in her veins. She could sing whatever she wanted, just for fun. With her two favorite people here, and Jack at the bar who would watch her with appreciation but not lecherously. A small but true smile spread across her face as she found a couple of songs on the list that she loved, and seeing no one else in the queue either on the iPad or at the bar waiting to sign up, she eagerly selected both.

This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

“Doc, what the hell is goin’ on between you and Rosie?” Jack asked bluntly the second the girl was out of earshot.

The Doctor’s ears turned red, and Jack’s frown deepened.

“Dunno what you mean, captain,” he muttered, downing his drink. Jack turned to Donna, who was pursing her lips in exasperation.

“Months I’ve been dealing with this I tell you. Months. They had one argument and dumbo over here called it quits, but they keep dancing ‘round the fact they’re arse over teakettle for each other and drivin’ me barmy,” she complained loudly.

“Shut it,” the Doctor growled, low and vicious. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oi, don’t take that tone with me, jackass,” Donna yelled back. “I know better than either of you two morons, ‘cos I’m seein’ it on both sides. You’re both idiots.”

Jack took in the argument, and the sad set of the girl’s shoulders— even when she smiled softly to herself staring at the song list— and nodded. She was as clearly in love with the Doctor as the nose on the man’s face, and so deeply hurt by him in equal measure. If he didn’t know firsthand what it felt like to love the Doctor, he’d tell her she was stupid for continuing to put herself through it by hanging around him, but he knew what the man was like. You simply get stuck in his orbit.

The difference was it seemed like the Doctor was stuck in hers too.

He was staring at her wistfully— longingly— through the corner of his eye, pretending he wasn’t, pain etched into every line on his face. And Jack knew that look. Every soldier who fell in love wore that expression at some point. He’d worn it himself a dozen times before Yan kicked his arse. Literally knocked him flat on his arse to the ground and punched him in the face to prove his point.

Jack rubbed at the wedding ring on his finger fondly. He doubted that strategy would work for the Doc, but he needed something similar.

Something to smack him upside the head and tell him to get off his high horse, take off his rose-colored glasses, and see Rose as a person and not as an ideal. He’d watched his friend make the same mistake before, watched him in the cycle of hurt and hurting in return for years with River, and he hadn’t thought anything could be worse for the Doctor than that, but seeing him watch Rose… the pedestal he’d placed her on was much higher than the one he’d tried to put River on. River, for all her faults, had refused to allow the veneration, but she had pushed the Doctor too hard, too fast, and too soon after his discharge. And her own military service and trauma had caused them too much grief as she steadfastly ignored hers as she ran and ran, and he had been stuck with a shit therapist who did more harm than good.

Rose, however, didn’t seem aware of the lofty height she occupied in the Doctor’s eyes. He couldn’t read her as well as he could his friend, but he saw in her a different kind of grief, beyond just that of the unrequited— in her mind— love she held for the Doctor. Jack saw the haunting behind her cognac eyes that aged them far beyond what her youthful face claimed. Whatever it was that ate at her, the Doctor’s pain would not add to it.

Now to just get him to realize it.

“Ok,” he said loudly, interrupting the arguing siblings in front of him. “It’s Rosie’s birthday, and the two of you need to stop.”

The Nobles both glared at him, and he glared back. The Doctor backed down first, and if that wasn’t a sign that he loved the girl in question, then Jack didn’t know what else would be.

Before he could say anything else, a new song started from the back of the bar, and he watched in amusement as the Doctor’s down turned head perked up at the jaunty, twangy guitar strum. He recognized the song immediately, being a true blooded American, but he was surprised that the Doctor recognized it. He turned in his barstool in a rush, and Donna followed. Jack looked up and saw Rose on the small stage, bouncing and swaying to the opening music, a beaming smile on her face.

Jack’s eyes flickered to the Doctor, and he scoffed out loud at the besotted expression on the daft man’s face. As Rose started singing, he whipped out his phone and took a picture, and the Doctor was too enthralled to notice.

Tumble out of bed and I stumble to the kitchen

Pour myself a cup of ambition

And yawn and stretch and try to come to life.

Jack laughed, hearing the familiar song pour from the young woman.

Donna exclaimed in shock, “What is this?”

“It’s country music, honey,” Jack drawled in a southern accent, making her laugh.

“Rose loves country music,” the Doctor said softly. “She says it used to mean something, that it was the music of the average person. Stuff anyone could relate to or feel.”

“Oh, Doc,” Jack sighed internally. The man was a fucking idiot. No wonder Donna was so frustrated.

They let you dream just to watch ‘em shatter,

You’re just a step on the bossman’s ladder

But you’ve got dreams they’ll never take away

In the same boat as a lot of your friends,

Waitin’ for the day your ship’ll come in

And the tide's gonna turn

And it’s all gonna roll your way!

Jack could certainly feel something in the passionate way Rose sang the lyrics. She clearly resonated with the song, though Jack imagined most people did, like she said. Rose was a natural born performer however, he thought. Her voice carried well, even though she seemed to be holding back exactly how talented she was in favor of seeming average. She had easily engaged several of his bar’s other patrons closer to the stage into singing along, smiling a genuine smile for the first time since they’d come in. Her shoulders straightened up as she lost herself in the fun of it.

Jack thought she seemed familiar, though he was sure he’d never met her before, and he shook it off as her just having a good stage presence and charisma. She was young, blonde, and on stage looking at home, and that was enough to call to mind a dozen singers, including the original performer of the song.

The song ended and she placed the mic back in the stand with ease, smiling happily to herself, and her foot came up to rest on the bottom of the stand to steady it. Jack watched dozens of people every single night knock that mic stand over, not realizing how precariously balanced it was amongst the tangle of cords. Rose on the other hand, didn’t even look. The next song started and no one else hopped up to the stage, and she smiled at the rest of the patrons guiltily.

“There wasn’t anyone else in the queue, so I hope you don’t mind that I signed up twice?” She asked them, entirely at ease addressing a crowd. Scattered cheers from his more drunken regulars rose up.

This time, she leaned in closer to the microphone and closed her eyes.

Remember when you’d sing,

Just for the fuck of it

And the joy it would bring

Honey the look of it...

This song was markedly different than the first, more modern, with almost a blues feel to it, but she brought the same energy and familiarity to it. It was clearly a beloved, familiar favorite as well. The more she relaxed into it, staying close to the mic stand this time instead of bouncing around, the more she let her voice shine.

Jack loved this song. He loved the original of course, Hozier was a dreamboat, but he always loved when patrons sang it too. It was so joyful, and the lyrics lent themselves well to karaoke. He’d heard it performed once, years ago, at a soundcheck for a concert he’d won tickets to, and the singer there had done a beautiful job with it. He’d wished she’d release a cover, but he contented himself with hearing it in his bar regularly. However, he sang it to himself every time with the lilting inflection Bad Wolf had put on it. He simply couldn't hear it any other way. Although he had to admit Rosie came close. If she loosened up fully and let her voice really go, he imagined she’d give the popstar a run for her money.

You didn’t always sing it right,

But who could call you wrong?

Put your emptiness to melody,

Your awful heart to song,

You don’t have to sing it nice,

But honey sing it strong,

At best you’ll find a little remedy

At worst the world will sing along.

Jack served a few more patrons while he listened to her sing and snuck glances at the Doctor. He was entirely enthralled, not bothering to hide the lovestruck look on his face. Jack shook his head ruefully and tried to catch Donna’s eyes, but she was also watching Rose. Her expression was one Jack didn’t understand. Heartbreak, almost, but not the same as the Doctor’s. Donna’s expression was…motherly? Sad for Rose?

He supposed, with a shrug, that he understood. Clearly the girl had talent and loved to sing, and if the two songs she’d chosen revealed anything, it was that she didn’t get the chance to fulfill some kind of dream. It happens. Talent gets buried beneath bills and debts, but that was part of the reason he loved owning the bar. People from all over could come out and live that dream, share it with the small crowd, and go home feeling lighter. He’d expressed that sentiment to the Doctor before, and he must’ve remembered and brought Rose here for that reason. Lots of people resonated with this song that had that dream.

Still… the familiarity and ease she had on stage didn’t necessarily speak to someone who hadn’t had the opportunity to perform before.

Who could ask to be unbroken or be brave again?

Or, honey, hope even on this side of the grave again?

And who could ask you to be sound

Or to feel saved again

Or stick around until you hear that music play again? So, honey, sing.

Sing…

Jack stopped in his tracks. That lilt, right there, was the one he listened for every time someone sang this song. Ever since he’d heard it performed that way during that sound check, he’d been unable to hear it any other way, to the point where the original was lacking even. But there was no way. Right?

There was no way Bad Wolf was performing in his bar.

There was no way Bad Wolf was the woman his best friend was helplessly in love with.

There was no way Bad Wolf was the heartbroken girl on his stage who was singing like she’d never been given the chance to before.

Jack looked over to Donna, who had turned back to face the bar and her drink and looked up when she felt his eyes on her. Donna who was a talent manager and knew all kinds of celebrities.

Jack leaned down and hissed to her, “Please tell me that isn’t who I think it is?”

Donna glared at him defiantly, her temper rising already. “And if it is?” she challenged.

Jack’s eyes darted over to the Doctor who was completely enthralled with Rose, and back to Donna. “I’d say no wonder he looks like that.”

Rose’s song ended and patrons burst into applause, which she accepted graciously with a silly little bow. She hopped off the small stage with a grin to the next performer and practically skipped back to the bar.

The Doctor shoved off his barstool and walked past her briskly towards the bathroom, and her face fell. Watching her face go from relaxed and joyful to utterly crushed boiled Jack’s blood, and he almost leapt over the bar at his oldest friend and decked him.

Donna sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I need a fucking cigarette,” she muttered.

“Donna, you don’t smoke,” Rose said, sullenly.

“Then I’m going to start. I’ll be back.”

Rose and Jack watched as the second Noble twin strode off in the opposite direction, out the front door of the bar to get some air. Rose turned to Jack, awkwardly, as she sat in the barstool Donna had abandoned and clearly barely resisting the urge to run away.

“Um,” she hedged, uncomfortably. “Can I get another drink?”

“Course, doll,” Jack responded easily.

Remembering what he had heard the Doctor mutter to himself angrily, he mixed up an orange juice and vodka screwdriver and slid it over to her. He noted her surprise with a lazy grin and leaned against the bar and gestured her to lean in as well. She did with a light blush staining her cheeks.

“Gotta say, I loved hearing you sing that song again,” he said conversationally. Rose stiffened, her eyes widening. “I think you did it better this time. But then again, my sound equipment was already checked today.”

“Donna told you,” Rose said more than asked, displeasure evident in her tone.

“No one told me anything, Rosie, I’m simply an observant man.”

“And you observed something that no one else has observed in nearly ten years?” She accused. “Come off it.”

“Does everyone else know Donna’s connections? Does everyone else hear Rose Tyler sing?” He pointed out, not switching from his casual, conversational tone.

She paused, thinking for a moment, and finally her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. Jack took it as a win. She seemed as tightly wound as the Doctor did most days.

“Does the Doc know?” Jack asked.

Her face betrayed nothing behind its stoney veneer, and in doing so, betrayed everything. No one tries that hard to keep something hidden from their eyes unless there was something to hide.

“I see. And I take it that’s the reason the two of you are… weird?”

Rose bit out a laugh, humorless and dry, at the comment, “Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Jack hummed thoughtfully, watching her toy with the rim of her glass rather than drink the drink. She hung her head, staring into the liquid inside, but did not continue. With a twinge of regret, he realized he was going to have to push her if he wanted any answers, and he thought he might know exactly what button to push.

“Well, I’d be weird too if the girl I loved was…” he gestured to her. “What do the magazines call it? Untamable?”

“Fuck. Off,” she snarled immediately. Her eyes snapped up, fury blazing in them. Her lip curled over her teeth in a way that looked like she would tear his throat out if he got too close. Jack had to fight to keep his shock from his face. “You don’t know anything. You think that shit is real? Any of it? Then you’re a fucking idiot and a bastard. And the Doctor doesn’t love me. He barely fucking tolerates me.”

Jack kept calm only by virtue of dealing with the Doctor snapping at him for years. He raised his eyebrows, encouraging her to continue, and kept leaning against the bar. Momentary shock passed through her eyes, cooling the fury in them slightly. He held her gaze and read the pain and grief in them with the ease only a bartender— or a licensed therapist— could have.

After a long moment of staring into each other’s eyes and an intense silent exchange, Jack broke away first, sensing she needed a moment. He nodded his head to her drink, and she muttered a thanks and downed it. He slammed a bottle of water down in front of her and a small smile cracked through her sadness.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asked.

She glanced around, and seeing neither the Doctor nor Donna anywhere close, she turned back to him and shrugged. She pulled the slice of orange off the rim of her glass absently, tearing the rind with her fingers. The nervous fidgeting seemed to be a habit, and he noticed that her nails were bitten short as well, and close inspection revealed wear on her gold earrings that suggested she tugged on them a lot. Bad Wolf’s nails were always impeccable, and Jack wondered if part of that image of her was due to Rose’s nervous habits necessitating press-ons.

“We were together, sort of, ‘til he found out. It’d only been a month; it’s not like I was keeping it from him. Plus, the NDA…” she sighed heavily. “It doesn’t matter. He said he knew why I didn’t tell him and said he was sorry he got mad about it. But we just… never went back to being together. He just pulled away.”

Rose dropped the orange slice on a napkin and put her head in her hands, rubbing her forehead, Jack humming sympathetically.

“The thing is— he’s the one that reached back out. I mean, Donna forced us to meet up, but after that. It’s like he wants me around, but since he found out about Bad Wolf he’s not interested anymore. It hurts like hell, but I can’t blame him,” she said the last part viciously, with a tone he recognized from both the Doctor and his own self.

Utter self-loathing.

“What do you mean by that, Rosie?”

Rose laughed humorlessly again. “Bad Wolf is a joke, Jack. I got tricked into signing that contract at sixteen and I’ve been trying to get out of it for ten fucking years. It’s all lies. There’s not a damn thing about Bad Wolf that’s real, and not a damn thing I can do about it. My producer gets everything, and all I get is pushed around, exploited, and ab—” she cut herself off, swearing under her breath.

“Abandoned,” she finished. “I can’t blame him for abandoning me because I would too. I’m just some stupid, council estate, chav that made a bunch of bad decisions, has nothing to offer, and tried to pretend that I did. He had every right to be pissed that I made myself out to be someone who he could be with, when I always knew I wasn’t. I— god I’m so stupid, and it’s so obvious. It’s no wonder, yeah? I mean, genius him, and he’ll never let anyone forget it. But he’s good. He—”

A choked sob bubbled from her lips.

“He saw how lonely I am, and he stuck around, and I let him, because I’m a pathetic piece of shit that’s so goddamn in love with him I’d rather be his friend than lose him entirely, even if he is only taking pity on me ‘cos I don’t have anyone else. Him and Donna are it. He’s made it clear that we’re friends and nothing more and I’m trying so hard to respect that. I’m trying so hard to fucking make something of myself, and let it go.”

Jack handed her some napkins. Damn he was a good bartender. Ten minutes and he’d gotten to the core of the issue Donna had been poking at for months. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

But for now, he had a sad little Wolf at his bar. A flare of protective instinct rose up in him as he watched her blow her nose and wipe her watery eyes. Looking at her now he could see the loneliness she’d mentioned etched into every line of her. The way her shoulders sagged, the way the coat on her back hung off of her, even though it was far too warm in the bar for her to be wearing it. He reached out a hand across the bar and grabbed hers, and she clung to it like a lifeline. He wondered when the last time was that she’d had prolonged human contact. Her fingers were freezing, and she grasped him with all the strength her little hand had, but it still felt weak.

“Ianto, darling, I’ve adopted a Wolf,” he imagined telling his husband. Yan would no doubt roll his eyes and smile and immediately start planning when to have her over for dinner. Eyeing Rose once more, he made a mental note to tell his darling husband to cook something particularly filling and hearty. She looked like she would keel over any minute, or like a stiff breeze would knock her on her arse.

Still, there was steel in that spine, he could tell. Despite the way she’d choked up, she’d never let those welled up tears spill onto her cheeks. She and Yan would get along well. His husband was a quiet, gentle soul— and a bit of a bastard at heart— that had nerves of steel built from years of working in a courtroom. He saw a lot of Yan in Rose, actually. A steadiness that was necessary for dealing with worn-out old soldiers like the Doctor and himself, breathing life back into them. Yan had brought him so much happiness, and he wanted that for his friend desperately.The Doctor deserved it.

When he wasn’t being an utter fucking dickhead.

“Rosie,” he started, “I’ve known the Doc a long time. Ten years, give or take. We met in an army hospital, where I’d got myself blown up— I think. I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know what happened to him either, but we were in the same room, and he refused to talk for weeks. Not a single word. Wouldn’t tell me his name, his rank, or his serial,” he joked.

Rose’s eyes grew round and curious, though they also flickered with compassion. Her other hand came up and she laid it atop of his gently, and he laughed lightly. Oh, yes, he could see how this girl had captured the Doctor’s heart. That sort of kindness wasn’t something that could be found in just anyone. She pushed aside her own feelings entirely, even the curiosity for stories about the Doctor’s past that made her eyes sparkle, to project compassion for him and what he’d shared with her. Though it wasn’t the point of his story, it nearly made him choke up.

“I’d lost two full years of my memory, according to the doctors there. So, I just… started talking. Any thought that came to my head, any question, any song. I just talked and talked and talked, trying to fill the silence and hoping maybe something would click in my own head. It didn’t really do much for me, but it broke through to him, I guess, ‘cos one day—after five weeks— he looked over at me and he was there. I could see in his eyes that he was there. He was scowlin’ at me like no one I’d ever seen, and he looked right at me and told me to ‘Shut the fuck up, Harkness.”

“Shut the fuck up, Harkness,” the Doctor echoed from behind them, his voice overlapping with Jack’s.

Rose jumped, blushing furiously, trying to pull apart their hands. Jack caught her eye and finished his story, mouthing to her, “Just keep trying.” He gave her a final, gentle squeeze, and released her, turning to his oldest friend.

“Ah, so you finished your tantrum before Donna this time. Congrats,” he said, rolling his eyes and winking at Rose.

Her flushed pink face darkened, and her mouth parted in a surprised little ‘O,’ and Jack watched with exasperation as the Doctor’s eyes narrowed in on it. God, he was a moron.

“Well,” the Doctor said gruffly, tearing his eyes away from Rose’s mouth. “I am the older sibling.” A wry smile turned up the corner of his mouth and he winked at Rose, as if he couldn’t let Jack get away with having done the same and gotten a blush out of her.

“Jealous, possessive idiot,” Jack thought.

He watched the flicker of emotions across her face and sighed when her mask came back down into place. The vulnerability she’d shown to him disappeared and left behind a playful, flirtatious— but respectfully within defined boundaries, with no sexy little tongue peeking out of the corner— grin. Fuck, but she was a good actor. If she’d come into the bar with that mask on, he wouldn’t have been able to read her at all. It worried him, for her, that she was that proficient at hiding her emotions.

Just how much practice at it did she have?

“So you’ve said,” she replied to the Doctor, as if they’d never missed a beat.

Donna came back in not too long after, and the three of them finally grabbed a booth.

Jack watched from a distance as the Doctor and Rose sat on opposite sides, and snuck glances at each other when the other wasn’t looking, teasing each other lightly, and pointedly did not touch. No fingers brushed against each other in the shared basket of chips. Salt was slid across the table, not handed directly to the other. Feet were tucked firmly against the wall of the booth and pointed away. If Donna got up to use the bathroom, Rose went with. When the Doctor brought them another round of drinks, he handed Donna hers and set Rose’s on the table.

It was deliberate. It was calculated. It was infuriating.

Donna came up to buy a round and all but shoved Rose back into the booth with a falsely cheerful, ‘Birthday girl doesn’t buy drinks,’ and stomped her way up to the bar.

“Grind up a goddamn paracetamol in mine,” she ground out through gritted teeth.

Jack glanced over her shoulder at the way the two were seated, leaning over the table to talk to each other, as thick as thieves. The world around them might as well not exist as wrapped up in each other as they were. A strand of Rose’s hair fell, and from his position at the bar, Jack could see how the Doctor’s hand twitched, raising forward as if he was going to brush it back behind her ear, but he aborted at the last minute and clenched his fist. Rose’s eyes flicked over to his outstretched hand, and he quickly waved it around, pretending to be swatting a fly.

Jack turned back to Donna with a deep, exasperated sigh.

“Girl, I am so sorry,” he sympathized, patting her hand. “How long has this been going on?”

“Two fucking months,” Donna moaned. “Three, if you count November, when they weren’t speaking. Plus, the month-ish before that where they were together but apparently dedicated to torturing me, and I had to deal with the two of them purposefully not shagging ‘cos they were ‘taking it slow.’ Not that Spaceman told me any of that, but Rose did. I didn’t even know they were dating each other, just that they were both seeing someone.”

Jack winced. He was sure that had gone over well with the Doctor when he’d found out. Paranoid bastard.

“I caught them trying to swallow each other’s tongues one time before it all went to shit so now I’m sitting in a cloud of emotional and sexual tension so thick you couldn’t cut it with a chainsaw— and one of them is my damned brother and the other is my best friend!”

Jack counted back mentally and realized that was around the time he had last heard from the Doctor as well. It wasn’t unusual for him to drop off for stretches of time, so Jack hadn’t thought too much of it, but normally there were signs. He’d get extra sullen and sulky, snapping at Jack a bit too much, and disappear for a few weeks, only to come back and mutter a shit apology and they’d be back to normal. He disliked it, and worried for his friend, but had come to accept it. This time, he had dropped off rather suddenly, with none of the usual indicators. Donna kept him posted on how he was doing during those times, so he didn’t worry too overly much, but she’d been rather tight-lipped this time, and now he realized why.

Rose was… well it was easier to understand in person.

“Fuck,” Donna continued complaining. “You should’ve been there for Hannukah, it was… blimey it was awful. And mum is convinced they’re together and lying about it, which isn’t helping anything—”

“She thinks he gave up on her because she’s stupid, and he ‘finally figured it out,’” he informed her casually, cleaning a glass with a rag and playing up the bartender gag for her. It normally made her laugh, but this time she slammed her hands on the counter in disbelief.

“Haven’t had the chance to talk to the Doc yet, but I know him well enough to tell you it’s some kind of self-flagellating bullshit on his end. Guilt, PTSD, the typical Doctor shit. Guarantee there’s a healthy dose of concern about her age too, you know he likes to act like he’s nine hundred fuckin’ years old.”

“How did you—” she shook her head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. That’s why I’ve been subtly pushing him to bring her here for weeks. So you could get to the bottom of it.”

“First of all, flattered. Second of all, subtle? You?”

Donna scoffed. “Yeah, actually and it was bloody difficult, and I’d rather not have to do it again. So, what’s the plan to get these idiots fixed up?”

Jack grinned. He had a few ideas.

Ianto was going to be thrilled.

Chapter Text

“I need a plus one,” The Doctor’s voice repeated through the speaker, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “And I know you’re free— it’s a holiday.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Rose said, blushing and glad he wasn’t there to see. “I do have a boyfriend, if you remember.”

“No you don’t,” he argued, quickly. “You have a coworker who acts like your boyfriend.”

Rose reminded herself once again that she was imagining the petulant tone in his voice, and that the flash of possessive ire she’d imagined in his eyes wouldn’t really have been there either. She could hardly believe he’d mentioned Malcom at all, let alone to argue with her regarding her relationship status.

“And you don’t think I’ll be expected to be seen with him?” She asked, folding the shirt she had in hand with a bit more force than was necessary.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p,’ a habit he’d seemed to pick up from her. “You told Donna two weeks ago at dinner that he’d be out of town, and how happy you were that you didn’t have to go out on Valentine’s Day.”

She fought the urge to rub her forehead in frustration. Damn eidetic memory! Stupid, genius Doctor, remembering the things she said, all the time. Even when she’d thought he wasn’t listening, engrossed in conversation with his grandad, which is why she’d even brought it up to Donna, when her friend had asked if she had plans for the holiday.

“So, you remember that I don’t want to go out on Valentine’s Day,”

“Yup,”

“And you asked me to go with you anyway?”

“Ah,” he paused, and she could imagine him looking down with a furrowed brow as if to think. “Didn’t think o’ that,” he admitted.

Of course he hadn’t. Bloody stupid genius.

“What’s it for again?” She asked with a sigh, knowing already that it didn’t matter.

The Doctor laughed victoriously, and again she could see the wide smile he was no doubt sporting and the way it would crinkle the corners of his eyes softly, making her heart skip a beat. She’d always known she would give in, had known as soon as he’d asked her that she would end up going, just to make him happy and to spend time with him. And he was right, Malcom was out of town playing a small venue in Dublin, and she had a photoshoot in the morning— thankfully— so she didn’t even have to remind Saxon of their deal to get out of going with him.

Which left her free for the night to accompany the Doctor as his plus one. Still, even though both of them knew she had basically just agreed, she felt the need to argue, just a bit, to make herself feel at least slightly less pathetic.

“S’ a stupid thing at the Observatory, you know, the one the university does research at?”

Oh, she knew. She remembered his promise to take her there someday, to show her the stars, and she remembered the vivid fantasies she’d had of him doing just that. Fantasies she shoved down viciously now, barely keeping track of what he was saying.

“They’re havin’ a fundraiser, and the department is making a few of us go. Dr. Smith was supposed to, but the bastard backed out last minute to go to some fucking thing in Barcelona. Prick,” the Doctor muttered.

She couldn’t help but giggle fondly at the annoyance in his tone.

“Anyway, Sarah Jane— that’s the head of the department— she asked me to take his spot and told me if I did that she’d get me out of havin’ to go to a conference next month and I really don’t want to go to that, Rose,” he rambled, his voice turning to a plea near the end.

Rose felt flustered and took a moment to carry the pile of laundry she’d finished folding as he talked to her dresser.

“Still don’t see where I come in, Doctor,” she teased, easier now after a moment to breathe. “Sounds like a you problem. And not better than a Saturday night in my pajamas watching telly.”

An indulgence she’d had less times than she could count on one hand over the past few years, and still she would give it up because he’d asked. It wasn’t better than a Saturday night in her pajamas watching telly with him, but it was better than flipping through the channels angrily, vehemently trying to find anything that didn’t remind her of him. Romance? Out. Sci-fi? Out. Documentaries? Oh, absolutely out of the question, because it only made her long for his voice those days she’d spent in his classroom.

“You wouldn’t be so cruel,” he lamented. “You wouldn’t make me spend an entire evening alone with those knobheads, not my best mate.”

Best mate.

“I thought Jack was your best mate,” Rose snapped back, wincing at the petulant tone that was absolutely in her own voice.

“He was,” the Doctor responded cheerfully. “Don’t worry, he took the demotion well.”

“You still haven’t said exactly what this event is,” she reminded him sternly. “Which that evasiveness, plus your whining, really isn’t selling it for me.”

The Doctor sighed, loudly, and she heard a chair drug across the floor as he no doubt collapsed into it dramatically. She rolled her eyes in fond exasperation.

“It’s… a gala,” he bit out.

Rose whirled around on the phone where it sat on the bed, as if he was there to glare at. She noticed belatedly she still had a bra in her hand and set it down, crossing her arms and wondering idly if he could see the glare she’d given him as easily as she saw his in her head.

“A gala,” she repeated. He hummed in affirmation, sounding glum. “In two days.”

She received another morose noise of confirmation and sighed loudly.

“You owe me, Dr. Noble,” she said, trying to project severity into her voice even as his sigh of relief rushed across her phone speaker. “And you have to come with me tomorrow to pick out a dress.” The demand spilled from her lips before she even realized what she was saying, just an attempt to tease him until the implications of it made her smack her own forehead.

“What?!” He argued. “Why d’you need a new one? What’s wrong with the one you wore to—”

He cut off abruptly with a muttered curse, and it took her a moment to realize what he’d meant. When had she worn a dress around him? She hadn’t even dressed up for her birthday—

“I like this dress,” his voice whispered in her ear, the phantom sensation of his hand cradling the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. Her throat closed up painfully with a lump, thankfully holding back the sob that threatened to escape as grief overwhelmed her suddenly.

The dress she’d worn to the die-in, the day it all fell apart. That’s the dress he meant. That was why he cut himself off— because he realized he’d been about to mention Before.

Several long minutes passed where neither of them said anything. She thought he might’ve hung up, running off again just because he almost mentioned Before, just because they were clearly both thinking about it, instead of pretending it didn’t happen.

But after a tense silence, she heard him softly ask, “Rose?”

“Yeah,” she said numbly. “I’m still here. I uh… I’ve got to go. Don’t worry about tomorrow, yeah? I’ll… I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Rose—” he tried to interject, but she hit the end call button before she heard anything else, setting the phone down heavily and sinking to the floor in front of her bed, leaning against it.

What had she just agreed to?

The next afternoon, Rose found herself entirely out of her depth in the formal section of the department store. After rehearsal, she’d looked up information on the event and had been stunned to see that it wasn’t just a gala, but a huge event. And it wasn’t just at an Observatory, but the Royal Observatory. Apparently, there wasn’t another one, but she hadn’t known that when she agreed. The gala event was actually for the whole of the Royal Museums Greenwich, and there would be open access to the Observatory, the Old Royal Naval College, and the Queen’s House, as well as the gardens.

It made her head spin to think this sort of thing even still happened, and that the Doctor was regularly invited to them. It was just more confirmation, in her mind, of all the ways the two of them would never work. Their education, their life experiences, and their backgrounds were too different. Though it was difficult to imagine the Doctor in that sort of setting— just on virtue of the fact she knew that he would no doubt hate it— it wasn’t difficult to imagine him belonging there. Herself, on the other hand… well, even finding an appropriate dress today, she knew she would stand out like a sore thumb.

She regretted her decision not to invite Donna out shopping with her as she stared at the racks of gowns, eyes widening further at the cost of each one. She knew she could afford them, technically, but the idea of spending so much on just one thing— that she wouldn’t wear again— was daunting. She wasn’t even sure what would be appropriate for such an event. Donna would know, but she hadn’t wanted to endure the knowing looks or the teasing— or the outright lecturing— the older woman would give her about attending the event with the Doctor.

Embarrassed, frustrated tears began to sting her eyes. Why had he invited her? He knew this was so far above her that she would be floundering, especially with only two days of notice.

She didn’t want to believe that he would be so cruel that he’d done it on purpose, just another way of reminding her of her place and how it wasn’t with him, but it was hard to remember that when she could feel the eyes of the salespeople glaring at her. Like they could sense the Estate on her. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to formal events before— she was a celebrity, after all— but this was different. It was, at its core, a gathering for intellectuals and old money. Two things that were quite opposite of herself and especially of Bad Wolf.

Just as she was about to give up entirely, a soft voice cut through her hateful thoughts.

“Are you alright, dear?”

Rose turned to see a kindly woman’s face, brow furrowed with concern, looking at her sympathetically. She was older, maybe fifty or sixty, with kind eyes and casual clothing that looked similar to Rose’s own— that is, rather working class, with a loved leather coat on her shoulders. Her red-brown hair was pulled into a simple bun that was slightly askew, though she didn’t seem to notice. Rose almost collapsed in relief to see another normal person.

“No,” she admitted, laughing wryly. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing here, n’ I’m completely out of my depth.”

The woman nodded sagely with a sympathetic frown. “Ah, I understand. What’s the event you’re shopping for? A wedding?”

“Sorry, do you work here?” Rose asked, not answering. “I— I don’t want to waste your time, or risk your commission by—”

The woman waved her off, “No, I’m here shopping too. I’ve just been in your shoes before. Still feels like it actually, every time I need to buy something for one of these events.”

She laughed to herself, shaking her head, and Rose relaxed a bit. She seemed genuine, and kind, and Rose found herself trusting that she would be able to help her, at least in determining what would be appropriate. None of the salespeople had approached them yet, which left a pit in her stomach, but she felt at least slightly less like she would be booted out.

“My friend invited me to this gala thing, and I have no idea what’s appropriate to wear. I mean— a gala? I didn’t even think stuff like that happened any more. S’ a bit…” she trailed off, searching for the right word.

The woman laughed, “Old fashioned, anachronistic, and entirely out of touch with the rest of reality?”

“Yeah,” Rose laughed in return. “Exactly. And they say it’s a fundraiser— but seems just like an excuse to have a big, fancy party that keeps out all the chavs n’ lets them show off to each other. But joke’s on them— this chav got a plus one.”

The two of them burst into giggles, falling over each other with familiarity, united in their disbelief of the wealthy. The woman slightly reminded Rose of the Doctor, in which she was obviously incredibly intelligent and educated, but her kindly demeanor kept her from lording it over Rose.

“I’m Sarah Jane,” the woman introduced herself as their giggles fell off.

“Sarah Jane?” Rose exclaimed in surprise. “You wouldn’t happen to be Sarah Jane Smith, the head of the physics department at UCL, would you?”

Sarah Jane blinked in shock and stuttered out, “Well, yes. Yes I am. Do I know you?”

“No! Sorry, I’m Rose. Rose Tyler,” she said. “I’m friends with the Doctor. I mean—”

“Dr. Noble, yes,” Sarah Jane dismissed her explanation. “You’re his plus one? To the gala at the Royal Museums?” She looked and sounded incredulous. “I thought he was joking when he asked if he got one.”

Rose nodded shyly, biting her lip. “Um, yes. S’that ok? He only asked me yesterday,” she muttered, cheeks burning.

“It’s wonderful!” Sarah Jane said, and Rose was relieved that she sounded entirely sincere. “I didn’t realize he was seeing anyone, he’s so uptight about his personal life—”

“Oh, no. We aren’t—” Rose cursed, the flush on her face extending to burn her ears. “We aren’t together. Just friends.”

Sarah Jane’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, but Rose attempted to change the subject quickly to avoid any further embarrassment.

“So you’re going to the same gala, yeah?” She asked. “Do you think you could tell me what style of dress I should get? Like, what’s appropriate and all? I’m just lost. Is there a theme or anything?”

Sarah Jane shook her head, seemingly to clear whatever thought she was having, and then nodded in agreement with a smile. Rose’s heart squeezed painfully as the smile was tinged with sympathy again, softer and sadder than before. Fuck she hated how obvious she was about her feelings towards the Doctor. Everyone could see them written on her face— Wilf, Jack, and now Sarah Jane. She could only hope that their relationship was a strictly professional one so she wouldn’t mention it, as Wilf and Jack had done.

“Yes, of course, dear,” Sarah Jane said. “I’m here for the same thing. Been putting it off a bit, I’m ashamed to admit. I kept hoping I’d fall and break a hip instead.”

Rose laughed at the unexpected comment. Sarah Jane wasn’t near old enough for that to be an actual concern, which made the sincere way she’d said it all the funnier.

“It’s not exactly black tie— I’d never get the Doctor to agree to go if it was—” she whispered to Rose conspiratorially, “But it is formal. So we need floor length, and somewhat modest, but thankfully there’s no theme. I shudder to think what finding a gown for a masquerade in only two days would’ve been like. But then again, if it had been, even mentioning it around the Doctor would’ve sent him on a tirade that I’d still be listening to.”

Rose winced in agreement. A tirade she’d still be listening too as well, no doubt. He would’ve dialed her in just to have another witness and then spent two or three whole days ranting about it. On top of the two or three days she would’ve likely heard him ranting about the opulence of the event in general already, had he not withdrawn after she’d hung up on him the day before. Still, she’d rather the brief radio silence than to face his blustering attempts to hide the fact he’d mentioned Before.

“So most anything in this section will do,” Sarah Jane continued. “Let’s start with something simple. What color would you like? Your hair is rather lovely, and you would look absolutely beautiful with a nice deep blue—”

“No,” Rose blurted. Sarah Jane looked startled, and Rose winced again. “Sorry— just… not blue.”

“I like this dress,” the Doctor whispered to her again. She pushed the memory away firmly, looking up at Sarah Jane and ignoring the concerned look on her face, and the way her eyes flickered down to Rose’s blue leather jacket in skepticism.

“Red is a bit much,” she attempted to push forward, “Especially considering it’s Valentine’s day, but maybe a dark red wouldn’t be too bad? Burgundy?”

The exact opposite of the blue he loved, and she’d worn for him Before. More than that though, it was a color she liked and liked herself in— she wasn’t dressing for anyone else this time. Not Saxon, or her fans, or the Doctor. Yes, there was a dress code, but formal and modest left a lot of leeway, and the chance to be perhaps a bit cheeky. Burgundy was warm and rich, and her mum had once told her it looked good with her eyes. Though she’d blurted out the first color she could think of on the opposite end of the spectrum, Rose liked the choice more with each second.

Sarah Jane nodded, and after a second’s hesitation, her expression morphed into one of determination. It made Rose grin in return. Whatever Sarah Jane was thinking was infectious as the older woman took her arm and led her off across the floor, chatting merrily. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad. And with Sarah Jane’s help, maybe she wouldn’t embarrass herself.

Chapter Text

Rose smoothed her hands over the deep burgundy satin of her skirt, eyeing herself in the mirror apprehensively. The elegant gown and her elaborate updo were unlike anything she’d worn before, as herself or as Bad Wolf, and she felt like she was staring at a stranger in the mirror. The gown’s beaded black bodice was formfitting and corseted— and surprisingly comfortable and supportive— yet the smooth and unadorned expanse of her upper chest and shoulders was discomforting. It was certainly no more revealing than even the tamest of Bad Wolf’s costumes, but without the heavy concealing makeup or the platinum blonde wig transforming her into her persona, she was rather exposed. Laid bare, in the oddest mixture of figurative and literal sense.

It was beautiful though.

Sarah Jane had been brilliant, and far more help than Rose had anticipated, even after the woman had taken her arm. She’d been beyond patient and stayed with her as she tried dress after dress, encouraging her to try on the ones she gazed at longingly but did not feel worthy of donning, until she found one that was both comfortable and made her feel confident. Sarah had clapped her hands excitedly when Rose emerged from the dressing room with a small smile, encouraging her to stand in front of the store’s three angled mirrors to view herself in the gown from all angles. She’d even helped her find a beautiful velvet cape that would do well to keep out the cold February air from her exposed shoulders.

Rose had blushed deeply at Sarah Jane’s insinuations regarding how the Doctor would react to seeing her in the gown, once again insisting to the woman that they weren’t like that, but she’d given her that knowing look again and Rose had dropped it just to avoid the argument.

Still, she couldn’t deny the surge of pleasure that ran through her at the elder woman’s words and her belief that the Doctor would like it, though she’d purposefully not chosen something with him in mind. She’d left the store with her head high, confident at least that her attire alone would not make her stand out at the gala the next night, and happy that she would know at least one other person there.

Now however, her doubts were creeping back in. She certainly felt put together. The dress and cape were stunning, and her mum had walked her through putting up her hair over a video call. She regretted slightly that she did not have any jewelry to go with the gown but also had to admit that the wide expanse of skin being unadorned was rather flattering. It drew attention up the seemingly elongated column of her neck, rather than down, and her collarbones stood out delicately where she’d brushed a faint shimmer of highlight on them.

She’d been lucky that she’d had a nice pair of shoes already— a wonderful pair of vintage black kitten heels she’d purchased in the same shop as her blue leather coat— that paired perfectly with the gown. A little black velvet drawstring purse finished off the ensemble and were it not for her knowledge of herself, she would admit that she looked the part.

Her mum’s voice echoed in her ears, reminding her not to get airs and graces, chiding her even as she talked her through styling her hair for accepting the invitation. But there was nothing to be done for her nerves now, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. It was far too late to back out, and she’d be damned if she let a bit of nervousness— or her mum’s insistence— stop her. It wasn’t putting on airs and graces when she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she did not and would never belong in this crowd. But the Doctor had asked her to go, and she couldn’t say no.

As if a sign from the universe in confirmation, there was a knock on the front door.

“Coming!” She called down to the Doctor, glad the nervousness wasn’t evident in her voice.

She gave one last look at herself in the mirror and shook her head at herself before heading down the stairs from her lofted bedroom to greet him. He was early, but he nearly always was by at least a few minutes, so she’d been expecting it. He’d joked about it several times, his “military punctuality.”

She didn’t allow herself to acknowledge her nerves any longer by taking the steadying deep breath she felt she needed before opening the door, and she almost immediately regretted it.

The Doctor was bloody gorgeous. It took her breath away, even now.

Seeing him outside his standard dress, which she’d started to affectionately think of as his uniform, stunned her. He was almost unrecognizable without his worn leather armor and thick, heavy work boots that were so antithesis to typical professor attire. He wore black patent leather dress shoes, perfectly fitted black trousers, and a handsome dress shirt in a burgundy that was almost an exact match for the skirt of her dress.

How on Earth had he done that? Was it his blasted ability to read her mind, or had he simply had the same thought as her, a desire to shy away from the deep blue that she associated with him? If that had been his goal— why? Just a desire to change things up a bit, or to avoid the association with the Before?

He was looking away from her, but she knew that the deep red would contrast with his bright blue eyes gorgeously. He wore no tie, and his top button was undone in a way that looked elegantly disheveled. Skirting the formality of the event just enough to be rebellious by forgoing the ‘tie’ part of ‘black-tie,’ was so in line with him that it made her heart ache with affection.

The biggest change, however, was the startling lack of his leather coat. In its place was a long, black woolen dress coat. It was fitted, in a way his oversized leather was not, and showed off the broadness of his shoulders, the long, lithe form of his torso, making him look even taller. Even with the change of his thick soled boots to the thinner dress shoes, and her uncommonly worn heels, he towered over her in a way that made her heart race.

She could tell that he had recently shaved, not just from the smooth look of his jaw, but also by the way his hand was rubbing at it as he stared off down the hallway, not yet having turned to look at her as she’d opened the door. She realized, with a deep flush, it was because she hadn’t yet greeted him. She’d opened the door and been struck mute, and he was so lost in thought he’d yet to notice.

Rose wished he would tell her what had him so lost in his own mind. He was so brilliant, she had no doubt it would make her head spin, but she longed to know regardless. The Doctor often had that faraway look in his eyes, and when she prompted him back to reality, he would give her that manic grin. His gob would run a million miles an hour about some theory, or math, or far off place he’d been that he was missing. The last made her ache with longing. Everywhere he described sounded so lovely, in his animated and passionate voice, and she yearned for it— the freedom to travel wherever the wind took her, to see those things for herself.

For him to show them to her.

She thought secretly that at least some of those times, she could tell he was lying. There was a subtle difference in the way his eyes would either gleam when what he told her he was thinking about was the truth or go dull when it was a cover for whatever darkness lurked in him still. When his eyes went dull as he stared off into the distance, she tried to pull him back as soon as she noticed instead of being content to let his imagination run so she could admire him. She pulled him back gently as she could, and her heart would ache in sympathy when he blinked at her slowly before recognition kicked in and his jovial mask went up.

His eyes now, from what she could see as he was turned slightly away, were neither dull nor sparkling as his mind wandered. They were stormy and turbulent. She was unsure of what that meant, but he was frowning, so she took that steadying breath she needed and plastered a happy grin on her face.

“’Lo, Doctor!” She greeted, as if she’d just opened the door. “Well, you don’t clean up half bad,” she tried to tease as his eyes focused and he blinked.

She watched as he twisted his expression into a friendly grin and turned down to her, her heart rate picking up and a burning blush rising to her cheeks as his grin fell as his eyes landed on her. His mouth fell open slightly, eyes widening. It was an expression she hadn’t ever seen on his face before, and it made her fidget nervously. Several seconds passed as he stared at her in silence, and her throat tightened painfully, shame turning her gaze downwards.

“That bad, huh?” She muttered, ruefully. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I tried to find something appropriate—”

“You look beautiful,” he exclaimed, loudly.

Rose’s head snapped up, shocked, and met his eyes.

The Doctor looked slightly panicked, as if he regretted his blurted statement, but not as if he hadn’t meant it. Warmth bloomed in her chest, and the ever present hope in her heart perked up from its slumber before she could shove it back down. As their eyes locked, she felt both shy and confident in juxtaposition.

“Considering,” he said, his tone turning purposefully teasing and his eyes shifting into familiar playfulness.

“Right,” she sighed to herself, snuffing out the ember of hope. “Don’t forget who you are, and who he is. He was just surprised. Surprised the chav cleans up so well too.”

Her dark and bitter thoughts were interrupted by his laugh.

“Considering I didn’t exactly give you a lot of notice,” he said, laughing and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Don’t know if I thanked you, either, for agreein’ to come with me.”

His grateful expression seemed real, if nothing else did, and Rose swallowed her bitter anger and her longing to fix him with an indulgent, ‘my best friend is an inconsiderate git, but I go along with it anyway’ smile.

She rather thought she’d perfected that one.

“Yeah, ta for that,” she laughed, pushing forward into the hallway and locking her door behind her. “D’you know how much dresses like this cost? Not to mention how bloody rude and uptight the formal wear sales women are. Give you a run for their money they could.”

The Doctor frowned as they set off down the hall and stairs to reach TARDIS.

“I didn’t mean for you to have to buy a new dress,” he said. “I mean— I assumed…”

She looked up at him as he blustered, curious at the light pinkening on the tips of his ears. “I assumed you’d have one,” he said. “You know. Considering.”

“Word of the night?” She teased, unable to keep the jib from her lips. “And no, I’ve never had anything this nice. S’ a bit fancier of an event than I’ve ever been to. Estate girl, remember?”

The Doctor was silent again as he opened the car door for her and walked back around to the driver’s side. He was quiet for several moments, up until his eyes were fixed firmly on the road as he was pulling out into the traffic.

“Not even for… work?” He said, quiet and stilted.

She tried not to stiffen or show any shock that he’d mentioned, however indirectly, Bad Wolf. After he’d also indirectly brought it up at Jack’s bar a few days ago. It had only been a couple of weeks since they’d gone to the beach, and she could count on one hand the amount of times her ‘work,’ as he’d put it, had come up since their fight outside the café. Hell, even including that, she could count on one hand the amount of times it had come up period, including the original night he’d found out.

“Um, no,” she tried to be casual in her admittance. “It’s a bit different, you know. These old money, intellectual galas versus celebrity n’ industry events. And um, Bad Wolf isn’t… I’m not popular enough to be invited to anything like, say, the Met Gala, or something.”

He nodded stiffly, and she knew she should stop there, let the conversation move on, but something about talking about Bad Wolf with him made her want to tell him everything. She’d always wanted to, to unload everything she kept close to her chest to him, since the day they’d met. Despite the way he froze up at any mention of her contract or job, he was still the Doctor.

That soul deep connection that she felt to him called out to her, inviting her to share, to rest, to take strength from him. And whether or not they were together— decidedly not, of course— he was still her friend. Friends talked. About their shitty jobs, and shitty lives. He did, certainly, complaining at length about all the pitfalls of academia. What was the difference?

“And you know,” she continued, still forcing casual levity into her voice, “Bad Wolf isn’t exactly known for wearing something this elegant. Blimey, I barely know what to do with this much skirt.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened and she winced. She’d gone too far. Reminded him of her disastrous reputation, and how incredibly stupid she was for allowing it all to happen.

“Doctor—” she started, tearing her eyes away from him to stare down at her skirt. “I’m sorry, but we can’t just never talk about it. I can’t. It’s half my life and you’re… important. To me.”

The air was thick with tension.

“So, where’d you get it?” He asked, his voice too gravelly and full of repressed emotion for her to process the question he’d really asked. “The dress? Where did you buy it? You said the people there were rude.”

Changing the subject once again, about as subtle as a charging rhinoceros, ignoring what she’d said. Rose sighed heavily. But as was the usual, she allowed it, too tired to fight him about it any longer and too unwilling to risk an even more unfavorable outcome.

“Henrik’s,” she responded sullenly. “Not that they were much help.”

The Doctor hummed before asking, “Don’t they make commission there?”

Rose huffed out a disparaging laugh. “Yeah, so no one wanted to get stuck with me. They didn’t think I was serious, or worth much. Rather Pretty Woman, ‘cept much less satisfying. Still, felt nice to give the sale to the random girl folding jumpers instead of any of them.”

The Doctor laughed, and the thick tension broke slightly. Rose relaxed into the seat and took a deep breath. They would be ok. It had only been a couple of months, in truth, and it was natural for him to still be apprehensive. While she felt she’d been right in her initial anger— that he’d no right to think she’d been keeping something from him, since they’d only known each other for a brief time— she also felt like what she’d said to Jack at the bar was true too. He had a right to be angry that she wasn’t the person she made herself out to be. Not really. It wasn’t as if she’d ever lied. She’d told him outright she didn’t have his level of education, or any education really, but her life was vastly more complicated than she’d let on as well.

It wouldn’t be though, soon. Not soon enough to spare her the heartbreak, but soon enough that maybe, once it was over, they could try again. And if not, he was still around. Still her friend. It was still more than she had before she’d met him, more than she’d had in years.

“I met Sarah Jane,” Rose told him conversationally. “She was there at the same time, and she noticed how they were acting and offered to help me herself.”

He laughed, genuinely, grinning. “That sounds like her. She probably gave them a piece of her mind too when you weren’t looking. She used to be a journalist, before she went for physics,” he told her. “She’s very kind, but also one of the most ruthless people I know. She’d give Donna a run for it, if they didn’t get along like a house on fire.”

Rose beamed at the compliment towards the two women, agreeing. The rest of the drive was full of lively conversation as he told her other stories about Sarah Jane, and she gave him an edited version of how she’d encouraged her in Henrik’s, leaving out her comments about how each gown might be for him.

They pulled up to the Royal Observatory and were excused from TARDIS by the valet.

The Doctor gave him a lecture that made the boy’s eyes wide as he explained the car’s quirks and how to drive her, which made Rose giggle behind her hand. The valet looked over at her, around the Doctor, and a wide grin replaced his confused expression. His eyes trailed up and down her body and Rose felt her stomach knot uncomfortably at the attention. She tugged her cape closed in the front with one hand and turned away.

“Oi,” the Doctor snapped. “What’re they payin’ you for? To drive people’s cars or oogle their dates? Put your eyes back in your head where they belong, and if there’s a single scratch on my car—”

Rose tuned out, or rather, the blood rushing in her ears forced her to miss the last part of his threat. “He didn’t mean it like that,” she reminded herself. “He was just being a gentleman, ‘cos he noticed I got uncomfortable.”

“Bloody stupid little ape,” the Doctor muttered, coming up to her after the boy drove TARDIS off. “You alright, Rose?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Rose forced a tight smile to her face and nodded, looking up at him. The furrowed brow and soft eyes of his concerned expression melted her into a real, soft smile. Hesitantly, she placed a hand on his arm to reassure him, and when he didn’t shrug her off, she answered.

“’m fine, Doctor. Thank you. S’not like he did anything, and you’d think I’d be used to it but—” his frown deepened, and she shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know. When they’re lookin’ at me like… like I’m just a piece of meat, just a body, it never gets less demeaning. Whether I’m me or—” She cut herself off, shaking her head again. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you, though, really. I’d rather just move on, yeah?”

His frown remained, and on instinct, she reached down and grabbed his hand, tugging on him with a tongue-touched grin on her face.

“Come on! Fancy party awaits. I’ve never been to the Royal Observatory either,” she said excitedly.

The Doctor let her pull him along, but it wasn’t long before Rose noticed that his hand was limp in her grasp. A sharp stab of grief cut through her, as well as another of self-recrimination. She dropped his hand like it had stung her, cursing to herself, just as they came up to the garden.

Even her deep self-loathing dropped off as the sight caught her off guard in its unexpected beauty.

The building itself was lovely, all old brick and Restoration period architecture, but the gardens themselves were breathtaking. Even in February, when most of the plants were dead, there was a stateliness to the sprawling landscape. The gardens had also been decorated for the event, and stunning white lights twinkled like stars adorning every surface and reflected off the fresh dusting of white snow that blanketed the ground. Strands wound around trees and bushes, and a series of arches created a tunnel like entrance through the gardens into the manor itself. Draped strings of lights created a long, beautiful, twinkling path through the garden that led the way to the other buildings were different parts of the event were being hosted, guiding people and encouraging them to explore each one.

People milled about everywhere, seemingly mindless of the chill in the air and as they descended into the space it was evident why. Planted around the gardens were several tall heaters, glowing orange in the twinkling light and warming the garden comfortably enough that people were walking through the space and standing close to them to converse. It was obvious the main event spaces were still inside the individual museums, but it was impressive regardless. The attention and money that had gone into planning such details made an uncomfortable pit form in her stomach, but she pushed through it easily enough.

Tearing her eyes from the garden and the crowd as a whole, Rose focused on a few of the individual people, noting with relief several gowns that were similar to her own, and not a small number that were even more revealing or risqué. A metaphorical weight was lifted from her shoulders, and she straightened, feeling lighter and more excited.

“Wait til you see inside,” the Doctor murmured to her. “The Observatory is brilliant, but the main event will be in the Old Royal Naval College.”

She jumped slightly, surprised that he’d spoken from so close to her. She’d been so preoccupied that she hadn’t noticed he’d moved in that closely to her. Still, after the initial jump scare, she turned to him and grinned, and he swept his hand gallantly in front of him, gesturing for her to walk forward. Rose dipped her head slightly in a mock curtsy, smiling widely, and they fell into step together as they walked towards the manor. She patently ignored the way that most of the couples strolled arm in arm and focused on not tripping over her floor length gown.

The inside space was equally as spectacular, as the Doctor had said. The Observatory was fascinating, especially listening to him talk about the history of it and show off the star charts and the like. The telescope was utterly awe-inspiring, and she found it hard to focus even on his pleasing voice as she peered into it. Her mind kept drifting to the fantasy she’d had of just this scenario, but it was easier to push it back than she’d thought it would be, when she was genuinely interested in the lecture he was giving her. It was better than any documentary she could have been watching on the telly in her pajamas, that was for certain.

The Doctor kept close to her, murmuring his lecture for only her ears, as he seemed unwilling to engage with anyone else. It didn’t surprise her, his reluctance to even attend had been quite open, but it did make her giggle fondly. He was so grumpy to everyone, muttering to himself or to her little quips about some of the people that attempted to engage them in conversation before he would steer them away rather rudely.

“They’re all insufferable,” he complained. “But they donate the money that funds our research. Bloody philanthropists they think they are.”

Whatever his reasoning, she was more than glad to have his attention all to herself. It was an odd mixture of melancholic and joyous, reminding her of their first few weeks together.

He seemed to be purposefully drawing out their meandering tour of the Observatory, despite his admittance that the largest part of the event was elsewhere. She imagined it was because there would be more people there that he’d be expected to talk to, so she was also reluctant to join that crowd. But she began to realize after a while that it would also be where the food was, and likely where Sarah Jane was as well.

“Doctor, let’s go find Sarah Jane,” she proposed, nodding her head towards the exit.

He grumbled in acquiescence, leading her outside once more into the spectacular gardens.

He started to head in one direction before pausing and turning to her, a wide, real, manic grin lighting up his whole face. It took her aback, even as an answering smile rose to her own lips instinctively.

“What?” She asked with a laugh.

The Doctor reached down and took her hand, and the world stood still.

No, the world around them stood still. The earth beneath their feet spun, and she could feel it once more, making her dizzy with delight. His large hand was warm, and his grip was firm as he laced their fingers together tightly, palm to palm. With their clasped hands, he gestured up and out, to a copper line that ran through the cobblestone walkway, up to a geometrical statue she could see in the courtyard.

“D’you know what that is, Rose?” He asked, his voice quiet, but joyful. She shook her head, not trusting her voice as his made a shiver run down her spine. “The Prime Meridian. It’s the dividing line between the Eastern and Western Hemispheres. Right here in London. Step over that line… And you’re on the other side of the world,” he finished in a whisper.

Her breath caught. It was ridiculous that she felt such significance at his words. She’d been on both sides of the line already. It ran right through the Observatory, and they’d been all over the inside. Hell, in theory it circled the whole globe, so certainly she’d walked over its invisible demarcation hundreds of times, other places in London. Not to mention that she’d been to both the European continent and America, both firmly on either side of the line.

But she’d never thought about it before. Never had the gleaming copper line right at her feet, with the Doctor’s warm, strong hand gripping hers like she’d float away if he let go. Insinuating with that tight grip that he would leap across the line with her, that he would go with her to the other side of the world.

She gripped his hand tighter in return, lifting her eyes up from the line on the ground to meet his.

It had to have been the darkness of the courtyard. Though the twinkling lights and glowing heaters gave off illumination, it was still night outside. Pupils expanded to take in light in darkness, she knew. There was no doubt that everyone who was in the garden had pupils that were expanded now. Expanded pupils— but not lustfully expanded— stared down at her even as she looked up.

“Rose,” he whispered. The way he said her name was dark and low, with a hint of a growl in it— in her imagination.

“Doctor,” she responded, attempting to tease, but it came out breathless.

He swallowed, hard, and broke the eye contact, grinning— only slightly faked, she could tell by the subtle clench in his jaw— and said louder: “Run!”

Together, they leapt over the Prime Meridian, laughing exuberantly, hands clasped tightly and hearts racing. A few people looked their way, laughing along with them, and a few even followed suit, jumping over the line and smiling at the moment of levity, but Rose hardly noticed.

They didn’t really run, though she wished they would, as her long gown and heels weren’t suited for it. The exhilaration of the leap didn’t last as long as when they had run together before, the first time he’d taken her hand, but as they strolled through the gardens on their way to where the main part of the gala was taking place, her heart was still beating wildly in her chest. The Doctor had yet to drop her hand again, their fingers remained interlaced, and she clung to him tightly out of fear that if her grip changed at all he would notice, and realize he still held her. She knew it was a mite pathetic, but the way her touch starved nerves sang— tingling excitedly all the way up her forearm— begged her to hold on as long as he would allow.

Even as she wrestled her heart and thoughts back into place, her traitorous body screamed at her to turn into him, to cling to his arm the way she used to and lay her head on his shoulder as they walked. The walk took several minutes, but the gardens were pleasantly lit with the twinkling white lights throughout. The tall glowing heaters lined the path every few meters, so they never grew too cold, but she could feel the rush of blood in her cheeks from the nippy air. She was grateful for it, really, as it hid the blush that refused to lessen. The Doctor spoke animatedly as they walked, still imparting history and anecdotes of the museums and the grounds, and she was once again genuinely interested in his lecture. As always, she was impressed by his breadth of knowledge on seemingly every subject and soaked up the opportunity to learn from him.

As they grew closer to the College, there were more people on the path, and he leaned in closer to continue.

“You’re going to love this,” he whispered excitedly as they entered the building, following the crowd.

Rose lost the ability to respond as they were prompted to turn their coats in to the check, and his deft fingers tugged at the ribbon that held her cloak shut, before she could do so herself, letting go of her hand to draw it off her shoulders. The Doctor's finger brushed against the hollow of her throat as he drew the cloak from around her. It slid across her bare arms in a whisper, the velvet brush prompting gooseflesh to rise to her skin. Or maybe it was his touch, or his intense eyes. She could not say for certain. His woolen dress coat and her cape were exchanged for tickets he shoved in his trouser pocket, and he held her gaze meaningfully as he retook her hand, resuming his tugging further into the building.

Surely, she thought dizzily, she was not imagining the way his eyes had lingered on her shoulders as he bared them to himself? And he had done that— there was no mistaking the way her skin still tingled from the light drag of his calloused skin across the smooth expanse of her collarbone.

They entered a large, long room, full of people and the air was filled with laughter, people’s voices, and music from a string quartet somewhere in the room that she couldn’t see. Long tables held all sorts of fancy little nibbles, and people in honest to god coat tails walked around with silver trays laden with champagne flutes. Rose rolled her eyes at the posterity of it all, but admitted it was an impressive site. The room was ornate, obviously old, and she knew immediately that the impressive size and striking beauty of it were why they’d chosen it for the main event space. Large arched windows, columns, and beautiful marble flooring all caught her eyes appreciatively. She glanced around for Sarah Jane, but doubted she’d find her now that they were here, and there were so many people.

“Rose,” the Doctor murmured to her.

She glanced up at him, smiling, and her blush dusted her cheeks once more when she found him already looking down at her with a soft smile on his face. He was so tall, even with their height difference reduced by the lack of his thick soled boots and the height that her heels provided.

“Look up,” he suggested.

Rose lifted her gaze upward with an amused grin, ready to quip that she had been looking up, but the expression dropped into shock as she took in the ceiling.

The mural seemed to glow, golden and light, of its own accord, from within. She didn’t recognize the figures, nor the story it seemed to be trying to tell, but it seemed at least partially religious she thought. Regardless, the art itself was breathtaking. Figures draped over each other, over the edges of the painted ovular frame that had been designed to contain them, seemed to pop from the ceiling as if they were living, breathing people suspended in zero gravity, rather than a flat mural. Sections of gilding glinted, gold and beautiful, atop the columns that lined the hall and the carved molding around the edges of the mural.

Standing beneath it, it felt massive. Even larger than the room around her, though it was directly beneath. The layers to the mural seemed to expand it upwards into the Heavens it was depicting, and she felt small and insignificant, awed by its presence. The sounds of the room faded to the background as her eyes darted across it, trying to take in all the details but continually getting lost and finding new ones she hadn’t noticed before. The only things in the entire world that existed in that moment were the beautiful ceiling, with its warm golden glow, herself, and the Doctor, whose warm, tight grip on her hand kept her from growing dizzy.

“Around the edge of the oval,” the Doctor said, “The figures represent the Zodiac. See the centaur? Sagittarius?” His other hand appeared in her vision, pointing, and she followed his finger, amused to see there was in fact, a centaur, near the middle of the ovular frame. “The group of women near the center represent the virtues, as well as a few monarchs from around the time it was created: King William the third, Queen Mary the second, and Louis the fourteenth, and a representation of Europe kneeling, pleading for peace. Down at the bottom, the figures spilling out over the frame,” his finger pointed down, and she followed it eagerly. “Are the vices, being expelled by Athena and Hercules. That’s Apollo up top as well. Zeus and Hera in the lower corners, and personifications of the main rivers there along the edge.”

“What’s the Latin say?” Rose asked, partially teasing, but mostly expecting him to know.

“Not sure of the exact translation, but probably a dedication of the hall,” he admitted. “Who it’s for, who paid for it, that sort of thing.”

Rose turned her eyes down from the ceiling, stunned, and met his again. They were still dark, only a thin band of blue around his expanded pupils.

“You—” she breathed and swallowed hard to clear her throat from where her breath caught in it. “You think you’re so impressive.”

“I am so impressive,” he growled down at her.

She couldn’t convince herself that she was imagining the edge to his words, or the promise they seemed to hold. Not when his eyes were so dark and utterly locked on hers, capturing her and keeping her from looking away. Not when his fingers were still laced with hers, his grip tighter than her own, tighter than it had ever been Before. Like the turning of the earth beneath their feet would fling him off into space if he let go.

“Doctor—”

“Dr. Noble!”

Rose was cut off by another voice calling out for him by name. It startled both of them, and the world crashed back in around her. The noise from the room was suddenly overly loud in her ears, a cacophony of music, glass clinking together, laughter, and the roar of voices. She stumbled as someone bumped into her, and his hand was disentangled from hers as she nearly fell. By the time she recovered, the voice that had called out for the Doctor had a face attached to it, and a gorgeous, elegant woman with a riot of perfect gold curls had taken Rose’s place at his side.

Blimey, but she was stunning, Rose couldn’t help but notice. Older than her— nearer to the Doctor’s own age— she was tall and curvy, adorned in a vibrant, peridot green satin gown that hugged her figure perfectly. She had a bemused smirk on her lips, as if she knew secrets that she wanted everyone to know she knew, but would never tell, and her light eyes sparkled with intelligence.

Honestly, if Rose wasn’t so in love with the Doctor, the woman before her would have stolen her heart in an instant as well. Rose was startled at the realization that it seemed she had a type she hadn’t realized before. Older, taller, clearly intelligent— which was just a setup for heartbreak, great going there, Tyler, she scolded herself— and obviously full of themselves. Maybe it was the arrogance, the self-assured air? That seemed about right for her, she thought.

Something about the combination of that and the way either of them would tower over her should they so choose…

“Professor Song,” the Doctor acknowledge curtly. His eyes flicked over to assess Rose, and she noticed that they’d all but returned to his normal piercing blue.

“Ahh,” she understood, melancholy but not surprised, “It did just take him a mo’ to adjust to the light inside.”

“Come now, Doctor, I’ve told you a hundred times to call me River,” the woman— River— chided.

Rose cursed to herself. Even the woman’s name was interesting.

“And I’ve told you, Professor Song, that we aren’t friends. We are colleagues. No, actually, we aren’t even that,” the Doctor growled angrily. “We both work for the university. Faculty members in different departments, that don’t need to interact as much as you seem to think we do.”

“Oh,” she thought, surprised. The Doctor did not like this woman, for some reason, and was openly hostile about it. Well, that was oddly attractive. “Bloody hell, get your mind out of the gutter,” she laughed ruefully at herself.

River laughed in genuine amusement, undeterred by the venom in his voice. “You used to call me River,” she teased, leaning in and placing a hand on his arm. “And other things.”

Rose flushed at the implications, and her idle thoughts on her attraction to either of them froze instantly. She was his ex? Regardless of how it had ended— which seemed to be awfully if his reaction was anything to go off of— this was the kind of woman the Doctor had been with before? Educated, elegant, beautiful. Confident. Intelligent, and confident in that intelligence.

His equal. Not some uneducated chav he kept around to show off in front of. Rose clenched her jaw, pushing down the rush of emotion.

“He’s not like that,” she told herself firmly. “And even if he was, we’re not like that. Because we aren’t together, and we never will be.”

They were just friends. And friends came to each other’s rescue when they were receiving unwanted attention, just as he had done for her earlier.

She drew herself up, cursing internally once more at how this woman would inevitably tower over her— and forcing a reminder on herself to not let that affect her in any way, not just intimidation— and slipped back up to the Doctor’s side. She placed a hand lightly on the crook of his elbow, where she used to rest it frequently as they strolled, and a spark of satisfaction rose in her when his eyes looked down at her immediately, and with relief.

“Doctor—” she started to interrupt.

“Excuse me, dear,” River snapped. “The professors are talking. I’m sure Dr. Noble can answer your questions later.”

Rose forced a pleasant smile to her lips, turning to face the gorgeous, but evidently condescending, woman. “I’m sure,” she allowed. “But James—” she forced herself not to stutter on his name, even as he stiffened, “Was just telling me about the art here. I do rather believe that it was you that interrupted, Professor Song, not me.”

River’s faux smile turned to a frown.

“Since when does anyone call you James?” She said in exasperation to the Doctor, completely ignoring Rose other than that.

He shrugged, shoulders loosening as the motion settled back down with put upon relaxation. “Since Rose,” he said easily. “Sorry, did you not see I was with someone? This is Rose Tyler. She’s my plus one,” he joked, winking at her.

Rose giggled, enjoying immensely the feeling of being in on the con with him, just the two of them against the world. Especially as River’s eyes narrowed as she took in Rose fully for the first time. Standing arm in arm with the Doctor, she found that she did not care if the woman found her lacking. She was here with him— in whatever capacity— and she refused to let anyone treat her like she didn’t belong. She did enough of that on her own, and it was exhausting.

“Rose Tyler,” River hummed. “And what is it that you do? How exactly do you know Professor Noble?”

Her implication wasn’t subtle, and Rose’s grip on his arm tightened angrily.

“I’m not a student, nor have I ever been one at UCL,” Rose snapped bluntly. “So you can take that attitude and stuff it. The Doctor is a good man, and I won’t stand for you implying otherwise in any way. You can think whatever you’d like about me but keep his name and his reputation out of it.”

River’s eyes widened, clearly not expecting her to be so direct, or to call out what she had been implying. She’d likely not meant it at all, other than as a jab against Rose, not the Doctor, but Rose could see even that spiraling out of control if there was even the thought planted in someone else’s mind. Regardless of the truth, that she had never been a student, or that they weren’t together, it would stain his reputation at least.

Hers was already so far past repair it would drag him down too.

“We met at a protest,” she continued, doubling down on the subject in order to cast out any suspicion. “I work for a dance company, same one I’ve been at for ten years.”

The practiced lie interwoven with the truth was entirely overlooked, her ferocity in the statement making sure there was no question of its authenticity. River was beginning to look genuinely contrite, a pained furrow on her brow. She was remorseful, in truth, that she’d said such a thing to spite Rose that might accidentally hurt the Doctor, who she obviously still cared for.

“Of course,” she murmured. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

The Doctor scoffed. “At least you finally learned how to apologize,” he stated dismissively. “Now learn to take the not so subtle hint and bugger off.”

River looked at him longingly, and Rose felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. She knew what it felt like to wear that look, what it felt like to be on the receiving end of the Doctor’s ire and know that he no longer wanted her by his side. She knew what it felt like to love him, as unmovable and stubborn as he was. Worst of all, she knew what it was like for him to look down on her. Her eyes softened, and she almost dropped the Doctor’s arm to reach out to River, to tell her she understood, but the woman just nodded and turned away.

“Good riddance,” the Doctor muttered. “Damn woman.”

He looked down at where her hand was still on his arm and frowned, and Rose jumped away with an apology he didn’t seem to hear.

“Er, thanks,” he said, stilted. “She’s normally much more insistent.”

Rose grinned, letting her tongue poke out from between her teeth playfully. “Oh, how the tables have turned,” she teased him. “No worries, Doctor, just returning the favor.”

He laughed lightly, shoving his hands in his pockets. Rose noted that with a grim sense of understanding. They were back to strictly non-tactile then. Well, it figured. He was probably incredibly embarrassed that she’d implied they were together and was trying to recreate that invisible barrier. He didn’t have to worry though; she’d known it had never lifted. She could still feel it between them, even in the moments he forgot about it and took her hand.

“No, Rose, really,” he said, more sincerely. “What you said… thank you.”

“I meant it,” she said firmly. “You are a good man, Doctor. Best one I’ve ever known.”

The tips of his ears turned red, and he clammed up. Rose decided to save him again, sad resignation blanketing her, but she pushed through it.

“So, River huh?” She teased. “Seems like quite a story, Dr. Noble.”

He scoffed out a laugh, one hand leaving his pocket to rub his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, River Song. She works in the archaeology department,” he started. “We met back when we were both doing our PhDs at Oxford.”

Rose balked, taken aback. Archaeology? Blimey, but she did have a type, she realized with a flustered blush.

“And how long were you together?” She pushed, grinning at his uncomfortable shuffling.

“Couple of years, off and on,” he admitted. “We didn’t… we didn’t really get along. All we ever did was fight—”

“And ‘fight,’” Rose sang, squealing excitedly as his blush turned his ears bright red.

“Yes, well,” he grumbled. “Thought that was implied when I said we were together. You’re as bad as Jack.”

“Oh, don’t worry Doctor, I’m not judging,” Rose laughed. “Honestly, I can’t blame you.”

He looked up, confusion written on his face, and she gloated internally, letting an exaggerated— but not faked— dreamy look drift across her features. River was indeed gorgeous.

“I mean, I’d fuck her,” she whispered, conspiratorially. “Or rather, I’d let her fuck me.”

The Doctor gasped and choked on a laugh, “Rose!”

“I could do without her being quite so condescending, but then again, maybe not. Blimey, she’s a woman who knows what she wants, isn’t she? Tall, smart, bit rude, bit older. Just my type, honestly.”

His mouth opened and shut a few times, gaping at her, while she giggled at his dumbfounded expression.

“You are as bad as Jack!” He finally blurted. “Winding me up like that. Dammit, Rose,” he laughed.

“Whose winding you up? I’m simply stating facts,” she teased. “Now, come on, Casanova, I want some nibbles.”

They never did find Sarah Jane.

They never did take each other’s hands again.

But they stood off to the side of the room with their little plates of fancy finger food and laughed together until their stomachs hurt, making up stories for the people that passed by, or him telling her stories of the people he did know. The night turned to dancing, the quartet moving from the corner to the front of the room, and Rose gazed at the dancers longingly, remembering the night on the street where they stood and listened to the street performer with a lone violin, and how she’d longed to dance with him there. How she’d dreamed of dancing with him to the record player in his flat.

It ached, but it was lesser, somehow.

Their friendship felt more real, after tonight. Not that it hadn’t been before, but it had felt like a shoddy replacement for what they’d once had. A band aid over a gaping wound. Now, it felt like something else entirely. Something sustainable, something new. Something she could live and be content with. If she’d met him like this, if they’d always been like this in truth, she knew she’d still be unable to keep from falling in love with him but would have chosen the same thing she was choosing now. Friendship with him was better than losing him entirely.

Still, there must’ve been a sadness in her eyes as she watched the dancers, because he caught her gaze and nodded towards the door for them to leave. They were silent on their walk back, comfortable and content. The air had gotten colder as night went on, and she drew her returned cape tightly shut. It kept out the worst of the wind but wasn’t necessarily warm. Even with the heaters along the path, she shivered, dreading when they would be away from them outside the gardens and waiting for the valet to fetch TARDIS.

Dreading the moment she would be alone again, with the cold settled into her bones, even more.

Wordlessly, the Doctor shrugged off his long woolen dress coat and slung it around her shoulders. The heavy fabric was a welcome relief, still warm from his body heat, and she burrowed into it with a murmur of thanks. When he stepped aside to speak with the valet and returned his ticket so the boy could retrieve TARDIS, she buried her nose into the collar, sighing in pleasure at the scent of his masculine cologne. Somehow, he still smelled vaguely of leather.

She left the coat in the passenger seat when she exited the car at her loft, regretting it deeply when the door to the flat closed behind her, leaving her half frozen and alone once more.

Unlacing the corset herself was just as difficult as putting it on had been, and she chuckled sardonically to herself at how much easier it would have been to have someone else— someone with long, deft fingers— undoing it for her. She caught a whiff of his scent clinging to her as she tugged at the laces, and arousal pooled low in her stomach, chasing off some of the chill.

And then it didn’t matter.

The burn in her shoulders from twisting her arms behind her back to unlace herself became the burn of arms pinned behind her back for another reason. The fumbling way she tugged at the laces herself became him, purposefully tightening the corset to the point of squeezing her breathless, using the laces to hold her close and still. The satin of her skirt sliding down her legs and pooling to the floor was an exquisite sensation on her heightened senses.

She kept the cape tied around her shoulders, his smell clinging to it, as she crawled into the bed. One arm stayed behind her back— both, in her imagination— while the other worked between her legs. Under the covers, she imagined she was on the edge of the bed on her knees while he draped over her back to whisper into her ear as he had done earlier in the evening. He lectured in his low, dark voice, while his fingers buried themselves deep within her, his thumb pressing hard on her clit, he thrust his hand in time with the rise and fall of his voice.

She couldn’t see his face— couldn’t bring herself to imagine what he would look like as he ordered her to come— but she came biting down on the velvet cape, with his scent filling her senses.

Tired, ashamed, and far from sated, she curled up underneath the covers and the cape and drifted off to sleep.

She dreamt of dancing beneath the glowing golden ceiling, and of his hand in hers, and of an end to the endless winter.

Chapter Text

The Doctor did not sleep that night.

How could he, when his entire body ached from holding himself back? How could he, when he could feel the trembling of his individual atoms that longed and strained themselves towards Rose? Her scent lingered on the wool of his coat, as did the image of her swathed in the dark fabric. In his coat— though the possessive flare was not as strong as it would be, he imagined, if it had been his leather coat. He felt little attachment to the woolen dress coat, it wasn’t so much a part of him as the other, but he still felt a primal satisfaction at taking care of her. Protecting her.

Claiming her.

He tried steadfastly not to think about what Rose had said about River. So of course, he ended up thinking about River and Rose, of them together, anyway. His mind spiraled on how Rose had outright said that the woman he had given up on because she was too much like himself was ‘just her type,’ listing attributes that she clearly meant to apply to both of them. The implications behind that tongue-touched grin she’d given him when she casually talked about fucking River, and the jealousy that had threatened to burn a hole in his esophagus from the rising bile it churned in him.

River who would take the beautiful, submissive trust Rose had once shown him and take and take and not show her a single hint of the worship she deserved in return. River who would thrive on degrading her, making Rose desperate to please her, instead of building up that trust with the effort it deserved, the attention. River who would ultimately grow tired and bored and never appreciate the blessing that was Rose Tyler. Not that Rose would allow any of that, she was too smart, too strong. But his mind couldn’t let go of the fury he felt at just the idea.

It was draconic; the intense, fiery possession he felt for her. How he wanted to horde her away and keep all of her love, attention, beauty for himself, how he wanted to protect her— regardless of the fact that she certainly didn’t need him too. She was fiery; bright and golden like the sun as he’d always known she was. That did not change anything. He was merely lucky that River hadn’t seen it. He didn’t know how she’d missed it, when Rose burned so brightly she hurt his eyes to even look at sometimes, but she’d been so casually dismissive of her.

His fury and hyperfixation hadn’t cooled even after driving from her loft to his flat with all of TARDIS’s windows down to let in the cold February air, after a freezing shower upon returning home, or after a double pour of whiskey. Whiskey just reminded him of Rose, of her eyes, and it sent him spiraling all over again. He ended up in the exact same place he found himself nearly every night, with his cock in his fist, loathing himself for being unable to keep from wanting her.

He couldn’t even fight himself to not pull his own coat to his nose, inhaling the lingering remnants of her sweet floral scent. It was not gentle, the image in his mind that night. The need he felt was too great for that, further evidence that he couldn’t allow himself to be with her for real. But that dress… he imagined rucking it up over her arse, red beneath his hands as punishment for even thinking about River. He imagined his fist wrapped in the laces from the backing of her corset as he pulled it tight, tighter, driving the breath from her lungs with every rough thrust of his cock into her from behind. Her reddened arse, warmed from his strikes, soft and welcoming against his pelvis as she whined breathlessly as he made her come, come, come.

He spent most of the next day in a loathing spiral, turning off his phone and locking it in his desk drawer. He tried to get caught up on work that he’d been neglecting in favor of being melancholy over Rose but found himself guiltily going back and changing student’s grades just a few hours later after he knew he’d been too harsh. He replied to one email and called the student a ‘stupid ape’ for her question, but thankfully Clara was used to him and simply sent him an email with only a single emoji, flipping him the bird.

Honestly, it had been what snapped him out of it, prompting a fond chuckle and shifting his thoughts to wonderment that that particular emoji even existed.

Still, the Doctor was not surprised when Sarah Jane sent him a calander invite for “a Talk,” on Monday morning. No doubt she’d gotten at least a couple of emails from some students who had been— rightfully— angry at the scathing reviews he’d left in the comments of their assignments, and not at all accepting of the silently changed grades rather than apologies.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead in exasperation, facing the mounting dread through his entire day. Students noticed that he was still churlish, and his classes were far less lively than usual, but thankfully no one called him out on it. If he had his older students, such as Bill, or Clara, he knew he’d be on the receiving end of a cycle of questions that he didn’t want to answer, just as he knew he was about to be at the whim of his department head.

He was standing outside the door to her office far too soon for his liking, feeling rather like he was about to face a firing squad, but he knocked resolutely anyway. She’d just come find him if he didn’t.

The door whipped open, and Sarah Jane grabbed him by the front of his jumper and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind him.

“Sit,” she commanded.

She thrust a perfunctory cup of tea into his hands, not as a kindness, but to force him to skip the small talk and pleasantries that she knew he hated but would use anyway in order to delay the conversation she wanted to have.

He needed a new job. This woman knew him too well.

He sat, practically collapsing into the seat across from hers, as she sat perched on the edge of her own, elbows on the desk as she leaned forward eagerly.

“So,” she started bluntly. “Rose Tyler.”

“No, sorry. I’m James Noble,” he quipped. “MD, PhD, Major in her Royal Majesty’s Armed Forces? Think you need your eyes checked.”

Sarah Jane glared at him. “Major pain in my arse more like,” she seethed. “And you look like shit— when was the last time you slept?”

The Doctor did not consider himself to be a person easily cowed, but Sarah Jane’s glare was formidable, he had to admit. Beyond her glare though, he could see a fierce protective glint in her eyes, for Rose, and it crushed him. Everyone seemed to be protective over her— himself included, he knew— and seemed to decide that he was what she needed protection from. Again, he agreed, but he was unable to make himself stay away. Every time he vowed that he would, his resolve broke within days, if not mere hours.

His personal worst had been twenty minutes, when his phone had rung and the sun that denoted her caller I.D. had popped up, and he’d answered it frantically, as if he was afraid she’d heard his thoughts of pulling back and he was attempting to assuage her that he wasn’t. Weak willed, besotted fool that he was, he’d answered, breathlessly, and of course she’d commented on it. He’d come up with some halfhearted lie he knew she saw through but didn’t push on.

As of right now, he was on a personal best, having not contacted her since dropping her off at her loft after the gala. Barely thirty-six hours, and he was tetchy, on edge, and frankly utterly miserable. His eyes burned and itched, and he knew without looking that they were bloodshot, even without Sarah Jane’s comment. But he’d almost broken that night. He had broken, but he’d been saved by none other than River fucking Song butting her way in with her typical pig-headed bluntness.

Not that he was one to talk there, but that was why they’d not lasted.

But when he’d impulsively grabbed Rose’s hand in the garden, in that moment, anything felt possible. He forgot all the reasons why he couldn’t let himself be with her. Her joy, her wonder, her infectious curiosity and sense of adventure— he got swept up in it. He’d been stunned by the way she took his hand— too stunned, as his shock had been off putting and made her drop his hand when he didn’t react. The flash of hurt in her eyes made him want to sweep her off her feet, to pull her close and kiss her breathless and shower her in the love he held back from her.

Her disappointment had been fleeting, however, and she moved on quickly when her attention was shifted to the gardens themselves. He felt a sense of loss when her eyes left him and had been irrationally jealous that anything else had caught her eye. His sense left him entirely, but then again, he thought it might’ve the moment he’d seen her in her own doorway in that regal dress. Staring up at him as if she was the personification of temptation, beauty, and lust all in one, but with a shy and unsure expression— as if her visage didn’t haunt him.

Of course he’d been showing off in the Observatory, of course he wanted all her attention on him, and he had been inordinately satisfied when he had it. Her eyes were glued onto him, her focus on his words and where he pointed as he regurgitated every fact about the place he’d memorized for the exact purpose of impressing her. When he’d shown her the telescope and explained how he used it for his research, he felt like he had all of space and time at his fingertips from the way her eyes widened in delight and admiration.

Time, because it seemed to stand still when they were together and yet move too fast all at once.

Time, because when she gazed up at him like that, with undisguised love and longing in her eyes, he felt like she’d never leave him.

Her hand had gripped his back so tightly it felt like she’d never let go, they’d never be parted, but he knew that wasn’t true. She’d slip through his fingers like water, no matter how tightly he held on. And the tighter he held, the more he would hurt her in return.

Only River had saved him from making a colossal mistake. As Rose’s hand had been torn from his, just by an accidental shoulder check in the crowded room, and he’d looked up to see the face of another woman who had abandoned him, it all came crashing down on his head again.

River, who ran off to the other side of the world and left him behind, rather than facing either her own issues, or the ones they had together. River, with whom he couldn’t go a few days without a screaming match, both their tempers and memories of their service too close to the surface to be conducive for either of them.

Though he’d undoubtedly been better off without her, it was still like an omen that Rose would inevitably do the same thing. — a heavy handed omen, at that. He would have had to criticize the writer of that particular dramatic flair, if he believed in that sort of thing.

Already her loss would be like a million Rivers, deeper and truer, as River had never seen to the heart of him as Rose did. He’d never craved River the way he did Rose, never felt that deep, draconic, possessive need he had for her. But if he took that final step, he wouldn’t survive her loss. Or at least, he wouldn’t want to. He would cling to her too tightly, too selfishly, and Rose with her big hearted, endless compassion would stay. She would stay for him, and he would let her, and he would be no better than any of the other villains that held her back and held her down.

Rose Tyler had been kept from living her life for too long, and he wouldn’t— he couldn’t— stand in the way. He’d been through it before, when River had run and run and run away from her trauma and left him behind, even when he’d tried to catch up to her. And they’d hurt each other over and over again because of it. He couldn’t do that to Rose.

He loved her too much.

All of that had been reaffirmed to him by seeing River at the gala, and it had kept his resolve thus far in keeping his distance from Rose, but he knew it was faltering. He knew he would cling to whatever time he had left with her with the greedy, desperate hands of a condemned man, and he would long for her for the rest of his miserable life.

Losing her was an inevitability.

Sarah Jane waited impatiently for him to respond to her, her fierce, protective eyes calculating as these thoughts ran through him, yet again, in a long, drawn out instant. Her eyes seemed to soften a bit as his weariness projected from him.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, Sarah,” the Doctor sighed heavily. “It’s not like that between us. We’re just friends.”

Sarah rested her chin on her folded hands, still leaning up with her elbows on the desk, and looked at him thoughtfully. Her scrutiny was uncomfortable, but he endured it, willing her to see the truth of his statement.

“Why?” She asked bluntly.

The Doctor shrugged, taking a gulp of the burning tea she’d thrust into his hands to avoid answering for a few seconds more. “Wouldn’t work,” he grunted. “She’s leaving in a few months and won’t be coming back.”

Sarah Jane’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really?” She asked, curious. “That’s not what she told me.”

The Doctor looked at her tiredly, and her face softened some more. Blimey, he must look downright miserable. He felt it, but damn.

“What do you mean?” He asked with another heavy sigh.

“I’m sure you know her plans better than I, Doctor, being her actual friend and not some old woman she met in a department store—” Sarah justified, “But she told me that she loves London. She wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else long term.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, feeling dizzy. “Don’t do this to me Sarah Jane,” he whispered raggedly. “Don’t… don’t make me hope. There’s a dozen other reasons too, and I’ll just… crash.”

“Doctor, that girl loves you—”

“You just said it!” He growled, lurching up to his feet. “Girl. You know Professor Song tried to imply last night that she was a student? That she was a student, when she thought we were together?”

Sarah Jane sighed and rubbed her forehead in pained exasperation. “Yes, I heard something about that. I heard Rose put her in her place too, though.”

“She shouldn’t have to!” The Doctor nearly yelled. “It’s not right, and it wouldn’t— it won’t work. Because she’s too bloody young, or I’m too bloody old, and everyone cares too damn much, and it would hurt her. I’ll be damned if I let anyone think that of her.”

“It’s easily dismissed,” Sarah Jane argued. “She’s never been a student here, and you know how the rumor mill is. It would blow over immediately! Are you telling me that a couple of weeks— a month, at worst— of gossip is worth all the heartbreak you’re putting both of you through?”

“She’s better off without me,” he said simply.

“Rose doesn’t think that!” Sarah Jane yelled, catching him off guard. “Jesus, you’re an idiot! Quit acting like a damn martyr and think. You and I both know that no matter what fucking excuses you throw at me, at her, or to yourself there’s only one real reason you won’t let yourself be fucking happy.”

“And what’s that, Doctor Smith?” He growled out, slamming his hands on her desk and leaning in dangerously. “What do you think that you’ve discovered about me, mmm? What did your little snooping, digging, investigation work out, eh?”

Sarah Jane glared at him again, not intimidated in the slightest.

“You’re not as scary as you seem to think, Doctor Noble. You seem to think that you can frighten off anyone who gets too close— worse than that, that you need to. Well, stuff it! Boo fuckin’ hoo, people care about you. A beautiful, intelligent, compassionate young woman loves you, oh woe is you!”

Sarah Jane stood up, mimicking his position, and he felt mere inches tall as she glared up at him. He almost sank beneath her withering gaze.

“The only real reason you won’t accept her love, and your own, is because you don’t think you deserve it,” she growled back at him. “All that other shit is just excuses.”

The Doctor blinked at her, pushing himself upright again. She looked smug and satisfied, as if she’d uncovered some deep hidden truth.

He laughed. It was mocking, and low. Dark, sardonic, and as much at himself as at Sarah Jane.

“Of bloody course I don’t,” he admitted. “Of bloody course I don’t deserve it!” He repeated, yelling again. “Quit sticking your damned nose where it doesn’t belong, Sarah Jane. You haven’t found out anything anyone doesn’t already know— rather shoddy investigative work!”

He scoffed derisively.

“Imagine thinking that I did,” he said, quieter, almost to himself.

He collapsed back into the chair, drained, and stared at his hands. They were unsightly things, he knew: crisscrossed with scars, roughened by working on TARDIS and other tinkering projects, larger than strictly necessary for his lithe frame, always making him feel rather ape like. Like anything he touched would shatter, were it too small or delicate.

“Imagine,” he scoffed.

In his peripheral vision, Sarah Jane was walking around her desk to stand next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder, comforting.

“I don’t need to imagine,” she said quietly, but firmly. “You’re a good man, Doctor. You always have been. I know that you’ve seen things, done things even, that you won’t or can’t speak about, and I’ve no doubt that they have every right to give you pause. I won’t downplay that, because it would be a disservice to you. But I see how despite it all, you haven’t let it rule you. Of course you changed, but doesn’t everyone? Isn’t that what life is?”

He gripped his fists closed, attempting to will the vision of them, stained red, from his mind.

“Doctor, you aren’t just punishing yourself with this,” she continued, not unkindly, but firm. “You’re hurting Rose. Far more with whatever this is than you would in some imaginary way if you just… let yourself be happy. At least try.”

You’re hurting Rose.

Didn’t he know that? On some level, hadn’t he seen it? He’d seen the hopeful longing in her eyes outside the café, and the crushing heartbreak on her face when he turned away from her. He’d seen the same devastated look mar her beautiful features when he turned away from her at Jack’s, and at Hannukah, when she disappeared into the night rather than face him again after he’d done so. He’d seen the disappointment and the sad resignation on her face when he didn’t respond to her grabbing his hand.

She was so expressive, his Rose. And he’d done exactly as he’d wished to do those long months ago and catalogued every one of her expressions in exacting detail. He could read her shifting features, and the light in her eyes, as easily as any book. Which meant he was painfully aware of all the ways he’d hurt her being a bastard that refused to let her go.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

Sarah Jane sighed, her hand leaving his shoulder as she leaned back against her desk and folded her arms.

“She isn’t going anywhere,” she said firmly. “She did tell me that. When we were chatting, she mentioned that she’s getting out of a long contract with her dance company soon, and when I asked what she wanted to do next, she told me.”

The Doctor looked up at her, not bothering to disguise the raw, open longing on his face. “What did she tell you?” He begged.

“What I told you earlier,” Sarah Jane shrugged. “She says she wants to travel, of course, but she said her life is here. Her family, her home. She loves the city. She mentioned she was thinking of trying to go to uni, probably online because she thinks she’d be too busy working to take classes on a schedule, but more than anything she mentioned that she wants to find a way to give back to the city. The community.”

A smile crept onto his face, despite the turmoil. Of course she said that. She meant it too, he knew. She was so kind, so compassionate. He’d even seen the flicker of sympathy on her face for River the night of the gala, though he didn’t understand what she had to be sympathetic with River over. Especially after the woman was so condescending to her. She still found it somewhere in her seemingly bottomless heart to feel compassion for her.

And family? In London? She could only mean him and Donna. Her mum and stepfather lived in a different country, and she had no other close relatives or friends. Oh Rose. His poor Rose.

And she’d said all that to Sarah Jane as a casual conversation while they shopped? No wonder Sarah was ready to bite his head off. Oh, but she did inspire loyalty, his Rose. People just seemed to effortlessly love her. (“People capable of love, that is,” he thought angrily, remembering that bastard Jimmy Stone.) It was another one of his dozens of points as to why he wouldn’t allow himself to drag her down. She could find someone so much better, so easily. Someone for whom it was effortless for her to love in return, rather than him.

“Doctor,” Sarah Jane said haltingly. “Just… just think about it, alright? I’m here if you want to talk more, to offer my opinion or just listen. But have you considered…” she hesitated again, seeming to be searching for a delicate way to phrase whatever she was trying to say.

He sighed again, rubbing his forehead.

“I have a therapist, Sarah,” he said begrudgingly. “She’s been trying to tell me the same thing though for weeks, subtly, I think. I’d almost rather she bludgeon me with it like you just did though,” he joked. “Rip the band aid off so I can stop wasting time being a git and work on not being one.”

Sarah Jane laughed brightly. For some reason, the sound made him feel lighter. He trusted Sarah Jane. He liked Sarah Jane, respected her. And Sarah Jane, Donna, his grandad, Jack, and Grace all ultimately told him the same thing, in their own different ways. Maybe if he couldn’t trust himself, it was time to trust them?

Maybe it was time to trust Rose to make her own decisions, rather than stubbornly insisting that he knew better.

“Good,” she said warmly. “Now, get out of here. Figure it out. I’m having lunch with Rose next week, and if she tells me you’re still being a git, you’re still going to that conference in Glascow.”

Her eyes sparkled with mirth and affection as he laughed and stood.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he said sincerely. “I can’t guarantee anything, but… I appreciate it all the same. You lookin’ out for Rose especially, and... and for me.”

Grace looked at him with a quirked eyebrow, and a slightly smug quirk to her lips that the Doctor could tell she was trying to push down out of a sense of professional decorum but wasn’t quite achieving. It made him like her all the more.

“Are you sure, Dr. Noble? Last time we spoke you were quite adamant.”

The Doctor took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and while it didn’t really help, he pushed forward anyway and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, shakily, but sure. “I am. I know it’ll take a while still, but…” he trailed off, thinking of Rose, and smiled. “She’ll wait, I think, if I ask her to. If I tell her. I want to try again, for real. I just need to make sure I have myself in check. I don’t know that I’ll ever feel like I deserve her, but…”

“But?” Grace prompted when he was silent for a moment.

“But if Rose decides that I’m who she wants, then it’s not up to me to change her mind,” he recited. “It’s up to me to prove she made the right choice. And I want to be the right choice for her. Whatever it takes.”

Grace’s look of smug satisfaction took hold fully and she tapped her pencil on top of her notepad.

“Excellent,” she said smoothly. “Then, let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

Game night?

A week later, the unfamiliar number attached to the text had her thumb hovering over it to delete when a second popped in right after.

This is Jack, btw. Donna gave me your number. Hi Rosie!

Rose sighed and rubbed her forehead. Jack’s bar had been… a bloody disaster, and one she’d desperately hoped to forget. The man was nosy, and instigating, and too charming for his own good. Only two drinks in and she’d spilled nearly every one of her secrets to him, only catching herself at the very last minute and sidestepping to avoid telling him about the abuse she endured at Saxon’s hand. But he knew everything else, and she had no doubt Donna did now too.

“Not that it bloody well matters,” she thought disdainfully. The whole of London could know, and the Doctor would still be oblivious or willfully ignorant. She felt grateful for it at times, when she knew she wasn’t hiding it well and he still chose to ignore her glaringly obvious feelings for him. Certainly after the gala, there was absolutely no way he was unaware of the fact that she was irrevocably in love with him. It clearly made him uncomfortable, however, if the way he had taken several days to reach out to her again after that night meant anything.

Sometimes, she felt he was being cruel, stringing her along just to have someone to hang off his every word. Most of the time, she felt as though he was being kind, politely ignoring it in order to enjoy the friendship that they did share, enjoying her company enough at least for that.

Other times, when she was particularly down on herself, she felt as if he saw her as a child with a crush and was being too kindhearted to just tell her off. She felt mocked and betrayed and pitied in equal measures, and she vacillated between anger and weary sadness in her response to it. The cycle between the emotions was exhausting.

The endless kindness and patience he showed her was exhausting. Where was the dominant man who had snapped at her for teasing him at the die-in? Where was any of the contempt he showed for other people, constantly grouching about them and calling them ‘stupid apes’ or ‘morons?’ It was unnerving, especially after seeing how he’d been so openly hostile to River at the gala for showing hints of still having feelings for him. It made her ashamed and afraid that the ball would drop any minute, and whatever it was he really felt for her— contempt, pity, embarrassed by her childish love for him— would come pouring out in a tirade.

And if that endless kindness and patience were real? What might that mean?

At least River’s condescension towards her had been honest. Rose knew that had she been serious in what she’d joked about with the Doctor about attempting anything with River, if had anything come of it, the woman would be exactly as she presented herself. Demanding, condescending, arrogant, and maybe even a little degrading. It would be thrilling, and shameful, but at least it would be honest.

Another text chimed on her phone, and she bit down on her cheek at her still instinctive reaction of butterflies fluttering in her stomach when the Doctor’s name flashed across her screen. The reaction seemed to have restrengthened since the gala, despite her best attempts to remind the traitorous beasts that the entire event had proven that he wasn’t interested in her that way any longer. They resolutely ignored her, fluttering happily.

Is Jack bothering you about game night, too? He asked.

Rose could see him clearly in her mind, his clear blue eyes rolling in exasperation at his friend, shooting her a crooked, conspiratorial grin. Like they were the only two in the universe in on some joke.She hated how special he could make her feel with that grin.

She hated how he was the best friend she’d ever had, including Donna, though only because her friendship with Donna was forged around Bad Wolf. It hadn’t stayed that way, but it had taken them longer to get close, and it made their relationship simply different. Donna was like an older sister to her, protective in a mothering way, and badgering in a way that held back no opinions. If she thought Rose was being stupid, she told her. Sometimes it was the kick in the pants she needed. Other times, it made the woman exhausting to be around, when she refused to let things go. Donna’s stubbornness could put a mule to shame and Rose loved her for it, but wished it wasn’t directed at her personal life so much.

The Doctor on the other hand… it still felt as easy as breathing to be with him most of the time. Not that he wasn’t also stubborn, but he was more like a wall than Donna’s battering ram personality. So long as she could put his confusing and mercurial attitudes aside, she could fall into his presence and forget, sometimes for hours at a time, that she wasn’t supposed to love him. She still looked at him and felt that sense of home, and knowing, that was soul deep.

And for the most part it was getting easier. Whatever it was that had happened at the gala notwithstanding, of course. She still couldn’t wrap her head around that night and slightly refused to even try.

Their friendship now was over double the length of whatever they’d had that first month— if she let herself acknowledge that it was real, which was rare— and it was getting easier to shove her hands in her pocket instead of reaching for his. It was far easier to divert into a tease or a joke instead of telling him the truth, thankfully, and so was averting her eyes when his gaze got too knowing instead of turning her face up to meet his and letting him see her.

Still, oh how she missed being seen by him.

And late at night, it was even getting easier to believe that she didn’t remember the feel of his crooked finger under her chin, his burning palm cradling her head, and the taste of his mouth. She’d slipped up last week, with the smell of him still clinging to her cape, and the feeling of his large hand wrapped around hers still burning her skin, but for the most part, she was successful in pushing his face from her mind in all but her weakest moments.

She’d given up on trying not to think about his hands entirely, though. It was the one indulgence that she allowed herself, an anchoring point to focus her attention, so that it didn’t drift to his face, or his voice. Hands could, in theory, belong to anyone. It was faces and names that she could not let herself picture, couldn’t let her lips form as she whined and panted into her own pillow, her own hand. Hands, and the ambiguity that she convinced herself they held, were fine to imagine.

So long as they did not crook under her chin, or cradle the back of her head, or lace their fingers together with hers as she imagined them attached to a faceless figure between her thighs.

Hands, and their gorgeous, rough, warm fingers were fine to imagine deep within her, wringing pleasure from her with no face, no voice, and no name attached to them.

Just hands. Just fingers.

Buried in her cunt, circling and pressing hard on her clit, shoved in her mouth keeping her quiet. Wrapped around her wrists, pinning her down while she writhed, closing in around her throat until the room faded from her vision.

Stroking her hair softly and wiping the tears away from her cheeks with calloused thumbs.

Brushing against the metal plate on the door frame with ritual reverence. Pinched and fluttering in the air, conducting sound waves with surgical precision into beautiful music. Rolling back sleeves over strong, handsome forearms. Pointing above their heads at the sky, the stars.

Hands were fine.

Because they were impossible not to imagine.

She tried. She tried to think of anything else, of anyone else. Rose had even gone as far as imagining, purposefully, what might’ve happened if River had noticed her. An entire scenario unfolded in her mind in which the tall woman would have led her away and kept her on a short leash, on her knees, threading her long, elegant fingers through Rose’s hair. She imagined River’s silken voice dripping in condensation as she was merciless to her, bound and gagged for River’s pleasure. It was so unlike anything she’d ever imagine with the Doctor, almost completely antithesis to his imagined domination, that— despite the thrill it had admittedly given her— she found the fantasy slipping away into a daydream that unsurprisingly starred him instead.

She felt guilty, using the image of the woman she’d barely met to try and shove away mirages of the man they both loved, and projecting a twisted fantasy onto her. Rose began to wonder idly if she shouldn’t just go out and try and find a stranger to give her hand and vibrator a break for the night, but only a few seconds into more serious thought of it left her nauseous.

Pushing aside the guilt she’d fallen into once more as her mind had wandered unintentionally, she texted the Doctor back, ignoring Jack for the moment, though she saved his number to her phone quickly.

Yes, she sent with an eye roll emoji. What do you think? Sounds like a trap to me.

A trap?

“Yeah, I’m convinced that he’s going to lock us in a room together until I die from shame,” she thought.

Yes, a trap to get us drunk and steal our money in poker, she replied to the Doctor.

Oh good, we're on the same page. Should I tell him Sunday at 8?

“No,” Rose complained to herself miserably, “Because Sunday nights are when we watch movies, and I pretend you still love me.”

Sounds perfect, she sent.

To Jack, she said, On the understanding that I'll KILL you if this is some elaborate plot to lock the Doctor and I in a room together, or whatever other childish shit you and Donna come up with. And it WILL look like an accident.

Jack sent back a saluting emoji, and she scoffed.

See you Sunday at eight, she said, and turned off her phone.

Moments later, Bad Wolf adjusted her wig a final time, rolled her shoulders back, and walked out onto the stage with a lazy smile. She waved at the audience members who clapped politely— painfully aware that they did not truly care for her— and strode over to sit across from the host. This particular late night talk show host was a fan of hers and invited her on the show semi-regularly, to Saxon’s pleasure. She didn’t mind it awfully. It was filmed in front of an audience, which was always nerve wracking, but it wasn’t filmed live, which was at least some measure of comfort. The problem was what kind of fan he was— the kind that bought into Saxon’s image of her hook, line, and sinker.

Henry Van Statton looked at her like he would be the next one to attempt to ‘tame the Wolf,’ as the magazines so often put it, and cared far too much for the revealing costumes Saxon adorned her in. This time, she was gilded in a short silver skirt— tight, metallic, and swishy— and a matching cropped tube top, with tall, black heels.

“Silver,” Bad Wolf thought disdainfully, “Because silver and wolves did not mix.”

Bad Wolf sat in the chair closest to the host, where she was expected to be, and crossed her legs showily. The grin that had settled onto her face wore at her already, but it never wavered.

“Everyone, give it up for Bad Wolf!”

The clapping continued thunderously for a few moments more, and she kept her eyes on the teleprompter counting down until its end. She swallowed the sigh of relief that rose to her throat when ‘end applause’ flashed across the screen.

“Thank you for being here tonight, Bad Wolf,” Van Statton greeted her.

“Thank you for having me back,” she responded, in her trademark husky voice. “Always a pleasure, Henry.”

His eyes flashed hungrily. “So, I hear you’ve got a new tour coming up, why don’t you tell us about that?”

She launched into the prepared script Saxon had given her about tour dates, ticket sales, how appropriately excited she was supposedly, and lastly, about the band she was so thrilled to have opening for her. Another plug for Malcom. She’d never even heard him perform, and yet she had a scripted answer for her favorite song, and the reason behind her ‘choice,’ if the question came up.

“Oh, I bet you are!” Van Statton chortled. “A little birdie told me some interesting news about that too. Anything you care to share?”

The crowd ooh in response to the teleprompter, and she rolled her eyes mentally. On the outside, she laughed lightly and waved him off, drawing out the tension as she knew she was expected to.

“Come on now, we’re all friends here!” He encouraged. “We’ve all seen the photos.”

She looked obligingly at the projector behind him, where strategic photos of herself and Malcom flashed across the screen. Her stomach tightened painfully when an image of her hand resting on his arm— on the patio of the restaurant they’d gone to the day her life with the Doctor imploded— flashed. Bad Wolf looked for all the world to see as flirty and seductive as she’d positioned herself to be. But she remembered how she’d gone home and vomited, how she’d scoured her skin raw and pink to rid herself of the feeling of him on her skin.

She remembered how her world had shattered into a million pieces that night, on the steps of the police station and in the back of Donna’s car.

“Don’t think about the Doctor!” Bad Wolf snarled at the part of her true self that was too close to the surface. The mask never faltered beyond a queasy look that was easily mistaken for nervousness, which the audience ate up. Their prompted ‘oooh’ sounded more genuine following her reaction.

“Well, it seems like your little birdie has you all informed,” Bad Wolf teased, “Don’t see what you need me for at all.”

Canned laughter rang in her ears.

You don’t need me. I’m just a puppet on a fucking string.

“But I suppose, since the secret’s all out,” she sighed indulgently. “Mitchum and I have been seeing each other for a few months now—”

“Mitchum?” Van Statton asked, tilting his head. The world condensed. Time slowed to a crawl.

Icy fear in her spine, lungs tightening to the point of pain. The irreverent nickname had slipped out without her notice, as plain a sign of her disinterest in the man as it had always been. Except this time, the usage was not a carefully crafted slight, meant to give Saxon the upper hand he craved or to dissuade Malcom himself from getting to close. She barely heard the murmurs and rustles from the audience over the ringing in her ears. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, thick and hot. Fear, fear, fear pounding with every racing beat of her heart. Every part of her was bracing for the blow, as if she expected Saxon to leap up on stage and deliver it then, though she knew it wasn’t how he worked.

Never any proof. That was how Saxon operated.

A terse laugh bubbled up from her lips.

“Malcom,” she corrected airily. “An inside joke, I apologize. Poor thing, he was so nervous when we first met he introduced himself as Mitchum, and I’m afraid I haven’t quite stopped teasing him about it. I mean, who gets their own name wrong?”

A genuine laugh burst out across the audience as she turned and looked directly into one of the cameras instead of at Van Statton.

“Malcom, I’m sorry I mentioned it, but it’s too cute. Don’t you agree?” She asked the audience.

The applause sign flashed, but they were already clapping. Heart thundering in her chest, she risked a glance over at the edge of the stage.

Saxon stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He nodded, a single time and relief crashed over her. She showed no outward signs of any emotion besides the indulgent smile on her lips.

She was unsure how she made it through the end of the interview, but she even managed to walk off the stage without trembling. With her head held high even, and a flirty little wave to the cameras.

Saxon waited for her in her borrowed dressing room, his fingers tapping, tapping, tapping against the vanity. Bad Wolf was silent for the several long minutes he made her wait, her spine ramrod straight.

“That was a good catch, little Wolf,” he said finally, rising to his feet and striding to leave. Bad Wolf stood completely still, and he bent down as he passed her, getting right in her ear to snarl, “But it won’t happen again.”

The door slammed behind him, and Rose collapsed to the floor.

Her trembling didn’t reside for hours after, and she wasn’t sure if the shaking came from relief, or from the cold deep within her.

Chapter Text

Leading up to the first game night at Jack’s, Rose found herself thinking about the last time the Doctor had taken her to meet his wider family, beyond Donna. It was hard not to, just as it was hard not to feel resentful towards him as she did so. He brought her home to meet his family, let her meet all his friends at a dinner party— where everyone else was part of a married couple— and yet still held her at an arm’s length. Of course, it was no worse than him taking her to an incredibly formal affair, on Valentine’s Day, and thinking nothing of either detail. It was almost another pathetic mockery of a relationship, like the ones Saxon dangled in front of her. After what a disaster both events had been to her self-esteem, she wondered why on earth she’d agreed to game night at Jack’s, save for the charming man’s convincing.

Right, she thought glumly. Because she’d agree to go anywhere with the Doctor that he asked her too, no matter how many times he proved to her that it would hurt. And it was better than sitting in her empty flat worrying about whatever retaliation Saxon was planning for her blunder the day before.

When the Doctor had invited her casually to Donna’s to celebrate the first night of Hannukah, he mentioned that his grandad Wilf would be there and had specifically asked him to invite her. Rose had been shocked, as she hadn’t known that Wilf knew anything of her, except maybe that she was a friend of Donna’s, but she’d accepted happily. She was eager to meet the man that both Noble twins spoke of so fondly, and more than eager to spend an extended amount of time with her two favorite people, even if the presence of one was like a constant pour of salt in her wounds.

Wilfred Mott had welcomed her gladly, eager to have someone new around to tell stories to, especially about the holiday. She’d been amused to see him wearing two pairs of reindeer antlers and had commented lightly on not realizing reindeers had anything to do with any holiday but Christmas. The kindly old man had told her that they didn’t, they were solely for Christmas, but he enjoyed being festive for both holidays. After Rose confessed to knowing little about the history of Hannukah, Wilf had happily taken a seat next to her— cutting off the Doctor from sitting on her right, as Donna already sat to her left, and making Rose’s heart race at his indignant expression as he glared at his grandad.

The twins’ mother, his daughter Sylvia, had been far less pleased with her presence, and had left in a huff not long after dinner. Donna’s husband, Shaun, had also begged off after dinner; upstairs to their bedroom claiming a headache and shooting Rose a look that told her that he just didn’t want to listen to his wife and brother-in-law argue any longer. She’d hid a small laugh, ducking her head. Shaun was a quiet man, contemplative, and she didn’t know sometimes how he put up with the Nobles.

Wilf had glanced at Rose as the twins argued loudly and smiled at her slyly, shooting her a cheeky wink that had her giggling behind her hand before he simply said, “Oi.”

He had not raised his voice at all, but the word carried with authority, and Rose realized that not all of the Doctor’s tricks came from his careers. The two siblings stopped immediately, turning their attention to their grandfather, before shouting over each other once more, this time trying to convince him of each of their rightness.

Rose could no longer hold back her laugh, and had burst out into riotous giggles, truly laughing for the first time in weeks. The twins fell into silence as Rose laughed, Donna grumbling to herself, but when Rose had stopped laughing enough to open her eyes and look up, she saw the Doctor staring at her.

Her laughter died in her throat at the intense look on his face, sparks of electricity stiffening her spine. She felt her face warm across the tops of her cheeks in shock— the warmth turning into a shameful burning that covered her whole face as he stood up abruptly and left the room. Tears stung her eyes, and Donna had shot a sympathetic look to her that she waved off, before bolting after her brother before she could protest, leaving Rose alone with Wilf.

The kindly man patiently waited while she batted her eyes with her sleeves before she turned to him with a watery smile, trying to hide the way her heart was breaking all over again.

“I think that’s my cue to leave,” she had said. “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Mott.”

“Nonsense,” he waved her off, pouring her another glass of wine and passing it to her. “And I told you, it’s grandad. Or Wilf, if you must.”

Rose hummed, and looked down at the glass in her hand, rather than respond.

“What is going on with you and my boy?” Wilf asked pointedly, but gently.

Rose shook her head, refusing to look up. “Nothing. I mean, we’re friends, but I’m more friends with Donna. He barely tolerates me, really, as you can see.”

A weathered hand rested on her knee warmly, and she looked up to meet compassionate, sad eyes. “Come on now, tell grandad the truth,” he prompted with gentle sternness.

Rose snorted out a humorless laugh. Of course, she would find one more thing with the Nobles that she had always wanted but never had. An elder sibling in Donna, the potential for love in the Doctor, an older male figure in Wilf. The family seemed designed to fucking torture her. At least Sylvia appropriately disliked her.

“Nothing,” she repeated firmly. “Not any more at least,” she said more quietly, unable to lie under Wilf’s knowing eyes.

She refused to say anything more, regardless of the intensity with which Wilf stared at her. She shut her eyes tightly against the tears, both from the painful reminder of the Doctor’s recent rejection, and from the gentle male presence she’d never known she was missing until she’d met the Nobles. His warm hand on her knee was the first prolonged touch she’d felt in weeks, and it almost burned through her jeans and the fleece tights underneath she had on to try and stay warm.

After a few moments, Wilf patted her knee gently and stood. “Wait here, duckie,” he said.

Rose blushed and stuttered, but he was already gone. She heard him walking up the stairs, knocking on a door, and Donna’s loud ‘‘Oh now you’ve done it, dumbo.’’

She heard Wilf very steadily, but very crossly ask, ‘‘James Wilfred Noble, what did you do to that girl?’’ and the Doctor’s indignant, ‘‘She’ll hear you!’’ and then the door slammed, and she heard nothing more than muffled arguing.

She stared up at the ceiling to keep the angry tears from falling and told herself that as soon as she could breathe again, she was calling a cab. As more muffled yelling occurred, and she heard Shaun’s plaintive voice added to the mix, she decided cab drivers likely got lots of teary phone calls and pulled out her mobile regardless.

After the driver told her how long it would be and hung up, the door slammed open again, and Wilf’s soft steps echoed back down the stairs. He took her place next to her again and tense silence filled the air between them before he hesitantly placed his hand back on her knee. She tilted her head down and looked at him, his sad expression cutting through her.

She nodded in understanding and laughed humorlessly once more, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve again.

His mouth opened and closed as he searched for something to say, before he finally settled on squeezing her knee and stating sadly, “Que sera, sera.”

“Whatever will be, will be,” she sang sadly underneath her breath in reply, taking a long drink of her wine.

“Oh, she knows Doris Day, and has a lovely voice,” Wilf exclaimed jovially. “I’ll tell you what, duckie, if that grandson of mine doesn’t get his head out of his bloomin’ arse and marry you, I’ll marry you meself. Taught him everything he knows anyways,” he said, winking at her.

The unexpected comment made her choke on a real laugh, and on her wine.

And so, she found herself playfully engaged to Wilfred Mott, a running joke that neither the Doctor nor Donna found funny. Neither of the Noble twins had mentioned her disappearance that night either, her cab arriving before either of them came back downstairs and Wilfred seeing her off with a tight hug.

Nor had any of them mentioned it since. Just as the Doctor hadn’t mentioned the gala or the temporary reversion of his strictly enforced ‘platonic’ boundaries, or what had happened between he and River— which she had started to sense might have something to do with his dramatic overreaction to the Bad Wolf revelation in the first place. And yet, as usual, she allowed him to keep his tightlipped silence in favor of his jovial, manic mask, though he’d given no explanation to his brief disappearance following the gala either.

As he’d driven her to Jack’s, the first she’d seen him in person since that night, she thought about calling him out on both his behavior and his withdrawal but knew it would do no good. He’d simply clam up again as he had done on the drive to the museum when she tried to bring up the way he refused to let her talk about Bad Wolf.

Hopefully, Jack’s plans on getting them drunk to steal their money in poker would at least involve some good vodka.

Rose had been wrong about Jack’s plan.

He was getting them drunk and stealing their money in blackjack.

Their first game night was surprisingly fun and suspiciously quiet, all things considered.

They arrived at Jack and Ianto’s without fighting or the Doctor going nonverbal on her, and Donna and Shaun were already there waiting. Rose narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but Jack just winked at her and introduced her to his husband, Ianto.

The Welsh man’s quiet, no nonsense attitude immediately put her at ease. He would not allow Donna and Jack’s scheming. Not as his dinner party. Ianto seemed to be the only person who could cut through the Doctor and Donna’s bickering, save for their grandad. Jack had joked that his husband kept him on a short leash— only for Ianto to immediately shoot back that of course he did, Jack liked being leashed— before greeting her warmly, clasping her hands in his warm palms.

Rose loved him immediately.

She found herself continuing to wistfully reminisce about that night as blackjack tournament progressed, far smoother than she’d imagined it would, drawing comparisons in the times the Doctor had brought her to meet the people in his life.

Hannukah had been so soon after their argument in the street, so soon after his soft plea for her to stay by his side, that she’d still been painfully hopeful that he just needed some time. However, it had also been the night that he’d shattered that hope as thoroughly as if he’d thrown a fragile glass to the floor. On that night, she’d finally and truly come to terms with the fact that it was over.

He was the one that stirred all that back up at the gala and yet he had shut her out again. And here he was doing exactly the same thing he’d done in inviting her to his family’s holiday dinner. It was infuriating.

The memory was tinged with sadness and happiness in equal turn as it played in her mind throughout the night at Jack and Ianto’s, weaving together with the goings on until they were inseparable. Ianto breaking up the twin’s bickering with ruthless efficiency, Jack’s playful flirting with her, and the Doctor doing his best to pretend things were fine between them, were all eerily similar. An even more constant through line of Donna, who kept pushing food at her and encouraging her to eat more, as she almost always did. She sat among a family that knew each other inside and out, an outsider, knowing she had once had the chance to be a part of it that had been dashed to pieces before she’d even fully recognized it.

Yet, as she had done then, she resolutely ignored it.

Things were fine and had never been anything except fine. There was no other way things had ever been between the two of them, except exactly the way they were now, and the way they had been before they’d met. Anything else that she might’ve imagined was just a fading dream— not a fading memory. Whenever she began to feel too much, he was quick to put her back down where they belonged— straddling that tightrope thin line between friendship and more— just as he had done that night. And on the beach, and at Jack’s bar. At the gala and after, with the several days of radio silence between them that sent the message loud and clear once again.

They were over.

And maybe they truly never had been to start with.

Chapter Text

As the weeks progressed, Rose felt herself begin to change.

It was a sharp learning curve, having not had a group of friends, or even more than one friend at all, in nearly ten years. She sat a bit on the outside still, but no one purposefully made her feel that way, they all simply knew each other better. They engaged her in conversation, and everyone in the room knew about Bad Wolf and spoke about Rose’s work in the same casual manner they did everyone else’s. She’d told Donna that she could tell the rest of them about the contract, since they already knew the secret of her identity, they needed to know the confines of her NDA as well, and they might as well know the rest.

Though she hated the idea of everyone knowing how stupid she had been, she felt like she had no right to keep it from them either. If they were going to allow her to be around, they deserved to make an informed decision— at least as informed as Donna was. She wouldn’t risk losing them the way she’d lost the Doctor, especially with his presence and simultaneous distance as a constant reminder.

The worst of it she kept close to her heart, because she feared the pity they would heap upon her if they knew, and that it would replace the possibility for them to truly grow to care for her as herself. Knowing her bad decisions in this way, her only loss was a blow to her dignity— which was non-existent anyway— but knowing the rest would be a blow to her humanity.

She would no longer be their stupid friend, but a thing that they cared for because they were all damned good people, with big hearts.

So, Rose asked Donna explicitly not to tell only two people about Bad Wolf entirely: her mother, Sylvia, who already hated her, and Wilf, who for some inexplicable reason seemed to love her. Sylvia needed no more reason to dislike her, and the Doctor was so much like Wilf that it killed her to think that the kind old man would have the same reaction that his grandson had. The thought of the same angry expression on his kindly face, of him closing the door on her, clenched at her heart painfully.

And to her surprise, it helped. Their knowing. Their understanding. Not feeling like she had to keep as many secrets, or hide so much of herself away. They knew right from the start, and with the added bonus of Rose didn’t have to tell them herself. She’d only discussed it with Jack, and of course Donna, on her own and had not faced that blow to her dignity in having to voice her mistakes aloud to each of them. It was freeing. But more confusing than anything was the way they strove to treat it as normal.

They made jokes about how outrageous some of her music was, teasing her gently but very much laughing with her. She blushed, unused to the ribbing, but enjoyed the chance to make fun of herself and Bad Wolf’s persona without it being so serious. Being able to discuss it so casually— even if the Doctor did clam up or ran away every time the topic came up— was healing.

Each laugh chipped away at the ice around her, every joke tore down the performance until it was less real.

And the less real Bad Wolf became, the more real Rose Tyler did.

A few drinks into their third game night, when Jack jokingly mentioned how different Bad Wolf looked from Rose, and she’d scoffed into her drink— her normal screwdriver, though made with Jack’s top shelf vodka from his personal bar.

“I’d better,” she responded scathingly. “I do everything I can to, and those costumes... God, I fucking hate them. You think wearing heels in the office is bad, Donna, try heels, being covered in glitter, and that bloody awful wig. I’m sure Jack knows what I’m talkin’ about.”

Jack snorted, “You know that’s right, honey. At least you don’t have to wear fake tits.”

“What is with the wig?” Ianto asked, incredulously. “How on earth does that fool people? I mean, obviously it does, but it’s just hair! People get haircuts. It’s baffling.”

Shaun laughed and chimed in, “What about Superman? All he’s got are those glasses.”

“Nah, it’s not just either of them,” Rose waved them off, grinning. “It’s the persona more than anything. Clark is a humble, quiet, gentle farm boy. He’s clumsy and likeable but keeps to himself. Superman is big and confident and loud, and that’s enough. The dots don’t get connected, ‘cos people don’t even think to connect them. Plus, people get distracted easy.”

“Distracted by what?” Donna asked, scoffing. “The glitter? Are we talkin’ about people, or crows?”

“Donna, have you seen Superman?” Jack asked, laughing. “He puffs out his chest and crosses his arms, wears those tight little shorts, and no one is lookin’ to see if he’s got glasses on.”

Yan slapped Jack on the shoulder, darting his eyes over to Rose quickly with a scowl to his husband as if to remind him that they were really talking about her, and what he was suggesting. Jack shrugged.

Rose blushed again as the comment seemed to sink in with everyone at the same time, and the room grew uncomfortably quiet.

“Well, it’s true,” she blurted defensively. “S’not like it was my choice— god knows none of it is my choice— but there’s precedent for it, and it works. I get to leave the stage behind and have a life, and when I finally get out, I’ll be out for good. I won’t even have to worry about being recognized if I stay in London.”

The silence stretched for another minute before Donna jumped in, a bit over loud, and added: “It’s the best of both worlds! You do a great job keeping them separate.”

Jack burst into laughter, followed by a quiet, muffled laugh from Ianto, and finally Shaun and Donna as she realized what she had said. Rose rolled her eyes but smiled indulgently. She’d heard the joke dozens of times over the years since she started wearing the wigs, particularly from her mum, and her stylists.

“I don’t understand what’s funny about that,” the Doctor said bluntly.

Rose turned to him, shocked to hear him chime in at all. Shocked to see that he was even in his spot next to her still, genuinely, and that he hadn’t run off with some muttered bullshit excuse the second the topic of Bad Wolf came up. She’d purposefully kept herself from looking his direction, purposefully kept from watching to see him run off. But he sat, looking relaxed— though Rose could tell it was at least partially forced— and shuffled his cards.

Though, she supposed in thinking about it, he hadn’t run off recently. He’d been the one to bring it up at karaoke, and the day of the gala, though both in very round about ways. And though he clammed up whenever she tried to discuss it further, or whenever it had come up at the last two game nights, he stayed sitting.

She’d tried so hard not to see him run away; she hadn’t realized that she’d seen him stay.

He laid his two cards down and looked about the room expectantly and rolled his eyes in exasperation at the fact everyone else had, once again, forgotten they were playing a game.

“It’s a reference to a Disney character, Spaceman,” Donna told him. “She does the same thing, keeps her popstar life from her personal life by wearin’ a long blonde wig. The theme song of the show is called ‘The Best of Both Worlds,’ so it was funny that I said that without thinking.”

“S’ Hannah Montana,” Rose mumbled, unsure why her cheeks were so flushed, just by Donna explaining the reference to the Doctor.

The Doctor, who was listening while they talked about Bad Wolf. Asking about Bad Wolf.

The comparison had never bothered her, necessarily, though it was a bit infantilizing, it was just what people thought of. And it was funny. Well, it had been, five or so years ago.

“Oh,” the Doctor commented, accepting the explanation with a nod and a thoughtful face. “I thought you were mimicking Dolly Parton.”

Rose’s heart soared, a wide, unrestrained smile breaking across her face.

He seemed taken aback, and the tips of his ears turned pink. He turned away from her, grumbling something under his breath, probably complaining that no one else was playing blackjack, but Rose didn’t care. Let him be a grump all he wanted.

Because at some point, he’d researched Dolly Parton. Either before, when she talked about music on their date, where he’d let her talk nearly the whole time, or maybe after he took her to Jack’s bar. Regardless of when, he’d taken the time to learn about something she cared about and thought about it enough to make the connection. It filled her with equal parts of joy, hope, and understanding, as it did sorrow.

And more than that, he was getting over it. He was slowly accepting it. Their friendship was stabilizing and strengthening, regardless of her unrequited and obvious love. Choosing to focus on the joy of being seen and understood, and pushing back the rest, Rose picked up her own cards for the first time since the round was dealt, perhaps twenty minutes ago. Adjusting them casually, she replied to the Doctor finally.

“Well, where do you think she got the idea? Dolly Parton is the actress’s godmother, so they borrowed her real life success for the show.”

“I thought you were staying in London,” Donna pressed, finally adjusting her own cards.

Rose shrugged, grateful for the conversation segue, “Well I’d like to, obviously, but it’ll really come down to if I can get a job. S’expensive, more than anything.”

The couples nodded solemnly in sympathy and understanding. Donna’s lips twitched at the corner and Rose rolled her eyes at the tell, and knowing she was going to lose the hand, she folded in favor of getting up to refill her drink. She snagged the Doctor’s empty cup on her way to the kitchen to refill as well and grinned at his grunt of appreciation. He’d seen his sister’s tell as well and was locked in on the round.

In another life, she might’ve kissed his cheek as she passed, but the thought was easy enough to brush off.

As she refilled their drinks, she heard groans as Shaun and Yan folded as well, Yan throwing up his hands in exasperation and heading towards the kitchen to join her with his and Jack’s empty glasses. He winked at her playfully as he saddled up, nodding his head towards the glasses before her and the ones in his hands as her face heated up.

“Stop that,” she hissed. “You know better, Ianto!”

He raised his hands in defense and grinned, and Rose flushed further and hurried back to the living room just as the Doctor’s victorious “Ha!” rang out.

Conversation shifted from there, far away from any mentions of Bad Wolf, and that was more than alright with her. The less Bad Wolf was mentioned the more the Doctor engaged in the conversation, and the less she had to think about the contract, or her yearning heart— torn between longings: for freedom, for healing, for him.

She felt cautiously like she was headed towards at least two of the three, her entire life changing so rapidly and so wonderfully. She was getting everything she had wanted, everything she had dreamed of for the last ten years— friends, fulfilling work, learning, and a still shapeless future that drew closer every day— and yet she found herself still so full of longing it ached. If it didn’t hurt so damn bad, she’d be laughing at the irony.

Her chance meeting with the Doctor had given her the opportunity to build herself the life she always wanted but had never been brave enough, or had the motivation, to try for. She’d rediscovered her love for life, not for him or because of him, but inspired by his love of life to finally take back control of her own. It had been him, not Donna, who had introduced her to their family and shared friends, opening up her circle and allowing her the chance to share at least parts of her life, and in turn, to heal.

And yet simply by virtue of knowing him, the damned goalpost had been moved.

"Will this be my life now?" She mused. Was it a bad life? There was certainly happiness to be found in it— already more people in her life than she’d allowed in years, fulfillment in her personal endeavors, and light on the horizon. Was the yearning and painful ache of loving the Doctor worth the rest?

Rose watched with a dull pang as Jack and Ianto kiss gently, when Ianto walked behind the sofa back to his seat and Jack tilted his head back with the knowing confidence of a man who knew he was loved. There was a practiced ease to it that spoke to familiarity— Jack knew that if he tilted his head back, a kiss would already be on its way. Ianto knew, as he bent down, that Jack would tilt his head back to accept him. Donna threw a poker chip at the Doctor, and he caught it and stuck out his tongue, and Shaun grabbed his wife’s waist to keep her from slugging her brother, instinctively, without even turning away from his conversation with Rose. Jack and the Doctor flirted with well-worn and often repeated lines, and Shaun and Ianto rolled their eyes in unison at their more boisterous friends, and Donna kept urging everyone to eat.

She thought of the time she spent every Monday at the soup kitchen, the regulars there she was slowly getting to know, and the other advocacy the organizers there were beginning to encourage her towards. Her online courses that were expanding her mind and her thirst for knowledge, and Wilf, who answered every question she thought of with eagerness, feeding into her curiosity happily. The deep and true friendship she shared with the Doctor even, that was completely separate from the love she held for him.

The ever approaching end to her captivity, and the uncertainty that she feared, but also fueled her.

For the first time in months— maybe years— Rose felt warm.

As the weeks continued, as expected, they’d asked questions.

Jack took her out for lunch, and they went shopping, and he asked her salaciously about other celebrities she’d met, the most scandalous thing she’d seen at award show after parties, and about her most provocative lyrics. But surprisingly, he never asked for invites or tickets, for details about Bad Wolf’s “relationships,” or if said provocative lyrics were from personal experience.

She went to the Game Station on Saturday nights, whenever she was free from Malcom early enough— and after she’d scrubbed herself clean enough to be around most people— and poured her heartbreak and anger into song. Expressing it began to help, after weeks of keeping it close to her chest. Singing the songs she’d written would be more cathartic, she knew, but it was enough. For the most part, she was able to condense all her sorrow into the few minutes she spent on Jack’s little stage, and push it out of herself, and she felt it less and less as result.

Jack, bless him, also never mentioned her performances, or asked why she never spoke to the Doctor on Saturdays.

She invited Donna and Shaun to her flat for dinner, and Shaun asked her polite questions about what songs she’d enjoyed recording or performing the most, her favorite places she’d ever been on tour, and if she enjoyed interacting with her fans any. He didn’t ask her how she’d become a singer, or what she’d rather be doing, or any other question that pried deeper than the surface, even on accident. Donna, for her part, was as blunt as she ever was and told her frequently how stupid she and the Doctor were, but she did not attempt to force them together any further, for which Rose was grateful.

She helped Ianto clean up after game night and he asked her with professional interest, and a sympathetic ear about the contract. But he did not ask for details about how she’d come to sign it or what she’d tried to do to escape it. Instead, he asked with genuine curiosity what she wanted to do once the contract ran out, and commiserated with her about hating his own job, about not being able to pick his own cases, and how the more senior solicitors at his firm were outwardly homophobic and cruel.

Their situations were similar, Rose realized, when Yan told her that he wasn’t even out at work. Saxon didn’t allow her to be out as bisexual either, and had reacted rather poorly when it had even come up as a suggestion— one that someone else had made, while a few of his assistants were simply trying to think of ways to boost her popularity. But Yan had to hide the fact that he was married, and he was unable to share the biggest part of his life with his husband out of necessity. He could quit and move to another firm, but that would mean starting from scratch to rebuild his reputation, and with one of the biggest firms in the city against him.

They shared their increasing hope that they would both be free of their situations soon, with her contract coming to an end, and Ianto only needing a few more big wins to have the money and the clientele to open up his own small office.

Even the Doctor slowly began to ask about it. He let her complain about lighter things, like how annoying Malcom was when they went out, simply because he was a self-centered poser and socially oblivious douche bag. He laughed at the few genuinely funny stories she had of silly things like wardrobe malfunctions, and what her backup dancers said in rehearsals. He wordlessly pushed her sweet pastries she didn’t order across the table whenever it was his turn to pay for their coffee, after she complained that the restrictive diet Saxon made her keep in the Bad Wolf persona left her hungry when she was out with Malcom.

He even admitted that he’d listened to more of her music, which had made her flush with shame, but all he said was that her voice was nice. People rarely told her that, despite it all. It was the one thing she was vaguely proud of. After all, it was the one thing she would walk away with.

But mostly?

Conversation directed at Rose, both as a group and by each person, were far more interested in her opinions on political issues, music suggestions, and who was ‘really right, Rose?’ in yet another argument between the Doctor and Donna. Jack flirted with her incessantly, as he did with everyone, and Yan would roll his eyes and tell her to “Take him! Maybe you’ll be able to handle him better!” Shaun treated her as a co-conspirator in dealing with the exuberant group of their friends, as both of them were more withdrawn, particularly when the twins started arguing and Jack egged them on. Questions flung her way were more likely to ask some random factoid about herself, such as her favorite color or ‘Did you ever watch this movie, Rose? The Doctor loves it.’

The drunker Jack got, the clingier he was and the more his questions became invasive, but he was solely interested in the ‘hot goss, the 411, the tea’ about her and the Doctor. Ianto never let his husband get too invasive, and Donna would stick her fingers in her ears and sing loudly any time he brought it up, and both she and the Doctor would resolutely ignore all of it.

When the day came when she realized that, for the most part, she wasn’t cold, it stopped her in her tracks.

The truth of it shocked her. The dull ache of loneliness eased, with every regular in the soup line that called her by name, every engaging conversation she had in the chatrooms of her classes, and every game night or dinner with the group of people that had let an injured lone Wolf into their pack.

She deliberately ignored the Doctor’s eyes on her in those group settings, choosing instead to laugh with Ianto and Jack, to tease him alongside Donna, or to sit in comfortable silence with Shaun when they two of them got overwhelmed. She got closer to Wilf and learned to value his steady kindness and wisdom and learned to navigate not pissing Sylvia off just by walking into a room. She tried to have more regular phone calls with her mum, resolutely ignoring her mum’s continued insinuations about her and the Doctor, and she even tried to know her new husband better.

Yes, she decided to herself, after a few weeks. It was worth it.

If the Doctor wouldn’t love her, she simply had to learn to love herself. It would take time, after so long of feeling utterly inhuman and detached from the world at large, but she could do it.

And eventually, it would not just be worth it, but it would be enough.

Chapter Text

With game nights having become part of the routine, Rose and the Doctor’s movie nights switched to Thursdays without much discussion. He knew her schedule as well as she knew his, and Thursdays were rehearsal days, which ended at three, the same time as his last class.

They wordlessly established a new routine, in which Sundays were to be the day for their adventures, exploring exciting events, places, and experiences in London, and culminated in game night in a rotation between their friend’s homes. The adventures often got away from them, and they would realize they were halfway across the city, a half-hour before they were due to arrive, and they would end up running down the streets and laughing until they were breathless and grinning.

It wasn’t long until it was another unspoken agreement that he would arrive at her flat early in the morning with his running clothes on, toss his gym bag on her floor, and they would hit the pavement together for an hour before returning to her loft to shower separately and lonely, in her opinion, and head out for their adventure.

Rose loved their runs and their explorations into the city. They met so many fascinating people by going to unexpected places, unexplored shops. So many times while they were out, running or adventuring, they would get caught up in the humanity of it all. The Doctor stopped to help everyone on the street with his steady, kind presence, even as much as he complained about her wandering off to do the same. Sometimes they’d get separated in a crowd, or because one of them peeled off and the other didn’t notice, and when they found each other again they would be winded and laughing.

Rose would turn around because he’d stopped responding and find him a dozen feet back, picking up someone’s groceries off the ground and chatting merrily, kicking a ball around with a group of kids, petting some dog— with an amusing grimace when it would inevitably try to lick him— and retying its leash to ensure it didn’t run off. She’d learned to keep a close eye on him when they were in the park in particular because he would stoop to pick up litter and throw it away, or worms and move them off the sidewalk.

But inevitably, no matter how close of an eye she tried to keep on him, they still lost each other sometimes because she did the exact same things. Probably more frequently even than he did, because she loved riling him up.

He found her in a tree once and had rolled his eyes but accepted the kitten she passed down to him without a word, scratching under its chin happily as she climbed down. He’d even playfully refused to hand her the kitten back, claiming it for himself and holding it high above her head while it purred loudly. He’d been slightly sad when they’d dropped it at the shelter, which made her ache with fondness for him.

He picked up worms because she did first, and he’d made an exasperated grunt when he turned to find her kneeling in the dirt, but he’d stooped for the very next one they saw. He would rub a tired hand down his face whenever she waved at him from the opposite side of a crosswalk because she’d looped her arm through someone’s and helped them across, even though they were going the opposite direction. He tapped his foot impatiently while she chatted with every street vendor they passed, but they had the best recommendations for places to go and things to do, so he never complained.

Too much.

There were some notable exceptions, where he would hypocritically bluster on about her wandering off, and she pretended not to notice that such occurrences tended to line up with him finding her speaking to men who stood a little too close or were a little too friendly.

She tried not to think about how they wouldn’t be separated at all if he still held her hand.

She pretended that his grumbling didn’t mean anything when he complained under his breath about ‘damn pretty boys,’ and pretended her heart didn’t race excitedly at his thunderous expression whenever he caught up to her in those instances. She told herself that the way she could tell he was behind her wasn’t because the men she would be speaking to would freeze up suddenly, fearfully glancing over her shoulder.

And when he would bitch at her for wandering off, she’d snark right back at him for being a grump and complain over-exaggeratedly that he’d scared off the bloke she was speaking with, as if she actually cared. They would glare daggers at each other, or yell right there in the street, and Rose would fight herself to keep from grabbing the lapels of his coat, until somehow the tension would break and return them to reality. Well, Rose sighed, returning her to reality.

But at least he stopped being so… cautious around her too. His impatience even made her happy, because it meant he was treating her like a person. The Doctor might’ve only cared that he’d had to stop and double back for her once more, impatient in his desire to constantly be moving, but at least he showed it.

Not that she could blame him for that desire, either, to be on the go. Their adventures weren’t limited to Sundays, as both of them would often impulsively show up at the other’s flat or call in breathless excitement and they would be off. Though talking with people all over London, they found enough adventures to last them a lifetime without ever leaving the city, and it was fantastic. Museums and expos, poetry readings and street musicians, and the mundane adventures of the little helping hand they could give, the joy of human connection with the people sharing the same beautiful, wild city as them. There were shining, glorious moments of tea taken at someone’s home after helping them find their missing child in the park, or a sweet flower tucked into her hair and his lapel after stepping in to keep a police officer from harassing the street vendor selling fresh bouquets on the corner.

The image she’d secretly taken of the Doctor, smiling gently, with the pink peony tucked into the button hole of his jacket became the background of her mobile’s home screen, hidden where only she would see it, but where she could look back on it frequently. She couldn’t fight the swell of love in her chest at the image whenever she saw it. The gentleness in his eyes, and her favorite flower on his coat, and the memory of him easily talking circles around the officer that was so much like the early days of the protests they went to together in the beginning, all made her ache dully. But it was an ache she welcomed.

As the weather warmed, they did begin going to protests again as they popped up around the city. Student worker union protests were thrilled to see a professor join the picket line, especially one as respected as the Doctor, and they didn’t question Rose’s presence at all after the first initial curious glances between them. He stood behind her with his arms crossed menacingly as she cheerfully tore down hateful signs right in front of the skinheads that had just put them up. He yanked her around a corner and paid for the tomato she grabbed off a market stand after she chucked it and hit one of them square in the back. He lent his lean strength and the screwdriver multi-tool in his pocket to another activist on the street that was struggling to remove newly installed anti- homeless architecture from park benches, whistling a merry tune— a song of hers— when they walked away, swinging the metal armrest that had divided the bench.

She laughed herself into tears at his stupid ‘armless’ joke and tucked away the memory of his beaming smile.

Other adventures they both particularly enjoyed were unique topic workshops and single day instructions on anything they could find: pottery making, glassblowing, and Rose’s favorite, flintknapping. He’d found that one through a colleague at the university, and they’d even brought Wilf back to it because Rose had loved it so much she’d told him all about it at Friday night dinner at Donna’s. Rose realized she didn’t remember when that had become part of her routine as well. Whenever her interviews or other duties ended early enough, and didn’t involve Malcom, she simply found herself at Donna’s, listening to the pleasing rhythmic sounds of their prayers and giggling to herself when the Doctor’s eyes peeked irreverently open to wink at her.

Rose mailed her mum the blown glass paperweight she’d made and given the best arrowhead she’d managed to produce to Jack, but she gifted Wilf with most of the things she made. Her lopsided ceramic bowl and slightly better ‘World’s Best Fiancé’ coffee mug earned her wide smiles and a kiss to her cheek from him, playful gag from Donna, and oddly matching angry glares from the Doctor and his mum. And a blurry texted image of the mug leaking coffee over the sink the next morning. The accompanying message read, once she deciphered it, “You’ll get it next time, duckie, don’t worry.”

The quilt she’d tried her hand at sewing with Donna’s borrowed machine and an online class had produced a watery grin, his shaking thumb brushing lovingly across the crooked stitches. Donna sent her a picture of him napping on his sofa with the quilt over his lap, and she’d never felt prouder of herself than in that moment. Each success— and each failure, in truth— made Rose Tyler more and more real. More and more human.

In return, Wilf eagerly explained the rituals and prayers they did every Friday night, and the concept of Shabbat, and how every time she and the Doctor went to their protests or did their activist work, they were modeling tikkun olam. And when the Doctor left the room for any reason, Wilf patted her knee and told her to be patient. They met for coffee, and she slowly opened up to his gentle kindness, sharing with him what she was still unable to share with even Donna.

She told Wilf about Jimmy, and though she kept to her typical cover story of working for a dance company, rather than telling him the truth of Bad Wolf, she shared some of what she’d experienced from Saxon with him as well. He was sympathetic, and non-judgemental, letting her talk until she got too choked up, patting her hand when she allowed it. It was freeing to share any of it at all, and she felt like the vice grip that existed around her chest had loosened a fraction, and she could breathe easier because of it.

Her new routine revolved around herself, and the relationships she was building— with more than just the Doctor— and even the hours she spent in Bad Wolf’s skin felt as though they went by more quickly when she had so much to look forward to.

Mondays were still for volunteering, which she started branching out into helping the organizers, Teagan and Nyssa, with event planning, and began a tentative friendship with them. They were slightly older, closer to the Doctor and Donna’s age, and were eager to take her under their wing and teach her. She knew how to juggle lots of moving parts from her times on tour, knew where to find extra help from her other activist connections, and how to stretch a dollar from her impoverished youth. Teagan and Nyssa encouraged her more and more to share her ideas and pushed her to get more involved in their organization. They shared tips from other activists and protestors that she soaked in happily, as well as lent her fascinating books on community organizing, the history of social justice movements, and different political movements. All of which led to deep conversations with both them and the Doctor, who had read many of the books they lent her as well or was eager to after she did.

And when Bad Wolf shared their fundraising campaign flyer on her Instagram, they squealed with excitement to Rose, but didn’t seem to suspect anything. Bad Wolf had a slight reputation for doing that, never consistently, but enough so that it wasn’t shocking— just exciting. The couple insisted on going out for drinks with the rest of the organization volunteers, and when Rose tried to sneak away they each looped an arm through one of hers and asked her what bar they should go to.

Of course, they ended up at Jack’s, and instead of sad heartbreak songs, the three of them shared a mic to Tracy Chapman’s Talkin’ Bout a Revolution, and she slept well that night with the warm, pleasant buzz of alcohol, and friendship, and success in her veins.

In her free time, Rose studied her online courses and bookmarked tabs for university enrollment requirements with a thundering heart.

But Thursdays were just for her and the Doctor to relax and enjoy each other’s company.

No one else, and no distractions. By yet another unspoken agreement, neither of them invited even Donna to movie night. Rose simply showed up at his flat after she finished her post- rehearsal shower and hung around while he finished up whatever work needed done on his laptop— emails, grades, notes on whatever genius project he was working on. She read from his vast collection, or the books Teagan and Nyssa lent her, curling up on her spot on the sofa, drinking tea from the thistle patterned mug, until she deemed it time to use his kitchen to cook them dinner.

She was an awful cook, never having had the need to learn more than a few simple meals that barely fed herself, but part of the Doctor’s collection was vintage cookbooks, and she found herself wanting to try.

She’d never had the energy or the desire to cook, but his flat felt like home, and she yearned to fill it with the sounds of living, and to her, who had lived nearly ten years of her life completely alone, living meant cooking. Cooking was experimentation and learning and art all wrapped up in a satisfactory package. Successfully managing to produce something would sustain and bring joy. It was messy and it made a mark. Dishes in the sink and spices spread on the counter took up space and said I’m here. It was one more thing to learn, one more thing to make her own.

And it was meant to be shared— the act of cooking and the food itself, the labor of love and its product. It was one way for her to share her love for him, with him, silently.

The Doctor humored her without complaint, and his kitchen somehow always had the ingredients she needed if she forgot to bring anything over. He ate every bite of every dish she set in front of him, but she knew it was good if he went back for more. She learned what he liked and disliked, what he wouldn’t eat at all— the answer being not much, except pears, which he refused to even allow in the flat— and she glowed with pride each time he reached for the serving spoon for more.

He kept mostly kosher, out of habit more than anything, and Wilf shared his late wife’s old cookbooks with her that explained what all that entailed, with scribbled notes in the margins of the best places to buy certain ingredients, or the best substitutions. Neither Sylvia nor Donna were terribly interested in cooking, Wilf explained, so the books had been collecting dust for years, save for when he took them out just to see his beloved’s handwriting. Rose traced her fingers along the pencil marks gently and reverently, amazed that he would share such precious items with her, and she kept them at the Doctor’s out of an abundance of caution.

She felt more alive than ever, more human than ever. She felt a new strength deep inside of herself as she watched her curves subtly fill out more in the mirror over the weeks from the increase in healthy, full meals. The weight settled on her hip, thighs, and stomach enticingly, hardening into muscle from their running and her dance routines. She loved the way her clothing fit just a little tighter, even with her natural penchant for baggier garments, because it was proof that she was living. Though she should be exhausted from being constantly moving, it was just the opposite— she slept better and deeper, and she welcomed waking up in the morning. The strength in her legs pushed her forward harder and faster during their morning runs, and the strength deep inside of her pushed her forward towards her still undefinable, hazy future.

She feared it less and less.

She couldn’t see it clearly, but Rose knew it would be filled with more of this. More home cooked meals, more time with Donna. More game nights, and Shabbat dinners, and long conversations with Wilf. There would be more volunteering with Teagan and Nyssa, and more protests, and more softly playing records in the background.

She simply had to make it. She had to climb that insurmountable wall between herself and her future, and the life she wanted for herself. The chains around her legs that had weighed her down for so long felt more manageable with her newfound strength.

The seed of hope in her heart, the one she had horded jealously to herself for almost a decade, grew deeper and deeper roots and as it cautiously began to sprout and grow within her, she wondered if the wall might not be insurmountable after all.

Chapter Text

The flash of another camera in her eyes made Bad Wolf bite back a growl. Of all the events and outings she’d had to do thus far with Malcom, this had been the worst, and it was far from being over yet. He’d already been in the car that picked her up at her flat, a small deviation in their routine that had thrown her off balance from the beginning, as she had not yet slipped into the Bad Wolf persona. The small glimpse Malcom had gotten of Rose Tyler— of her surprise that she hadn’t been prepared to mask— had made his eyes gleam in a way that churned her empty stomach.

And now, forty minutes into the bloody red carpet for some insipid movie she’d been invited to because one of her songs— one she hated— was in the score, and his hand had been drifting closer and closer to her bum as they posed for pictures. More than once she’d snarled at him under her breath and his hand would move up to the no less uncomfortable position on her bare back, before it would inevitably drift downward once more as the cameras flashed too fast for her to bite back at him.

“Five more months,” she chanted to herself. “Five more months, and never again.”

“Bad Wolf— Mr. Taylor! Over here!” A voice called.

Malcom spotted the journalist who shouted for them before Bad Wolf did and guided her with his hand on the small of her back over to them before she could protest. She tried to subtly resist— Saxon had been clear that Malcom did not have enough media training yet to speak to anyone he hadn’t pre-approved— but she couldn’t let him go alone either. Not when that would cause people to talk even more.

“Mr. Taylor, Bad Wolf— Cathica Santini Khadeni, Platform Five New,” the journalist introduced herself shortly. “Do you have time for a few questions?”

“I’m sorry, no—” Bad Wolf tried to say apologetically, but Malcom spoke over her with his agreement, and Cathica beamed.

“Wonderful!” She chirped. “I’d hoped to get a moment with the two of you— you’ve not done an interview together yet, isn’t that right?”

Bad Wolf nodded, forcing a smile to her face despite how her palms began to sweat.

“In fact, Mr. Taylor, you’ve not done any interviews regarding your relationship, have you?” At Malcom’s agreement, Cathica pushed on. “Why is that? You two are certainly together enough— new photos and pap videos nearly every week. Bad Wolf, you’ve mentioned your relationship a few times before, and it seems to be going well, yes?”

“Oh yes,” she lied evenly. “Five months strong now.”

“That’s quite a bit longer than some of your relationships in the past,” the journalist commented.

Bad Wolf bit the inside of her cheek when Malcom grinned lazily, clearly enjoying the implications behind the statement.

“Well— that’s because I’m special, isn’t it, baby?” He drawled, looking down at her predatorily.

Baby. God fucking damn it, she hated that pet name. Hated it. Jimmy had called her that. Mickey had called her that, or babe, which she didn’t really enjoy any more. She couldn’t hold back the angry flush that colored her cheeks, nor the way it deepened as Cathica cooed over her ‘embarrassment.’ Luckily, the journalist took Bad Wolf’s reaction as response enough, jotting down a note with a grin.

“How did the two of you meet?”

“Our producer introduced us—” Bad Wolf cut in quickly, before Malcom could answer with something made up they’d both have to remember from then on. “He’d signed Malcom’s band, U.N.I.T., to open for me on my upcoming tour and had us meet to discuss some things, and it went from there.”

Simple, truthful, and vague. Exactly what she preferred, and most importantly, nothing that could draw Saxon’s ire. Now, if she could just get Malcom disengaged before he said anything else to the journalist, he wouldn’t even be able to fault her for letting him linger too long—

“And what makes Mr. Taylor so special, Bad Wolf?” Cathica asked teasingly. “Or, Mr. Taylor, what drew you to Bad Wolf, despite her ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ reputation?”

After the journalist’s question to her, the woman looked Malcom up and down, openly appraising, before directing the second question at him. Her mention of Bad Wolf’s reputation set off alarm bells in her head and she bit back her own comment just before she registered Cathica’s lingering looks at Malcom.

Wait— was she flirting with him? Right in front of her? At first, an instinctive rush of jealousy made her temper flare, more out of indignation than anything. She didn’t even like Malcom, but blimey. Where was the respect? She was right there, with his arm around her waist, and not only was this woman flirting with him, but she was insulting her to do it! The flare of irritation lasted only a moment before it was replaced with humor. All the press did was insult her— why was she surprised? She certainly didn’t care if Cathica wanted Malcom. In fact, let him flirt back! Let the whole world see it, so she could be rid of him, and it wouldn’t be her fault for once. For half a second she could see the headlines, maybe even on her side for once.

A genuine laugh burst from her lips, shocking both the reporter and the man next to her. The utter absurdity of it all made the mask slip momentarily, and the subdued, throaty laugh she normally used for Bad Wolf was forgotten for a high, breathless giggle that she couldn’t stymie.

“Oh, go on,” she encouraged Malcom, forgetting for a moment she was meant to be keeping him from interacting with the press. “What did make you want to try and ‘tame the Wolf?’” She looked up at him expectantly, grinning, as she waited for his fumbling response.

Maybe it was petty— no, scratch that, it was absolutely petty— but she was giddy at the thought of watching him crash and burn. Giddy at the thought that people might blame Cathica, though that thought was quickly followed by a small rush of guilt. It wasn’t necessarily her fault. Some people were just flirty, and it wasn’t as if she could sense any real chemistry between Bad Wolf and Malcom that might’ve turned that energy off. It was likely completely unconscious. But she was also part of the paparazzi that had been vitriolic to Bad Wolf for years, and she wanted nothing more than to turn that hate back on them, for them to tear each other apart while she watched and danced in their ashes.

She certainly didn’t keep the scorn from her voice when she repeated their often used phrase either.

After a moment of being utterly stunned, something inside Malcom seemed to shift. It made her blood run cold, and the amusement and petty glee drained from her.

Malcom beamed victoriously, every ounce of it authentic, as he stared down at her. His hand flexed on her bare back, revoltingly. He had paid absolutely no attention to Cathica, eyes locked on her, and she could read the thoughts flashing behind those eyes even as the blood drained from her face.

He thought he’d broken through to her, to the real her— past the Bad Wolf persona— as he’d been trying to do since that day in the café. Between the way she’d been off kilter when she’d gotten into their shared car due to being ill-prepared, and now the break in her normally cool and aloof demeanor, he was convinced. Not only of his own success that he’d been the one to break through to her, but he was convinced that he saw her. And whatever version of her he’d built up in his head, he was convinced that he liked her, maybe even convinced that he was in love with her. Regardless of the depth of emotion he felt for the idealized Bad Wolf in his head, he was convinced that there was something real between them, and it was etched into every line on his face.

“Cause she looked lonely,” he said, disgustingly genuine. “And I wanted to be the one that fixed that. I wanted to be the one that made a lone Wolf part of a unit.”

“Gag,” Rose thought. “God how long has he been working on that line?”

Cathica cooed again, and several cameras flashed to capture the besotted look on

Malcom’s face. Rose turned away from him, shaking her head in disgust, and tried to focus on slipping back into Bad Wolf’s skin. The change that had grown so easy to her over the past decade of using the persona as a layer of protection evaded her and she found herself growing mildly panicked the longer she was firmly Rose. The noise, the crowd, the unfamiliar and unwanted touch scorching into the skin of her back, it was all ratcheting her nerves up to heightened levels.

Instinctively, her hand brushed against the black leather that filled her vision with him standing so close to her, numbly seeking the comfort her mind associated with it. The leather was too processed, too new, and slick, and cold under her fingertips. There were no careworn edges, no softness or give to the fabric, or rich smell of leather conditioner and subtle masculine cologne— only Malcom’s too strong body spray. For the first time, that smell— which she’d never paid attention to before— hit her fully and coated her tongue in its cloying thickness, reminding her of the cheap spray Jimmy used to wear.

“Hey, baby, are you ok?” Malcom asked her quietly.

Baby.

It was all wrong. The leather under her fingers, the smell in her nose, the crowded and noisy surroundings, and the pet name that fell from the lips of the wrong man.

“No,” she choked out. “Sorry, I— we’re going to be late. We need to go.”

The next day, Platform Five’s entertainment blog posted a story about how Malcom’s sweet words had ‘blown down the big Bad Wolf,’ and commented on what ‘big eyes’ she’d had when she’d gotten choked up from his confession. The story grabbed the attention of other major celebrity news outlets, especially after several paparazzi photos of the moment had surfaced— all of them centered on the horror on her face and wrongly interpreting it as some kind of emerging love, or some other bullshit. Saxon’s assistant Lucy was emailing and calling her frantically to schedule almost a dozen interviews for the next week. Saxon even approved the cancellation of rehearsals for the entire week to capitalize on the interest. For the first time in weeks, she felt the leash that had been so loose she’d almost forgotten about it tighten at her neck, yanking her right back into place.

Chapter Text

Rose started going to the Doctor’s flat— not bothering to even text him first— as early as she knew he would be home and would let her in, bearing armloads of groceries and knocking on his door with her foot. She needed the safety, the security, and to be anywhere that wasn’t the studio or her loft, so she sought the home of her heart or the adventures that she could talk him into. She thought she played it off well, what with the way she’d been so adamant about learning to cook the past few weeks anyway. It was easy to lean into even further as just another new hyperfixation hobby, and the strain she felt was overlooked by the Doctor just as easily. The cooking did start to help her anxiety, and she found a sort of soothing comfort in the rituals of washing and chopping the ingredients, mixing doughs or sauces, and clearing her mind of everything but the steps of the recipe.

He’d let her in with a grin, or if his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, a tight smile that meant he was too busy to run away on an adventure or chat, but she was welcome to come in anyway. Even on Fridays before they ended up at Donna’s, she made her way over to his flat in between post-interview showers and driving to his sister’s, though she didn’t have the excuse of cooking those days. He didn’t seem to mind her increased presence, and she slowly relaxed as nothing came from Malcom on their next few ‘dates.’ He seemed to look at her a little too closely, but the firm replacement of the Bad Wolf mask held him off, thankfully.

After a few weeks, the Doctor wordlessly gave her a spare key after he’d let her in one day. It made her eyes sting with tears and the butterflies that hibernated in her stomach stir excitedly, but outwardly she only smiled and nodded in thanks. The next day, she gave him her key and the pass code to her building in return, shrugging when he raised his eyebrow in question. He simply nodded and took them.

She wore the key to his flat on a chain around her neck, close to her heart, like all the other jewelry that was too important for her to leave any time she left the loft.

When her arms weren’t full, her fingers continued to brush lightly over the little brass plate on the door frame as she’d seen him do dozens of times now. She still wasn’t sure why she mimicked the motion, only that it calmed her, and it seemed to do no harm, so she continued.

When they walked in together, he always held the door for her, his fingers brushing it first— brief and routine— and hers second, lingering just a bit longer.

She let herself in one afternoon in mid-April, a paper bag of groceries hiked up on one hip, brushing her fingers across it lightly, and heard him in his office as she entered. Rose set the groceries down and went to greet him, quiet in case he was busy, but not silent so as not to scare him. Poking her head in through and leaning in, her hands anchoring her to the door frame, she noticed another little brass cylinder on the wood. Seeing his glasses perched on his nose and the barest wave of greeting he gave her, she took a moment to admire the cylinder up close, where she could linger on it less awkwardly than in the hall.

It was no more than ten centimeters long, same as the other, and it too hung at an angle, towards the room itself. The brass was shiny from touch, even though it was obviously old. The little symbol in the middle that looked like tree branches was worn down. Looking at it closer, she thought she recognized the character from something Wilf had shown her, and some understanding dawned on her, along with more confusion.

Understanding of the careworn item’s origin— though not its meaning— but confusion as to why the Doctor had them and why he cared for them. He seemed to only participate to make his grandad happy, often rolling his eyes or winking at her over prayers, and she didn’t think he attended synagogue on Saturdays. He never mentioned it, but then again, she never spoke of her Saturdays to him either.

(Especially not now that she feared that Malcom would soon be revisiting the idea that they were something real, and the discomfort she felt regarding the situation had worsened. How would the Doctor react, if she told him of Malcom pushing too far? Would there be any of the protectiveness he’d shown her in the Before in his eyes? Would he remember how he had once claimed her, had once let their breath mingle in the same air as he has repeated his claim?)

But if the Doctor showed no real belief or even respect for religion beyond respecting Wilf, why have two religious features in his flat? Three, she noted in surprise, when she glanced over at his bedroom door out of curiosity. They were so small, so delicate, it couldn’t be about keeping up appearances, could it? If one didn’t know to look for them, they’d miss them entirely, hidden in plain sight. And not only that, but he touched them, cared for them, routinely. It was obvious on the well-worn brass.

She let her fingers come up and trace the symbol in the middle softly, just one more thing on a list the length of her arm of things she didn’t understand about him but wanted to. Maybe one day she’d have the courage to ask him.

She let her hand drop, and turned to go back to the kitchen, when his voice stopped her.

“Why do you do that?” The Doctor asked.

Rose hesitated. His voice didn’t sound angry, or accusing, but curious and…sad? She turned to face him again and flushed to find him staring at her with intensity. He’d taken his glasses off, so nothing obstructed the piercing blue gaze. His face didn’t exactly match the tone of his voice, though it wasn’t contradictory either. It was more like his face was reflecting, and his voice was trying to tone down, whatever it was he was feeling.

His eyebrows were drawn tight together, his jaw stiff, but despite the intensity of his stare, his eyes were open and searching. She read the sadness she’d heard in his voice more easily on his face, in his furrowed brow and soft eyes, but the curiosity she had heard… it was reflected on his features as raw hunger. As if he had to know her answer or it would eat him alive. It made the easy answer she had meant to give him die in her throat, and she felt her own carefully repressed hunger drifting too close to the surface.

It made it impossible to lie, and more than that, she found she didn’t want to. She was too drained, too tired of the games and the masks she wore. Why should she, after all? It’s not like he didn’t know, and he still allowed their friendship, despite it.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “The first time you brought me here—”

His shoulders stiffened. He still steadfastly refused to speak of anything that occurred between them during the Before, even if he was more open to Bad Wolf now. He acted as if their friendship had sprung up out of the ground fully formed one day in early December, Bad Wolf and all. The only time he had even come close to mentioning Before was when he had almost mentioned the dress she wore to the die-in, the day it fell apart. She hated that he didn’t allow her to speak of Before either, even just to speak of the protests they’d gone to, or to explain to Wilf how they’d met when he asked.

Rose was sick of it. She’d pushed him on the day of the gala by telling him he couldn’t keep pretending Bad Wolf wasn’t a part of her, and she was going to push him now into realizing that he could no longer pretend Before wasn’t a part of them. Regardless of what they were now.

“The first time you brought me here,” she repeated steadily, “I saw you do it, and I was just curious about what it was, so I was just trying to get a better look. But after that, it just felt right. Like… a reminder.”

A flash of surprise briefly touched his eyes.

“A reminder of what?” He asked, barely more than a whisper.

“That I’m safe here, that this is home, that you’re here,” she thought rapidly, digging for an answer that didn’t sound ridiculous or give her away her lingering anger at him, or her sadness over her loss of him, or the stupid, enduring hope still rooted in her heart.

There wasn’t one. There simply wasn’t.

“Of us,” Rose said, plainly. “That we were real.”

She looked up and met his eyes, and for a moment, she let it all come to the surface for him to see, and she didn’t tell herself that she imagined the way his breath caught. She let him see her anger, grief, hope, and steady, enduring, aching love. She let all of it course over her in a way she hadn’t allowed it to in weeks, in months, and only her grip on the door frame kept her from buckling under the weight of it. Her grip on the frame, and a surprising strength that she didn’t realize she’d built up. Was it tolerance to the pain, or was it strength? She didn’t care to reflect on it in that moment.

She held his gaze, daring him to ignore her and her statement, shocked by her own boldness but refusing to back down.

The Doctor rose to the challenge.

He closed his eyes.

When he reopened them, the vulnerability was gone, only resolve in its place.

Her turn to play the coward now, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. She could push him in increments, but she knew not to go too far. She broke away, shoving her emotions back down where they belonged, and plastered a smile on, letting him see that she was backing down, for his comfortability.

“So, what is it?” She asked with exaggerated bubbliness.

“Maybe it’s best if you ask grandad,” the Doctor replied, stilted, situating his glasses back on his face. “He actually believes in that kind of stuff.”

“If you don’t believe in it, why do you keep it around?”

The double meaning to her blurted words was obvious: “Why do you keep me around?” Not even he could pretend he didn’t hear it. He could ignore it, but she saw in the way his spine stiffened that he heard it. His response was slow, and she could almost hear the argument he was having with himself.

“Sometimes,” he said slowly. “It isn’t about belief. We hold on to the things that give us… comfort… and joy. And hope. And maybe, sometimes, I—” he rubbed at his eyes under his glasses, looking exhausted. “Sometimes, I want to believe.” His voice grew so quiet she wouldn’t be able to hear him if she wasn’t straining to hold on to his every word.

Rose sighed tiredly at his enigmatic answer. She couldn’t tell if he was acknowledging her, or if he was sticking to the surface level question. It left her feeling the same confusing mixture of anger, resignation, and stubborn hope that she often felt when it was just the two of them.

She could accept what they were now and that what they had was gone, could even find happiness in what they had. She did accept it, in fact, because after all— what else was there? Sex? Physical intimacy— which they’d never had— was meaningless in the face of what they did share, she told herself stubbornly. If he’d stop being so goddamn cryptic.

“Yeah, alright,” she responded shortly. “I bought stuff to make stir fry.”

The Doctor put his elbows on his desk and buried his head in his hands. She didn’t have a chance to ask if he was alright before loud, riotous laughter burst from him, shaking his shoulders. She didn’t understand what he was laughing at, but she leaned against the doorframe and watched him anyway, smiling sadly. At least she’d pulled him out of whatever dark place he’d been on his way to.

His laughter subsided and he looked back up at her in mirth. “Don’t set our kitchen on fire,” he ordered, pointing at her.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” she clutched at her chest, faux wounded, and echoed his words from what seemed like forever ago and shot him a tongue-touched grin.

She left him to his work, and he came out of the office a while later when the food was almost done, and they ate on the sofa together with a record playing in the background. Rose sat cross-legged, facing him, and they tossed popcorn at each other from the bowls they’d left out the night before and laughed. She complained about the press junket Saxon had her on, though she carefully avoided mentioning the too real emotion she’d seen in Malcom and how it scared her. He complained about his annoying coworkers— mostly Smith, who he just loathed— and drove her back to her loft when she once again stayed far later than was advisable, with both of their early morning schedules.

It wasn’t until she was huddled in bed, fighting to keep stave of the cold once more, that she realized what he’d said: Our kitchen.

The cold didn’t bother her any longer, and she drifted off to sleep with her hand curled around the key at her breast.

Chapter Text

After a few weeks of practice and several successful meals in a row, she was finally satisfied with her cooking skills and opted into rotation for where game night was hosted. Surprisingly, everyone agreed to come to her flat that same week, Jack and Ianto in particular, who had never been there.

Rose was nervous. She’d only barely begun to let people into her loft, first the Doctor, who of course was there regularly by that point, and Donna and Shaun once. She was still ashamed of the place, but she needed to know if it could be filled with life, if she allowed life into it. Or would it suffocate them too? Would that mean it was her who was poisonous? If she was not diluted, but they got a full dose of Rose Tyler, what would happen?

The Doctor showed up early— as usual and as she’d hoped he might, since they didn’t have their usual Sunday adventure with it being her first time hosting. He let himself in with his key— the seed of hope in her heart growing deepening roots at the comfortable familiarity— and darted up the stairs to her bedroom with barely a pause, and while she was curious, she couldn’t step away from the stove. She heard her bathroom sink running as she listened closely, and she rolled her eyes. The prat just wanted to use her nicer soap. She didn’t know why he didn’t just get some for his flat as well, he always bitched about how hers smelled better. She was just going to get him some next time she bought groceries, she decided.

He bounded back down the stairs with that manic energy she lov— admired. Her friend bounded down the stairs with that manic energy she admired in him, his grin lighting up his face and making him look younger. Or rather, more his true age— which wasn’t old— than the heavy look he sometimes wore. He had some silly little story or secret to tell her, likely a stupid comment one of his students had made, and he was bouncing with the urge to tell her.

“Can you get the pastries from the oven?” She asked, deflecting him with a barely restrained smile, just to tease him.

He huffed, but did as she asked, donning her oven mitt over one hand. She sneakily took a picture, extending her phone over her head to capture herself, his hand encased in the bright pink glove, and his face wrinkled up from the rush of steam that would no doubt get a laugh from everyone later. She sent it to Wilf with a giggle, and he texted her back a string of nonsense letters soon after.

He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of texting yet, her fiancé, but he enjoyed the pictures she sent him occasionally. Every so often, she’d get a coherent enough response from him that would warm her heart. Usually along the lines of “Love tgis—thx duck3.”

She’d barely set her phone down on the counter when it buzzed again, a second text from Wilf coming in that just said, “My boy, and my best girl xoxo,” and she beamed to herself.

“Who’re you texting?” The Doctor asked, gruffly.

He’d set the baking tray down and cleared out the smoke, and his jovial manic energy had disappeared. Rose frowned at her burnt pastries in sorrow. “The Doctor’s oven would never treat me this way,” she thought grumpily. His ancient device had a mind of her own, much like his car, but despite her oven being much more modern, his simply worked better, apparently.

“Oh, those were supposed to be dessert,” she mourned. “Can you text Yan and ask if he can pick something up for dessert on his way?”

“You were textin’ just fine a minute ago,” the Doctor grumbled, but dutifully pulled out his phone.

Rose rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I don’t have his work number, and he doesn’t check his personal phone until he leaves the office,” she reminded him. “And, yes I know it’s Sunday, but he said last week they had a big case that goes to court this week, so you know he’s there.”

The Doctor stayed stubbornly silent.

“I was texting Wilf,” she told him with an exasperated sigh. “You know, my fiancé?” She teased cheekily, trying to pull him back out of whatever funk he’d fallen into.

“Right,” he muttered.

Rose slammed her spoon down on the counter and whirled around on him. “Alright, out with it,” she demanded. “You bounce in here all giddy, and ten seconds later you’re moping. Tell me why.”

“Nothing,” he snapped, his eyes flashing. Then, he softened, wincing apologetically. “Sorry. I mean, it’s nothing. I just… remembered something sad.”

Rose frowned sympathetically. “Do you want to talk about it?” She asked tentatively, calming her voice to hopefully encourage him.

His eyes softened further, and that look that was gratitude-but-not-adoration shone through them and made her throat tight.

“Rose,” he began, and the butterflies in her stomach kicked into full gear.

“This is it!” They screamed at her. “He’s going to say something!”

A knock rapped on the door before she could wrestle her emotions into submission, and Rose cursed out loud. They were an entire hour early. An hour she was supposed to have the Doctor to herself.

“Oh, bleedin’ hell,” she spat venomously. She picked up her spoon from the counter and pressed it into the Doctor’s surprised hands. “Stir,” she ordered. “I’ll tell them to wait.”

She wasn’t letting him out of that kitchen if she could fucking help it. Not now. She was going to tell Jack, or Donna, very, very frankly, to wait in the damn hallway if she had to. She glanced out of the peep hole, wanting to make sure she wasn’t about to rain fire and fury down on an unsuspecting neighbor, and was stunned not to see Jack, or Donna, or even Yan outside.

Outside her door, looking very awkward and out of place, and holding a wilting bouquet of daisies, was Mickey Smith.

Her childhood friend whom she hadn’t truly spoken to in years. Or at all in over a year. Her only ex-boyfriend besides Jimmy Stone.

Ah, hell.

“Micks, what the hell are you doing here?” Rose asked in lieu of greeting when she yanked open the door.

“Surprise!” Jack’s voice interrupted, coming up the stairs two at a time and interrupting whatever it was Mickey was opening his mouth to say.

He walked up and slung his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, much to Mickey’s disdain. He attempted to shrug him off angrily, but Jack ignored him and pushed himself and Mickey past Rose and into her flat. Ianto was directly behind him, and he flashed her an apologetic expression as he passed.

“Yes, why doesn’t everyone just come in!” Rose shouted sarcastically. “Not as if you’re an hour early, and I’m not busy. Also I didn’t say ‘come in.’”

She closed the door with an angry slam, but before she could move away, a tentative knock sounded. She pinched her nose and opened the door again, letting in Donna and a sheepish looking Shaun. Donna marched through with barely a greeting and pulled her husband along with her before Rose could stop them.

“Wonderful. Bloody wonderful,” she muttered. “I’m not ready for you all,” she said louder, hoping they’d get the damned hint.

“Well, the Doc is already here,” Jack complained from the living room. “What’s it matter that the rest of us are early too?”

“That’s the issue and you bloody well know it, you utter bastard!” Rose shouted at him mentally.

She made her way through the loft angrily, striding up to Jack and leveling a finger in his face while he grinned like the bastard he was, but before she could say anything, Mickey interrupted.

“Uh, babe, before you get all shouty, can you at least introduce me?”

Rose could feel Jack’s smug aura positively radiating off of him, and she was ready to raise a Jackie Tyler level smack right to his smug face when, like something out of her dreams and nightmares, the Doctor appeared.

“Babe?” He growled, moving away from the stove to stand protectively nearer to her. “Rose, who is this idiot?”

“Oi, big ears,” Mickey started.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Rose shouted, moving away from Jack before she hit him, and closer to the Doctor defensively. “You don’t get to barge in here unannounced and uninvited and insult him—”

Mickey was arguing over her, gesticulating wildly at the Doctor and Jack, Jack was saying something, no doubt something obnoxious and salacious, and Donna was pointing at the Doctor and laughing loudly at the Mickey’s insult.

A loud, ear piercing whistle cut through the shouts, and Rose slammed her hands over her ears. When it stopped, Ianto’s stony face glared at everyone into maintaining their silence and then gestured to Rose. She nodded to him in appreciation, and he smiled wryly.

“Right,” she grumbled. “Everyone, this is Mickey Smith. My childhood friend, and ex- boyfriend, and who is leaving.”

“Don’t be like that, babes,” Mickey groaned. “You know I’ve just been busy.”

“Stop calling me that! We’ve been broken up since we were nineteen. You haven’t bothered to even text me in well over a year, Mickey, you can’t just show up—”

“I didn’t! I was invited.”

“Jack,” several voices snapped in unison. Rose, the Doctor, and Ianto all turned to the Captain who was grinning widely. Even Shaun shook his head tiredly.

Rose didn’t have time to analyze the way the Doctor’s voice was dark, and low, and gravelly. Or the way he was standing in between her and Mickey.

“What?” Jack said, unrepentant. “It’s Rosie’s game night, it’s only fair to invite Rosie’s friends.”

“I would hardly call Rickey her friend,” the Doctor growled. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Rose had to shut her eyes and push the rush of emotion away that threatened to take her to her knees. His entire demeanor just screamed protective, righteous fury, possessive, dominant, and she couldn’t deal with it. Not with everything else going on. She knew for a fact she’d absolutely told him about Mickey at some point— he was choosing to be a possessive jackass.

If she had to kick everyone else out on their arses, starting with Jack, and grab him by his fucking ears to make him finish what he was starting to say earlier, then that’s exactly what she’d do.

“It’s Mickey, and who are you? You can’t have been around that long if I don’t know you. I’ve known Rose since we were kids! You think she tells you everything, big ears?”

“Historically, no,” Rose thought, and her heart lurched. Mickey’s words would remind him of just that, and he’d storm out any second now. She’d run after him of course, but then he would shout, and she would shout, and the moment in the kitchen would be gone forever, just like whatever had happened between them at the gala that had been interrupted by his ex.

“I’m the Doctor, and yes,” the Doctor said smugly, crossing his arms across the front of his chest and leaning back on the counter casually.

“Oh, fuck,” Rose near moaned.

Arrogant, possessive, dominant posturing. Right in her damn kitchen. Fucking asshole. He was such a fucking idiot. He’d do all this, get all jealous over the fact that she used to have another man in her life, and still refuse to acknowledge anything between them, the coward. She wanted to punch him, throttle him, throw him to the ground, and ride him. The voracity of it shocked her momentarily, she’d gotten relatively good at telling herself the physical aspect of a relationship with him was unnecessary— save for late at night— so the sudden, intense, need caught her off guard.

Well, she’d wanted to liven the place up.

“Listen, I think you should go, Rose obviously didn’t invite you and doesn’t want you here,” Donna jumped in.

Rose saw the next few seconds playing out in front of her as clear as day. Mickey would snap at Donna, Donna and the Doctor would both snap at Mickey, the Doctor would get even more weird, and it would cross the line from being sexy and annoying to being just annoying, and there would be yelling and chaos, and Rose would get overwhelmed and shut down and—

The smoke alarm went off.

“My fucking soup!” She screeched, horrified.

She dove into the kitchen and barely remembered her oven mitts before pulling the scorched pot off the burner. The Doctor ran after her and began waving the smoke away, and she heard people in the living room clattering to open her flat’s ridiculous industrial windows.

Shaun’s shout of triumph rang out, followed by a slew of coughs as the smoke circulated through the living room, but finally dissipated. Rose stared at the charred remains of her soup and her pastries. In them, she saw the smoking ruins of her relationship with the Doctor, with Mickey, and every other bridge she’d been forced to burn in her fucked up disaster of a life, and she could only react one way.

Rose burst into laughter.

Hysterical, hiccoughing laughter, the kind that went alongside the tears that were rolling down her face in tandem as she took in what a mess her life was. What a mess her life had always been, no matter how hard she tried to scrape together a semblance of humanity within herself.

Mickey fucking Smith, showing up just as something was about to give with the Doctor. It was just as comical as when a stranger had literally kicked her and interrupted them, keeping the Doctor from kissing her at the die-in. It certainly felt the same. She absolutely felt like she’d been kicked, this time right in the stomach.

It was a farce.

It was all such a charade. The mask she put on to be Bad Wolf, the mask she put on to pretend she was Rose Tyler, the mask she put on to try and convince even herself that anything had changed. She could pretend all she wanted to that she was growing, becoming a real person, but it was all a goddamn lie.

She couldn’t even make soup.

Frenzied laughter bubbled from her lips as she reeled. She didn’t know what was so funny, besides the irony of it all, but one look over at her burnt soup sent her into further fits of laughter. She looked up at the Doctor, who was looking at her with a mix of sorrow and concern, and she gestured to the stove.

“Who burns soup?” She cried out, laughing uncontrollably.

She did. She was a disaster, an idiot, and a half-alive thing still playing at being human and everyone around her knew it. For all the strength that she told herself she’d built up in the last few months, all the strides she had thought she’d made, she still couldn’t stand it— the pity on his face. It was a reminder of how fragile it all still was, how much of a mask Rose Tyler still was, when it came down to it.

Real emotions blazing in those piercing blue eyes for once, but none that she wanted to see. None that she could face.

Rose began to turn away when the Doctor’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She stared at him, gawking, looking back and forth between the hand clamped around her wrist and his face, lined with sorrow. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her thin shirt and barely had the presence of mind to be grateful there was a sleeve between them, because the heat of it would have burned her had it rested on her bare skin.

He took an awkward step towards her, and the another, and then lurched forward and gathered her into his arms. Her laughter turned into sobs in genuine as she buried her face in his chest and felt his arms around her for the first time in months. For the first time since the steps of the police station, where it all came crashing down around her. She clutched his jumper at his chest with both hands because if she didn’t hold on she’d pound at his chest in fury, or he’d run away, and she’d never see him again.

As if in response to her thoughts, in the same way he always did with his supernatural ability to know what she was thinking, his arms tightened around her. As if to reassure her he wasn’t going anywhere.

Rose cried harder.

It was too much. His almost acknowledgement at his flat on Thursday, his almost spoken words before Mickey showed up, his stupid fucking jealousy but refusal to love her fully, and the overload of her senses from being touched, really touched, for the first time in months. Her skin was so hungry for contact— from anyone, but especially him— that she could barely handle the brush of fingers against hers most days. And now she was wrapped in his arms, his scent, and it was so much better than she even remembered. If any of their skin had actually been touching, she might’ve fainted from the sensory overload.

She almost never wanted to stop. It was catharsis, for one, to finally release it all at once instead of only letting off pressure when it could no longer be held back if she didn’t. But more than that, if she stopped crying, he would let her go, and she would be forced to go back to a world where the only person that wanted her— the only person that touched her— was Malcom.

At that pathetic thought, she pushed herself away. She couldn’t let it go any further, not unless he was willing to say what he was going to say earlier. As touch starved as she was, she would lose all sense of reason if she held on for a single second longer as well, and she feared she’d never get herself back together.

She might not have had any pride, but she refused to beg for scraps of affection from someone who did not want to give them.

She lingered briefly, still in his arms, her hands on his chest, but pushed away enough she could look into his fathomless blue eyes. If he was going to say anything, it would be now.

“Please,” she thought mournfully, against her will and determination that she would not beg. “Just tell me it was real. Don’t let go of me, please.”

The Doctor pulled the rest of the way away with a grunt and she closed her eyes against the stab of pain. Her arms curled around her stomach automatically, trying to hold herself together, trying to hold on to the feeling of being held, and his warmth.

“Right,” she muttered. “Stupid fuckin’ me.”

It occurred to her only belatedly that she lived in a fucking loft. The living room and kitchen were the same fucking room, and every single one of her friends had just seen her have a complete breakdown in the Doctor’s arms. And every single one of them knew it wasn’t about fucking soup.

“Right,” she muttered again, bracing herself.

She let her hands drop and let the last of his warmth fade away purposefully. One more deep breath and she was able to pry her eyes open and affix them with a grin that felt a little too much like Bad Wolf’s. Whatever, it’s not like they would believe it anyway, but maybe the sharpness behind Bad Wolf’s smile would hold them back from trying to ask questions.

She’d never used that smile, or Bad Wolf’s persona, on her friends or family before, but sliding into her skin felt like the only way to go on now. Only Donna would recognize the change anyway. She risked a darting glance over at her friend, who looked utterly horrified. She averted her gaze and shook the grief-stricken look on Donna’s face from her mind.

“Well, dinner’s a bust. Who wants pizza?” Bad Wolf asked.

Chapter Text

In the end, Mickey stayed.

Either someone had filled him in while she cried in the Doctor’s arms, or he wasn’t as stupid as he sometimes pretended to be, because he didn’t try to assert himself again in any way. Once the games and drinks started, he actually started getting along with everyone— well, everyone except the Doctor.

The Doctor sat sullenly on the far end of the room, not engaging in the games, but not leaving either. She put on a brave face and made a valiant effort to ignore him. Bad Wolf was used to pretending that he didn’t exist anyway, and though she didn’t hold onto the persona very long, just long enough that she calmed down, it set a precedence she was more than happy to maintain the rest of the night.

Jack teased Rose and Mickey’s stories out of them, bumping Rose on the shoulder with his shoulder in apology and gesturing with his head over at the Doctor, waggling his eyebrows. Rose slapped his shoulder and hissed at him, but she also forgave him with a sigh. He was just trying to help, and she was too overwhelmed and too tired to hold onto her anger at him. She avoided looking at Donna, knowing that the familiar sad look in her friend’s eyes would be too much for her. She missed Donna desperately, having pulled back from the older woman the past few months in her grief and anger at the Doctor, not wanting to put her in the middle of anything but also unable to stand the pity Donna showed her. Now she knew it had been, unfortunately, the right choice, given her brief reaction to her breakdown.

She smiled sadly in acceptance and listened to Mickey tell a few stories about them growing up on the Estate and the petty little troubles they’d get into. He even explained how they’d tried dating when they were nineteen, but how he’d got too jealous and insecure when she went on tour— something they’d reconciled years ago— and they’d gone back to being friends, though less close. Rose had never really gotten over the way he’d cheated on her, though her heart had never truly been in their romantic relationship. She’d grown out of the petty jealousy she felt at sharing Mickey, that they had both confused for romantic love rather than the childish selfishness of clinging to her childhood friend, but unfortunately not before their friendship had suffered too greatly.

He admitted with a sad sigh that the reason he’d disappeared a year ago was because his Gran had died and he’d been dealing with her affairs and loss, and he apologized sincerely to Rose, which she accepted. The night ended with hugs all around as everyone left, Donna lingering longer than Rose was truly comfortable with, but couldn’t make herself pull away. Mickey promised he’d try to make the next game night, which Jack had already invited him to, if only to get a rise out of the Doctor. It seemed to do Mickey good too, being around people and getting out of his grief, and Rose couldn’t begrudge him that. He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek good bye and Rose closed the door behind them all with an exhausted sigh.

Her burnt pot and the charred remains of her soup and pastries could wait until tomorrow, she decided, unhooking her bra and pulling it through her shirt with practiced ease and she walked past the kitchen. Her flat had never felt more lived in, and it felt good, even with everyone gone now and despite everything that had happened. The body-warmed air lingered and for once the place wasn’t ice cold.

The Doctor moved and Rose screeched.

She’d forgotten he was still there in his brooding silence. She threw the item in her hands at him instinctively and snapped, “Don’t do that!” before he caught the thing she’d thrown, and they realized at the exact same time that it was her bra.

She flushed deeply and stuttered out, “I thought you’d left, I—”

“It’s ok, Rose,” he sighed. “I was just leaving.”

“No, you don’t have to,” she protested.

Please. Stay.

His eyes flicked over to her and looked her up and down, and she felt the air leave her lungs like it had been snatched from her. Then, his eyes softened, becoming sorrowful and he shook his head.

“Yes. I do.”

He passed her, pausing briefly, and she thought he might embrace her once more. She restrained herself from any attempt to project her desire for an embrace at him, remembering how she’d done the same once to beg him for a kiss and had gotten only a crooked finger under her chin in response.

His large hand came up close to her face, as if it might to the same again, and she tried to even her breathing out to keep him from noticing, as if the interruption would be what made him stop, but he stopped anyway.

His hand fluttered down to his side, and he finished passing her, pulling open the door. “Good night, Rose.”

She spent the night on the sofa, trying to hold on to the feeling of the loft being lived in and warm but when she woke from the restless sleep she was able to get, she was cold.

She was so sick of being cold.

Grace’s pen was tapping at the top of her notebook, indicating that she was irritated with him. He got that look a lot from the women in his life. Grace was particularly good at it.

Her glare was professional.

“Any reason why, Dr. Noble?” She ground out.

Maybe he imagined the frustrated tone in her voice. She was very good at her job, endlessly patient, and the Doctor felt like he’d made greater progress with her in a few months than he had with Harriet in years.

Enough so that he’d mistakenly told Grace that he wanted to ask Rose if she would be willing to try again. If she would wait, just a little while longer, until he was sure this therapy thing was working. If maybe she could finish out her contract and he could keep working on himself, and maybe he’d be damned lucky enough that she’d agree.

But he hadn’t gotten the courage to ask her yet. It had been weeks, and he kept missing his chance, either by cosmic chance or his own accidentally-on-purpose blunders. He’d meant to, Sunday, when he arrived at her flat an hour earlier than game night was supposed to start. He’d thought it a good time to kill two birds with one stone, actually, to hide the gift he’d gotten her for her to find later, and to ask her if she was still willing to try with him.

He hadn’t anticipated Jack fucking Harkness trying to cockblock him. Metaphorically.

But when it came down to it, he’d be the first to admit that he was a bloody coward.

He’d even successfully reigned himself in using the techniques Grace had taught him, apologizing for snapping at her in the kitchen after his nerves got the better of him and keeping himself from strangling Rickey. But the fact that he’d snapped at her at all had scared him off. Again. He’d been so damned nervous, and seeing her texting and smiling that smile at her phone had him so jealous all his grounding techniques disappeared momentarily. Again.

That tongue-touched grin that should’ve been his, if he weren’t such a coward. Intense jealousy clouded his mind at the sight, the same sickly possessiveness that reared up in him again moments later when he heard that idiot call his Rose ‘babe.’

His meager courage had disappeared, first in the face of his shame at snapping at her and then the crushing sadness that followed his jealousy at the realization that no, she wasn’t his Rose, and he didn’t have the right to think of her that way. He’d barely managed to keep from running away, like he had done the first few times his feelings for her reached a breaking point, such as when he’d heard her laugh for the first time in weeks at Hannukah or seen the joy on her face after singing at the Game Station for her birthday. It had been all he could do to remove himself from the room, rather than reach for her; the love and longing rising up so fast and deep it almost choked him. It terrified him, first into running, and now into silence.

The Doctor gritted his teeth, sucked it up and pushed his pride down, and told all of this to Grace. The irritated tap of her pencil stopped, and her expression grew softer in understanding as she scratched out some notes. He finished with a sigh, collapsing back into his chair, and his therapist was silent for a moment, letting him gather his thoughts while she gathered hers.

“Dr. Noble, may I be frank with you for a moment?” Grace asked.

The Doctor didn’t look from where he had his head thrown back to stare at the ceiling. “Thought you were Grace, but alright,” he responded, injecting fake cheeriness into his tone.

“Hilarious,” she deadpanned.

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Dr. Noble, I don’t think you need to wait, or ask Rose to,” she stated bluntly. The Doctor’s head shot up and he looked at her incredulously. “If you want to, then it’s not a bad idea still,” she continued, “But I don’t think it’s necessary. From what you’ve told me the past few sessions, there have been several times in the past few weeks that you’ve successfully used our techniques and regulated yourself.”

She held up a hand when he tried to argue.

“To varying degrees of success, yes, but successful in some way each time. Now, I’m not saying go out right now and jump right back into things if you’re still not comfortable. I’m saying that this restriction you’ve put on yourself is unnecessary. You are not and have not been the entire time I’ve been seeing you at least, out of control in any way.”

She looked up from her notes and smiled at him, sincerely.

“You’re doing fantastic, Dr. Noble. I’ve never seen someone put so much work into their anger management sessions in such a short span of time. You had a decent foundation to begin with, you just needed the right motivation. I usually advise against romantic interest as motivation, because wanting to change your behavior for yourself is much more sustainable long-term, but I won’t deny results when I see them. I know you still worry about your flashbacks and lashing out, but I don’t, frankly.”

The Doctor’s heart felt like it might explode. He hadn’t been a danger to her? He wasn’t?

“I— I can tell her?” He whispered.

“Whether you can or not is up to you,” Grace said. “All I’m saying is that based on the guidelines you set for yourself, you’ve met them. Healthy caution is good, considering what you’ve said she’s been through, but there’s a line between caution and fear, and I’m afraid you’ve been walking it for too long.”

Joy and fear mixed in his stomach in equal amounts, making him slightly nauseous.

“And, Dr. Noble, off the record?” The Doctor looked up and met Grace’s kind eyes, and the soft smile on her lips. “I think you should.”

Now if he could just convince himself he deserved to. If he could just believe.

Chapter Text

The movie ended and Rose’s heart sank. She knew she needed to get up and leave, let the Doctor rest and sleep. He had classes to teach tomorrow, and she had an interview in the mid- morning, and they had dinner at Donna’s tomorrow night, and a million other bits of logic that all pointed to her going back to her own flat and going now. It was already later than she told herself she would stay, once again, but it had been him that suggested the second movie. He’d been quiet all afternoon and evening, though she’d hesitate to say he was melancholy, he was certainly deep in thought. She hadn’t minded; it gave her the opportunity to observe him and not have to keep the love and heartbreak off of her face. It was easy to do so when they were on the move, or busy in some way, but in the silent and still moments, it seemed to find its way out without her allowing it.

She wondered if his quiet concentration had anything to do with what he’d almost said Sunday— whatever it was— or her embarrassing breakdown following the interruptions. If any moment now he would gather his thoughts or his courage and say anything, or if she was being far too self-absorbed to imagine he was thinking about her at all. There was no real reason to believe that he was, save for how she wanted him to be.

“Definitely time to go,” she thought. “Stop being so morose, Tyler, you’ve got shit to do.”

The idea of leaving the warmth and safety of the Doctor’s flat was enough to physically pain her, however. Returning once again to her own empty, soulless loft made the departure sting even more. Somehow, learning that the place could feel alive, following game night, had made it worse ever since. It was even more empty, when she now knew what it felt like for it to be full, even more colorless without the reminders of life around her. Jack had commented on it, offhandedly, the emptiness and lack of personal effects in her flat, following the disaster.

Her flat, where there were indeed no cozy blue walls or dark wood bookshelves full of tomes on every subject imaginable. Her flat where the sofa wasn’t the wide, worn, buttery soft yellow-brown leather they were currently huddled into. Her flat with the expressionless, rude, and uptight neighbors who she didn’t know even after living there for nearly ten years, the cold that never went away due to the stupid, unnecessarily high ceilings, the constant surveillance by Saxon, and her flat that the Doctor would not be at.

Where the cycle of could-have-beens and never-weres ate her alive with yearning and loathing, as they had been all week since whatever the fuck had happened on Sunday had happened.

As per their usual, they did not mention it.

Rose had shown up at her normal times to cook almost every day since, even though they both knew she could cook at her flat just as well, and even though he was too busy to join her until the food was done or later. Which meant there were also no adventures out into the city. An aura of domesticity settled on them all week, on top of the fragile truce. Tonight, he’d quit his work at promptly five, as every Thursday, and they cooked together, ate dinner to the soft playing record music, and cued up a movie after. Routine, familiar and complex, all at once.

She sat until the very end of the credits rolled in complete silence, gathering her resolve to toss off her favorite throw blanket— a truly hideous, humongous, multicolored knitted afghan that Donna had obviously just put together from the scraps of the ugliest yarn left behind from different projects— and leave the company of her favorite person. To go spend another night alone and cold, wishing she was with him.

Wishing he hadn’t stopped wanting her.

She’d never tell him that, either about how lifeless her supposed home was, or about how she still dreamed of her home being him. She’d never let it show how her home was him or how she still dreamed of him, and those first few weeks they had when they first met, when it had felt like he wanted her with every breath. Before he learned about Bad Wolf and whatever happened that made him fine with being friends, but nothing more.

How she’d so very nearly shook it off and been able to be content with their friendship until that damned moment in her kitchen, when for whatever reason he showed something though some crack in his veneer that left her with painful, searing hope once more taking root in her heart. All the while his mask was back on so well she was left telling herself once more that it had been her imagination.

She should’ve taken time away from him to regroup, following her breakdown, but that would be admitting that something happened. Which they didn’t do.

“Damn, I’m melancholy tonight,” she sighed to herself.

“I suppose I’ll head off then,” Rose said, her faux cheerful tone overly loud in the quiet room.

The Doctor looked over at her from his end of the sofa— where his arm outstretched across the back was a siren song she almost couldn’t resist, the urge to insert herself into that empty space beside him having driven her mad all evening, especially after he had renewed her memory of what it felt like to be in his arms so recently— and frowned. The butterflies in her stomach that simply lived there now, ever since they’d met, kicked up a notch at the expression. Was he sad to see her go? Disappointed?

“It’s a bit late,” he pointed out, slowly.

Rose blushed, embarrassed. She’d overstayed her welcome, and her foolish thoughts had gotten her hopes up again, just for them to be shattered seconds later. When would she learn?

“Sorry, Doctor,” she said quickly. “I should’ve left earlier. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

He shifted towards her as she stood, grabbing her wrist lightly where she clutched the afghan. She sucked in her gasp, eyes darting up.

He never touched her any more, not purposefully, and definitely not her skin. Save for the embrace on Sunday, he hadn’t so much as brushed his fingers against hers since the gala, nearly two months ago. He’d been even more strict on it than he’d been in the time before that, after the end of the Before.

“No, Rose that’s not what I— you don’t have to go,” he said in a rush. “Not if you don’t want to. You’re welcome— more than welcome— to stay here.”

Warmth filled her from head to toe. She knew she should decline but she already knew she was too weak to. One touch from him shattered her resolve. Already the idea of sinking back down onto the soft leather sofa, curling up with the afghan, and drifting off to sleep in the warmth and comfort of home was the most blissful thought she’d had in ages. A full night somewhere where she knew she was not watched? A full night of safety and security? Waking up in the morning to see him getting ready for work, sleepily drinking tea together at the kitchen island, him slipping away to go to work and pressing a kiss to the side of her head or to her— stop. She chided herself for letting her thoughts go that far.

“Thank you, really, but I don’t have a toothbrush, or clothes to sleep in or change into,” she protested weakly.

Any second, he would agree with her protests, and maybe she would be lucky, and he would offer to drive her home. He usually did, and he was too much of a gentleman to want her to take a taxi this late at night, so surely he would offer.

“Well, Rose Tyler,” he said jovially, jumping up and tugging on her wrist, as if that was something he did.

He used to. He used to tug her along all the time, and she’d been convinced she’d go anywhere with him. Had gone— all the way to the other side of the world, leaping together over the Prime Meridian.

But he’d used to hold her hand.

He pulled her into his bedroom, and she flushed heavily, grateful for the dim lighting and his turned back. He released her wrist as he entered the bathroom, flicking on the light behind him, and began rooting around in his medicine cabinet. The skin where his hand had been tingled with the remnants of his lingering warmth, her nerve endings tingling almost painfully. Touch starvation, she had found, was such an ironic thing: to crave being touched so much, only for it to hurt.

“One good habit I picked up in the army,” he grunted as he dug, “Buy things in bulk. More economic. Which means— aha!” he exclaimed in victory as he found what he was digging for in his cabinet. “Extra toothbrush, brand new.”

He held it out to her like it was the Holy Grail. Or maybe it just felt that way to her. “It’s even pink,’ he continued, his tone pleased.

She took the proffered toothbrush with reverence, and it was indeed pink. “The Doctor remembered that I like pink,” her butterflies squealed excitedly before she imagined shoving them down. “Shut up,” she told them venomously. “Of course he did, he has a photographic memory, remember?”

“That’s fantastic, Doctor,” she said out loud, “But what about clothes?” Rose wanted to bang her head against a wall. Why was she arguing with him? She wanted to stay more than anything. More than almost anything, she amended, glancing up at him.

He scoffed at her question, “I do live here, Rose. There are clothes.”

Alarm bells and sirens went off in her head but the butterflies in her stomach were whirling noisemakers around in ecstatic glee. “Wearing his clothes!” They screamed. “Warm and safe in one of his jumpers!”

“What the hell was he playing at this time?” Her own weary thoughts sighed.

“You own multiple sets of clothing?” She forced herself to tease. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything else.”

“Oi! I change me jumper!” The Doctor cried in mock offense.

“To an identical jumper,” she grinned with her tongue between her teeth. Teasing was more familiar ground. She could do teasing.

“They’re different colors,” he insisted.

“Of course they are, Doctor,” she said soothingly. “You bought the same one in every color.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled to come up with a retort, and her grin widened at the sight. Rose Tyler: one. The Doctor: zero. He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and she noted with glee that the tips of his ears looked a little red.

“What was that?” She prodded, poking him with her foot.

She didn’t let herself get too close to him in the small, intimate space of his bathroom, but she couldn’t resist needling him a bit. It chuffed her to even do that, since touching was a thing they were allowed to do again, apparently.

“I said not in every color,” he said with exasperation. “I didn’t buy the white one.”

Rose burst into laughter. Oh, she adored this silly man.

When her giggles died down, she looked back up at him to find him watching her expectantly, waiting for an answer. She told herself firmly, once again, that she was imagining the loving expression on his face, the openness in his clear blue eyes. It was just him, his inherent kindness, that he felt comfortable showing her beneath his gruff exterior, because they were friends.

“Ok,” she whispered. “I’ll stay. Thank you, Doctor.”

She didn’t imagine the way the tips of his ears definitely turned red this time. He pushed past her back into his bedroom and strode over to turn the lamp on the nightstand on, putting some needed distance between the two of them.

“T-shirt or jumper?” He asked, his back to her still.

“Jumper,” she replied quickly, almost before the question left his lips.

She’d rarely seen him in a t-shirt, and while she reveled each time at the sight of his lean, muscular arms on display, she wanted to be wrapped in what he wore every day. The tees he wore on their runs were nice— often uni shirts or something with stupid puns— but his jumpers were she associated with him the most. And with the leather coat not being an option, his cozy, warm jumpers were exactly what she wanted. Like the hardened mask he put up to the outside world, his leather coat was armor, while the soft, woolen jumpers were representative of his inherent goodness, in her mind.

He turned to look at her in surprise at the rapidness of her answer. She blushed again under his stare.

“I get cold,” she said as a weak explanation.

Wasn’t that the truth?

The Doctor nodded, accepting her word and strolled over to the closet, pulling the door open and muttering a quiet curse.

“I forgot to do laundry,” he said a bit louder for her benefit. “All my jumpers are dirty. I can give you the tee and an extra blanket. So, you don’t get cold.”

Her stomach sank with disappointment, but she smiled softly at his thoughtfulness.

“Or,” he continued, turning to her and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I haven’t done much of anything today. Since was a study day for exams, I just graded some papers here in the flat. So, this one is relatively clean?”

Rose barely kept from leaping and screaming in joy. She didn’t know how she managed a calm nod and a reassurance that was fine with her, but she did.

He nodded back and directed her towards the bathroom. “I’ll pass it through the door,” he said stiffly. Right, of course. There was no need for her to see him take it off or see him shirtless, none whatsoever. Platonic.

She entered the bathroom and closed the door, whipping off her shirt and bra as fast as she could before pressing herself into the door and opening it a crack, reaching her arm around for the jumper. She wasted absolutely no time, not wanting any of his body heat to be lost if he removed it before she was ready. It was silly, but as she felt the fabric being pressed into her hands with a slight chuckle, and felt the warmth still in the fibers, she couldn’t feel silly. She pulled it inside and shut the door in one swift motion, tugging the jumper on over her head with relish.

As she’d imagined, it completely engulfed her— falling down to her mid-thigh and draping around her in swaths of fabric, the sleeves falling well past her hands. She shimmied out of her pants, just as eager to feel the brush of the bottom hem against her legs and finally pulled the collar to her nose. It was still warm from his body, and it smelled so amazingly like him it was like being in his arms again.

She missed the feelings of his arms around her, protective and steady, but she was used to missing it by now. She’d missed it far longer than she’d ever had it, regardless. With the exception of just a few days ago, which she still couldn’t work out. And now this? Maybe, whatever it was he was going to say Sunday, he was trying to say now, without saying it? That would be very like him.

Dare she hope?

Of course she did. She always did, no matter how inadvisable or stupid it was.

She brushed her teeth and rinsed the makeup from her face quickly, not wanting to take up his bathroom too long when he needed to get ready to sleep too. He had an earlier morning than her. She would not hope. She would not let herself get worked up once again.

“Friends, just friends, just friends,” Rose chanted quietly and firmly to herself. A final determined nod to herself in the mirror and she turned to crack the door open.

“Are you decent, Doctor?” She called out playfully, waiting for him to respond before she exited. He didn’t want her to see him without his shirt on. Just friends, just friends.

“I’m clothed,” he replied in the same joking way. “Dunno about decent.”

She picked up her bundle of clothing with a laugh and exited, brushing past where he was fiddling with his bed covers to go back to the sofa with a smile. Purposefully ignoring the sight of his exposed arms in the t-shirt he’d replaced his jumper with— and especially not looking at his broad shoulders and muscular back in the thin cotton— she pushed right past him and didn’t look at all.

“Rose, I changed the sheets for you,” he said, back still to her as he finished sliding the final pillow in a new case.

Rose froze in the doorway of his bedroom.

“Huh?” She asked inarticulately, turning to face him.

The Doctor laughed and started to turn towards her. “You didn’t think I was going to make you sleep on the couch did you? You’re my—”

His eyes landed on her form, illuminated in the doorway. She couldn’t convince herself she was imagining the way his eyes darkened immediately, the way his voice cut off in a ragged breath, or the way he was staring at her.

Like he wanted her.

“Guest,” he breathed out finally. “You’re my guest.”

Rose got the feeling that wasn’t what he was thinking when he looked at her. She desperately wanted it not to be.

“Did you mean what you said…when you said, ‘my Rose’?” She’d asked him, in the seconds before he’d kissed her. Their one kiss.

She sucked in a breath in shock.

She told herself firmly that the fleeting glimpses of longing in his eyes she saw on occasion were just pensive thinking. A remnant of what they had been, but nothing more. Wistfully reminiscent at best. Maybe— maybe— even physical attraction. Her legs, she was proud to admit, were her best feature. Toned from dance and running, and the curves of her hip and bum had filled out pleasantly with the consistent home cooked meals. He’d been attracted to her once, it wouldn’t be utterly unbelievable that he might, for a moment, like the sight of her bare legs.

Jack and Donna told her constantly that the two of them were both stupid, of course they wanted each other equally, but it had been months since he’d found out about Bad Wolf, and nothing had changed. Jack insisted it was him, the Doctor, and his own hang ups. He felt too old, too broken, but Rose thought that was rubbish. The Doctor knew all about her own past—save some of the very worst details she couldn’t bring herself to speak about to anyone— so he knew she’d understand that he had his own baggage as well.

One kiss. They’d only gotten one kiss, only given in to what had been the most intense passion she’d ever felt mere moments before the sword had fallen, severing the tie between them.

But it had been real. It was real.

And she couldn’t convince herself otherwise. The reminders were all around them: In the way he always made her tea in the thistle patterned mug, in the way he refused to touch her in any way except when she was hurting to deeply for him to ignore, in the records they played while they cooked and ate together. In the way her hand brushed against the mezuzot on the door frames the way his did the first day he brought her to his flat.

She’d finally asked Wilf what they were, after their conversation about them last week, and been shocked to learn that in a roundabout, ironic way, she’d accidentally come to assign meaning to them that was devastatingly close to their original purpose. No wonder he’d laughed at her, she’d thought.

The pain was duller now, the knife worn dull from repetition and time, and all the things she did to separate herself from it. It hit her more like a punch to the gut now than a stab, but it took her breath away, nonetheless. It was a wound she’d simply learned to live with, to live around. Maybe more time would heal it fully, but she didn’t think she had the patience or the mental fortitude to simply let it go without knowing for certain. It ate at her, the way she flipped back and forth in her certainty. The way his hot and cold routine made her doubt and then hope and then doubt again.

But now, his burning gaze had not left her form in the seconds they stood unmoving, staring at each other, and his eyes openly raked down her exposed legs in a way that set her alight.

She could take the reins. She could be brave for both of them. She was not the same girl who had let him walk away from Donna’s car that night without argument. She’d made every push thus far— forcing him to acknowledge Bad Wolf, forcing him to acknowledge the Before. She was at the very least owed an explanation, if not an apology, and she was worth demanding it for herself. Wasn’t she? She had to at least pretend that she believed that, if she was ever going to in truth.

And if he refused to confront it either way, then she would walk away. For good.

No more. No more of this hanging on, no more painful hope. She didn’t need him to love her, and she didn’t need this constant source of sorrow they kept pretending was friendship. It was or it wasn’t. Either would be fine, in the end, but the unknowing— the refusal to simply tell her the truth— ended tonight.

Steeling her resolve, she carefully deposited her bundle of clothing on top of the dresser that was near the door, unblocking her chest from his view and earning another sharp intake of breath. Nervous anticipation made the tips of her fingers tingle, and her heart beat harder in her chest.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, Doctor,” she said, purposefully quiet and, hopefully, steadily.

There were no overbearing friends here to stop them this time. No Jack, no Donna. No surprise Mickey.

Just them.

The way it had started.

The Doctor shook his head and closed his eyes briefly, his expression morphing into a forced wide smile as he reopened them. Disappointment settled in her gut, heavy and familiar.

“You’re my guest, of course you get the bed. I’m not too old to sleep on the sofa, Rose Tyler,” he tried to inject some levity into the air.

Any other time, it would have been enough to dissuade her. To push her back to their familiar routine of teasing and dancing around the edge of the cliff, but she’d already leapt. She was already being carried by her momentum, free falling into an open and unfamiliar space, hoping he would catch her.

“You aren’t old at all, Doctor,” Rose replied firmly, glaring at him, daring him to disagree. A challenge. If Jack was right, and this was his hangup, she could soothe his worry.

“Thirteen years older than you,” he said, scorn making its way into his voice.

“Twelve, and a couple of months,” she countered immediately.

“You’re the same age as most of my students.”

“And you’d let any of your students sleep in your bed?” She pressed, demanding. “I’ve never been your student, nor have you ever seen me as one, and you know it.”

She knew it was maybe unwise to push him, saw the way his jaw clenched, but she did so anyway. She was tired, and impulsive, and so sick of pretending she didn’t want him with every beat of her heart. So sick of pretending that she didn’t know he still wanted her too.

Falling, tumbling, weightless descent. The ground approach-eth.

“I’d help any of my students that needed it,” he deflected. “I’ve let a few of them stay overnight before, to get them out of some bad situations.”

Of course he had.

Of course he had. He was so damn good it made her ache. Was that all she was to him? A girl in a bad position that his too good heart couldn’t resist but help? Pick her up, brush off the dust, and soon he would send her on her way with a pat on the head and nothing but fond memories? Surely not, not after months of running, and clinging to each other like a buoy in the storm. He’d introduced her to his friends, and they’d shared nearly everything with each other and… they needed each other. Didn’t they?

Her resolve faltered.

She did. She needed them all. Donna, Shaun, Ianto, Jack, Wilf. She did need them. He was the linchpin. Could she do this, when so much rested on their fragile peace? If she pushed him too hard, and he disappeared once more, would he take them all with him? His loss she could survive. She’d done it once, and by god it had hurt and still hurt and would hurt the rest of her life, but she could survive. But losing all of them? Maybe if she’d had more time, if she wasn’t still so brand new to being human, if the life she was building for herself— the person she was trying to become— wasn’t still so fragile.

“But I do make them sleep on the couch,” he admitted in a quieter voice. The small concession was a gust of victorious wind in her sails.

She had to. She just did. They’d been so close to confronting this so many times now. At the gala, before River had interrupted. Here in his flat last week, before she’d lost her courage. In her kitchen on Sunday. She couldn’t do it any longer. She wouldn’t.

Rose took a brave step towards him, and another, though he flinched. She walked until she stood directly in front of him, though he had his eyes clenched tightly shut.

“There’s another difference between me and your students, James,” she said softly.

Another sharp breath at her use of his first name. She hadn’t used it but once— to save him from River’s insistence at the gala— since the day outside the restaurant. Where she’d prayed that things would go back to how they’d been before, and he’d resolutely decided to act as if they’d never been.

“I love it when you say my name,” he’d told her before it ended.

“I’ve been an independent, self-sustaining adult for over ten years already, since I was fifteen. I’ve lived a life, I have experiences. I— I don’t feel real sometimes, but I’m not some privileged, empty headed, kid having their first brush with adulthood. I’ve been jerked around a lot, but—” She took another deep breath. “I’m not some fragile, broken thing either, James. Neither are you. Or maybe,” she laughed, once, breathlessly. “Maybe we both are, but— aren’t we better together? I know you feel that too. I know it.”

She reached up and placed her hands on his chest, trembling slightly, and felt the thundering race of his heart beneath her fingers. So familiar, even after all this time. The warmth of another person under her touch was enough to make her shake, even without the added ecstasy of it being him.

“You were right, just a bit ago,” she said after a moment’s pause.

He cracked his eyes open to look at her finally. His expression was tortured, and she ached to soothe it. Her hands itched to hold his beloved face and soften the furrows with her thumbs, trace his cherished features with her fingertips.

“You aren’t decent,” she continued before she could let the flash of hurt in his eyes affect her. “You’re good. So overwhelmingly good, I’ve told you before. You’re kind, and brave, and brilliant. You’re my best friend and I—”

“Stop, Rose,” he begged.

“—love you,” died on her tongue, ashes in her mouth.

She hit the ground.

Chapter Text

She hit the ground; her heart shattered. He hadn’t caught her.

After all this time, he didn’t want her. She had been imagining it, the entire time. She took a stumbling step back, her head spinning from the hurt. It was stabbing again, sharp and insistent, and pushed the air from her lungs.

“Of course,” she murmured, and it sounded far away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking—” she pulled away further, turning around to leave the room, but he caught her hands and held them to his chest.

Her hands. The way he used to.

“I can’t ever be good enough for you,” he whispered raggedly. “You deserve so much better than this broken, old soldier. I’ve already hurt you, and you’ve already been hurt before. You’re so young, and vibrant, and clever. Compassionate. I can’t be what you deserve. But—”

“Why can’t it ever be up to me to decide what I deserve?” Rose snapped, yanking herself away again.

She didn’t mean to snap at him. She was unsure what it was about his words that triggered the deep anger in her, but they did, and she was furious. She was tired, so tired, of people telling her what she could and couldn’t do with her life. For almost ten years she hadn’t been allowed to make a single decision about her life— more than that if she was honest with herself. Before Saxon there was Jimmy, and before Jimmy she had been a child. Echoes of both of their voices filled her head.

You deserve this, stupid bitch. You’ll never deserve anything more than this.

Jimmy’s voice, every time he raised his hand or his belt, every time he pushed himself inside her with too much force and too little care.

Go on then, it’s for you! You earned it. You deserve it.

Saxon’s voice, cloying and saccharine sweet as he ushered her into the new flat that already felt like a jail cell, extolling its virtues of being close to the studio, the safety of the building, the upscale neighborhood. Both of them knew it was an empty gesture: a short leash for a wild dog gnawing at its chain.

Does Bad Wolf deserve another chance? Bad Wolf deserves to be considered a great pop icon! Bad Wolf doesn’t deserve the hype!

Magazine covers, radio talk show hosts, celebrity gossip blogs all plastered with her latest “scandal,” the newest farce Saxon foisted upon her to keep her name relevant in his anger that her popularity wasn’t enough— as if it wasn’t the rubbish he insisted she shovel that simply didn’t hold attention.

You got yourself into this mess. You deserve it.

Her own voice, bitterly whispering to her in her darkest moments.

The only decision she could make for herself was being taken from her once again by some “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit. Had that really been what made him pull back? It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be that fucking selfish.

The anger faded as quickly as it had risen, leaving her feeling drained. Empty beyond what she had thought possible, even more than she already had been. The seed of hope that had been in her heart, that had taken root and grown into something almost ready to bloom in the months she had known the Doctor, shriveled up and died. But, she conceded, it wasn’t only her choice, obviously. If he didn’t want her, she couldn’t make him. She wouldn’t beg or make an even bigger fool of herself. She still had some dignity, and she would use every scrap of it now to put her own clothes back on and leave.

She could break down about it later, back in her empty, lonely prison cell. At least she knew. It was well and truly over and now she knew for certain: it never had been. No matter what they’d had in the beginning, the truth about her had broken it, and that made it never real in the first place.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” she repeated flatly. “I’ll go.”

Rose turned away from him, unable to bear the judgement in his eyes. God she was so fucking stupid. What had she been thinking, ruining what they had like it wasn’t the best thing that had ever happened to her? As if the Doctor would ever want her? Uneducated, damaged goods, with no future past a few months from now; someone who was pretending at being a person, at being human. She didn’t have anything to offer him, and he had his own issues that were far more important than the mess she’d gotten herself into at fifteen years old. All the strength she told herself that she had, it was only real when she pretended it was.

And she was so very good at pretending, even to herself. It was how she survived.

Maybe one day, time would allow them to return to the friendship they had. It would be a long time from now, she knew. It would take years to heal from this pain, but she didn’t know what she would do if she lost him fully. Maybe one day it would be real. She tried to remind herself that her attempt at personhood was only a few months old, that she had to be kinder to herself, but it sounded hollow even in her own mind.

“-se, Rose, Rose!”

She was shaking. No, she was being shaken? Her head swarmed as the physical sensation brought her out of the depths of her spiraling, disjointed, and confusing thoughts and back into her body. Two warm hands were clasped tightly around her shoulders, shaking her lightly. A concerned, heavily accented voice was calling to her, fading in and out of consciousness in her spiraling thoughts. She forced her eyes open, unaware of when she’d even closed them, and found that piercing blue gaze mere inches from her face.

“Precious girl, please, please listen to me,” the Doctor’s voice was firm and soothing, drawing her back to the present word by word. “Come back to me now, love.”

She became aware of the way her arms were wrapped protectively around herself, squeezing her own biceps to the point of pain but unable to unclench her curled hands. He seemed to notice at the same time, moving his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, to pull her hands away and hold them in his own.

“Deep breaths,” he instructed levelly, “That’s my girl, come on.”

Rose could’ve laughed if the lump in her throat wasn’t so damn big and painful. Oh, how she’d longed to hear phrases like that from the Doctor’s lips again. Still, she did as he said, matching her breathing to his familiar pace and feeling the racing of her heart die down slowly, the fog in her head clearing. She didn’t know what she felt. She swung from one extreme to another so quickly, but now the pendulum of her emotions seemed to have landed in the middle— right on numb.

Standing in silence with his large, warm hands still surrounding hers was even more awkward and painful. How weak was she that she couldn’t even take a rejection without deep diving into her own worst thoughts?

Her panic attacks had gotten worse over the last few months, and she couldn’t tell if it was her cracking under the stress of the tour, the end of the contract, and her emotional turmoil, or the subconscious feeling of safety she still felt around him that made her feel secure enough to break down. It pissed her off, whatever the fuck it was.

She was doing so much better overall at being a real person, putting herself out there, experiencing things, being around people, even if it didn’t feel like it on the inside. She felt at the top of the world one minute, but it was all so precariously balanced that all it took was him yanking the rug out from under her for her to tumble back down.

“Oi, none of that Rose Tyler,” he said, his tone forcibly light and playful. “I know what you’re thinkin’ in there.”

She didn’t doubt that he did. He always seemed to know what she was thinking. He just also always seemed to patently ignore it.

“Will you just let me finish what I was trying to say?” He continued in that same light and playful tone, but with a more serious edge underneath.

She nodded impassively. What else was she going to do? What else could she do?

He guided her over to the edge of the bed and pushed her to sit, and she complied, dazed, and kept her head ducked down. He knelt in front of her and retook her hands. Even as dazed and numb as she felt, her touch-starved body screamed at the touch. The way all of her neglected nerve endings focused with acuity that almost hurt. Even when he held her on Sunday, he’d not touched her skin.

The only people in recent memory who had touched her skin were those she had to scour off of herself afterwards.

“Rose,” he said, hesitating. She snapped her attention to the sound of his voice, though a large portion of it couldn’t be drawn away from the feeling of his large, warm, rough hands around hers. “I need to clarify some things with you before I go and say something else foolish. You can just nod or shake your head though, if that’s easier, ok?”

He waited until she nodded mutely.

“It doesn’t… it doesn’t bother you? Our age difference?”

Rose’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. It had never bothered her. It had always been just his issue. In fact, she found it rather appealing. Unlike the blokes she’d dated in the past— the whole two of them— he had a real career that he cared deeply about, and at least some emotional intelligence. Not to mention it being just dead sexy, which she had tried so hard not to think about since their relationship shifted to platonic but had ultimately failed, of course.

She shook her head slowly and clearly.

“I don’t… scare you?”

She cocked her head, confused once again. Of course he did! He terrified the hell out of her, because he held the power to crush her heart beneath his boots and had already done so once before. But Donna scared her too, and Jack, and the others. Giving your heart to anyone was petrifying. And he’d already ripped her heart from her and stomped all over it once— of course she was terrified that he’d do so again.

“I mean, knowin’ that I have anger issues, and PTSD,” he clarified haltingly. “That I could lash out— have lashed out— and hurt you? And that potentially it could be… physically.”

Ahh. Like Jack said.

Well, that would be hypocritical, Rose wanted to laugh sardonically. She’d never cared about that either, or at least, had never considered it an issue. If anything, she felt like it made her understand him more, and vice versa. Of course it hurt, but it wasn’t as if she didn’t understand. It wasn’t as if it was out of cruelty, or that he couldn’t work on it, the same as her. Even that night in Donna’s car, the angriest she’d ever seen him act towards her, he’d never raised his voice or even gesticulated too widely with his hands. He’d hurt her, deeply, but she’d never been afraid that he would hurt her.

And if he did, it wouldn’t be his fault; it wouldn’t be his choice to cause her harm.

Again, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry for asking this, but I need to be sure, you weren’t just sayin’ you wanted to shag? Just tonight?”

Rose’s head shot up, meeting his eyes in surprise. His expression was apologetic, but his eyes were fearful, sad, and hopeful? Was she imagining that? She shook her head fiercely, and his shoulders released some tension.

“Alright. Now, let me finish what I was sayin’ alright?”

She nodded once more, and he took a deep breath. A second.

“You deserve better than me, Rose, but—” he held up a hand to stop the objection that rose to her lips again and she pressed them together tightly. “But I’ve been trying, and I’m… well hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, but Grace— my therapist— she told me… oh bollocks,” he swore, tripping over his words.

“He has a therapist?” Rose thought, surprised. “Since when?”

“Rose Tyler, if you somehow, by some miracle will still let me, I’ve been doing my damnedest to be better for you.” Her heart stilled, frozen in anticipation. “If nothin’ I say is going to change your mind, about how old, and daft, and grumpy I am, about how you could absolutely do so much better, then I gotta tell you—”

A soft grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he cupped her cheeks with both his hands, forcing her head still and lifting her to meet his eyes, which were watery.

“I’d do anything for you, Rose. Bloody besotted with you, me. I know we can’t pick up where we left off, but if you’d let me, I’d like to try again. I’m ready to try again— I’ve been trying so hard to work up the courage to ask you, but you’re two steps ahead of me, like usual. Caught me off guard you did— and I’ve never been good at acceptin’ compliments— but blimey, you’ve always been the brave one. You’ve always been so brave, Rose, you utterly astound me. Every time you force me to face my fears, every time you refuse to back down or let me hide, I’m in awe of you.”

Rose reached up tentatively, fingers brushing his wrists as he held her face, and trailing down, disbelieving.

She usually woke up by now. She almost always woke up right before he said he was sorry, that he cared for her, that he loved her. He would fade away to nothing and she would be left searching blindly, or he would walk away after crushing her heart beneath his boot, or he would whisper such sweet things, and she would wake and be heartbroken when it wasn’t real.

She reached the bend of his elbow with her seeking fingers, his skin exposed and warm without his armor between them. Her palms tingled from the contact, as did her cheeks under his hands, and her wrists had earlier.

She pinched him.

“Ow! What the bloody hell was that for?” He complained, jerking back and grabbing his arm.

Real. Real, real, real. Her heart began beating again in her chest, thunderously. “I had to check if I was dreaming,” she responded, breathless.

His mouth opened and shut a few times, shocked. “You— you’re supposed to pinch yourself for that!”

“Oh, really? My mistake.”

“So, what the hell does pinchin’ me prove?”

“For one, that you’re a humongous baby,” she started, gathering her thoughts. “But for two,” Rose’s voice dropped, and she hung her head.

His warm, strong hands were back, holding her face immediately, but she couldn’t lift her eyes to meet his.

“You didn’t run away this time. You always run away in my dreams. Or disappear,” she whispered, letting the truth and heartbreak of it reflect in her tone.

Her arms came back up around herself and tears stung her eyes again.

Real did not mean that the hurt was gone.

The Doctor didn’t say anything, but he stood and ushered her to scoot back and get settled into the bed where he had drawn back the covers for her. A dark blush stained her cheeks and made her face hot, but she complied easily, settling back on the pillows and letting him draw the covers up around her. She watched with wide eyes as he grabbed his cotton sleep trousers and stepped into the bathroom. Her ears strained to listen as he changed and quickly brushed his teeth, and her mind felt like it should be racing but kept coming up blank, save for a cloud of anxiety that permeated everything.

She managed to not panic further when he walked from the bathroom back to the living room and turned out the light, and her eyes adjusted to the dim lamp by his bedside in a couple of blinks. By the time her sight returned, he was already back in the bedroom doorway, pulling the door mostly shut behind him. The closed door made the room seem smaller, and it grew smaller still with every long stride he took back to the bed. Reaching the other side, he pulled the covers down and slid himself in the empty space.

“Get the lamp?” He asked, voice pitched low.

With her breath caught in her throat, she flicked the switch. The room was only illuminated by moonlight and streetlamps as she turned to lay on her side, facing him. It was easier to face him in the semi-dark, and she wondered if he’d done that on purpose for her, or for him.

The Doctor was already laying on his side, facing her, when she rolled over. He reached out and grabbed both of her hands, bringing them into the space between their bodies. Heavy silence hung over them for a long moment, but Rose couldn’t take her eyes off of his outlined form.

“Not too good at words, me,” he whispered into the silence. “Or people in general. Can’t imagine what you’d want to do with a daft sod like me. Actually, been tryin’ to figure that one out for months, to be honest. Since the very beginning.”

Her natural instinct to interject—to push back against his self-deprecation— surged, but she pushed it down. She sensed he was on the verge of saying something important.

“But— fuck, I’m a lucky bastard that you do want anything to do with me. Especially after I’ve been such a moron, wasting all this time.”

“I thought you—” Rose whispered.

She took a deep breath and met his eyes, letting her insecurity and vulnerability show. She didn’t know if he could see it in the semi-dark, but if they were dropping all pretenses, she had to know for certain, why he’d abandoned her all those months ago. She had to know why he was saying all of this now.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore because you found out who I really was. What I really am,” she half-admitted, half-accused.

“What is it that you think you really are, Rose?” He asked softly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear gently.

“Just an uneducated, stupid, chav,” she said bitterly, “Who made a series of bad mistakes, who has nothing to offer you, no future, and would never be good enough for you.” Anger rose up in her again as the words tumbled out. “But if you’re only sayin’ all this now— after everything I’ve done for myself the past few months— I don’t want it. I did those things for me,” she rasped against the clinching pain in her throat at holding back her tears. “So, I could be real.”

“Rose,” he breathed, devastation heavy in his voice. “Precious girl, no. Fuck, I can’t believe— I made you feel that way?”

Rose rubbed at her eyes and sobbed. “No, that’s the thing. You never did. I just couldn’t figure out what changed. Why all of a sudden you didn’t seem interested in me, romantically, after you found out. You’re still so kind, and you never talk down to me even though you could, and you… you still act like I’m not just my mistakes, even though they make up so much of my life that I barely feel human. But you kept running away, and you stopped touching me, like I disgusted you— I can’t understand it and it’s been killing me!”

The dam around her heart burst free once more, and she cried out the one question that had truly haunted her for months: “Why was I not good enough for you?”

Tears blurred her vision, and she began to cry in earnest, months of repressed emotion bubbling to the surface. Even with the tears she’d shed on Sunday into his chest, she had a seemingly endless supply as months of pain tore through her. The pain of him pushing her away, the pain of feeling unwanted and unworthy, of wondering why she was good enough for companionship, to be his shoulder to cry on and plus one, but not good enough to love.

She’d done angry. She’d ranted and raved and screamed that if he thought she wasn’t good enough for him, then he wasn’t good enough for her. She’d swung back and forth between hating him so much it made her see red and pretending it didn’t bother her at all. She’d been angry about it for months— and still was— but had she ever really let herself feel the pain? The insecurity, and the vulnerability of it all? Or had she resolutely pushed it down, told herself that’s just the way it was, and tried to be strong? Strong had gotten her through, but she was so tired.

She had to be strong every minute, for everything; to keep her memories of Jimmy, or her impoverished childhood at bay; to keep going under the weight of Saxon’s tyranny; to keep herself from falling to pieces from not being a real person, from not feeling worth anything— let alone love.

She sobbed into his shoulder as he pulled her close, spilling her angry and devastated wails into his t-shirt.

Finally, her tears ran out and faded to hiccups and he rubbed her back soothingly through it all, murmuring into her hair words she couldn’t make out but was comforted by, nevertheless. She pulled back with reluctance, not as far as she had been before he’d pulled her to his chest, but far enough that they could see each other’s faces.

He reached up and cupped her face in both his hands, forcing her once again to meet his eyes and holding her still. It was the most solid touch she’d ever felt, more real to her than anything had ever been. Her skin hungered for his— for any touch, really, but his specifically, with his warm, wide hands, and deliberate, gentle movements. His hands were those of a healer— a doctor, and a mechanic— gentler than she’d ever known, even with their size and strength and coarseness.

“You listen to me, Rose Tyler,” he said firm, but tender, “It’s always been you that’s too good for me. When Donna told me everything you’ve been through with Saxon, I decided that I couldn’t add to your burden with my own, that I couldn’t hold you back. I was angry at first you didn’t tell me, but fuck, not as much as I was just confused. But I was too scared to come back to you because once you get your freedom, Rose… precious girl you’re gonna fly so far away from here, and you’ll never come back. You’re already doing it, and I—” he broke off, devastation intermingling with pride in his voice.

This whole time, he’d been afraid she would leave him behind? That didn’t even compute with her. She couldn’t imagine a single lifetime where she would willingly leave him behind, even if she did leave London. If he stayed, she’d always have a reason to come back. But all their adventures over the past few months had made her love London again. It wasn’t the city she was trapped in anymore; it was the city where she’d fallen in love with him, and they’d walked down the streets arm in arm, and flew across the pavement with breathless excitement, and sought out adventure and learning and humanity.

“I can’t be the one that pulls you back down. But I’m still so fuckin’ selfish I couldn’t let you go fully. And, love, I will admit that it shocked me to learn about our age difference and I’ve struggled with that since you told me. But only because so many people have tried to control you, I couldn’t stand if it even looked like I was doing the same.”

She supposed that made sense. He had seemed to let it go after the first time it came up, before he’d learned about any of the abuse or extortion.

“But more than anything, I’ve been so afraid of hurting you. Of really hurting you. I’ve always had a hot temper, but ever since I was discharged— and with your past— it kept coming up and boilin’ over and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand it if I hurt you, even on accident. I told myself to let you go entirely and not risk it, but I was too much of a coward to do that too. I swear to you, Rose, I’ve been doing everything I could to make sure that never happens. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know if I would ever get to the point I felt you would be safe around me. But just bein’ around you heals me, and maybe it’s selfish to ask you to— your energy shouldn’t go towards that, but I’ve been trying, love. I’m sorry, Rose. I’ll do anything to make it up to you, precious girl, anything.”

If she hadn’t just cried herself dry, she would’ve burst into tears again. His face was so earnest and open, his eyes filled with guilt but also care. She could see the way they shone even in the dim light of the room, and she’d never loved him more. Her tongue was thick in her mouth from the crying and from emotion, and so unable to respond verbally, she did the only thing she could.

Rose pressed herself forward and kissed the Doctor with everything she had.

Chapter Text

He responded immediately, sliding one of his hands that held her face down to cradle the back of her head and hold her against him, the other sliding down her body to grab her bare thigh and haul it towards him. He pulled her to himself easily, her thigh coming up to sling over his hip while his hand clutched it firmly, digging into her flesh the way she’d fantasized about for months.

The slight, delicious, bruising pain was so real. She begged that she wasn’t about to wake up, and his hand flexed and tightened and hurt so good, and she was so awake her lungs burned.

He met her kiss with blinding passion, provoking a moan from her that he took advantage of to shove his tongue into her willing mouth, capturing control of the kiss and of her. She melted into his hold, grasping the front of his shirt with both hands for a moment before snaking one hand up to scratch at the base of his skull. A pleased growl rumbled through him, and she swallowed the sound as he devoured her mouth, seemingly trying to push all their months of longing into his lips to be felt by her.

She was panting breathlessly into his mouth when he pulled back. His eyes were no less intense than his kiss as he raked them over her body, lust drooping his eyelids. He took in her heaving chest with an arrogant smirk sliding into place on his lips. Oh, she’d admired that smug look a dozen times before, his well-earned confidence and skill always getting a rise out of her, but the expression in conjunction with his lust heavy eyes was enough to make her beg. If she had the air in her lungs for speech.

“I have to stop now, precious girl,” he growled. “I won’t be able to if we do much more.”

“Who’s asking you to?” Rose replied breathlessly. “Stopping sounds like a fucking horrible idea, actually.”

He chuckled, dark and low in his throat, and her eyes fluttered shut at the sound as her hips jerked forward against her will. He stretched back over, rolling on top of her and pressing her down into the mattress, nuzzling his face into her neck first, then taking her earlobe in his mouth and sucking on it. A moan escaped her, and her hips bucked again, this time colliding with his stomach. He pressed forward and pushed her down more firmly and suddenly her bucking hips were actually achieving friction against her soaking wet core. She could feel the cotton of her pants clinging to her wetness, and he could probably feel it through his shirt too.

He scraped his teeth lightly across her earlobe before pulling back.

“No one,” he said, confusing her lust addled brain for a moment while it recalibrated to recall what she had asked him. “But I’d personally rather our first time be on a night with less sad emotions, and also when I don’t have to be gone so early in the morning. I have plans for you, Rose Tyler.”

Fair points he made, unfortunately. Damn him for being so coherent!

Still, she nodded her assent, and he rolled off of her. Both of them fell into silence as they tried to slow their breathing and heart rates. She turned back over to face him once she caught her breath and found him once again already on his side facing her. She cleared her throat and summoned her courage once more.

She found it easier this time, with him looking at her with emotion in his eyes and nodding in encouragement.

“Doctor,” she breathed. “James, from the moment you took my hand, I knew you. I looked into your eyes and something in me just knew. A voice within me— my soul, maybe— just whispered, ‘There he is,’ like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. Longer, maybe. You make me feel safe— and not in a ‘safety in familiarity’ kind of way, but in a protective, steady, I know someone has my back kind of way. I’ve never been afraid of you in that way.”

One of his hands released hers and reached out, cupping her cheek once more. She nuzzled into his warm, dry palm at once. It still set her nerve endings alight, but the tingling was less pinprick painful and more like a pleasant buzzing coming from underneath her skin.

“Every day you amaze me,” he vowed. “Your strength, and your resolve. Everything you’ve gone through; you have every right to be jaded and bitter— I am. I let everything I went through make me hollow. But not you, Rose Tyler. You’ve never given up; you found a way to push back at every turn and face the world with such compassion it blows me away. I was scared at first, of that compassion,” he whispered that last confession. “I thought maybe you were just taking pity on me, a broken old soldier—”

“Stop sayin’ that!” Rose interrupted firmly. “You aren’t. You think you’re so jaded and bitter, and so broken and angry, but I see you, Doctor! I see how you help people every chance you get. Do you know how many times you’ve stopped while we’re walkin’ to help someone? You’re constantly helpin’ an old lady after she dropped her groceries or tossing a ball back to kids.”

Her voice picked up in speed as she sensed him almost shutting down under the weight of her words. She reached up on impulse and cupped his cheek, mirroring the hold he had on her and gently guiding his gaze down to hers.

“I’ve seen you take spiders outside and play peekaboo with babies at Tesco. I’ve sat in your classes and seen the way your eyes light up when you get going, how you stay over to answer every question. You might be grumpy and have a short tolerance for some things, but you are good. You are kind. So what if you aren’t very nice?”

The Doctor surged forward and crushed her to his chest. He tucked her head under his chin, wrapped one arm around her back, and tangled the hand of his other in her hair, holding her close and still. His body shook, and she felt wet drop into her hair. She tucked herself more firmly against his chest, clinging to his shirt.

His turn to cry, and she would be here for him as he had done for her.

“If I am good, precious girl, then you are real,” he vowed in a ragged whisper. “The most real thing I’ve ever known. Maybe the only real thing.”

“Are you going to push me away again?” Rose whispered into his chest after a long while, after his body stopped shaking and relaxed his grip on her. He never relinquished his hold, however.

“Never,” he promised, pressing a searing kiss to her forehead. “You’ll never get rid of me now.” He repeated her words from months earlier, the first time he’d brought her home and she laughed.

“Who said I wanted to?” she teased. “You’re stuck with me now too, you are. I never got my full universal tour. Besides, could be a lot worse than bein’ stuck with my best mate. Who also happens to be dead sexy.”

He scoffed. “I’m not arguing with you but let the record show that I believe that to be patently ridiculous.”

“Good thing it’s not you that needs to find you attractive on my behalf then, isn’t it?”

“Cheeky,” he murmured affectionately, nuzzling into her hair. “I suppose I can tell you that you’ve been driving me barmy for months now. You’re the most damnably gorgeous being I’ve ever seen, Rose Tyler, and that’s before you do that sexy little thing with your tongue.”

Rose was excessively grateful for the dark, and for her face being tucked into his chest. Heat suffused her entire body, pooling low in her stomach. She shifted uncomfortably and flushed harder at the dark chuckle that rose from his chest.

“Oh, I cannot wait to explore that. I fucking knew you’d have such a delicious little praise kink,” he said in a purr, stoking his hand around her waist and down her back, causing her to shiver. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about the notebook either.”

“You brought a notebook?”

“You told me to.”

“Do you always do as you’re told?”

The implications behind his question had haunted her for months. The closer they’d gotten and the more time they spent together, even with him refusing to cross that line, the surer she was that he was the type that wanted to control every second of intimacy. Not only control but dictate entirely. He was already a man who was used to being obeyed, in the army, in the hospital, and eventually in his classroom, and Rose knew he would be no different in the bedroom.

And though it contradicted every complaint she had about not being in charge of her own life; she wanted that so badly it made her tremble. Wanted him in control of her, wanted the space to push back against that control, wanted the safety and security, and consistency she knew could come from submission. She wanted it so damn bad it ached.

“Or,” he growled, lower and darker, “What you said about River.”

She could barely do more than squeak an affirmative. In that moment, she could barely remember what she’d said about his ex, except for knowing she’d only really said it to rile him up. And that everything she had said, she’d chosen carefully to imply that it could be about either her, or the Doctor himself. And that she’d absolutely intended it to be a reference to his dominant personality and how badly she’d still wanted it. For all she cared, he could’ve had his way with her months ago, but if he wanted to wait that was fine. She’d already waited this long. She was used to being perpetually horny out of her mind around him, though being in his arms and hearing him whisper his desires directly in her ears was presenting a bit of a challenge.

But she was exhausted. She had been exhausted before the roller coaster of emotion, and he knew it. She’d had three days in a row of hours of repeated, excessive exercise at rehearsals as they practiced the songs, dances, and full performances over and over again. And she’d been a wreck all week following the incident on Sunday. Tonight, after the two movies they’d watched, she’d been utterly knackered, and that was before a panic attack and the emotional whiplash. And his arms around her were so warm, so protective. Rose was fighting to stay awake, but unconsciousness was barely held at bay by their conversation.

As always, the Doctor had an uncanny ability to read her mind. She’d really have to figure out how he did that someday. On the next upward stroke of his hand against her back, he slipped his hand up under her borrowed jumper and continued his path uninterrupted. The warmth of his palm against the bare skin of her back seared all the way into her frozen soul, and she was melting into the mattress, teetering on the edge of wakefulness and sleep. She wanted to stay awake, just to savor the feeling in case it was all just a dream, but she was already losing the battle. Exhaustion, warmth, and an all-encompassing safety from being in his arms won out easily, despite her best efforts.

“Sleep, my precious girl,” he whispered into her hair, stroking her back slowly now, lulling her to drift off. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Never again. I’ll never let you go again.”

Rose was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Rose was stirred into consciousness by an unfamiliar alarm, the sound much more jarring than her typical one. The noise tugged at her mind, and she fought tooth and nail to hold onto her unconscious state, but the obnoxious blare continued. She groaned, low and long in complaint.

She didn’t want to get up! She was so comfortable and warm. Her flat was never warm, with its ridiculously high ceilings and big industrial windows and one stupidly large room that let out the heat no matter how high she set it. Her bed currently, however, was absolute bliss. She snuggled deeper into her pillow in frustration, willing the sound to stop. Her pillow laughed and shifted beneath her head, and the sound was blessedly silenced. She sighed contentedly, clutching it tighter, and it laughed again.

Rose stiffened, ceasing the way she had been nuzzling and snuggling deeper into it. Her breathing stopped, but the rhythmic movement of her body did not.

Her pillow was breathing and carrying her with its motions.

Her pillow, that she was curled around with three of her four limbs and laying nearly completely on top of, and was not, in fact, a pillow.

The person laying beneath her shifted, raising up an arm that came around her back and slipped under the jumper she was tangled up in, rubbing her back soothingly. She let out a shaky breath and turned her head slowly to face the head of person that laid underneath her.

The Doctor’s amused face greeted her with a smile. Memories of the previous night flooded into her all at once, waking her slow brain more fully, and she sagged in relief, burrowing her face into his chest. Real. It had been real.

“There she is,” he laughed softly. “Blimey, took you long enough, precious girl.”

Rose groaned in embarrassment even as heat filled her at his endearment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well— if she’d ever slept so well— but sleep that deep left her struggling to wake, and groggy.

He laughed again, seemingly holding it back to keep from jostling her too much. Her embarrassment grew when she once again realized how tightly she was wrapped around him: one arm slung across his abdomen and clutching him tight— up under his cotton sleep shirt so she was touching his skin— while laying half on top of his torso with her head over his heart. One of her legs was crooked up at the hip and slung across his hips and her other leg curled under his propped up knee, effectively straddling one of his legs between hers.

The way his knee was propped up shoved his leg firmly between her thighs as she was wrapped around him and kept her from sliding off of him, accidentally or otherwise. His strong arms curled around her waist and back held her in place further, much to her delight. The firm press of his leg against the junction of her thighs was enough to send her reeling again.

His damn ability to read her mind manifested itself and he pulled his knee up further, pressing the warm, hard muscle of his thigh more firmly against her and dragging a quiet whimper from her throat.

“Doctor,” she begged.

He kissed the top of her head and began to withdraw, starting with retreating his leg from between hers. She whined pitifully and tightened her hold around his waist.

“I have to get ready for work, love,” he murmured.

“You’re sick,” she grumbled. She faked two coughs into his chest, making him chuckle. “See? Sick.”

“That was you, and that was unconvincing.”

“I’m a singer, not an actor,” Rose complained. “Bet I could still be convincing though.”

He hummed in agreement, finally extracting his lower body from her grip on him with no help from her. “I have no doubt,” he agreed in a strained voice. “But you are still mostly asleep.”

“I’m only like. Sixty percent asleep.”

“That would still be mostly asleep, precious girl. Come on, let me up and I’ll make you a cuppa.”

Rose tightened her hold fractionally for only a second before releasing him. He slid out from underneath her with a groan of his own, and she pouted, falling down into the spot his body vacated to steal his body heat. Her legs were fully bare, his jumper barely covered the curve of her bum, and the blankets were shoved down by her feet where they unconsciously had kicked them in the middle of the night in favor of warming each other. She felt herself growing cool but was too content to move and find the blankets.

Rose heard the kettle heating in the kitchen and heard the Doctor reenter the room and open the closet door with a sigh. He’d forgotten once more that he’d hadn’t done his laundry. Rose giggled and peeked at him.

“Too bad this one is miiiine,” she sang at him, snuggling deeper into the bed.

He turned to her with an amused expression, affection blatant on his features as he gazed at her. She blushed under the open emotion on his face, but didn’t retreat, openly basking in the warmth it brought her.

“What can I do to convince you to hand it over?”

“Don’t need it if you don’t go,” she countered.

“Valid argument. Counter point,” he strode over to her and knelt, brushing her hair back and tilting her head up. He captured her lips in a passionate snog, holding her by the chin. By the time he pulled away, she was breathless, and her head was spinning.

“I guess you can have the jumper,” she said, dazed.

The Doctor smirked, rising back to his feet and walking away, snagging a dark blue jumper off the rim of his laundry basket. “Never mind,” he called over his shoulder. “This one is fine. I only wore it once.”

The kettle clicked off as he entered the bathroom to change and complete his morning routine, and the soothing sounds of domesticity almost lulled Rose back to sleep, even with the low arousal burning in her veins after the soul-searing kiss he’d gifted her with. Her awareness faded in and out as he finished getting ready for work until before she knew it, his warm hand was on her back again rousing her.

She lifted her head up to face him, blowing strands of sleep messy hair out of her face. His smile was soft and open again as he looked down at her, and he brushed her hair back tenderly.

“Sleep as long as you like, precious. I’ll put your cuppa on this mug warmer and it’ll be here when you’re ready.” She hummed in appreciation sleepily. “I know you’ve got some kind of work today,” he said, “But once you’re done feel free to come back if you want to. You don’t sleep enough. But I’m taking you out tonight, so you might want to grab clothes.”

“You are?” She mumbled happily. “But it’s Friday.”

“Yup. I think Donna will forgive me for takin’ my girl on our first date.”

“Nooo, we had our first date,” she told him. He might feel like they were starting over, but she refused to let him continue acting like Before didn’t exist. “The end of the world, m’ember?”

“That rubbish student protest we met at?”

“Yeah,” she breathed fondly. “We had ice cream n’ fed the ducks.”

He laughed and leaned down and kissed her lightly. “You are utterly adorable when you’re sleepy,” he declared. “I have to go now though, precious girl. I’ll see you tonight. If you aren’t here when I get home, I’ll swing by in TARDIS and pick you up at seven.”

Rose collapsed back down into the bed happily, watching his eyes dart over to her barely covered bum. She made a show of adjusting and getting comfortable, grinning with her tongue between her teeth at the deep breath he sucked in through his mouth and the way his eyes darkened. His gaze shot back up to her face to chide her for teasing him and caught sight of her grin, doing ‘that thing’ with her tongue he had mentioned last night, and his eyes darkened further.

“Five,” he grunted. “I’ll pick you up at five. No one ever comes to my office hours anyway.”

“M’kay, Doctor,” she hummed. She let her eyes fall closed as she turned her attention back towards sleep. Her body had already been protesting wakefulness heavily, and she felt herself drifting back off quickly. “Have a good day. Love you.”

The Doctor bent and kissed her on the head, pulling the blanket up over her hips.

Warm. So warm.

“I love you too, precious girl. Sleep.”

His heavy footsteps faded, and the door announced his departure. Rose drifted blissfully; almost fully back asleep when she shot up in panic.

She’d just told him she loved him.

More important than that— he’d said it back.

She leapt out of bed, dashed across the flat, and yanked the door open, prepared to chase him down the stairs if he didn’t answer when she called to him. But just as she burst through the door, she slammed face first into a leather covered chest.

Arms wrapped around her protectively to keep her from falling and wide blue eyes caught hers as he stared down.

“Did you mean it?” He whispered in a breathless voice.

“Yeah,” Rose admitted shyly. “Did you?”

“Absolutely.”

They grinned at each other in tandem.

“Fantastic,” the Doctor murmured, kissing her once more.

She threw her arms around his neck and went up on her tiptoes, and his protective arms around her waist tightened and held her there. He kissed her deeply, one of his hands once more making its way back to her jaw, until they hear the sound of a throat clearing next to them. They broke apart and turned to see an old woman staring at them with a knowing and fond, but exasperated look on her face.

Rose flushed deeply as she realized she was standing in the hallway in nothing but the Doctor’s jumper, which while it covered more than some of the things she wore as Bad Wolf, was still fully revealing almost the entire length of her legs. Wearing nothing but his jumper in the hallway while he snogged her senseless was also quite the message to send to his unwitting neighbors.

Seemly realizing the same thing, the Doctor picked her up by her waist and deposited her back inside his flat in a quick rush of movement that had her face warming for an entirely different reason.

He slammed the door behind them with a kick and set her down, dropping his satchel to the ground in a heap, only to then bend and grab the backs of her thighs and lift her again, encouraging her to jump up and wrap her legs around his waist. He stumbled across the flat, his normally surefooted movements made unsteady by the passionate kisses Rose was pressing into every inch of his face and neck she could reach while clinging to his shoulders.

The bare backs of her thighs and bum met the cold marble kitchen counter and she hissed in surprise, nipping his throat in retaliation as he laughed. The sound turned into a groan and now divested of her weight, his hands slid upward from her thighs to cup her bum, squeeze her hips, and trail up under the jumper to ghost across her ribs. Their mouths found each other again as his thumbs brushed across the underside of her breasts and she tightened her legs around him further, bringing his denim covered bulge in contact with the wet, hot apex of her thighs. They moaned in tandem, swallowing the sound the other made with their mouths.

The Doctor trailed his kisses down her jaw, down her throat, to the join of her shoulder and neck that was exposed by the wide collar of his jumper. Rose was breathing heavily, scraping her nails across the back of his neck and pulling him down to press him deeper into the junction.

“So, I guess you aren’t going to work,” she teased, breathy and punctuated with a short whine as he bit the spot he had been kissing and then laved it with his tongue.

“Fuck,” he growled.

Rose cursed internally. Why did she have to remind him?

He drew back slightly, and she relaxed her legs around him reluctantly. He met her eyes with a conflicted expression. His eyes were full of feral need and desire, but his lips were twisted in a grimace. The sight made her sigh but also made her full of fondness for him.

“Go on,” she encouraged. “You’ve got more people waiting on you there than here.”

His eyes flashed with heat again, his hands sliding back down to her hips and jerking her forward another inch as she gasped.

“None of them are you,” he said, his voice low and dark. “And you’ve been waiting too long for me to come to my damn senses.” The conflicted expression returned. “But they do have exams coming up,” he said guiltily.

The fondness in her heart blossomed, adoration for him suffusing every inch of her being. He was so good, and he cared so much. Despite his complaints about students, and other people in his department, and general hatred of the academic institution, he loved his job, and teaching, and he was fantastic at it. Rose loved that about him as much as anything else she loved about him, and it inspired her. She only hoped she’d find something someday— after she got her life back on track and under her control— that she loved doing half as much.

“This early in the morning?” She teased. “What a professor you are.”

He laughed, finally stepping out of the cradle of her thighs, though they both frowned as he did so. Rose scooted back on the counter to keep from falling without him holding her up and watched as he straightened his rumbled clothes as best he could with a deep sense of pride. She noted that his stiff denims did nothing to hide the way he was still straining against them and preened. Thank god he had a car and didn’t have to take the Tube or a bus.

“One,” he interrupted her thoughts with his stern ‘professor’ voice— which did absolutely nothing to keep her thoughts on track. “Every class has to take exams, no matter what time they meet at, so unfortunately it’s unavoidable. And two, it’s not exactly early, love. I normally leave a lot earlier to get some work done in my office, but someone is a clingy little octopus and frighteningly strong in her sleep.”

She grinned, unrepentant.

“It’s near half ten,” he continued, “And the class starts at eleven.”

Rose’s stomach dropped. All lustful thoughts abandoned her mind as stone cold fear filled her, like a bucket of water doused over her head.

“It’s when?” She leapt from the counter and raced towards the bedroom, digging in her abandoned pile of clothes on his dresser for her phone.

Seven missed calls from Saxon, four from his assistant, and thirteen text messages between the two. It rang in her hand once more, Saxon’s name lighting up the screen, and she dropped it in horror.

“Rose?” The Doctor’s voice called. “Is everything alright?”

The instinctual response to hide flared up and before she could think, her mouth answered for her in a voice that sounded far away. Her body carried her out of the bedroom and back to him on autopilot.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just surprised is all! I don’t normally sleep this late.”

She’d said just a bit ago she wasn’t an actor, but she knew that had been a lie. She’d been acting for years. The entirety of Bad Wolf was an act. She acted like Saxon didn’t scare her to his face, acted like he didn’t hurt her to everyone else’s, acted like everything was fine to the entire world. It was self-preservation, the performance, as much about keeping herself together as keeping her pain from infecting others.

It was the performance of her life now, passing off the scripted response to the Doctor.

For a moment, she thought he’d seen through her. His unnerving ability to read her mind was one of the things that made her fall in love with him but now it filled her with dread. A beat passed where she felt her entire world stop turning, everything was frozen as she waited for the shoe to drop.

He smiled softly and took a step toward her, wrapping an arm around her waist lovingly and kissing her forehead. “You don’t sleep enough, Rose,” he complained again. “If you’re still tired, I meant it earlier— stay as long as you want and rest.”

The Doctor gave her hip a squeeze and stepped away towards the door. He picked up his satchel and shot her an apologetic grin.

“I really have got to go now, but remember, I’ll see you at five!”

He didn’t even notice when she didn’t respond, “Not if I see you first.”

Chapter Text

The Doctor strode into his class five minutes late, whistling merrily, without a single care in the world. He’d never been less than fifteen minutes early to one of his classes— or most any place— and had quite a reputation for it, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to care one lick.

Rose Tyler loved him. She wasn’t just willing to wait; she loved him. There wasn’t a happier man in the entire damn universe, he was certain of it.

Striding down the steps of the lecture hall— the same one Rose had come and visited him at, weeks and months ago— he saw the looks his students were giving him and it made him even more elated: Shock, disbelief, incredulity, and amusement. These were his graduate students (and Bill), most of whom had had him for several classes at this point, none of whom he’d ever seen so surprised. It was delightful.

And so they keep on twiddlin’ their thumbs… he whistled cheerfully.

Reaching his podium, he swung his satchel up and retrieved his ancient laptop, and continuing his hot streak of bloody fantastic luck, it plugged in and connected immediately. It almost made up for him being late, if he was actually worried about that.

He switched from whistling to humming unconsciously as he tapped his foot, waiting on his presentation to load. Not impatiently, just full of energy. It was all he could do to keep from dancing, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d danced.

Rose Tyler loved him.

“Uhh, professor?”

His head shot up, still grinning widely. “Yeah, Bill?”

“Are you singin’ Bad Wolf?” She asked with amused disbelief.

“I knew I recognized that song!” Clara shouted, slapping Nardole on the shoulder excitedly. He gaped at her, offended, and rubbed at the spot.

“Bad Wolf?” Adam scoffed. “S’ a bit low brow, isn’t she? Not exactly a lyricist, and she doesn’t even play any instruments herself. S’ all club and party music, not real art.”

Not even Adam Mitchell, his least favorite student that he’d had in his entire teaching career thus far, could bring down the Doctor’s mood today. Fuck, but he was a prat though. Convinced he was the next Brian May he was, being a physicist and a musician, and always going on about his newest band, or trying to convince them of whatever celebrities he’d met. Idiot couldn’t seem to last more than a few months in one though and came in at least once a month pissed beyond reason and ranting about his recent band breakup. He was also convinced he was a bloody genius and couldn’t stand the fact that the Doctor and his other students didn’t worship the ground he walked on. Dr. Smith even disliked him, the one thing the Doctor agreed with that idiot on too.

“Oh, shove off,” the Doctor said gleefully. “Bad Wolf is fantastic.”

This prompted several more amused and surprised looks, and a glower from Adam which the Doctor happily ignored.

“Do you listen to pop music often, professor?” Ace teased, twirling her pencil in a suspicious way.

Of course, everything Ace did was suspicious. The girl was double majoring in physics and chemistry, and explosions just seemed to happen around her. She smelled constantly of smoke and always had her cricket bat strapped to her backpack, which the Doctor thought she did both just to make people nervous. It worked, and he adored her, as he did most of the students in this class in particular.

“Her I do,” the Doctor said, concealing the truth and amusing himself with his inside joke. “I’m tellin’ you, she’s brilliant. The songs she writes anyway.”

“You know her shit that well?” Bill whistled, impressed.

“Well, there’s only two— Thumbs, and Not Another Rockstar,” Clara chimed in. “The rest of her discography are all credited to label purchase from various big name song writers.” As usual, Clara spoke endearingly as if she was reading straight from the Wiki page.

“Only two? How long’s she been in the industry— ten years? That’s pathetic,” Adam scoffed.

Most everyone ignored him, except Ace who locked eyes with him and twirled her pencil backwards, making him look nervous. The Doctor laughed at her display and her ferocity. She and Rose would get along like a house on fire. A house would likely be set on fire. Best to keep them apart, actually. A man on a professor’s salary could only afford so many tomatoes, and so much bail. The idea of Rose lobbing fruits at Ace to hit at skinheads with her cricket bat made his blood pressure rise. The image expanded to include Bill passing Rose the fruits to throw while Nardole kept score, and Clara cheered.

“Thought you were some kind of popstar yourself there, Mitchum,” the Doctor quipped, intentionally calling him by the same name Rose also called Malcom, another inside joke with himself that had him grinning manically. “Or do you not know how contracts and label imaging works?”

Adam turned red and slunk down in his seat further, muttering, “Rock music, I play rock music.”

“Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with her other songs either,” the Doctor defended, “Just ‘cos they aren’t lyrically complex. They’re popular for a reason. All I’m sayin’ is that the ones she writes are clever.”

He echoed her words from several months ago, the first time he took her to his flat. The first time her delicate little hand had brushed against his mezuzah, and curled around the thistle patterned mug that was only hers now. When she looked so at home amongst his things he’d damn near burst with draconic, possessive pleasure.

Which reminded him that she was in his bed right now, asleep, nestled in his blankets and pillows. He was nearly purring internally with delight in the knowledge.

“Did kind of figure you’d be more of a jazz or swing kind of guy though, professor,” Clara said, smiling warmly. “You’ve got such an old fashioned aura.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” he replied dryly, pulling himself away from his possessive thoughts. “I’m so glad my students think I’m elderly.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she rolled her eyes, still smiling.

He winked at her to let her know that, yes, he did. Clara was an old soul herself, and he thought she might also get along well with Rose. He might have to insist she come visit this class sometime actually. She already knew Bill, from the café, and she’d find Nardole’s oddities amusing as well. He didn’t like the idea of her being around Adam, but he did like the idea of her tearing Adam a new one. His ferocious girl.

She’d torn him a new one over the music thing, and he’d loved every fucking second of it, had kept pushing her far past when he knew he’d lost, because the fire in her eyes was just addicting— though he’d relented the moment he saw genuine upset dance across her features.

“Usually, I am. That’s actually my exact style of music for the most part,” he admitted.

“So why Bad Wolf then?” Nardole asked, chiming in for the first time.

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, wondering how he’d let the conversation get so out of hand. He had a lecture to give, but he found that he simply didn’t want to, even though as he’d told Rose, they had an exam coming up. He was having fun engaging with his students, discussing music, and in a roundabout way, discussing Rose.

Rose Tyler, who loved him.

He leaned against the front table, facing his students, ignoring the fact that his slideshow had been queued up for several minutes.

“S’ kind of a long story,” he laughed to himself, “But the short version is my sister, Donna, loves her and kept pesterin’ me to give her a go. Then Rose berated me about how disliking pop music just because it is pop music is misogynistic— Adam— so I just started listening, and of course they were right. It’s fun.”

“Rose?” Ace, Clara, Nardole, and Bill chorused. The first three politely curious, and Bill with gossipy excitement.

Ah, hell. He hadn’t planned on actually mentioning her, but his damn gob ran off on him, and since she’s constantly on his mind anyway, especially now…

Clara looked over at Bill, confused by her excitement, but turned back to the Doctor with a furrowed brow. Clara could never let anything go, which was one of the reason’s she was going to be a great physicist. She was like a dog with a bone when there was a mystery, and it showed in her passion for the science. And Ace— well, she was more like a battering ram. A bloody efficient one, too.

Fuck, and lord help him if Bill and Nardole teamed up on anything. He’d backed himself into quite the corner, he realized, both amused and exasperated.

“Who’s Rose?” Clara asked. “Not another sister, or you would’ve said, ‘my sisters, Donna and Rose.’”

“I know Rose,” Bill bragged. “I didn’t know you knew Rose still.”

Still. As if she’d left his thoughts for a single moment since they’d met, or since the strike at Bill’s café. They went to that café often still, with it being Rose’s favorite, and relatively close to right between their flats, but Bill worked mostly weekends and evenings, so they’d mostly avoided her by pure coincidence. Rose always worked Saturdays, and they spent most evenings at his flat recently, so the café was typically part of their Sunday morning routine.

“Alright, lecture time,” the Doctor announced, pushing away from the table and moving back to his podium, only to find his computer had crashed entirely.

Ace was still twirling her pencil suspiciously, and the Doctor was only 95% convinced she hadn’t done anything to it. He had no idea how she would’ve done anything, but remaining vigilant was always the safest bet with Ace McShane around.

“So,” Clara drew out the word, “Rose?”

“Come on, professor,” Ace encouraged. “You never talk about yourself. We didn’t even know you had a sister!”

“Or a life!” Bill teased. “Then you show up five minutes late, which might as well be skippin’ class for you, whistlin’ pop music, and you tell us more about yourself than we learned our whole time here so far. One more thing won’t hurt,” she needled him.

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically.

On this inside, he was laughing. She was right. Another thing he was notorious for as a professor was not saying shit about his personal life, which for him was easy because he simply didn’t have one before meeting Rose. His students knew his work, and his background, mostly from the damn department faculty page more than anything. So, his casual admittance of having a sister and liking a certain musical style plus one exception was a huge lore drop for him.

“Rose is…”

The fucking sun. Golden, warm, bright, ready to burn you or bring life depending on her mood. She’d burned through the haze he’d been living his life in that day he’d seen her, first in Trafalgar Square, but then lit up his entire world that day in St. James Park. She’d been melting the ice around his heart the entire winter, and even in the depths of his self-hatred and longing for her, just the thought of her kept him warm.

“Well, Rose is—”

How to describe her? They’d not really discussed that yet, had never really defined their relationship. She’d been his companion, his plus one, his friend and confidant, and the bane of his existence all at once. Now, summing her up in any number of words seemed impossible. The only word he wanted to call her was his, and to be hers in return.

“She’s my… companion,” he finished lamely. He cringed and rubbed his forehead, groaning lightly at the snickers that went up amongst his students, particularly Bill.

“It’s new,” he defended weakly, unsure why he was even doing that much. They’re students.

“Yeah,” he thought, “but she’s Rose, and she deserves better than that, dumbo!”

Huh, his inner voice sounded suspiciously like his sister. Interesting.

Oh god— telling his sister. They had to have this discussion first, right? He knew Donna was her best friend, besides him of course, but surely Rose wouldn’t…

Fumbling for his phone he held up a hand to his students to wait and received another shocked rumble of mutters that he ignored. Thankfully, he had no messages or missed calls from his twin, so perhaps Rose had gone back to bed. “Good,” he thought with satisfaction. “She needs the rest.”

Especially considering his plans for later, which would also involve Rose back in his bed.

“What do you mean new?” Bill protested. “It’s been months since the strike, and you two were all—”

“Potts!” He growled, warningly.

Bill smiled sheepishly but ceased. “Sorry, professor,” she replied sincerely. “Got a bit too excited. I’ve known Rose a while, yeah? She’s one of our best customers at the café, but she always seems so sad, especially lately. Just… I’m happy she’s happy.”

The Doctor softened, at Bill’s thoughtfulness, and at her admission that Rose was sad, even more noticeably so than her normal apparently, in the recent past. Guilt pulsed at him, dulling his shining mood finally. He’d been responsible for that additional sadness in her.

Well, he’d just have to make up for it. In any way he could.

“I’m not going into it with you, students,” he stressed, “But I will say that I, at the very least, am quite happy. And I’m relatively sure she is too.” His students, particularly Clara and Bill, awed. Adam rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, still sulking. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time on this domestic shite. We still have a lecture, and half the time to get through it.”

Groans sounded and he grinned.

“You’re the ones that wanted to be noisy,” he chided.

“Still worth it,” Clara and Bill muttered to each other as they took out their laptops, grinning conspiratorially.

It was. Everything was worth it. Every second of yearning between them was worth it. Rose Tyler loved him.

His wide smile lasted the rest of the day, faltering only briefly when he returned home, and she wasn’t there. He showered and shaved quickly, dressed in his nicest jumper after tumbling it quickly in the dryer to refresh it— the green one that always seemed to draw her eyes just the slightest bit more— and shot her a text, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Can’t wait to see you, precious girl.

Short, simple, just letting her know he was thinking of her. He hit send with a sense of satisfaction. It was still a bit early, but he debated heading over anyway. He could stop and pick up flowers on the way and—

A phone buzzed.

Not the one in his hand still.

On the floor, over by the dresser, Rose’s phone laid face down on the wood, a bright spot of pink against the dark brown. Frowning, he walked over and picked it up. Had she been running late and dropped it? He inspected the screen for cracks, and it buzzed a second time in his hand with the reminder of his text. It lit up and he was delighted to see a picture of the two of them as her phone background, a silly little selfie she’d taken a few weeks ago at one of their classes. They were covered in clay and holding their little ceramic creations, and he was gazing at her while she smiled at the camera. Blimey, he was a besotted fool.

Frown deepening, he also noted twenty alerts from ‘Saxon,’ in varying amounts of texts and missed calls, as well as nearly the same amount from ‘Lucy— P.A.’

That was a lot of missed communications. He refused to open them on principle, though the curiosity that ate at him nearly broke his resolve, but he pocketed the device instead and left the flat.

He’d just find out on his own. He would only be a little early, but he had no doubt she was expecting that. And hopefully, anticipating it too. He was always early, with the exception of this morning’s class, and had a penchant for being even earlier when it meant seeing her.

He tried to maintain his joyful mood on the drive over, but a sense of dread hung over him like a rain cloud. Twenty calls from Saxon would be a lot on any day, but he knew she was supposed to have that interview today, and she’d complained that he was going to be there. If she hadn’t made it for some reason and he was calling because she was missing… but where would she have gone after he left this morning? And without her phone?

He’d still heard nothing from Donna, nor from any of their other friends, and his dread mounted the closer he got to her flat. His muscles coiled and tensed, as if he was anticipating a fight.

“I’m coming, Rose,” he thought, feeling silly and deathly serious at the same time. “Hang on.”

Chapter Text

Rose collapsed to the floor, sliding her back down the door in numb shock. She could’ve hidden. She could’ve stayed at the Doctor’s flat, turned off her phone, and pretended. She maybe could’ve waited until he got home and told him the truth, maybe he would’ve— no, there was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

She hadn’t seen Saxon in a rage like that in years. She’d gotten so good at toeing the line with her little rebellions, knowing what she could and couldn’t get away with, enough that she pretended she was pushing back against him, when in actuality she knew. That when push came to shove, she still did exactly what he wanted her to in the end. The songs were still his, the costumes, the acting. When the camera was on, she was still his mindless puppet. Even behind the scenes, she knew in her gut that he liked the way she fought him.

In the end, she rarely ever said no to him before. She’d never refused outright to go along with his schemes, only went as far in her rebellion as protecting herself necessitated, and she allowed herself very little protection. Setting very few hard boundaries made it sting less when he inevitably crossed the little ones and allowing him those small victories over her kept him from attempting to cross those hard boundaries, for the most part.

But today? Oh, today she had fucked up.

Her mind raced as she replayed the last hour in her head, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

And what the fuck was going to happen next?

He’d been waiting for her, in her flat, when she arrived home. She’d always known he had a key. She half-expected it when she opened the door, had even let herself feel the tiniest bit of gotcha when he didn’t catch her off guard. She was able to greet him in a cool nod of her head, a gesture that said: you can’t surprise me, I knew you’d be here.

That gotcha feeling didn’t last.

It had been years since Saxon had hit her, but the blow that whipped her head to the side didn’t really surprise her either. Missing that interview this morning wasn’t just defying him on behalf of herself but also fucking up an opportunity to promote his newest stooge. After she nearly fucked up her last interview on Van Statton’s show as well, and let Malcom run his mouth to that journalist on the red carpet. Familiar pain radiated in her cheek and in her stomach, familiar adages floating across the forefront of her thoughts.

There will be no proof, and they won’t believe you, and it will amount to nothing.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to the pain of the blow.

She ducked her head and let the verbal barrage wash over her, retreating deep within herself. Let him throw her glasses and shatter them on the floors, the walls, let the shards cut her skin without moving. She refused to think about the protective comfort of the Doctor’s jumper she had left behind, or that it might’ve shielded her. She remembered numbly that this was why she didn’t keep sentimental items around, even as dull pain twisted in her from even the shattering of those plain, unadorned glasses.

She’d had them for years, and now cherished memories were associated with them: chugging down water after a run with the Doctor, almost spitting it back up in a laugh at something he’d said. Jack winking salaciously at Mickey over the top of one, causing him to bluster and blunder his way through the round of cards, all a plot for Yan to sweep the table.

Now they were gone, shattered on the floor around her, some pieces dripping with her blood. She focused her eyes on the blue-green shine that winked at her from the edges of the shards. It was such a unique color. A previously hidden beauty in the plainness of the glass that she could only admire now that it laid in pieces on the floor.

She had no idea how long he screamed at her, how many dishes he broke, but she stood there and took it, refusing to be any weaker than she already was. She wrapped her arms around herself and gripped her arms to the point of pain to have something else to focus on, something to control.

“I’ve given you too much freedom lately,” his voice finally cut through the fog. “Let you think you have too much control. I own you, little Wolf.”

“Not for long,” some spark in her sang in defiance.

“I’m adding more dates to your tour,” he stated. “And until then, you can kiss that little schedule goodbye. Clearly too much free time has damaged your simple fucking brain.”

Rose had already seen that coming as well. The tour was set to begin in a month and run her right up to the last couple of weeks of her contract. She knew he would want her back in London to pressure her into re-signing then, where he would drag out every ounce of her soul that he could in those final weeks. She knew he had high hopes that this tour would be a tipping point in Bad Wolf’s popularity, especially combining it with the explosive end of the PR nightmare relationship he’d contrived with Malcom. Which would no doubt garner more attention than he had anticipated after her panicked response to him showing real feelings for her— which had been misinterpreted as her having real feelings for him— had shone a brilliant spot light on them several weeks ago.

The tour already had near impossible turn arounds, would already run her ragged and destroy her body for weeks after. After the last one, she’d wondered if she’d ever be able to sing again and had fervently hoped she wouldn’t. It had taken months for her voice to heal, months where she begged and begged the universe to grant her peace, but it wasn’t to be. Her voice had returned to normal, some cosmic sign that the ten years of her life that she had signed away were to be fulfilled no matter what. There was no escaping it.

And her consistent schedule? Her free evenings, and the predictability that had finally allowed her to have a life? It had already lasted far longer than she’d ever imagined it would. She’d been lucky she hadn’t screwed up enough before this that he’d be justified in taking it away. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t done it after that interview with Van Staton when she’d messed up Malcom’s name.

She just nodded.

“You’re doing more outings with Malcom before the tour, and a weekend away,” he continued.

Again, not unexpected, since the interview she’d missed had really been about promoting him. She feared the extended time with him, however. So far she’d been able to avoid such periods in his company due to the deal she and Saxon had made right at the beginning of their association with Malcom, but now— following that disastrous red carpet? He’d backed off, after she’d been able to keep the mask strictly up since then, but she could see in his eyes when he looked at her that he thought they were heading towards something more. Something real. He clearly thought he’d broken through to the real her and that her strict adherence to Bad Wolf’s blunt and performative behavior was her retreating out of fear of some imagined emotion he saw in her. She knew that if they were forced together for a whole weekend, Malcom would push and try to draw out her ‘real’ feelings.

Rose feared how he would react when it inevitably came to a head.

Which it likely would soon, if Saxon was insisting on them having a full weekend away together. The longer trips with his puppets were always the worst, because she never knew when his paid paparazzi would be snapping photos, so she had to keep up the act the entire time. She couldn’t even enjoy wherever it was he sent them typically, to focused on keeping up appearances and simultaneously fending off unwanted, genuine advances from the industry newbies who couldn’t separate themselves from the act. And it would be one less weekend she got to spend with the Doctor and their friends before she left for the tour and wouldn’t see them for weeks.

Malcom didn’t seem cruel at least, but then again, neither had Adam— the last one that let it get in his head that they were real. When she told him otherwise, he’d viciously grabbed her wrist and drug her from the restaurant they had been at, tried to pull her through that crowd of paparazzi and assembled fans that either he or Saxon had tipped off about their presence. Bad Wolf had few mega fans, but the ones she did have were usually very creepy men who lived for the provocative image Saxon had created for her. The playgirl who never settled down, never took relationships too seriously, was perpetually single and had a string of lovers. The image was an open invitation for men to envision themselves with her, as her next fling, or as the one who would ‘tame’ her. And Saxon or Adam releasing a tip of her whereabouts in public had resulted in a crowd of them around the restaurant.

Adam tried to pull her through it by her wrist, to which several of the men took offense. They were ripped apart and Adam took one last look at her in the crowd. She reached towards him for help, terrified at being surrounded by the strange men and at least she knew Adam, but he shook his head and turned away. Through the bodies, she saw him walking away with his hands in his pockets and never look back.

It had been one of the most frightening experiences of her career, enough so that the memory alone still sent her into hysterics, and she’d had no idea how she had gotten home unscathed. Her panic attack the day of the die-in had stemmed from that incident, a near overwhelming fear of crowds having arisen from it that was only manageable at her concerts due to crowd control officers, fences, and security guards, and her own self-imposed exposure therapy at protests and rallies.

She forced herself not to think of the Doctor and how he would respond to any of this if he knew. She shoved his image behind a door in her mind and locked it, burying it within her heart. Now was not the time for sentiment.

Still, Saxon’s reaction could be worse. So far she felt like she was getting off easy, which made her nauseous while she waited for his final blow. “I made the two of you a reservation for tonight—”

“No,” Rose blurted out, the first word she’d spoken since entering the flat.

 “Excuse me?”

Her heart raced, threatening to leap from her throat, and her palms were sweaty. Her feet itched with the instinct to run. With strength she didn’t know she had, she looked up and met his eyes, clenching her jaw.

“I said no,” she repeated slowly. “Not tonight.”

Tonight. The Doctor had plans for them tonight. His excited face and kind eyes filled her mind again, and she didn’t push it away again, couldn’t make herself. She let the image of him lend her strength. She wanted desperately to keep the worst of her living nightmare from him, afraid that even thinking about him during the worst of it would make him sense it with his alien ability to know what she was thinking. But still she couldn’t help but be bolstered by his steady presence, even if just in her thoughts.

“You are in no position to refuse, little Wolf,” Saxon growled, stepping forward menacingly.

“I’m not refusing,” Rose said as calmly as she could. “I’m saying not tonight.”

“That’s too damn bad—”

“I said no!” She shouted. Her voice echoed off the high ceilings, reverberating through the space and lending her strength. “I’m not going, and I’m not going away with him, and I’m not doing this anymore.”

She hadn’t meant to say all that— she’d meant to appeal to him that where he’d struck her would be too obvious— but it burst from her like a tidal wave. With the Doctor’s presence in her thoughts lending her strength, with his love in her heart, and with every bit of self-determination she’d built up in herself over the last few months reminding her that there was more to her life than this, she had simply reached a breaking point.

She had more.

She had Donna’s bravery, and Wilf’s kindness, and Shaun’s steadiness, and Ianto’s steel, and Jack’s recklessness, and the Doctor’s love.

She was more, no matter what her lowest thoughts told her. More than a puppet, more than a punching bag, more than the hollow husk of a person she’d let herself become, more than the stupid little girl she’d let him convince her that she was. More even than the lovesick, hopeless fool that told her that she wasn’t worthwhile.

It didn’t matter if she didn’t feel human. She was a Wolf. She had given herself that name, and she would take back what it had meant to her— what it had always meant to her, no matter how he tried to take it from her, or how she tried to deny the meaning it still held. The name might be his, but the Wolf was hers.

She was the Bad Wolf. She created herself.

“We’re done, Saxon. I’ll do the fucking tour as it stands now, but nothing else. No more promotions, no more fake dating— none. And you’re not changing my schedule again,” she snarled, “Or else there will also be no more interviews, or demos, or recordings, or ads or anything else. It ends now. I’m not re-signing the fucking contract or any others.”

She glared at him, letting the hatred burn in her eyes in a way she’d never allowed before.

“I don’t care about the money, or the music, or the royalties. I don’t care. You don’t have anything left to threaten me with. You’ve already left me with nothing— so much of nothing that you don’t have anything else to hold over my head. That’s your mistake. Because once this fucking contract runs out, I’m gone. The Bad Wolf brand is yours forever, I don’t give a fuck, but Rose Tyler is me and I. Am. Done.”

Saxon’s chest heaved with barely restrained rage. His fingers tapped on the kitchen island his damnable four count rhythm, and the fury in his eyes burned. She noted for the first time that his eyes seemed entirely colorless, as if his rage had burned it all away. There was an edge of absolute insanity that she’d only seen hints of before and she was all of a sudden more than aware that they were alone in the flat.

Her eyes darted quickly to the counter where she kept her knife block. Would she be able to make it there in time? If she couldn’t, and she led him to it, would he even bother with them himself? She’d always believed he would kill her with his bare hands, in those moments where he taunted her with the knowledge that he could, and with the rage and insanity in his eyes she was sure now that he wanted nothing more than to strangle her. The irony of it had never been lost on her either, of the way he strangled the rest of her life, and how if he crushed her neck with his hands, he’d be ruining the one thing he kept her around for.

To kill his caged songbird by first making her incapable of singing.

But she wasn’t a bird— she was a Wolf. And she’d tear his throat out with her goddamn teeth.

A snarl curled up her lip and she shifted, locking her eyes on him and refusing to back down. Let him come at her. He was just some executive desk jockey who’s only power over her came from paperwork and keeping her beaten down. His physicality was that of one who drank too much, sat at a desk all day, and leveraged her past against her more than it had ever been someone who was actually physically intimidating. He was a head shorter than the Doctor, easily, and nowhere near as strong as Jimmy Stone had been.

Rose, on the other hand, exercised eight hours a day, three days a week, and regularly sprinted all across London. A few weeks ago, the restrictive diet he kept her on might’ve hindered her, because she’d been too beaten down to push back against it, thinking it easier to maintain it all of the time instead of just in public. But several weeks of hearty, home cooked meals, five to six nights a week on a consistent basis, and she’d put on at least a stone of pure, healthy muscle. She’d seen in, had loved the way it filled out her curves and gave her new strength.

Rose Tyler regularly stared down men twice his size. Police and security and counter protesters, working with the unhoused with unfortunate mental health conditions that needed guidance and steadiness when they lashed out, overly zealous fans in crowds at her shows, the Doctor and his piercing blue gaze when it drifted far away. She knew she might not win— she didn’t really know how to fight— or if any of that supposed strength would truly help her, but she did know that she wouldn’t go down easy.

She had a life that was worth living. Each part of it on its own, and as a whole.

Like a switch, the feral snarl on Saxon’s face was gone. He straightened, standing up taller from where he had coiled up to leap at her, and brushed off imaginary dust from his suit. Rose maintained high alert, stepping back and sideways as he took a step forward, inching her way towards the knives. Saxon merely grabbed his coat off the back of the barstool and slung it over his arm.

“Fine,” he bit out. “If you’re certain, Rose Tyler, then I suppose we shall simply ride the rest of this partnership to its due end.” Her real name sliding off his tongue made the nausea in her stomach strengthen. Bile rose in her throat, burning.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to look at her, making one last threat. “I hope,” he said, far too casually, “That whoever it is that’s fucking you knows that I’ll destroy him too if a word of your ‘relationship’ gets out. I’ll end his career, his reputation— everything. Hope it’s worth it, Rose Tyler.”

He nodded his head at her and left.

She leapt forward, locking the chain across the top of the door first, and then the deadbolt. Her adrenaline left her in a rush, leaving her limbs weak and trembling, and her mind foggy as she slipped into shock, the fear that she’d held at bay crashing into her all at once. Heart pounding in her chest, breathing so uneven she had spots in front of her eyes, she turned and slid down the door, crumbling to the floor.

Chapter Text

“Rose? Rose, are you in there? I know I’m early, but left your phone at my flat, and I got worried,” the Doctor’s voice swam in the jumbled, disassociated mess that was her mind.

The sound pulled her closer to the surface, though a large portion of herself tried to sink back down, afraid of what would happen if she dropped back into her body fully.

“Rose, please just let me know you’re alright,” his voice sounded odd.

Why did it sound odd? His voice was so nice, it shouldn’t sound like that: Pained. Panicked. The way she felt. She whimpered and burrowed her head deeper into her knees.

“I’m coming in,” he announced firmly, and the sound of the spare key she’d given him rattling in the door reminded her that the Doctor was not the only person with a spare key to her flat. The door pushed forward and hit her in the back, stopped by the chain she’d made sure to lock before collapsing. “Rose!” He was yelling, frantic.

She didn’t want him to worry, especially not about her. “Here,” she croaked.

Her voice was hoarse from disuse, crying, and dehydration. She had no idea how long she’d been sitting on the floor disassociating but based on the numbness in her limbs, she had to say hours.

“Shit!” He exclaimed in surprise, startled by her voice being so close and down by the floor. “Oh, Rose, are you hurt? Why are you on the floor? Can you stand?”

His barrage of questions washed over her too quickly, causing her sluggish mind to reel. What was it he wanted? She couldn’t think. She should just let him in so he could stop sounding so worried.

Without answering, she clambered to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall of the to keep herself upright, and closed the door. His shout of protest became muffled, and then clearer, as she opened the newly unchained door to let him in. Dizziness made her vision swim, and she clutched the door frame momentarily after throwing the door wide. She was entirely exhausted by the simple action, nausea crawling back to churn her stomach, so she slid weakly back down the wall. A weak instinct inside her protested the display of vulnerability, some part of her that was still convinced they were in a fight, but it was almost entirely drowned out by her every other instinct that knew it was ok to be vulnerable around the Doctor. It was safe to be vulnerable around the Doctor.

There was some line she couldn’t cross with him, she knew. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was. It didn’t matter, regardless, she was in no position to be crossing any line right now.

The Doctor was at her side in an instant, kneeling next to her and running his hands along her form scanning for injuries. His eyes were wide at the sight of the dried blood on her arms from the dozens of small cuts that had since stopped bleeding, his shoulders tensing as he shifted into ‘doctor’ mode. Seeing no open cuts, he continued his exploration of her limbs while she hung her head. Her hair was loose, blocking her vision of him fully, but she still saw when his hand moved upward to her chin.

He tilted her head back with the same gentility he always did, but the only thing she felt was a rush of shame when he saw the bruise blossoming on her cheek and her hollow expression. His mask of clinical detachment was excellent, only the slight clenching of his jaw betraying any hint of emotion, as he gently held her head still and pulled out a penlight from his pocket and shone it in her eyes. Normally, the fact that he just had that in his pocket would make her laugh, but she couldn’t find the humor in it now.

Nodding to himself, he repocketed the tool and released her chin, letting her hang her head again. The next thing she knew, he was sliding his arms under her knees and around her back, lifting her from the floor with a grunt, and carrying her deeper into the loft.

She stirred, speaking with difficulty. “Don’t… the kitchen,” she struggled. “Glass.”

His only response was to tighten his arms around her. She wished her body didn’t feel so detached from herself, so she could feel it better. He hadn’t held her in so long. She hadn’t been held in so fucking long.

He passed the uncomfortable sofa and carried her with ease all the way up the industrial staircase to her bedroom. She clenched her eyes shut against the waves of nausea that threatened to make her wretch from the jostling. After he set her down, he steadied her with his hands to make sure she stayed upright before disappearing into her bathroom. She heard the sink running for a few moments before he reemerged. She forced her eyes open to see him striding back towards her with a little pink plastic tote, a towel slung over his shoulder, and the cup she normally kept her toothbrush in, now full of water. Confusion spun through her once more, curiosity bringing her out of her addled state a bit.

“What is that?” She asked. Her voice sounded far away to her own ears.

“First aid kit,” he bit out shortly, but not unkindly.

He returned to her side quickly and sat the tote next to her on the bed. The Doctor knelt in front of her again, dipping the towel in the water, and taking her left arm by the wrist and extending it. When he rubbed the towel down her arm, wiping away the blood, she was surprised and pleased when it was warm. He was quick and efficient, but gentle, and he switched arms soon, circling her right wrist with the same tender grasp. The brush of the cloth over her arms and focusing on the intense look of concentration on his face helped bring her back to being fully present in her mind, slowly but surely.

“Doctor,” she murmured. He hummed in reply, not ceasing his cleaning. “I don’t have a first aid kit.”

“You didn’t,” he corrected.

“When did—”

“Couple weeks ago, when you told me to get in your medicine cabinet to replace the soap, I noticed that you didn’t have one. Brought it last week to game night and ran it up while you were cooking.”

The information took a long moment to settle. He— he noticed she didn’t have a first aid kit? She could’ve kept it in the kitchen— but no, she sluggishly thought, he would’ve checked in there while she showered after their run to know for certain. He’d noticed, and he’d cared, and he went out and made her one. The tote sitting on the bed next to her was no pre-made kit that could be purchased at any chemist. It was made. He’d picked out the little pink tote and filled it by hand with what he, as a doctor, thought she would need. Peeking into it, she saw a box of plasters that were decorated in pastel tie-dye and… were those lollipops?

He turned her arm over a few times, cautiously, and deeming it clean, he threw the rag behind his shoulder. It landed approximately near her empty laundry basket with a wet plop. She attempted to pull her arm in instinctively, to draw in on herself as she usually did to cover her stomach protectively, but his grip on her wrist did not break. He held her only enough to keep her arm in place, to let her know he was not finished. He maintained light pressure on her wrist, stroking it with his thumb tenderly, while he opened the first aid kit with his free hand and drew out a few cotton balls from a ziplock bag, and a bottle of peroxide.

“Can’t you just put the stuff on them?” Rose complained meekly. “The antibiotic gel or whatever?”

The Doctor gave her an apologetic, but firm look that told her no. “There could be glass splinters,” he informed her. “’S unlikely, but I won’t risk it.”

His care dulled the sting as the peroxide bubbled on her skin.

Finally satisfied that her cuts were clean, he covered them all in antibiotic gel and bandaged the few larger ones, deeming none of them in need of stitches, before standing. Rose kept her head bowed only for a moment, sighing deeply, before turning up to face him before he felt he had to turn her head again. It was inevitable that he would, and she didn’t know if she could handle the tender touch a second time.

His professional mask faltered when his eyes met the darkening bruise on her cheek. With a shaking hand, he brushed her hair back away from her face, and she couldn’t resist leaning into his palm. After a moment’s hesitation, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, hot and lingering, his breath faltering as his emotions slipped through further.

“What happened, precious girl?” He whispered into her hair.

Her breath caught. Precious? But he hadn’t called her that since— oh. The memories of the previous night and of that morning— had it really only been that morning? — flooded back to her. She stared at him, stunned.

Not waiting for her to answer, he pulled back and started the process over on her cheek.

The skin was split only slightly, but he still cleaned it diligently with the peroxide and spread the antibiotic gel over the top with featherlight touch. There was not much that could be done for the bruise, but he prodded around the edges to ensure the bone beneath was not damaged. She hissed in a breath when his fingers touched the most sensitive bit, where Saxon’s ring had hit, and he froze in place.

“I fought back this time,” Rose said, reeling again as she remembered what she had done.

The Doctor looked at her, horrified and without understanding. She dully realized he probably thought she’d fallen, or something else innocuous. Maybe that she’d been mugged, at worst, given her dazed state.

“I missed the interview,” she murmured, her voice overly loud to her own ears as her cheeks became warm with shame. “I slept too late. It was supposed to be at ten.”

The Doctor said nothing but sank slowly back to his knees in front of her. It helped. With him not towering over her, the words came easier.

“He was here when I came back. I knew he would be. I’ve always known he had a key and could get in whenever. I even thought a few times that he had been here when I wasn’t home just to fuck with me and prove he could—”

The Doctor didn’t stop her from curling in on herself this time, sensing she needed the self-soothing motion to continue, she supposed.

“None of it surprised me, actually,” she admitted, almost lightly. “I mean, he hasn’t hit me in a few years, but it was easy to predict, yeah? See, he wanted me to talk about the tour, but also about Malcom, and on a more popular show than normal. So, when I realized I fucked up and missed it, I knew. Especially when I knew that he knew that I wasn’t here. He doesn’t like when I’m not here. I don’t know if I ever told you that— how often he lets me know that he knows where I am. Or, where I’m not, I suppose.”

Rose knew she was rambling, but the words wouldn’t stop. She had to tell him everything now, so it was all out. She couldn’t hold back the torrent once it started. She hadn’t even said that she meant Saxon directly, and she had no idea if he was even following what she was saying, but she couldn’t stop.

“So, he knocked me around some, not as bad as some other times. He threw some glasses around while he was screamin.’ Told me he was changing my schedule back, and addin’ more dates to the tour, more outings with Malcom, to make up for missing the interview. And he wanted us to go on a weekend away to get some really good press. Fuck I hate when he makes me do those, you know? It’s like he’s dangling the carrot right in front of me— here’s this beautiful place you can visit but not enjoy because you have to act the whole time, here’s this facsimile of a relationship you’ll never have because— because—”

Her voice broke, her throat raw with the tears she was holding back.

“Because he owns me,” she admitted hoarsely. “Because I’m broken and beaten down so far that I didn’t even think to just stay at your flat and not come here, where I knew he would be.” Her voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “I just wanted… I thought I could finally have one good thing in my life. I thought I could have you. I’m so close— so fucking close— to getting away from him. I let myself get carried away, too relaxed. I should’ve realized he’s never going to let me go. He’ll kill me first.”

As she said it out loud for the first time, that formless fear she’d refused to acknowledge, the one that had kept her from really being able to picture her life after the contract was over, she knew it was true. There wouldn’t be an end to the contract.

Bad Wolf would be so much more popular dead than alive. It was only a shame she was only twenty-six and wouldn’t make it to the Twenty-Seven Club, she thought feverishly. Was Bad Wolf even popular enough for her to have been considered anyway? Would he simply lie and tell everyone that she was? It’s not like they knew.

She’d clung so desperately to these last few months of life, trying so hard to feel like she would be able to hang on to any of it. And that’s why he’d let her— why he’d agreed all those months ago to the schedule ‘negotiation’ she’d set out— one last way to break her will. Let her build herself up until she was almost a real person, and then he’d kill her. Like giving a dog a giant steak or a piece chocolate before putting it down. It was why he backed down so easily today too. So she’d have hope and a false sense of security, so she’d feel like she’d won.

And all she’d done was drag the Doctor down with her.

Saxon’s last threat echoed in her mind over and over and over again, like his pounding four count rhythm he tapped harshly with his fingers. Quiet, but constant and relentless, working its way into the depths of her mind, as he’d been doing for years. I’ll destroy him. I’ll end his career, his reputation, everything. Everything. His life. Who else would Saxon hurt to hurt her before he killed her? Just because he could?

Donna, certainly. She would be the easiest. Her career was in the same field, and Saxon already knew that she and Rose were friends from all the times Donna insisted on accompanying her to events. It would devastate her to lose her career after working so hard to carve out her own path. She worked so hard to keep other young artists from ending up like her and was really making a name for herself in the industry for it. And she and Shaun so desperately wanted a baby, losing her job and having to start over would be a huge obstacle.

Jack’s whole life was the bar, he’d put absolutely everything into it after his accident, and it was the only home he’d ever known until he met Ianto. She saw it go up in flames in her mind’s eye. She might as well have lit the match herself, insisting on going there all the time, putting herself at risk of discovery by singing. Ianto, with his quiet, dry wit, and strong, steady presence. Hurting Yan would be as easy as outing him to his law firm, and the dominos would fall into line. He was only a few big wins from being able to open his own firm, and he’d worked so hard.

Mickey even, who could lose his flat at the Estate for having his gran’s assets in his name still.

All of which Saxon knew because she’d brought them here. Nearly ten years she’d managed to keep everyone away and she’d given up right before the finish line. He’d been right all along. She was stupid. She’d thought she’d been keeping this all from them, the extent and depth of it all, to protect them from her misery. In a way, that was true. She didn’t want to sully them with the burden of her. Because they would care, they were all so good. But she’d also been keeping them at an arm’s length to protect them from him. It was unconscious, and all she could do when she still felt like she needed them all so badly. And she’d done the exact thing she’d tried so hard to prevent.

Her collective. What she’d been seeking all those years in the protests; community, strength, togetherness.

Family.

But now that she knew, now that she had this new threat, she couldn’t keep being selfish. She was putting them in danger out of the selfish insistence of wanting to be near them. She’d inserted herself into the family that already existed between them, and like the parasite she was, she was bringing destruction.

Rose didn’t even realize she was on her feet, pacing and pulling at her hair until the Doctor’s hands were gently around her wrists again, pulling her hands down to her side with quiet strength.

“I can’t do this,” she told him. “He’ll hurt you to hurt me. You have to leave.”

“No,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she cried. “You have to go, now. I won’t see you again, or Donna, I promise. I—”

“No,” he repeated firmly.

Rose tugged her wrists free of his grasp with a jerk, stumbling and nearly falling in her desperate attempt to get free. “Get out!” She screamed. “Leave! Don’t be so fucking stupid.”

The Doctor wrapped his arms around her even as she beat her fists into his chest and cried. He tightened his hold as her thumping stopped and whispered into her hair. “Oi, pretty sure I’ve told you before, but genius, me. And I’m not going anywhere, you hear me, Rose Tyler? The stupidest thing I’ve ever done was let you go.” He said vehemently. “I told you; I’m never letting you go again.”

“You can’t trust me,” she whispered raggedly. “I’ve already proven it over and over.”

“That’s it,” he muttered.

Before she could question what he meant, he bent down and swooped her into his arms again, carrying her over to the bed. She protested weakly, but she was exhausted, and hurting, and his arms felt so good. She was weak.

Holding her briefly with one arm and his knee, he ripped back the covers and set her down, bending to remove her shoes and his before crawling in after her. The sheets were cold, like everything else in her godforsaken prison cell, and she shivered involuntarily. He shrugged off his leather coat, pulled her back to his chest, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She made a small noise of protest, feeling unworthy of the comfort, but he shushed her.

“Doctor’s orders,” he said firmly.

He settled back against the headboard and pulled her down to lay atop his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, and she placed a hand over the top of it, just to assure herself that he was real. She tried to speak a few more times, but each time he silenced her. After a few minutes, he cleared his throat.

“Got meself blown up,” he started bluntly. “About ten years ago. Wasn’t meant to be on the front lines, as a medic, but we got a tip that there were injured in this building. Not part of the force the regiment I was stationed in was fighting, but a smaller group, unaffiliated. Peaceful. The Gelth, they were called. They called us on the radio, beggin’ for help, and me and my team ignored good advice that it was a trap. Thought we were superior, that we knew better. We were doctors, much smarter than soldiers.”

His voice was quiet, and solemn, but it carried. She could feel the weight in every word, the way it clung to him.

“Gwenyth Cooper got hit first. She was a lot like you. Whip smart, absolutely brilliant, came from a humble background and was just lookin’ to help in some way. Make a difference in the world. She was so young and compassionate. She was a liaison with the Gelth, handled near all our interactions with them, fluent in the language and all. She went ahead of the medics, heard some crying, broke protocol. We all followed suit.”

He took a deep, ragged breath, one of his arms leaving her side to run down his face.

“Started off as a firefight. Gwenyth went down, couple others got hit. I still had it in my head this wasn’t the Gelth, that they were still there somewhere being held hostage by the force we were fightin,’ the Daleks. I snuck away, like the fuckin’ coward I am, found a Gelth girl on the ground. Ran in, started assessing, rolled her over, and the pressure plate released.”

Rose didn’t know how to react, so she just tightened her fingers into his jumper.

“The whole building went down. I was trapped in the rubble for nine hours. I don’t know how I survived, but I was the only one. The only one. My entire team, the combatants, and the hostages that were there, all gone. Eighty-six people was the estimation by the forensic team. MNI they call it— minimum number of individuals.”

That many?

He wasn’t just lucky to be alive. It was impossible. Not to mention that he was, physically, fine. Scarred, of course, she’d seen him rubbing at his shoulder dozens of times before and he’d explained the mass of scar tissue, though not it’s cause. But all his limbs intact, no lasting mobility loss, or brain damage. It was absolutely impossible. Sure, it had been ten years, and a lot of healing can occur in that time, but not miracles.

“James,” she breathed.

She didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t seem to either, taking a shuddering breath and then stopping, tense underneath her.

The world stood still.

Chapter Text

They laid with each other, contemplating their hurts and each other’s, listening to their breathing, and a blanket of knowing settled over them. Rose was unsure how long they laid there, measuring time only by the sound of his heartbeat beneath her head and hand as it beat rapidly following his story and slowed gradually in the silence. His hand found its way under his jacket that was wrapped around her like a cloak, under her shirt, and pressed into her skin as if it was the only thing he could feel.

She knew they didn’t sleep. She never felt him fully relax beneath her, though it was a near thing. He was as still as she’d ever seen him, but still humming with energy the way he always was. She’d never seen him sit unmoving for so long, and she wondered now how much of that was his exuberance, his manic energy, his wonder for the world around them as she’d always assumed it was, and how much of it was an inability to stay in his thoughts, with something like this weighing him down.

She knew her own inability to stay static, the part of her that craved the running, shouting, chanting energy of the crowd, the fight, was in large part an unwillingness to be alone with her thoughts. But not in all— she loved the feeling. The burning in her muscles as they flew across the pavement together, the coil of righteous anger in her heart, the burning metallic taste of victory in her mouth. It was an equal part of her, and she thought maybe, they might be equal parts of him.

It was her turn now, to have that uncanny ability to peer into his mind. She could almost hear the thoughts churning inside him, just under the surface, like he was projecting them to her with the touch of his fingers on her back, and on her wrist where his other hand had curled. And  after an indeterminate amount of time, laying with each other’s hurt and anger and shame, she understood.

And she thought he might be the only person that had ever understood her.

“I love you,” Rose told him.

Her voice broke the silence, all at once, like the shattering of glass, but also like the first ray of sunlight broke the dark, broke like the rush of the tide against the shore, washing away what was beneath it. It did not burst the bubble of intimacy that surrounded them, so gentle was its entrance into the world, but it broke down the wall that she’d kept up between them from the moment they’d met. The one that had seemed impossible to scale, and she’d been subconsciously unwilling to try.

Her Doctor was not some perfect thing, unobtainable and infallible, undeserving of being sullied by her hand. In fact, her hands, her touch, her love wouldn’t sully him. Keeping the worst of herself from him wasn’t giving him herself at all.

“I love you,” she repeated, her voice stronger.

She turned, propping herself up on her elbow and lifting her head to look at his face. The expression of raw, open hurt, longing, grief, and cautious, fragile hope strengthen her further. She imagined her expression was one and the same, and she concentrated on projecting her love, hope, grief, understanding to him. Maybe he would see it on her face, or in her eyes. Maybe his ability to hear her thoughts would carry them to him. Maybe the understanding between them, in this moment outside of time, was simply so deep that his soul could feel the edges of hers and simply know.

“I love you,” she said a third time, staring right into his eyes. It was the only thing that needed said.

In a rush of motion, he turned them over, her back hitting the pillow with a soft puff of air from surprise, but before she could wrap her mind around the new position, he took possession of her mouth with his. A deep, soul searing, searching kiss captured every part of her. He shoved his way in between her legs, which she parted for him willingly and eagerly, and pressed every inch of himself against her that he could. He kept his arm around her back, palm burning her skin, lifting her up and closer to him, as if she could never be close enough.

The passion that simmered just beneath the surface was indescribable, as the Doctor’s tongue filled her mouth, his lips brushing over hers with tender force, but she didn’t want it underneath the surface any longer. It needed to be free, free to burn their skin with its power, to burn away any lingering barriers between them.

Her hands found their way to the hem of his jumper, rucking it up over his stomach and gliding across the hot skin underneath. Up, up, up her hands trailed until they’d touched every inch of his stomach, his sides, his back, finally reaching his chest and falling into the space over his heart once more. The Doctor groaned, wild and deep, into her mouth, tilting the angle of his kiss and plunging his tongue deeper. His hips ground into the bed, rubbing his taut stomach against the burning, wet heat of her core.

He pulled his head away just in time for her to gasp for breath, but didn’t pause for a moment as he trailed burning kisses down her jaw, to a place behind her ear that made her keen, and down her neck. He lapped at the skin there, over the fluttering beat of her pulse, and made a pleased groaning noise when her hands on his chest scratched lightly in response. She felt the light layer of hair across his chest and stomach and yearned to see it, to pull his jumper and her shirt off fully and let their skin touch, but he was reluctant to let go of her even for a moment, and in truth she was as well. His hand against her back was grounding and losing it, even for a moment, would send her careening off the face of the earth into the void.

Rose wanted to lose herself in him, in this moment, in his touch. But as he rolled his hips once more— a particularly strong pulse of pleasure shooting through her and causing her back to arch— her eyes shot open. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed them, but once they were open, the reality of the loft crashed back around her. She couldn’t. Not here. The sense of being watched tingled at the back of her head, even with it pressed into the pillow, and sent bitter cold waves of disgust over her.

“James,” she moaned, pushing at his chest weakly.

The way he stopped immediately, pulling back enough to give her space but not pulling away made her heart ache in equal parts love and longing, and guilt and grief.

“I can’t, not here,” she whispered to him. “I want to— more than anything. But I… I feel like— I know— he’s watching me. He’s always watching me here.”

The Doctor stiffened in understanding, his eyes turning hard. Another rush of arousal pulsed through her at the clenching of his jaw, the protective set of it, and the way his arms became rigid around her. For him, she knew, the admission had all but killed his arousal as he shifted into anger and cold, calm detachment. For her, who had lived with the knowledge for years, his reaction was nothing short of one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen.

His blue eyes were piercing and calculating. She could nearly see the dozen thoughts that were flashing across his brilliant mind. His lithe form, stiff and unmoving above her, was as solid as a statue, displaying all the glorious strength in his toned muscles as he held himself there without a trace of strain or fatigue.

Still, nausea coiled in her gut, mixing unpleasantly with the arousal. She wanted to explode in frustration. But there was also more to tell him, Rose admitted to herself sadly. And it wouldn’t be fair to him to continue until it was all out in the open. She didn’t know if she’d ever have the courage or strength to bring it up again if she didn’t tonight.

But not here. Even this final admission couldn’t be here, where Saxon could hear it.

“Can we—”

“Let’s go back to my flat,” the Doctor said.

The way he said it was more like an order, the sharp bite of his words channeling the soldier-medic-leader part of him she rarely saw. His eyes flashed in immediate apology for speaking over her and for falling into that tone of voice to her.

And then, they narrowed knowingly at her sharp intake of breath, noting the flush that she could feel spreading down to her chest— no doubt turning her face hot and red— and the way her spine stiffened.

Before he pulled away entirely to get ready to leave, he leaned down once more, nudging her temple with his nose and setting his lips directly next to her ear. His hand, still resting underneath her on the small of her back, lifted her slightly once more. His hot breath against the sensitive skin alone made her eyes flutter shut once more, but everything he had done so far paled in comparison to the words he whispered in her ear.

“Good girl,” he purred, drawing his words out. She choked, audibly. “Keep tellin’ me exactly what you need, precious. Let me take care of you.”

The Doctor leapt away from her, off the bed entirely in one smooth motion, leaving her feeling shaken and chilled from his loss, and flushed with heat all at once. She laid there, stunned, for several moments until she could control her shuddering breathing again and she moved to stand herself. By the time she was able to stand— swaying only slightly— she saw him moving in a blur as he rushed around her room.

He had retrieved a duffle bag from her closet and was shoving clothes into it with military precision. She glanced at her dresser and saw empty drawers already hanging open where he hadn’t even bothered to shut them, and he stood now back in front of the closet stripping the clothes from the hangers with quick, efficient movements. Despite her clothing hanging side by side with some of her costumes, she watched with delight as each article he grabbed was only hers. He passed each costume piece without a second’s thought.

“Grab whatever else you need, Rose,” he said gruffly. “You’re not staying here anymore.” Numbly, she followed his instructions.

But not before she grabbed his discarded jacket off of the bed, where it had fallen from around her shoulders when he flipped them over, and slid it on. The heavy weight of it was immediately soothing, as was his familiar masculine scent. It was wonderfully warm against the cold air of the loft and made up nicely for having to leave his embrace.

She grabbed her toiletries and packed them into the travel bag she kept under her sink, efficient as well from how often she had to move quickly between shows and hotels. Her makeup already lived in a travel case, so she finished quickly and returned to the bedroom, where he was rifling through her nightstand drawers.

“Oi!” She exclaimed, blushing furiously. “Get out of there.”

The Doctor looked over at her with a smirk, but the expression grew dark as he saw her. She hadn’t thought of what his reaction might be to her stealing his coat, she’d simply been cold, but the look on his face was pure possession and adoration. She blushed darker as he abandoned her nightstand and stalked over to her. He left the drawers hanging open suspiciously, as he had the now empty dresser drawers.

The Doctor came up into her personal space, until she had to tilt her head back to look at him. His eyes were so dark, the beautiful blue of them reduced to thin bands around his expanded pupils.

“What else do you need?” He asked, his voice low and sultry.

Rose shook her head, shaking her travel bags at him with a wry grin. “Good to go,” she replied, expecting him to be eager to leave.

He frowned, stepping back enough to look around her room again. “What about—”

Rose shook her head once more, feeling slightly ashamed. “I don’t have much of anything else, nothing that’s necessary at least. None of this stuff is mine that’s worth taking anyway. I don’t keep a lot around, you know? It’s easier.”

“What about downstairs?”

“Just my laptop.”

His frown deepened, but he slung her duffle bag over his shoulder and reached out for the bags in her hands. Blushing, she passed him the makeup case to inspect.

“If it’s too much, I can just grab a few things out of it. I don’t need all of it every day, it was just already in the case, and I thought it would be quicker to just take the whole thing,” she explained in a rush. “I usually keep it all in there, but I understand it still takes up a bit of room.”

The Doctor shifted the case to his left hand and tugged the strap of her toiletries bag off of her shoulder, hiking it up on his alongside the duffle bag before re-situating the makeup case in his right hand and taking her hand with his left.

“Oh,” Rose exhaled, blushing deeper.

He pulled her down the stairs and through the loft with purpose, stopping only to grab her laptop case, which she tried to insist on carrying herself, but ultimately lost. He tugged her gently when she paused passing the kitchen, her eyes lingering on the glass that littered the floor still.

The slam of the door behind them cut off her view.

Chapter Text

His skin felt tight.

It was the only way he could think to describe how he felt like he was bursting at the seams with an array of emotions that were so jumbled he couldn’t begin to untangle them.

Rage, first and foremost. Incandescent, hot, burning, rage. He’d known, he’d known, that Rose had been the victim of abuse, but he’d thought it was in the past. Of course, her producer was exploiting her, making her life miserable and causing all sorts of issues for her, but he had also abused her? Was still abusing her? She’d said he hadn’t hit her ‘in years,’ but the Doctor could read between the lines. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t been threatening, scaring her into compliance, or hurting her in other ways up until today. Not to mention the fact that meant that he had hit her before, often, if he had to guess.

But he didn’t have to guess. For every word Rose didn’t say, he could hear the implications, the details she held back. The things she had glossed over were as evident as the bruise on her face. The bruise Saxon had given her. Today.

What did she mean when she said she fought back, this time?

The Doctor had been away from her side for mere hours, and he’d failed her. He’d been failing her for months. As long as he’d known her, he’d been failing her.

Failed to see it. Failed to stop it.

Failed to make her feel safe enough to tell him. Failed to protect her.

He’d known Donna was holding details back from him, telling him over and over that it was Rose’s story to tell, but he knew his sister well enough to know that if she’d known this… Saxon would be dead already. Maimed at the very least. She’d told him, when he had first come to her about Rose having been abused, back before he knew of that Rose and Bad Wolf were one and the same, that the bad contract that she had signed had been a manipulative tactic by Saxon. That he’d swooped in to ‘rescue’ her from an abusive boyfriend and used that to exploit her for all the money and work he could squeeze from her.

When he’d learned Bad Wolf and Rose were the same person, he’d simply assumed Rose’s history of abuse ended with that boyfriend ten years ago. She’d even told him about Jimmy, months ago, sitting on the hood of his car staring at the ocean, but she’d never given any indication that she’d merely traded one abuser for another.

His mind kept going back to that very first day, when he’d taken a stranger’s hand and felt the turn of the Earth beneath him for the first time. Walking in that park, feeling as if he’d known her for lifetimes, he’d seen the trepidation in her eyes when her phone had rung. He’d felt a flash of protectiveness then that he’d shrugged off as simple jealousy. He didn’t want to share his time with her, wanted to keep talking to the most stunning and fascinating person he’d ever met. He had been afraid for a moment the call was from a partner, his stomach turning to lead before she’d admitted it was her boss. She’d told him right then and there that he would keep calling until she answered, told him with a small, hesitant voice that she didn’t want to answer it. And what had he done?

Nothing.

Worse than nothing— he’d been happy. Because he’d thought she meant she’d rather spend more time with him.

He’d seen for weeks now how she was never at her flat unless it was late at night or very early in the morning, seen the way she lingered wherever they were even when drooping in exhaustion. The way she’d started coming to his flat almost immediately after work to cook or read on his sofa, or drag him out on an adventure, letting herself in and making herself at home after he’d given her a key. He’d thought it endearing, the way she seemed to love being around people— him especially— and had even given thought to the fact that she seemed lonely, but never even considered the alternative.

That she was hiding; taking refuge with him, with Donna, and with Jack, as often as she could. She even sought out his grandad’s gentle presence, instinctively.

He’d been too hellbent on keeping her at arm’s length, hiding his love for her out of fear that she would disappear the second her contract expired, and she was free. He’d been terrified of how deeply he felt for her so quickly, how it had gutted him to the core when he’d learned the secret of her identity the first time. He’d been too distracted by holding himself back because he was so sure he would hurt her— thought his anger too explosive to deserve being around her, when she had been abused before, thought his past too dark to sully her with. He’d been too busy self-flagellating for taking liberties with her the first few weeks they’d known each other to notice how she stuck around, because just as he’d already loved her, she’d already loved him.

And today, just this morning, he’d been too caught up in his own joy of their finally admitting their love to each other that he’d brushed off the panic in her eyes as she lied right to his face about being fine. He would never forgive himself.

But he wouldn’t let her go again either.

Not when he knew now, and he could finally do better. He could protect her, if she let him. She’d never step foot in that flat again if she didn’t want to, and he’d never let her go alone if she’d allow it. As soon as this storm passed, he’d work on convincing her to go to the police and if it was the last thing he did, with the last of the strength in his body, he’d see Saxon behind bars or buried by his own hands.

Of course, he hadn’t known how to articulate any of this to Rose. His sorrow, regret, grief, rage, understanding was too much to push though his thick and stupid tongue no matter how he tried.

So instead, he offered her all of him.

The worst day of his life. The haunting behind his eyes. The pain that followed his every step, thought, breath, and beat of his heart. The hollow carved out space in his chest where even her touch couldn’t reach. He didn’t truly know what he was trying to accomplish in sharing it with her— not her sympathy, or to add to her sorrow and burden— but he wanted her to know.

There was no moral to the story. There was no value to be found in the loss of eighty-six individuals due to his arrogance and pride. There was no common ground to be found in his shame and guilt.

There was only understanding.

I understand your pain, your shame, though mine is different.

I understand why you keep it within you, though I could help, because I do the same.

I understand. I understand. I understand.

She had understood. She’d reached into the heart of him and seen his meaning, his grief, guilt, pain, longing, and she’d understood it all. A barrier that had been between them, held up on both sides with sheer stubborn will and fear of the other’s rejection, had fallen. The space where it had been felt raw, like the edges of a scar, but also like he could breathe deeply for the first time in ten years. Like a stitch in his side that caught sometimes when he ran, that burned and stabbed with sharp insistent pain, but when it released, and his lungs could expand fully again.

Rose Tyler was the sun, and he was all too happy to be caught in her gravitational pull. She was light in his darkness, warmth on his skin, fuel to his desires. She was also dangerous, burning, and unrelenting. Hot-tempered as he was himself, shining incandescent with her own fiery rage that threatened to consume everything around her, should she let it.

She was radiant. And he loved her.

He wanted to burn for her. He would burn for her, had burned for her and risen on the other side a new man that hardly resembled the old. He would no longer let his darkness guide him, not when he had her light to follow instead.

He loved her.

And he would do whatever it would take to prove it to her, to make and keep her safe, to keep her with him. He’d already been pouring his heart and soul into therapy, and making great strides, according to Grace, just so he deserved to be around her. He no longer cared for any of his past objections, not in the face of what they shared. He didn’t believe in much: false gods, would be gods, higher powers, universal truths, even the laws of physics— he scorned them all. But if he did believe in one thing— just one thing— he believed in her.

He thought back to that red bandana, on the day they’d met again, and how he’d uncharacteristically likened it to the red string of fate, even before knowing it was leading him back to her. And while he firmly believed that fate had no fucking business in telling him who to love, he was more than willing to admit that it had been right this time. His love for Rose Tyler was written in the stars that he studied, as constant as gravity. He had been broken and reforged, time and time again, in order to be hers, and though he’d been many things in his life— student, soldier, doctor, scientist, teacher— being hers was the most important.

The drive back to his flat was silent, but the type of silence that fell over the world in the moments before something changed. Anticipation causing them to hold their breath, perhaps, he thought. It was more than the tension that lingered— that had faded to the normal, low waves of desire he always felt for her— but it was acknowledgment that they were leaving something behind in favor of something new. Not grief, but recognition at least.

The silence followed them back into his flat.

Her hand brushed lightly against the mezuzah on the door frame, and he thought bitterly that she might believe more than he ever did. Rose found safety and security inside his walls, behind that door, and every other one that bore the scrolls, with their assumed promise of protection. He’d never known why he’d put the relics up, let alone in every viable door he called his, and not just the front. Even Donna only had one on her front door and her bedroom, and she believed far more than he did and always had.

He’d thought it in part to be defiance. A claim on the heritage that was his by right, against the world that tried to separate scientists and believers, a contradiction that did not hold in his mind. What, after all, did faith have to do with heritage? With shared history? In another way, it was defiance against people who conflated the beliefs he did hold with the vile and twisted actions of others. He’d been angrily tempting the universe with each one, particularly the one on his office door at the university.

After Rose’s soft explanation of what they meant to her, how she’d unknowingly come to the roundabout purpose all on her own, he’d been awed. They were reminders. Reminders of his family, mostly, and his very oldest memory of his grandad lifting him up to touch the mezuzah at his bedroom door. In his grief and anger, the ritual brush of his fingers against the metal cooled him with their presence. Now, they were reminders of her, and the delicate brush of her fingers against the metal, against his skin. Of her golden head bent over the open prayer book with his grandad, tossed back in laughter with his sister, or resting on Jack’s shoulder tiredly. Her hand curled delicately around the thistle patterned mug and pressed into her chest.

They were all of those things, rolled up on each other and themselves, just as the scroll inside was.

And he could not deny that they had brought him blessings.

He deposited her bags in the bedroom and set about making them each a strong cuppa. He had a feeling they had more talking to do and that they would need it.

The Doctor prepared her tea in the mug he’d unconsciously deemed hers, the vintage teacup with the thistle pattern he’d given her the first time she’d been in his flat. The mug had been in the cabinet when he’d moved into the place and he’d held onto it for years, though he never used it. Donna did, occasionally, but the little thing had not seen much love over the years until Rose.

It had been made for her. The delicate pattern of intertwined thistle flowers that adorned the ivory porcelain were the perfect representation of his Rose, in his mind. Beautiful and wild— untamable in a way he would never want to quell— and sharp enough to draw blood if not treated with care. The symbolic meaning of the flower was everything she was summed up in words: devotion, bravery, determination. Strength and resilience.

More than that even, the intertwined pink and blue blossoms he idyllically deemed as a representation of them.

Her hand had curved around it elegantly that first day, when Glen Miller played in the background, slipping a finger in the handle and cradling it to her chest while they spoke. The image had been burned into his mind. She looked so at home, so right, in his home, on his sofa, with that mug in her hands. Whenever she was here, when she made tea herself or if he made it for them, he watched the way her fingers slid through the handle, the way her pink lips kissed the rim. He was obsessed with the way her thumb brushed across the slightly textured pattern when she was deep in thought, or nervous.

So, it was hers. Everything he had was hers, but she seemed content with the mug and his heart.

When he finished, he turned to find Rose standing hesitantly in the middle of the living room, her arms curled around herself protectively, as if she was cold. Or holding herself together. She looked even smaller than normal with his oversized coat still swallowing her frame, and the horrible, shell-shocked look on her face.

The Doctor sighed. Yes, they definitely had more talking to do. He could tell from her posture and refusal to get comfortable that she had something to say. He set the mugs down on the coffee table and wrapped his arms around her. She relaxed into his hold almost immediately, laying her head on his chest with her own sigh.

“I have to tell you the rest,” she admitted quietly. “Or I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to."

There’s more? Oh. Oh his precious girl.

“Ok,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Whatever you need, precious.”

“Can… can you sit? It helps when you’re not so… big,” her voice was hesitating and soft, the admission crushing his heart for her, but he was also proud that she vocalized it.

He gave her head another kiss and sat immediately, though he couldn’t keep himself from leaning forward towards her. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together in front of him, where she could see them, and that seemed to help too.

The Doctor watched as her mouth opened and closed a few times as she tried to figure out where to start. Her hands dropped to her side and fiddled with the hem of his jacket briefly before coming back up to her arms, her nervousness making her restless. Finally, she seemed to settle with one hand tugging on an earring, and her other arm around her stomach.

“I’ve been dealing with this a long time, yeah?” She said finally. “Mostly on my own. The first couple of years, my mum and I weren’t even speaking because she was angry with me for running away with Jimmy. It wasn’t the best reaction she could’ve had, and we’ve done a lot of work to get over it together, but it’s the truth. Even after we started talking again, I only told her not to expect any money because the contract screwed me out of it. So basically, until I met Donna a couple of years ago— I had no one that knew any of this.”

He was more and more convinced that she was the strongest person he’d ever known. Even in the depths of his suffering he’d had Donna, and Grandad, and even Jack had refused to cease being a thorn in his side once they’d been discharged, and the bastard had wormed his way into his heart. Even Harriet, useless as she’d been, had been around for him to talk to if he needed. Rose had no one. For years.

It was no wonder she hadn’t told him— it was ingrained and instinctual for her to shoulder it on her own.

“Saxon found me singing with Jimmy’s band after their lead got too drunk or high to come to a gig. I didn’t want to be there, but the money the bar paid the band was good, and I got a cut that I thought would get me home if I stuck it out a bit longer. Jimmy was using, and he was pretty much beating the shit out of me all the time by then, and I was desperate.”

He’d heard parts of this story before, but not so brutally told. She’d given him few details about her relationship with Jimmy Stone, that day staring at the ocean, and fewer still about how Saxon had played a part in it. She’d told him only that the money Saxon offered was enough to get her away from Jimmy, who had convinced her to run away from home and then hit her a few times. She’d mentioned he’d stolen from money from her as well, and he’d assumed that the bastard had likely done so for drugs, but Rose had never confirmed or denied.

Not that he’d asked.

This was painting a much different story. Before, she’d given him only broad strokes with a wide brush that covered and obscured more than it told. This telling was more like wiping away the veneer she’d laid over the top of the story and letting him see the details for the first time. She still gave only the outline and maybe would never be able to fill in the finer details, but each word still revealed more to him than what she’d told him before, and he could extrapolate from there, until she was ready. If she was every ready.

“He offered the band a deal first, but Jimmy wouldn’t take it because he was trying to make Saxon offer better terms. But he didn’t— he offered me a contract, and when Jimmy exploded about it, he had him arrested. He manipulated the situation to make Jimmy explode, so he could get him arrested, to play knight in shining armor for me. He offered me a good contract first, but I told him I wanted the Bad Wolf clause, and he said he’d rewrite it. When I went in to Saxon Studios to sign it, he drugged me.”

The Doctor’s heart skipped a beat at her brusque, semi-detached account. Several. It lurched to a complete stop in his chest and dropped like a lead weight into his stomach. She continued on without pause, not really looking at him.

“When I came to, I’d already signed the contract, but it was a totally different one than he’d shown me before. I woke up in some hotel room, with nothing but a copy of the contract on the table and the clothes on my back. I took it and ran. I went to everywhere I could think of looking for help, but no one would help me. I was sixteen, I had obviously been drugged, and I was beat black and blue, running around London with no money. They made their assumptions, and every single one of them slammed the door in my face. Solicitors, cops, my mum, Mickey.”

He couldn’t imagine the terror she must’ve felt. He couldn’t imagine her mum and her supposed friend turning her away. Solicitors and cops, sure, they were corrupt to the core, but her family? She said they’d made peace with it, but he knew then he would never.

She’d only been sixteen.

Her age and the drugging alone should have been enough to get her out of the contract, by any legal standards, but would she have even known that at sixteen, when no one would help her? And if every single person turned their back on her, where would she have gone otherwise?

“I went back to the hotel because I didn’t know what else to do. And he was there, in the room waiting for me.”

She hesitated for the first time, faltering in her storytelling. She dropped her hand from fiddling with her earring to tighten her arms around herself until her knuckles turned white. Her hesitancy spiked primal fear in him.

“Rose, has he ever—” he trailed off, spinning wildly, terrified to put voice to the question that was haunting him.

“He’s never raped me, no,” she said bluntly, as if she’d been anticipating the question. “I thought he might’ve at the time, when he drugged me, but after a while I decided that if he had, I’d’ve known. He did it just to fuck with me, to make me think he had, on top of getting me to sign. He would’ve made sure I knew if he really did. He’s the kind to… like leaving evidence. And I think he’d make sure I was—” she faltered once more, searching for something. “Present,” she said finally. “Mentally. So, I couldn’t forget.”

Bile burned his throat as he fought to keep from retching at her words.

“But there were times I thought he was going to,” she whispered, turning away from him fully. Not being able to see her face made his heart ache. The fact that she felt so ashamed that she needed to hide hurt more. “He got some sick pleasure out of reminding me that we were in the recording studio alone. He’d make me stay late, point out that it was late, frame it as reprimanding me for not doing well. ‘Even the janitors have gone home by now, little Wolf,’” she said, mimicking what he assumed was his posh accent. “He really liked reminding me that the booth was soundproof.”

Her voice was so hollow and emotionless, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to do something. Sweep her into his arms, protect her. Absorb her into himself so fully no one could ever hurt her again. But she’d asked him to sit, and he was horrified that he might scare her with her memories so close to the surface. She stood just a few feet from him, but the space felt like an ocean.

Just as he was churning with indecision, she turned back around and stepped closer with trepidation, seeking his comfort. He held out his arms for her, encouraging her to climb into his lap and thankfully, she did. The Doctor found himself nearly thanking a god he didn’t believe in that he could at least offer her that.

Once she was curled up and leaning on his chest, he gently reached around her and uncurled her hands once more from the bruising grip she had on herself, offering his own hand up for her to grasp. She took it like it was a lifeline, still not looking him in the face, but accepting the comfort.

“The first few times, he said it like it was a joke, but obviously I knew what he was implying. He wanted me to agree though, I think. He wanted to wear me down and coerce me into it, not force me. For me to know he could force me, but since he didn’t… like he thought if he did it that way, it would be easier to do again, and again, until I just let him whenever he wanted. Until he wore me down entirely into his perfect little toy. I could see it in his eyes every time I fought him over anything. He liked that I fought him, because it would be more satisfying to break me that way.”

Sick fucking bastard. She had been sixteen.

“Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was so scared, but I was so sick of being scared. Scared of him, scared of Jimmy. It had been years at that point, I was about a year and a half into my contract with him, so I was almost eighteen. I’d been with Jimmy since I was fifteen. I was tired. I screamed at him— told him no, and that it would never happen, told him to quit asking because he was my boss. As if that had stopped him from any of the other stuff he did.”

An odd, choking laugh escaped her then and she was trembling in his arms, clutching his hand to her chest. Her heart fluttered under his hand, fast enough to set off alarm bells when he also took note on how fast and shallow her chest rose and fell with her breath.

“I thought he was going to kill me,” she laughed, on the edge of hysteria. “Just the look in his eyes was absolutely unhinged. I kept staring him down ‘cos I thought ‘if I look away…’ I started tryin’ to figure out how I was gonna fight him off, if I even could. I just kept thinkin’ that I’d rather let him kill me than let that happen again. And then all of a sudden, it was like a switch flipped. He was back to smiling and directing me out of the sound booth, said we were done for the night. It was like that tonight too. I screamed at him that I wasn’t going to be his fucking puppet any more, and I just knew he was going to kill me. I could see in his eyes how he wanted to do it— not just how much he wanted to, but exactly how he would do it.”

The Doctor had never felt so much, and yet so felt so numb. There was so much rage, and sorrow, and grief, coursing through him on her behalf, and joy that she was here and mostly uninjured, and pride and awe that she was so strong. And love. Overwhelming and endless and so strong it took his breath away. She was so brave, and he would never stop hating himself for not having been there for her. She’d been fighting for her life, terrified, and beaten, while he’d what? Lectured? Talked about her with his students like he hadn’t a care in the world?

“Guilt later. Rose now,” he told himself angrily.

She took a deep shuddering breath and turned to look at him finally. He sensed that meant that the worst of it, in her opinion at least, was over. She still didn’t meet his eyes, per-se, but she spoke to him more directly.

“There’s been other times too though. He’s touched and pushed and seen just about everything,” she admitted shamefully. “From the time I first signed, he insisted on being in the dressing room for fittings and stuff. He’d only leave when I absolutely had to get changed, but costume fittings… I had to just stand there, mostly naked, while they did measurements and stuff. And he just watched.”

“You were sixteen,” the Doctor said out loud the horrified thought that kept echoing in his mind. “No one said anything?”

She shook her head. “Once mum and I started talkin’ again, I started bringing her around to those things when I could, and he wouldn’t while she was there, but whenever she couldn’t be, he’d shove his way back in. Made all kinds of excuses, especially at the beginning. He even used the fact that he offered to be a witness statement in my case against Jimmy, said it was ‘cos of him that Jimmy actually got sentenced.”

“How long?” The Doctor could help but ground out his interruption.

“Between Saxon’s statement n’ my age, he got a max sentence. Nineteen years. ‘S got eleven left,” Rose confirmed with a deep breath. Like she was also reminding herself that at least she did not have that to worry about in that moment.

Any bit of vindictive pleasure that he might have felt in the information didn’t even have time to take hold before Rose continued.

“He stopped when I got a bit older, but I couldn’t ever figure out if it was because I started pushing back more successfully, or because I got older. He’s stopped almost everything since I turned twenty-five, and I rarely even see him in person anymore. Just pulls at my strings from a distance now, really.”

His face twisted up in disgust again and they fell into a tense silence. Her grip gradually loosened on his hand, though she didn’t let it go, and she began to idly play with his fingers to soothe herself.

He was lost as he tried to process all that she’d told him, especially regarding how she’d nearly had to fight to keep him from killing her in his rage— more than once— and how she’d rather that he did kill her instead of—

“Hold on,” he blurted. “You said again?”

“Hmm?” she hummed, not looking up.

Another question she’d anticipated, but now one she was trying to deflect. She kept her head down pointedly, in fact, staring at his hand like it held all the answers in the universe. Her shoulders drew in, as if she was trying to shrink even further into the safety of his coat around her.

An image of her flashed across the forefront of his mind, a memory, from the first day they’d met. She’d been so small, he realized with horror. How had he not realized? Over the past few weeks she’d gained such beautiful, healthy weight, and a healthy glow about her face. There had been a newfound confidence in the set of her shoulders, in her gait as they walked together. She’d always been bold, she’d always challenged him, but it came faster now, as if she was less stuck in her head. She was more willing to outright fight him and stand her ground than to calmly disagree, a shift between them that had him on the edge of snapping for weeks out of raw, burning lust.

It had occurred so gradually he hadn’t consciously noticed, but the face blanched with fear in front of him and the comparatively sickly looking Rose in his memory made the difference a stark, unmistakable contrast. If it weren’t for his photographic memory, he’d be sure he was misremembering— assigning new information to the old memories to make them fit what he now knew— but he knew from experience with other grisly memories that his mind simply did not work that way.

The way she huddled down in his coat, face white and drained of that healthy glow, or that happy flush, the Doctor tried to bite down on his tongue to keep from asking the question she obviously feared he would, but on near autopilot, the words fell from his lips anyway. It was compulsive, the need to know burning through him like ice injected straight into his veins.

“You said, you’d rather let him kill you than let it happen again. I thought you said he never…” His own voice sounded far away through the thundering rush of blood in his ears as he waited for her response. Her motions with his fingers stopped, and so did her breathing. Finally, she nodded slowly, just once.

“Rose?” the Doctor choked out, begging.

“Yeah?” She responded, stalling. Her voice was so small. She sniffled but nodded again to herself, as if convincing herself to go on. “I said… I said Saxon never did.”

Understanding crashed over him with brutal crushing force: Maximum sentence. Jimmy had earned himself the maximum sentence for crimes that were notoriously under-charged.

 “I see,” he whispered raggedly.

What else could he say? Slowly, still scared of frightening her, he brought his arms up around her and wrapped them around her. When she didn’t react, he tightened them into a real embrace. When she let out a shuddering sob and turned her face into his chest, he tightened them further and crushed her into himself the way he had been desperate to since letting her go back at the loft. He let her cry into his jumper once more, for the fourth time this week, absentmindedly astounded that she still had tears to release.

He’d have to make sure she drank some water soon and likely get her some pain relief for her head. Especially with that nasty bruise that was no doubt starting to— He shook himself. She didn’t need the Doctor part of him now. He couldn’t afford to be detached from this pain. She couldn’t detach from it, so he wouldn’t either.

“My precious girl,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “I’m here.”

“Why do you call me that?” She cried. “You can’t still think that.”

Absolutely not. He would not abide by her thinking that, not for a single goddamn second. If he could do anything, it would be this— to convince her of how he saw her.

“Rose, look at me, love,” he ordered gently.

It took a moment, but she obeyed, sniffing and wiping her eyes with her hand. She pulled back just enough, clutching his jumper still with her other hand, and met his eyes. He tried to project calm and patience to her, but he was unsure how well it worked, or how sincere it came off, given his general state of unrest and impatience any other time. He channeled every bit of his Grandad’s kindness, and Grace’s patience, and Donna’s bravery that he could possibly tap into.

Rose’s bravery.

Finally, her golden brown eyes met his, wide and watery, but breathtaking.

“You are my gravity,” he stated. “From the moment I met you, you’ve been drawing me into your orbit. You don’t have some worth that can be diminished— not by anything. You aren’t a thing. You’re the godsdamned sun, Rose Tyler. Do you hear me?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks still, but her sobs and shuddering had stopped. Her mouth was open in a little pink ‘O’ of shock, her cheeks that were already pink from crying turning red. His frozen heart stuttered back into rhythm in overwhelming relief at seeing the color back in her cheeks.

“I asked you a question, love. Do you hear me?” The Doctor asked slowly, reaching up and cupping her jaw so she couldn’t look away.

She nodded shyly into his hand, and he couldn’t help but smile. They would get through this. No matter what it took, he wouldn’t let her go again.

Chapter Text

Despite the relatively early hour, Rose was exhausted. The highs and lows of her emotional state throughout the day felt too extreme to even be called a roller coaster. She felt like she’d been put through the wringer and felt as though she looked like she’d been in the ring. The bruise on her cheek throbbed dully, her head was pounding from the amount of crying she’d been doing, and she felt disgusting. All she wanted was a long, hot shower, and to curl up in the Doctor’s bed, preferably with him holding her.

Well, that wasn’t all she wanted. But she certainly wasn’t going to get it looking and feeling as she did. No matter how his eyes kept lingering on his own jacket on her shoulders.

She mentally shook her head at herself and chuckled self-deprecatingly. How could she even still be thinking about sex at a time like this? No doubt the Doctor had also been through the emotional vortex today, from their beautiful morning, showing up scared to her flat because he’d found her phone, finding her battered and nearly catatonic, and sharing his own trauma on top of learning hers. Still, she yearned to seek comfort in him in that way.

Maybe if it wouldn’t be their first time she would feel less… blasphemous... about it, but she didn’t want to sully their first time making love with the heaviness of the day. But the need for comfort, for touch, to feel every inch of his skin that was physically possible pressed into hers was dizzying in its intensity.

His gentle, healer’s hands could wipe away the aching, desperate loneliness that lived in her skin.

The Doctor let her stay in his lap even after she couldn’t stand the grime on her skin any longer, not complaining a single bit despite the fact that she had to have made his legs fall asleep a long time ago. Even still, feeling restless and uncomfortable in her muck, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the safety and comfort of his arms. Eventually, her stomach protested. Loudly.

Rose blushed and stammered out an apology when he chuckled.

“No, I’m rather hungry myself, now that I’m paying attention,” he admitted, rubbing her side soothingly. “Have you even eaten at all today?”

She shook her head, butterflies fluttering in her stomach at his slight frown.

“I can order us some food. Chips?” He looked at her with scrutiny and the frown deepened. “No,” he decided, causal but firm. “Soup, I think.”

Part of her wanted to argue, just because of the arrogant, knowing way he said it, but she couldn’t help but begrudgingly admit he was right. Her stomach was in knots still, and the greasy chips would not help, even if they were her go-to comfort food. Soup on the other hand, sounded heavenly. Damn him and his knowing her so well. Damn him and his Doctoring.

Another part of her, an equally large part, was practically floating on the way he took charge in order to care for her. His actions at her loft and now this, and she felt the emotional and mental equivalent of when he’d pulled the blanket over her hips that morning and encouraged her to sleep.

No part of her doubted his sincerity. If she argued and said she wanted chips, or anything else, he’d immediately get it for her. His ‘decision’ was a suggestion, veiled under a layer of confidence, but one he would very easily retract if she in return suggested it was unwanted. The line between decisive and controlling was so easy to see when the Doctor was involved, and she loved it. For now, she was more than happy to let him make the decisions, until her mind settled back into a stable emotional state.

“Soup would be fantastic, Doctor,” she responded gratefully.

With a little more wiggling and gentle jostling than was necessary, just to draw a laugh from her in his lap, he managed to maneuver his phone from his back pocket and placed an order while she laid on his chest. He continued to allow her to stay while they waited on the food as well and spoke softly of trivial things such as silly questions his students had asked him today. She let out a small laugh when he confessed he’d been bullied by his graduate students— and Bill, who was not officially on any class roster, at least not of his— when their morning activities had made him late.

His rich voice and soft tone almost had her drifting off to sleep, and had she not been so uncomfortable in feeling filthy, she might’ve passed out entirely. She couldn’t recall a time she’d ever felt so safe before— so protected— as she did in his lap, with his strong arms around her; in his cozy home where no one but him knew where she was. Especially, after he started unconsciously stroking a thumb rhythmically across her hip, having slipped the digit up under his coat and the waistband of her jeans to touch her skin directly. She teetered on the edge of sleep even as the brush of his calloused digit against her skin set off a low simmer of arousal in her.

The knock on the door startled and disappointed them both.

Rose slid languidly from his lap with a sigh and moved towards the door when he grabbed her wrist gently and stopped her.

“I’ll get it,” he said, an edge to his voice that sent a spark of electricity up her spine.

She didn’t understand what he thought he was protecting her from just by getting their takeaway himself, but she couldn’t deny that it thrilled her. Still, there was something to be said for him being over-protective, which was a line she didn’t want to cross and filled her with slight anxiety to think about. And if he was letting her stay here for a while, until Saxon calmed down, she had to pull her own weight somehow. She couldn’t let him think she was going to freeload.

“No, it’s alright,” she replied lightly. “Besides, aren’t your legs asleep?”

The Doctor frowned, his brow furrowing, and looked down at his legs as if he just noticed them. She laughed, tugging her hand away and stepping towards the door.

Rose grabbed the food from the delivery girl, a sweet freckle-faced girl who looked too tired for her age. She gave her a wadded up twenty-pound note from her wallet with a soft smile and the girl beamed in return. By the time she returned to the living room, the Doctor was standing, sort of, with his hand on the back of the sofa holding himself steady.

She laughed again, harder, at the annoyed look on his face. “I’m sorry I made your legs fall asleep,” she giggled.

“Worth it,” he grunted, shaking one of his legs before taking a tentative step forward towards the kitchen. His pace was slow, but only for him. He was so full of manic energy all the time she imagined he was frustrated by his legs not responding properly, even if only for a moment.

Giggling, Rose unloaded the contents of the delivery bag on the counter. She hadn’t really paid attention to what he’d ordered, more content to lean her head into the junction of his neck and shoulder and breathe in his scent, so she was pleased to find two sections of thick, hearty bread alongside the two hefty plastic containers of soup. The mouthwatering smell of broth and vegetables filled the kitchen as she pried the lid off, but she hesitated at the sight of it.

“Uh, Doctor, what kind of soup is this?” She asked, peering at the large floating masses in the middle with trepidation.

The Doctor reached for the second container, and she looked up at him. His face was sheepish but grinning, and she felt an answering grin tug on her lips.

“It’s matzo ball,” he responded. “I should’ve asked, but I just kind of spaced out and ordered comfort food, I guess. Or near enough. S’not grandad’s,” he scoffed, winking at her. “But it’s good.”

Comfort food. The Doctor had ordered her his comfort food.

The new piece of information about the man she loved slid into place, tucked away for a rainy day, as a new torrent of emotions rushed through her. She felt so loved and sheltered; wrapped in his armor, which he’d given up for her, in his flat, where he’d brought her to escape, being gifted with this piece of himself, sharing his comfort with her. He’d said he hadn’t thought, but she thought it might be the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for her in a long time.

She pushed past the lump in her throat, and said with a tongue-touched grin, “At least it’s not burnt.”

He laughed, the memory of her scorched pot and ruined soup from last game night prompting her to laugh as well. She mentally vowed that she would make sure she got better at cooking before asking Wilf to teach her to make his soup recipe for the Doctor.

They ate standing at the kitchen island. She wasn’t surprised, as she took her first bite, that it was one of the best meals she’d ever had. Though she was convinced it was mostly the company, and the knowledge that he enjoyed it. It was warm and filling, familiar enough to chicken noodle soup that it revived her and new enough to be exciting.

Rose practically inhaled her soup and bread, her hunger having made itself known with a vengeance once she started eating, and the Doctor wordless passed her his side of bread and encouraged her to eat it with raised eyebrows. She took it with a soft blush and a murmured thanks.

When they’d finished, they stared at each other somewhat awkwardly, as if to say, “Now what?” The food left her feeling warm and contented, and she was nearly swaying with exhaustion. Her body ached, however, and the grime on her skin demanded her attention before she could comfortably rest.

“Um, Doctor, do you mind if I—? I need to shower,” She asked hesitantly.

“I was just thinkin’ that meself,” he admitted with a grin. After a second, and a raised eyebrow at him, his grin faltered and he added, belatedly, “About me! Not you— you’re not— oh, you little minx,” he growled at her teasing grin.

Rose laughed. “Maybe you should go first then,” she suggested. “I’ll probably take longer and use up all your hot water.”

The Doctor nodded slowly, but his face looked conflicted.

“Or,” she blurted, heart racing. Her exhaustion faded as she met his eyes with her own and heat flashed between them. “We could together?”

It was an awful idea, she knew, for all the reasons she had thought about earlier and more, but she wanted him. Wanted him with her, wanted him to see her, wanted to know that he wanted her in return, despite the revelations of the day.

His eyes flicked down once more to his own coat on her shoulders, the same slight quirk of his lips that he expressed each time he’d done so since he’d given it to her—which she wasn’t even sure he was aware he was doing— growing into a full blow smirk.

“Fantastic,” he responded, reaching out his hand for hers.

Chapter Text

“Oh, can these bandages get wet?” Rose asked, frustrated.

He’d insisted she drink a glass of water and take a painkiller after she’d swayed dizzily in her attempt to walk to his bedroom, mocking her gently in return for mocking him when his legs were asleep. She had to admit it did make her feel slightly better, but the delay on top of his apparently ridiculously complex shower system was making her grouchier by the second.

He’d drawn back the shower curtain to reveal a mess of pipes, held together by tape and prayers she assumed, against one wall of the already small shower stall.

The Doctor was a damned astrophysicist, and he refused to call a plumber, apparently, and now the shower was a Rube-Goldberg machine of complexities to get it to work properly. His skilled hands flew across several valves and knobs that needed turned with a wicked grin, as if he was proud of the monstrosity he’d created. The pipes made unholy rattling sounds, but she’d yet to see water come out of either of the showerheads that poked out of the walls at curious angles.

“Will these bandages get wet?” She muttered under her breath.

“Ye of little faith,” he quipped. “Hand me that hammer.”

“Hammer?”

“On the back of the toilet.”

Rose sighed but did as he requested, locating the little rubber mallet on the tank of his toilet and passing it over. She was never going to be able to figure the damn shower out on her own, so she sat on the toilet seat while he worked with her head in her hands. She wished she hadn’t taken off his coat before entering the bathroom. She’d not wanted the steam from the shower to hurt the leather, and had anticipated that she wouldn’t need it if they were getting into the warm water, but now, ten minutes later and still sitting on his toilet, she was cold again. The comforting warmth of the soup and his presence still warmed her from within, but physically, she was still recovering from shock.

She also had the depressing thought that her body simply didn’t know how to be warm on its own anymore. At the very least, in moments of stillness, the cold seemed to creep back in no matter what. The bandages on her arms, which had been covered by his jacket nearly since he’d placed them on her, had also chilled her.

“They’ll be fine, by the way. Your bandages,” he called out, pinging the hammer against one of the shower heads, which finally sputtered to life.

Well, life was a bit of an overstatement, but a trickle of water was now streaming from it.

He hummed and adjusted a valve to his left without looking, and the water pressure increased, though the other shower head stayed stubbornly off. He stood and dusted off his hands with a satisfied look on his face and turned to her, grinning, and despite her frustration she couldn’t help but grin back. He was just so silly.

“It’ll warm up quick and the other one will kick on,” he told her.

“Why not get it fixed?” She asked, standing to kick off her shoes eagerly.

“Get what fixed?” He responded from down by his boots, the laces halfway undone. “It’s not broken.”

The ridiculous conversation soothed her nerves as she began to undress, feeling almost casual. Like it was something they did every day, or like they were strolling in the park having a conversation instead. Her heart still beat rapidly in her chest, but her hands did not shake as she unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down her legs, not even when she noticed him watching the action with a truly terrible attempt at concealing his interest.

So what if she shimmied a bit more than necessary? Or that she didn’t take her knickers at the same time as she might’ve normally, just so she could do it again? Just to watch his eyes narrow and fixate and darken on the sight of the pale blue lace?

“Doctor, you needed a mallet to make it work,” she reminded him.

His response was slow coming when she crossed her arms over her torso and grabbed the hem of her shirt.

“And I have one, so what’s it matter?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed, missing his reaction to her statement as she pulled her shirt over her head. “I knew you didn’t keep showering at my flat just because you like my soap.”

She tossed it to the floor with her jeans and turned back to him, where she noted that his boots were unlaced, but still on, alongside everything else. Suddenly self-conscious, her arms came up to cover her chest.

“Aren’t you gonna…” she trailed off.

The quickness with which he undressed from there would’ve been funny, were it not for the heated look he stared her down with the entire time. By the time he stood just in his boxer shorts, her breathing was more than a little uneven. He was gorgeous.

Tall, and trim, well-muscled but not overly so, to the point where it would be bulky. His arms were solid, and she knew the strength in them from how he carried her with such ease. On his shoulder, she saw for the first time the mass of scar tissue that she saw him rub at from time to time, and despite its grim nature, it was beautiful to her. It was a sign that he was here, despite it all. By some miracle he had survived with that mark as a reminder, and he had made it to her.

She saw him stiffen when her eyes locked onto it, but she did not hide her admiration. She knew he was searching her for signs of her own; scars or other marks that Saxon or Jimmy might’ve left behind that he hadn’t seen in tending to her wounds, and she let him.

His chest was covered in a light smattering of dark hair, above toned muscles and ribs her fingers itched to trace. A trail of hair she wanted to follow with her tongue, extended from his navel to the edge of his pants, and disappeared beneath enticingly. And oh, but his legs. Long, and well defined from running, flexing powerful muscles that led up to that tight, firm backside she’d admired for months and couldn’t wait to get her hands on.

“Alright?” The Doctor asked, teasing, but with an edge of doubt creeping in.

Rose’s eyes shot up to his and his eyes darkened in response to the darkness in hers.

“I believe it’s you that’s overdressed now,” he said, husky and low.

Rose unclasped her bra with shaking hands and slipped it from her shoulders, pressing it to her chest with one hand for only the span of one breath longer before letting it drop. She watched intently as his gaze darkened further, and a rumble of approval echoed from his chest. A smirk appeared on his lips at the flush that made its way across the top of her chest.

They reached for the last barriers that separated them together and let them fall at the same time.

Rose couldn’t have helped the little shocked squeak that escaped her mouth if she’d been trying. She’d been so distracted by his strong legs and dark eyes she hadn’t even glanced at the front of his shorts, but with the barrier removed, her eyes were drawn. Now, in fact, she didn’t know how she was supposed to look anywhere else.

“No wonder he’s so goddamn arrogant all the time,” she thought, sincerely. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

A low, dark, pleased chuckle came from him, and she flushed deeper. Had she said any of that out loud, or was it just him reading her mind once more? She tore her eyes away from his bloody enormous cock, and back up to his face, where that smug smirk that featured in all her most toe-curling daydreams seemed etched onto his face.

She certainly wasn’t cold now.

The Doctor swept a gallant hand in front of him and directed her into the shower. As she stepped inside, she noted begrudgingly that the second shower head had indeed burst into life as well, and that the width and coverage of the spray was pleasant. One of the only good things about her loft was the shower, with it’s oversized, rainfall shower head, and she had grown somewhat spoiled by the nearly endless supply of hot water and good water pressure that came with living in a fancy building. Even hotel showers were usually disappointing to her after years of living in the loft, but it was a pittance to leave behind in favor of everything else she would enjoy while she stayed with the Doctor.

Even if his water was lukewarm, it was at least well pressured, and the wide arc of the overlapping shower heads would cover them both.

“Is the temperature alright, precious?”

She jumped slightly when his sultry voice sounded directly behind her, and he laughed again. She turned and smacked him lightly, heart thumping wildly at their closeness. No part of them touched yet, but he was close enough she could feel the heat of his skin against hers. No doubt the posture was purposeful on his end. He loved drawing out the tension, she already knew. She remembered clearly that first month together, before it all went wrong, how he’d made a game of drawing it out as long as they could both stand before snapping.

But now, the tension had been building between them for months, with only a few heated kisses to let off any pressure. There would be no snap.

There would be an explosion.

“Could be warmer, if you don’t mind,” she breathed, pleased when her voice didn’t falter.

Without looking away from her, he reached over and adjusted a valve on the wall, and the water grew somewhat warmer. His intensity made her shiver, and he wordlessly adjusted it once more, until the water grew almost hot, and she couldn’t help but let her eyes flutter briefly shut in pleasure and released a little moan.

The Doctor’s hand shot out like a whip at the sound and gripped her hip, fingers sinking into her flesh, and drug her forward. Her eyes reopened in shock just as every inch of them slid together wetly, and her deeper moan of relief and pleasure was swallowed by his hungry mouth.

His other hand came up and buried itself in her hair, cupping the back of her head and holding her firmly in place, while his hand at her hip slid around to her back and pressed her even closer.

The wide span of his hand covered the entirety of her lower back, and Rose could’ve fainted from the bliss of that alone, but the combination of that and all the delicious skin pressed into her front had her trembling. Her nerves sang, alight in touch-starved pleasure-pain. Her hands scrambled at his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, closer. She wanted to be inside his skin, his heart, wanted to wrap herself around him until they could no longer be distinguishable as two people but were instead one.

The taste of each other exploded in their mouths, and they groaned in unison. His mouth never left her skin, but it did trail downwards once more, retracing his earlier path to the place behind her ear that made her whine.

“Yes,” he grunted, rutting his hips against her stomach. “Make those gorgeous noises for me, my precious girl.”

She threw her head back, pressing her breasts more firmly into his chest, still shaking in his arms. His fingers in her hair tightened, pulling until her scalp burned with it, so deliriously good it made her breathless.

“Doctor,” she moaned.

“Say my name, precious,” he ordered, biting down on the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she shouted. The cry was torn from her lips, from the depths of her soul.

“James!”

“That’s right,” he growled, pleased. “Good girl.”

“Oh god,” Rose whimpered.

She’d longed to hear those words from his lips, for him to mean them, but even her fantasies did not come close to the reality of hearing them in his brusque, low voice, dripping with possession and sincerity. Her knees almost buckled from the wave of arousal that coursed through her, alongside a desperate craving to hear him say it again, and again. Anything— she’d do anything—

“Mmm, you like bein’ my good girl, don’t you, Rose?” He purred, noticing her shallow breathing and the way she clung to him tighter to keep herself upright.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

The Doctor’s hand moved slowly from her back to grope the curve of her bum, and he guided her backwards until her back hit the far wall of the shower. His hand in her hair cushioned her head as she collided into it, only a bit roughly, but she still winced. The collision rattled her head, which, though the pounding ache of it had lessened significantly, still throbbed dully. A sharp hiss escaped her, her hands on his shoulders tightening for just a second.

The Doctor started to pull away immediately, but she refused to let him, locking her arms around his neck before he could step away.

“No,” she protested, “Don’t. I just need…” she hesitated.

She didn’t know what she needed. She knew what she wanted, but now that the throbbing pain cleared her lustful fog enough that she could think, she felt dirty again. His hand in her hair had dropped, so she leaned forward and rested her head on his chest once more with a heavy sigh.

“I need to get clean,” she admitted, the weight of her statement clear in her tone.

Chapter Text

Rose drew her head back to meet the Doctor’s eyes, knowing he would understand, but wanting the reassurance that he did anyway. Understanding did flash through his eyes, clearing the fog of lust for him as well, and he nodded. His hand that had been in her hair came up to cup her cheek tenderly, tilting her head so he could press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, precious girl,” he murmured.

The tender moment was no less passionate, but the stillness further cleared each of their heads. Rose was grateful for it, for the pause, and for the shining moment of vulnerable intimacy in his arms. And she was grateful for it because the hot water was already running out. In fact, with the blazing heat in her abdomen dulling to a low smolder— its usual setting in his presence— the hot water was not so hot indeed. She shivered and pulled away with an apologetic expression.

“S’cold,” she explained. “Need to get finished before I freeze.”

“Freeze?” He questioned with a dubious tone. “You’re joking. Rose, it’s like a fuckin’ sauna in here. I’m literally drinking the air.”

She laughed, reaching for her shampoo from her shower items she’d placed on the ledge while he had been fiddling with his contraption, intent on hurrying. Her skin still needed a good, harsh scrubbing, especially if she wasn’t able to get the water any hotter.

“Men are such babies,” she teased. “Donna always says Shaun takes tepid showers too and complains she showers in lava.”

“Oi, I’ll thank you not to talk about my sister while I’m trying to be impressive,” he complained.

Rose’s eyes darted down and smirked imperiously. Even half hard as he was now, his cock was substantial. “You’re fine,” she commented dryly. “But noted.”

The Doctor’s chest puffed out a little, and he reached for his own shampoo. Rose noted with keen eyes, feeling somewhat superior at her discovery, that his shampoo was separate from his conditioner, which were both separate from his soap. Now that was impressive, though perhaps it shouldn’t be.

She finished her hair care in record time, letting her conditioner soak while she reached for her body wash and scrub glove.

“What is that?” He asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Exfoliator,” she said, starting on her arms and scrubbing with satisfactory viciousness.

Luckily, Saxon hadn’t touched her, save for across her cheek, so she was just scrubbing off his slimy aura more than anything else. Still, ugh.

“What? Stop that!” The Doctor demanded, grabbing her by the elbow. “You’ve got injuries, you loon.”

Rose laughed, jerking her arm from his grasp. “Relax, doctor Noble,” she teased, “I’ll avoid the bandages. Do know what I’m doin,’ yeah? Shower near every day,” she poked her tongue out through her teeth the way she knew he liked.

The Doctor grabbed her hand and halted her again, this time trying to pull the glove off of her hand.

“Doctor,” she complained, “The water is getting too cold, you’ve gotta let me wash.”

“Do you use that every time?” He demanded harshly.

Her heart fluttered anxiously at the realization he wasn’t playing around. “No, just when I need some extra scrubbing to get clean,” she said evasively. “Like when the water isn’t hot enough to help properly.” Or when the grime is under my skin, she added mentally.

“Rose, the water is not cold,” he said firmly. “And exfoliation gloves are not meant for cleaning purposes, they’re too abrasive.”

She jerked her hand away from him, angry tears stinging her eyes. “What do you know?” She snapped back. “You’re not a dermatologist. Do you think I'm stupid?”

“How hot do you normally take your showers?” He demanded, ignoring her complaints.

She refused to answer on principle, wrapping her arms around herself again, closing off. Why was he being so demanding? He was angry, but what about?

“You’re hurting yourself, Rose. You can’t be tellin’ me that you regularly scald off your skin and scrape off what you can’t burn?” His voice had gentled, somewhat, but his tone still held an edge she couldn’t define.

It broke though her defenses like they were nothing and she knew she couldn’t lie to him, especially not while they were so bare before each other.

“How else am I supposed to get them off of me?” She whispered, desperately. “They’re always touching me; Saxon, and Malcom— or whoever else he shoves me at— and the stylists, and the other dancers, and the crowds.”

So many hands.

She never acknowledged that it was more than just Saxon’s, or the situations he put her in, whose touch bothered her. That the measuring and adjusting of her costumes, or her hair, or the people who held her face while they covered her skin in the thick makeup also left their marks on her skin. That the other dancers that by virtue of the provocative choreography she had to follow were often brushing, touching, grabbing, pulling at her, leaving trails of sweat and numbness behind. Crowds of people, even though they were supposedly fans of hers, that felt entitled to touch her wherever they wanted to get photos.

Malcom’s hand burning into the skin of her back, bare to him not by choice but certainly taken advantage of. Even the touches she had to give in return— her hand on his arm, brushing seductively against one of her dancers in a routine, arms around fans for photos— made her mind detach from her body until the filth on her skin was so heavy she couldn’t stay in that detached state any longer.

“It has to come off,” she said hollowly. “It doesn’t wash away. I’ve tried.”

Slowly, moving deliberately so she could see it and giving her time to move away if she wanted, the Doctor’s hand came up to her chin, and he lifted her head up gently with his single, crooked finger. For that moment, he touched her nowhere else, and the lack of sensation on her skin anywhere but underneath his single finger made her every nerve focus on the feeling of it: The barest pressure, more of the weight of her head resting on it than any he was exerting, the way the delicate skin of her throat bobbed against the callouses on his finger. His thumb gently tugging her lower lip from between her teeth, soothing the marks she had made with soft brushes. His expression was tender, his eyes stormy, but determined.

“Let me try?” The Doctor whispered hoarsely. Begged, nearly.

Her breath caught. She nodded dumbly, too exhausted to do anything else. He leaned down, slow still in case she wanted to move away, and pressed a barely there kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “If you’ll let me.”

Rose waited for the argument to rise up in her, that she didn’t need him to take care of her, but it didn’t. She wanted him to. She was tired. She nodded again, still too stunned for words, and his smile warmed. His thumb stroked her lip for a moment before he turned to grab a flannel cloth and squint at her bottles of products to find the right one.

“Just use yours, James,” she begged softly. “Please?”

He huffed out a little laugh. “Thank god, ‘cos I can’t read those for shit without my glasses,” he told her with a grin.

Laughter bubbled from her chest, unexpected and lovely. She didn’t know how he kept doing that, turning somber moments into laughter, turning her away from her darkest thoughts and pulling her into the light. It wasn’t pushing away the meaning of the moment, or her feelings and memories, but softening them. Laughter wore down the sharp edges like water wore down stone.

Turning back to her, soapy cloth in hand, he waited for her permission before tenderly washing her from head to toe. It could have been ritualistic, for all the devoted care he put into the action. No centimeter of her skin was left unwashed, untouched by his loving, healer’s hands. It warmed her deeper than any hot water could.

When he finished, she held out her hand for the cloth, reached for her soap, and did the same for him. He looked at first like he would protest, and she could already hear exactly what he would say: This is about you. You don’t need to do that. She cut off his objections with a finger to his lips, waiting until he nodded. She tried to show the same amount of attention and care, letting her hands trail across every inch of him, lingering lovingly at the mass of scar tissue on his shoulder. He seemed somewhat embarrassed by the attention, so she didn’t linger too long, but pressed a kiss to it and continued on. The water was well and truly getting cold at that point, and she pouted when he stopped her from kneeling to wash his legs, but didn’t protest.

They didn’t bother with clothes after they dried, crawling into bed and into each other’s arms with no barriers. Neither of their hands seemed to want to still, brushing over bare skin in exploration and reverence, and the air between them grew heated once more. There was silent acknowledgement that they would not fully cross that line, again remembering his statement from the night before— had it really only been a single day? — about wanting their first time making love to not be proceeded by sadness. But there was also a growing understanding that both of them were desperate for touch and comfort and each other.

There was plenty of time later for them to make love.

There was plenty of other things that could be shared in the meantime.

Chapter Text

The Doctor’s lips captured her own once more as he angled their bodies together, guiding her until they laid on their sides face to face. His tongue darted inside her mouth, moaning deeply at the easy admission she granted him. As he had done the night before, he reached down and gripped the flesh of her thigh, pulling her leg up over his hip. He encouraged her to wrap her leg around his fully, bent at her knee and tucking her lower leg around to come in between his knees. His other hand, on the arm tucked underneath him, was gently holding her face as they kissed.

Her hands roamed across his broad chest, his shoulders, and his upper arm as he gripped her thigh. She scraped her nails lightly across his nipples and he jerked, to her amusement. It wasn’t until his hand journeyed up, moving around from her thigh to palm at her arse, that she realized he’d trapped her leg in place by wrapping it around his and clamping down on it. He must’ve felt the moment she ever so slightly tensed at the realization, because his grip on her bum tightened and his kiss deepened, and she could feel the arrogant smirk on his lips against hers.

The ease and confidence with which he had maneuvered her exactly where he wanted her, without a single word, had her whining and desperate. Her hips jerked into the open air where he had purposefully kept space between them, their entangled legs only touching from her thigh down, but not where she needed him. Not where he had purposefully spread her open.

She broke away from the kiss, gasping for air and clutching his arm. He laughed, low and dark.

“Doctor,” she panted. “James, please.”

“Please what, precious?” He murmured. “What do you need from me?”

“Everything,” she thought deliriously.

“Touch me,” she demanded. Tried to demand. She still felt so out of breath and control that it absolutely came out more like begging. Maybe she was begging. She didn’t know or care.

“I am touching you,” he said, punctuating his statement by moving his hand on her bum in a firm caress, kneading the flesh with his palm. “Here.”

“Here,” he bent his head to her neck, sucking at her pulse point, hard. Her back arched in pleasure, her breasts brushing against his chest.

“Here,” he kissed into her skin, his hand having left her bum to come up and repeat his kneading on her breast.

“Doctor,” Rose whined again.

His only response for a moment was a rumbling laugh, and to switch his exploration of her breast from whole handed kneading to dexterously pinching and pulling at her nipples until they pebbled under his fingers. The teasing touches contrasted with the way his other hand still held her face lovingly, his thumb stroking the edge of her jaw. After a few seconds of torture, his hand slowly began to drift lower. He seemed determined to torment her, however. Just as he neared where she needed him, he parted his hand from her, choosing instead to hover just out of reach. Building up that tension just a bit more.

And then he was there. Brushing against her lightly at first but sliding the tips of his fingers through the wet center of her folds boldly after only a moment. He groaned deeply in satisfaction at the same time as her whimpering sigh of relief.

“You’re so wet, Rose,” he groaned. “Fuck, so wet for me. So beautiful.”

He spread her arousal up with his gliding touch, circling her clit firmly. Her leg around his tightened, trying to pull him closer, as she panted and whined. The Doctor touched her like he already knew exactly how to please her, confident and assured in his movements. That alone would have made any touch he gave set her alight. He rubbed her clit slowly in tight, firm circles, interspersed with dipping back down to tease at her entrance every time her hips jerked, gathering more of her slick arousal to ease his motions.

“So responsive,” he purred, pleasure thick in his voice.

“Please,” she begged. “I need more. I need you.”

His thumb stroked her cheek once more, and he kissed her deeply, swallowing her whimpering cries. When he pulled back, he held her gaze, his lust dark eyes locked onto hers. “I know what you need, precious,” he assured her.

His fingers slipped down once more to her entrance, this time not pausing for a moment before he slide inside her. He entered her with two fingers with ease, pushing all the way to the knuckle in one smooth motion. Rose moaned softly, tilting her hips towards him, begging him to continue wordlessly. He paused only briefly to let her stretch and adjust around him but seemed to be unable to wait any longer than she could.

He withdrew almost all the way before pushing back in, again, and again. He set a rhythm of his thrusting fingers that had her quaking in seconds, the push, pull, drag giving her everything she needed. The palm of his hand ground into her clit, his pace steady and pounding. Her hands scrambled at his shoulders, pulling him closer, pulling his face back down to hers. He captured her lips once more, gladly, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth and scraping it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Heat was rising in her faster than she believed possible, and she wanted him to stop and go on in equal measure, wanting it to last forever, but she was also desperate to break beneath his hand. God his hands, she was full of love to the point of bursting— ecstasy almost entirely separate from what he was giving her just over the fact that he had his hands on her at all. She’d spent so long fantasizing over those hands, allowing herself to think only of them when she couldn’t allow herself to wish for all of him.

She’d wanted him for so long now, needed him, loved him, and he could read her mind she was absolutely positive of it, because he sped up his thrusting fingers, hitting her deeper and harder then, too.

Rose had to break away to cry out, and he rolled them until her back pressed into the bed, and he was above her now instead of beside her. He bent down immediately and engulfed her right nipple in his mouth, scraping his teeth across it. She cried out again, loudly, in pleasure and shock at the warm, wet feeling of his mouth on the sensitive nub and surprise at being pressed backward. The motion was so smooth that she was almost convinced he was superhuman, and his rhythm never faltered. Their new position left his other hand, which had been trapped beneath his body weight before, free to drift down to her other nipple. He pinched it firmly, sucking deeply at the same time on the one in his mouth.

Her thighs were on fire, trembling and burning from within as the pleasure rose higher and higher inside her.

“C-close,” she cried out brokenly to him. “Please, I’m— oh god!”

He growled into her breast, releasing her with a wet pop from his mouth. “Come for me, Rose,” he ordered. “I need to see it. Be a good girl for me, now.”

She peaked with his name on her lips, back arching, in an earth-shattering climax. Golden stars burst alight behind her eyelids, and she thought deliriously of the image he’d shown her all those months ago on the projector in his classroom. The pleasure pulsed over her in waves, shooting down all the way to her toes. Her leg around his hip tightened, pulling him closer.

“Good girl,” he growled, keeping the thrusting movements of his hand steady, pushing her through the waves of her climax and extending it until she shook. “Oh, precious girl, just look at you. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, love, and so good for me.”

The praise thrilled her as much as the orgasm did, if not more. It made her dizzy with happiness.

His thrusting gentled and slowed, working her through the aftershocks and bringing her down tenderly. Even after she stopped clenching, he kept his fingers buried inside her, still and unmoving, for a moment before withdrawing them. She whined quietly when he slipped free, though he did so as gently as possible.

“Shh, I know,” he soothed her softly. “My poor Rose, you’ve been so empty, mmm?”

Tears burned the back of her eyes at his gentle question, though she didn’t know why. She really had no tears left to cry at this point, and crying seemed absolutely ridiculous after he’d just given her the best orgasm of her life. She needed to get it together and return the favor.

Once more unable to lie to him, however, she nodded, biting her lip to keep from saying anything she’d regret, or something embarrassing. His hand left her breast and came up to her jaw once more, holding her just a little more firmly than before, his thumb reaching out and pulling her lip from her teeth.

“None of that, precious. Let me hear you,” he ordered.

Already, more liquid arousal was leaking from her, pathetically fast. All the times she’d fantasized about this, about him, and still she’d underestimated. She was fully ready to abandon their unspoken agreement and beg him to fuck her, with the small but nagging exception of she didn’t want the first time they made love to be with a bruise on her face from another man’s hand. She didn’t want that to be the image she presented, or the one that his perfect memory would hold on to.

Pushing her restrengthening need aside, Rose made to sit up, intent on pushing him to lay back on the mattress so she could return the favor. Her fingers twitched to wrap around his length, to feel the heat and weight of it in her hands and on her tongue. It had been years since she’d been with anyone, let alone someone she wanted to please so badly, but she was confident that whatever she lacked in experience, she’d make up for in enthusiasm.

And she was confident that he’d show her exactly what he wanted, anyway.

Bracing her hands, she pushed herself up to scoot into a sitting position, only to be met with a large, warm hand clamping on her shoulder and pushing her back down. She fell back with an oof, and glared at him, confused. His returning glare was searing, channeling every bit of his authority, and her objection died on her lips.

“Did I say I was finished?”

A dark flush heated her skin all the way from the top of her head to her chest. Her ears even burned with heat. Rose shook her head, breathing unevenly. Then, remembering what he’d said just a moment ago, she said out loud, “No, Doctor.”

A proud smile stretched across his face and the sincerity of it drove away some of her embarrassment. For a moment, she saw a flash of vulnerability in his own eyes. In that instant, she felt as though she possessed her own uncanny ability to see into his mind, interpreting the flash as a fear he held that she would judge him for his controlling tendencies. He was afraid that she would be afraid of his desire and need to be in control, to be dominant. Unsure how to assure him with words, or if she’d even would be able to speak around the lump in her throat, she purposefully let her body speak for her. She relaxed against the mattress a bit, specifically forcing her hands down by her sides, rather than the crooked position they had fallen into when he pushed her back down.

The proud expression on the Doctor’s face grew stronger, hints of arrogance and possessive glee at the edges of his smile and lighting up his eyes. It made her feel small, and yet intensely satisfied as well. She’d succeeded in reassuring him, in some small way. Now, she felt like prey trapped beneath his gaze, but it was her that made him feel predatory. She was the one he wanted so intensely to possess. It was wildly contradictory, to feel out of control and powerful at the same time, but it was intoxicating. She felt drunk on it, like it dulled her perception of everything except them, even her ability to think was dulled in favor of her capacity to feel being intensified twofold. The sheets against her back, the cool air on her skin, the hot press of his body into hers, every sensation was magnified.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, low and sweet, as she relaxed further. “You just stay right there, precious, ‘til I’m good and finished.”

With hooded eyes, she watched in rapt attention as he brought the fingers that he’d just had inside her to his mouth and, holding her gaze captive with his dark eyes, sucked them inside. His eyes fluttered shut with a deep groan, prompting another blaze of heat deep in her abdomen. When he withdrew his fingers from his mouth, he licked his lips, as if searching for any remnants of the flavor. Rose gripped the sheets to keep from giving into the sudden desire to hide when his eyes opened once more.

“You taste absolutely fucking fantastic,” he groaned. “I knew you would, but fuck.”

The Doctor leaned over her on all fours then, capturing her mouth once more and simultaneously shoving his leg up against her cunt and using her shocked gasp to once again invade her mouth. He grabbed her hip with one hand and encouraged her to rock against his thigh while he sucked her tongue into his mouth. She could taste the faintest lingering hint of herself on his tongue and whimpered, her hands coming up tentatively to brush the back of his neck. He rumbled in approval, and she wrapped her arms around him more fully.

When her lungs were once again screeching for air, it had to be her that pulled away that time. She was panting heavily, between being snogged breathless and the growing heat from where her hips still rocked against his thigh. He was breathing heavily too, she noted with pride.

“Has anyone ever eaten your sweet little cunt, love?” He growled.

It was more posturing than a genuine question, and she was sure he already knew the answer, but she shook her head meekly anyway, and once again remembering his earlier demand, responded out loud.

“No, Doctor,” she whispered, face burning.

“Anyone ever satisfied you at all?”

“No,” she barely mouthed, truthfully and ashamed.

She’d barely ever come during sex before, and it was certainly never satisfying, and she’d always had to do it herself, either directly or directing exactly what she needed. Jimmy had only taken. Mickey had been just an idiot kid— they both had been— and the few strangers she’d fumbled around with had been so pathetic she’d not even bothered to ask for more. She’d given up even on that years ago because the inability to have a real relationship made the cheap hook ups feel worthless and disgusting. She’d never even let any of them actually touch her, she’d realized shortly after she gave them up. She’d pleasured them and took her pleasure in simply staving off the desperate loneliness she felt for the duration. Her aversion to being touched had prevented her from enjoying anything more.

God, when was the last time she’d let anyone touch her, especially intimately? No wonder he’d made such a comment; she had been empty, had let herself be empty. So empty, for so long. Almost every part of her life, until he’d taken her hand and woken her up to enjoying life again.

“My poor, sweet girl,” the Doctor murmured again, stroking her cheek with his thumb once more. “Don’t you worry, I’ll fix that right up.”

He kissed a searing trail down her body, pausing to torment both of her nipples with his mouth and dipping his tongue into her navel. He settled low on the bed and watched her tremble, rubbing his hands soothingly on her thighs, coaxing them apart. With exaggerated slowness, he laid flat on his stomach between her legs and guided her legs over his shoulders. She thought she would pass out when he kissed and sucked and nibbled on the inside of her thighs, having had no clue they could possibly be so sensitive, even knowing they were erogenous zones. Self-exploration and reading could only prepare one so much to a force of nature like the Doctor when he was determined.

He held her firmly, limiting the jerking of her hips, as he purposefully bit the inside of her thigh, and she shouted. It was nearly enough to make her come again, the sharp bite of pleasure and slight edge of pain. By the time his hot breath blew against her cunt, she was shamefully close, and embarrassingly obvious about it.

“I am about to be very busy,” he said arrogantly. “So come whenever you need to and say ‘pears’ if you need me to stop. Understand?”

“Yes. But why pea— ohh!”

The Doctor plunged his tongue into her core, deep and hard, and she shattered. His hands held her thighs open from the way they wanted to clamp down on his head and held her down from her bucking hips that might’ve dislodged him, and he thrust his tongue into her again and again as she cried out in ecstasy. Her hands gripped the sheets in a white-knuckled grip to keep from falling off the edge of the earth.

Even as the waves of it subsided, he did not stop. He changed his deep, probing thrusts, to wide, flat licks that sought to drink every bit of arousal from her and groaned deeply in approval. The vibrations caused her to involuntarily reach out with one hand, seeking to grab his head instinctively, and her fingers scrambled with not finding anything to hold on to with his shorn hair. Seeming to know, as always, what she needed, he wrapped one arm around her thigh to rest on her stomach and laced their fingers together. His dark eyes met hers knowingly and seeing him peering up at her from in between her legs sent a new rush of arousal through her, making him groan once more as it flooded his mouth.

It was vulnerable and intimate. It was beautiful. It was everything she’d imagined from the moment he’d first taken her hand and more, from that initial “There you are,” that had come from her soul itself.

She was hardly aware of the words flowing from her own lips then, until her head cleared just enough to hear herself, as if through a tunnel.  “Oh god, oh god, Doctor! Yes, yes, please, love— love you. Love you, I love you.” She didn’t care to be embarrassed. She meant it. She meant every word.

The Doctor shifted again, raising up on his knees and taking her legs over his shoulders with him. Fumbling one handed against the sheets; she was lifted from the mattress by all but her head and shoulders. With one arm anchoring her in place, his other hand, his dominant hand, came back up to her entrance and he filled her again with two fingers, easily adding a third on an inwards thrust and making her shout. His wide, flat, drinking licks moved upwards to her clit and Rose’s eyes rolled back in her head when his tongue hardened again to press into the little bundle of nerves and swirl around it with tight precision.

“Doc-tor,” she called out brokenly. “God, fuck, please.” She didn’t even know what she was begging for, but he gave it to her anyway.

The Doctor wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked, hard and fast, fluttering his tongue against it rapidly, speeding up the thrusting of his fingers in time. The stretch of her walls around his fingers, the pounding rhythm that hit her g-spot on every other thrust, and his forceful suckling broke her. She came again with a wail, gripping his hand and the sheet just to stay in this reality, and bucking her hips against his face uncontrollably. Her legs around his shoulders pulled him closer, squeezing with every pulsing wave of pleasure that crashed into her.

The Doctor’s fluttering tongue and thrusting hand slowed and tapered off, bringing her down gradually until all the tension in her body released and she collapsed, boneless and panting.

He released her from his mouth, and lowered her legs to the bed, chuckling when her hips bucked again from a lingering aftershock following the cool air hitting her swollen clit. She couldn’t even bring herself to care about the absolutely insufferable aura he was emitting that she could feel even with her eyes closed, because she was too busy clenching her eyes shut to keep the world from spinning.

“Are you alright?” He asked, no real concern in his voice, just bragging.

“Hnngh,” she groaned in response.

Finally able to crack her eyes open, she resolutely ignored the way he was staring at her and the intense smugness on his face, and tugged at his arm, pouting. He laughed again and laid down next to her, pulling her against his side. She tossed her leg up over him, and her arm, and buried her face into his neck.

“I think I need a minute,” she muttered, her words just a bit slurred. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“No where I’d rather be, precious girl,” he promised. “Just sleep, I’ll be here.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

Rose lifted her head and stared at him in confusion. Then she turned to his face and shared her befuddlement.

He laughed. “Do you really think I got nothing out of that?” He asked. “Do you have any idea how spectacular it is to watch you come?”

Her face heated, and the Doctor grinned again.

“But you’re still— isn’t that uncomfortable?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “S’not like I wouldn’t enjoy it, it’s just not necessary.”

Huh. Rose had scoffed in derision when she’d read that some people preferred to only give, because it sounded like either wishful thinking from someone too lazy to reciprocate or pandering by someone trying to establish a relationship that they’d eventually go back on, but she trusted that he was genuine. She just didn’t know what to do about it. It still felt selfish to leave him hanging, metaphorically speaking, especially after he’d given her so much. Not that she wanted to use sex to repay or thank him, but it still felt weird. Unbalanced.

And she wanted to reciprocate. She wanted to please him and make him feel as good as he’d made her feel.

“What if I want to though?” Rose asked shyly.

“Then, like I said, I’d enjoy it. Immensely, I’m sure. Some other time though, when you aren’t so exhausted.”

“Well, that’s not fair, I’m always tired,” she joked, though it fell flat in the truth of it. The Doctor frowned and stroked her hair, encouraging her to settle back down on his chest. She did, feeling conflicted.

“Yeah, I know. So, I guess if you want that, you’ll just have to let me take care of you so you can get some rest,” he said, matter-of-factually.

She scoffed out a laugh, finally letting her eyes drift closed. “Sure, Doctor,” she said, yawning. “You’re a great pillow. Just let me sleep here, and I’ll be fine in no time.”

His petting on her hair lulled her to sleep, and she was already too far gone to respond when she heard him whisper, “Whatever you need, Rose. Your wish is my command.”

Chapter Text

For the second day in a row, Rose woke to an unfamiliar alarm. This time however, it was the Doctor’s turn to groan raggedly and pull her closer to his chest from behind, burying his face into her hair. Rose hummed happily at the tightening of his strong arms around her and the way one of his legs was shoved between hers. The tighter hold lasted only a few seconds before he peeled himself away from her back with another groan, slapping his hand on his nightstand in search of his phone. Alarm silenced, he let out a huff of relief and resumed his position curled around her from behind, pulling her against his front again with a pleased sigh.

Rose snuggled deeper into him with a contented purr of her own, holding tightly to his arm that was wrapped under her and up her chest, pressing firmly against her sternum with his hand curled against the hollow of her throat. The brush of his knuckles there was enough to wake Rose more fully, and for fresh morning arousal to begin burning lightly in her stomach. She was more than happy to let it stay like that, to let it warm her from within while his body and his embrace warmed her from the outside, and the joy she felt like she might explode from warmed her from the depths of her soul.

Despite his alarm, the Doctor had fallen back asleep, or at least mostly asleep, as his knuckles were lightly rubbing back and forth across the delicate skin at the base of her throat, and his breathing became deep and even one more.

Gently, she turned in his arms, careful to not disturb him too greatly, so she could gaze at his sleeping face. His features were relaxed, but not completely slack, with a soft smile on his lips that just melted her. For once there was no furrow between his brows, no clenching of his jaw, or twisted, discomforted expression of any kind. No pain, or guilt, or sorrow plagued him for at least this one moment in time, and Rose found that his solace was enough that she felt free of her burdens for a moment as well. With her head pillowed on his bicep, his other arm wrapped around her tightly, and his heart beating steadily under her hands, she felt both protected and protective.

She’d do anything to keep that relaxed, peaceful look on her love’s face. She wouldn’t let Saxon hurt him, no matter what it took.

Rose was just beginning to contemplate how beautiful it was going to be to spend the entire day like this, wrapped up in each other and ignoring the outside world, when his alarm went off again. His soft smile turned into a frown— no, she laughed, a pout— and he once more tightened his arm around her before pulling back to silence it.

“I’ve got it, love,” she told him, leaning across him to silence his phone.

He loosened his hold to let her, rolling onto his back as she leaned over him to better accommodate her reach. As soon as the sound was quieted, before she could settle back into place, his arms came around her waist and pulled her down on top of him. She went down with an oof, finding herself being tangled up in his legs as well. And he called her an octopus!

The Doctor groaned into her neck, almost whining, like a child that didn’t want to be woken for school. She laughed once more and relaxed as best she could on top of his chest, which was very well, considering she didn’t have much of a choice by way of movement, with all of his limbs contracted around her.

He mumbled something into her skin sleepily, interspersed with kisses that made it absolutely impossible to understand what he said, and nearly impossible to try. Arousal was fogging her mind once more at the brushes of his lips against her neck, the intimate way they were pressed together with every inch of their skin touching, and especially at the restriction of her movements by his limbs. Evidence that it was affecting him as well dug into her stomach, to her delight.

“What was that?” She asked, a bit breathlessly.

Unable to do much more, she rolled her hips into him, earning a grunt and his arms tightening once more for a moment. He pulled his head away just far enough that his lips were not pressed directly into her skin while he spoke, though the movements still brushed against her lightly and teasingly.

“I have to go—” she rolled her hips again and received a deep groan in return. “To shul,” he groaned.

Rose grinned, proud that she could affect him so much, and also in pure affection. Now she understood what he had said yesterday morning about her being sleepy and adorable. The Doctor was absolutely adorable— and dead sexy at the same time— with his clingy, sleepy confusion and slightly slurred words.

“Doctor, it’s Saturday,” she reminded him. “You don’t have any classes.”

“Yeah, exactly. Saturday,” he mumbled. He paused, and Rose frowned to feel him pulling his head back further. “Shul,” he repeated, sounding more awake, to her dismay. “Not school.”

Definitely awake now, his tone taking on his ‘lecturing’ voice. She got the feeling that despite how his lecturing voice did things to her, she wouldn’t like what he was about to say, because it meant he was getting up.

“S’ Yiddish,” he continued, definitely lecturing now. “Means the same thing, but it also means synagogue.”

Ah. Saturday.

She was always busy with Malcom on Saturdays and tended to not speak with him much— or at all— due to being busy or feeling disgusted with herself, so she’d never really been sure if he attended. His relationship to religion was complicated, and he avoided speaking about it, so she’d never gotten a handle on exactly where he stood with it. He went to Shabbat dinner at Donna’s every week, kept religious iconography in his home, and mostly kept kosher, but he also made faces during prayers, blasphemed regularly, and never turned down a cheeseburger. She knew for certain he didn’t believe in God, at the very least, as that was one thing he’d all but told her explicitly.

“I see,” she said, not bothering to keep her conflicting interest or disappointment from her tone. “I didn’t know you went.”

He sighed deeply, releasing his octopus hold on her. She rolled away, sitting up as he did the same, rubbing his face tiredly. “I don’t, typically, except on holidays,” he admitted. “But grandad is filling in for the rabbi today, and I promised him that I would.”

Interest perked up in her again, followed by instinctual disappointment, followed by the cautiously hopeful remembrance that she didn’t have anything to do today. There was no meeting with Malcom any longer. Saxon probably expected her to still show, thinking her declaration yesterday to have been an outburst that she’d regret, but she meant every word of it. No matter what he threw at her later over her disobedience, she was done with his puppeteering.

Except, fear still chilled her that he might hurt someone else. But his threat had seemed like he would only enact it if their relationship was leaked to the media, which wouldn’t be an issue. It had been ten years and no one besides Jack had ever connected her to Bad Wolf, and Jack had supportive details. Rose hoped that as long as she met all her other contractual requirements, as she’d said she would, dropping Malcom would only lead to her being punished. And she could handle that. It was only a few more months. She refused to think about how many of those months would be spent away— on her tour— completely at Saxon’s mercy. Without the Doctor, or any of their family.

“It’ll only be a couple hours, and then if you want we can—” “

Can I come?” Rose interrupted. She blushed deeply when he looked over at her, searching her face intensely.

“Do you want to?”

He sounded like he was trying to keep his voice neutral but also like he couldn’t believe anyone would willingly want to go to a religious service out of anything besides obligation. He was so damned confusing sometimes. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them, unsure how to feel. Embarrassed by her inability to be alone, fearful from her thoughts of Saxon’s vindictiveness and their upcoming separation, curiosity and longing to be a bigger part of his life and to know everything she could about him. So much emotion warred inside of her it threatened to overwhelm her once more.

“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “S’that alright?”

The Doctor’s face softened, once more reading her mind and all the racing thoughts hidden there and reached out with one hand to tuck her hair back gently. Seeming to decide the gesture wasn’t enough, he cupped her cheek too, his thumb brushing against the bruise under her eye lightly. It didn’t hurt, save for the sadness in his eyes.

“Of course, precious,” he said quietly.

The moment was too much for Rose. Feeling uncomfortably exposed, she raised her head, letting his hand fall to the side, and plastered on a smile she knew he saw through but didn’t comment on.

“Besides, if my fiancé is giving the sermon…” she teased, letting the comment linger while he rolled his eyes, his predictable gesturing bringing a real smile to her face.

“Later,” she thought. “Worry later. Be with him now.”

“I’m begging you to stop calling my grandad that,” he said dryly.

“Nope,” Rose responded, tongue poking through her teeth.

“Why do you call him that?” The Doctor groaned, tossing the blanket back finally to stand.

Rose admired the long lines and toned muscles of his body openly, her grin widening. Fuck, but he was gorgeous. “And all mine,” she thought, giddily. The thought was enough to uncurl the uncomfortable knot that had formed in her stomach, and she rose as well, stretching her pleasantly sore muscles with a purr. Her eyes fluttered shut at the pleasurable stretch, and the reminder of why she was sore. When they opened again, she wasn’t surprised to find him staring at her with dark eyes.

She smirked. “He never told you?” She asked, teasingly.

“No, he just started saying it, same as you. After Hannukah, the next week at dinner he said, ‘Where’s my girl? We’re gettin’ married, you know,’ and refused to say anything else. I thought he was just bein’ cheeky until you started calling him your fiancé.”

She noted, very happily, the edge of jealousy and possession to his voice. He was trying hard to conceal it but wasn’t quite succeeding. Or maybe he wasn’t trying at all, and he wanted her to know how covetous of her he was, even against his own grandad. Feeling emboldened by it, she strolled over to him, letting her hips sway a bit more than usual, basking in the way his eyes were locked on her bare form as she came closer to him. His arms wrapped around her as she reached him, possessively around her waist while she draped hers around his neck and hung there, smiling at him sultrily.

“Well, James,” she drew out his name, high on the sharp intake of breath it provoked. “He told me that if that ‘stupid grandson’ of his didn’t ‘get his head out of his arse’ and marry me, he’d do it himself. So, for the foreseeable future you’re just going to have to deal with it, but if you ever want it to stop…” She rose up on her tiptoes and wrapped her lips around his earlobe, suckling deeply for a moment as his hands tightened to near bruising on her hips. She scraped her teeth against his skin gently as she released it and whispered, “You know what to do.”

She turned away and strutted over to her duffle bag, rummaging through it for something somewhat nice to wear, pretending not to be paying attention to the way he was still frozen in place staring at her.

And pretending that the longer he did so didn’t fill her with fear that she’d crossed some line, and that her thoughts weren’t spiraling out of control with self-flagellation for mentioning marriage of all things, on only the second day of their being together officially. As if the Doctor wasn’t a walking fucking flight risk with built in airplane wings on the sides of his damn head.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid, Tyler!” Rose scolded herself.

She pulled out the first bra and pair of knickers she found and yanked them on harshly, unable to stand being so bare in front of him for a moment longer. Another two seconds of rummaging earned her a pair of jeans and a top that didn’t go with them, but she pulled the pants on anyway and reached for the top only to be stopped by a large hand closing around her wrist with exaggerated gentleness.

“You— you would want that?” The Doctor asked, hushed.

Rose swallowed around the lump in her throat and croaked out, “Eventually, yeah.” She turned to face him, and finding him looking as vulnerable as she felt, the words came easier. “Not for a while, but yeah. I know things haven’t been… easy between us, Doctor, but at the same time…”

“They have been,” he filled in, awed.

“Yeah,” she half-laughed. “From the beginning, I’ve known that I wanted to be around you, in whatever capacity you’d allow, for the rest of my life. It’s always been forever for me. Since ‘run.’” His eyes widened, large and breathtakingly blue, and she continued on, the words falling from her lips now. “It didn’t matter to me what we were— lovers, companions, friends. Whatever it is we are now. The only thing that mattered was that we were. It wasn’t the refusal to go further that hurt me, in the end, it was why I thought you pulled back.”

“Rose—”

“No, I know. I know it wasn’t for the reasons I thought, and I believe you. I do. And as long as you don’t go all self-sacrificing and pull back again, I forgive you. I just… I wish you would’ve just told me,” she admitted softly. “I would’ve waited, you know. I’d’ve been happy to, if it made you happy.”

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, and his eyes bored into hers, full of emotion. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmured. “You’re far too forgiving.”

Rose scoffed. “I said I forgive you. Not that I’m not still angry,” she told him.

His brow scrunched together in confusion, and she laughed softly. She brought a hand up to his face and held him, the way she’d been dying to do for months.

“Just don’t do it again,” she repeated, pleadingly. “Please, don’t leave me alone again.”

The Doctor turned and kissed the palm of her hand. “Never,” he promised. “Stuck with me now, you are.”

“Stuck with you? S’not so bad,” she teased.

Rose beamed, and his face lit up in a smile as well. He squeezed her waist gently, and she dropped her hand from his face, and they turned back to getting dressed. She threw the unmatched top back in her back and searched for another, much more satisfied when her favorite soft green jumper appeared. With a hum, she shrugged it on and ventured into the bathroom to fix the mess that was no doubt her hair and tackle the problem of the bruise on her face.

She avoided looking at it while she brushed her hair and teeth, but she could only avoid it so long. Steeling herself with a deep fortifying breath, she lifted her gaze to the mirror, gripping the sink with both hands.

It was as bad as she feared.

Purple and molted red, swollen around the cut skin where his ring had connected, but it was farther away from her eye than she originally thought, which was good. The dull, throbbing pain of it disagreed, but the center radiated out more from her cheekbone than it felt. Sighing, Rose knew there was no point in trying to cover it with makeup. Maybe if she had some of the movie grade foundation her stylists put on her before interviews, but she’d never kept that around because of how thick and disgusting it felt. Even then, with the swelling, it wouldn’t really help all that much. She couldn’t decide if putting the rest of her makeup on would be better or worse. Would it make her feel more in control, or would it just draw more attention to it?

She started questioning whether she should even leave the flat. The sleeves of her jumper at least covered the bandages on her arms, though the wide collar of it displayed the—

“Doctor!” Rose huffed angrily, slapping her hand over the bruise on her neck.

She heard a scrambling noise, and his head appeared in the mirror behind her. She turned around to face him and saw he only had one boot on, and his eyes were wild with concern.

Before he could ask, she blurted out, “What the fuck?” and pointed at her neck. He blinked in confusion, and then a wide smile spread across his face. She rolled her eyes and fought the grin tugging at her own lips. “What are you— fifteen?” She asked, exasperated.

The Doctor swaggered over to her with far too much arrogance for someone wearing only one boot, wrapping an arm around her waist once more and his other hand cupping her jaw. He tilted her head from side to side to admire his handiwork with a deeply satisfied smirk. When he pulled away, Rose was flustered and flushed, and he was smug.

“And a half, at least,” he quipped, releasing her.

“Arrogant arse,” she muttered under her breath, attempting to fix her hair and slow her heart rate. She pulled it into two sections and braided it back quickly, after digging hair ties out of her makeup case, leaving a few tendrils to frame her face.

“Are you finally ready to admit that I’m impressive?” The Doctor asked while she braided, leaning against the door frame and smirking.

“Find me a different shirt,” Rose responded, rolling her eyes.

“Nah,” he said casually. “Like that one, me.”

Rose finished her hair and pushed passed him back to the bedroom, aiming for her duffle bag. “I’m sure you do, Alucard, but aren’t we going to temple? With your family?”

“Alu— you bite a girl one time, and she calls you a vampire. That’s just not right.”

“I distinctly remember you biting me twice, actually.”

Rose found a different jumper, wrinkling her nose at the high collar, but switch them out quickly. It was at least warm, and the same dark blue as his car, and his walls, which made it seem more appealing.

“This alright?” She turned and asked him, gesturing to herself.

“You look beautiful,” the Doctor said, sincerely.

The compliment bypassed her head and went straight to her heart. A pleasant warmth spread across her cheeks, which were starting to hurt for a different reason—she wasn’t used to smiling so genuinely, so much.

“Considering,” he continued casually, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

Had he said it like that even just yesterday it would’ve broken her heart— as it had when he’d said it before the gala— even being able to tell he was joking, but after last night she was rather secure in the fact that he thought her beautiful. Even with a disgusting bruise on her face.

“Considering what?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at him and crossing her arms.

The Doctor took her in his arms once more with a growl and devoured her mouth, swallowing the gasp of shock that opened her mouth to his and plunging his tongue inside. “Fuck he’s good at that,” Rose thought deliriously as he pulled away.

“Considering that I’d much rather you not be wearing anything at all,” he said, this time sounding a bit breathless himself. “And that we’re late.”

She smacked his shoulder weakly, but didn’t move away. He was holding her up while her knees recovered. After a moment, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and released all but her hand, lacing their fingers together.

They both smiled widely as he tugged them along.

Chapter Text

“You’re sure it’s alright that I came, Doctor?” Rose asked nervously.

“Positive, love,” the Doctor assured her, adjusting his kippah. It sat on the back of his head precariously, but he seemed uncaring, certain of its security.

The dark blue color of it matched her jumper almost perfectly, a coincidence that had made her smile when he’d grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket before leaving the flat. The unfamiliar peak of color in his dark hair that tied them together kept drawing her eyes now, which the Doctor noticed with a smirk that made her blush. The casual arrogance he exuded at her openly admiring him was so familiar, so like their first few weeks together that it almost erased the past few months of longing.

Almost.

“You know grandad loves you, and the temple is very welcoming,” he continued. “You’ll have to ask Shaun about it sometime. Jack has come a few times too, especially for Purim.”

“Oh, Wilf told me about that one! Jack would come to that,” Rose snickered a minute before sobering. “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried that…” he encouraged her with a squeeze of her hand. “I just don’t want anyone to think you hit me,” she finished, the nauseous feeling returning to her stomach at the thought.

“Ah,” he said, eloquently. “Didn’t think o’ that.”

“Right, I’ll just head back then. Tell Wilf I said good luck—” he cut her off and tugged her back to his side before she’d taken a full step, pulling both of them off to the edge of the sidewalk.

He leaned down and took her cheek in his hand, and she leaned into it immediately, closing her eyes briefly against the warm, steady strength of him. Rose loved that he’d noticed how the gesture calmed her.

“Do you want to come?” The Doctor asked, quietly. She nodded into his hand. “Then we’ll deal with it. I don’t think it will come up, but if it does, I assure you I can take care of it for you. If you want me too.”

Rose also loved that he didn’t just assert himself, but instead, he offered to assert himself. He knew she could take care of herself but also knew that she was tired of dealing with everything on her own, without her having to say it. Still, with him here, she wouldn’t be dealing with it on her own. That alone gave her strength and resolve.

“No, thank you, but I’ll handle it if it does. I think you going all ‘oncoming storm’ on them would just make it worse.”

“’Oncoming storm?’” He asked, amused.

“Yeah, when you get all angry, especially when you’re bein’ protective, you get all thundery,” she waved her hand over him vaguely. “Your face gets all dark and your chest puffs up, and your voice gets really deep. Like when you can see a storm, and hear it, but it hasn’t hit yet.”

The Doctor looked contemplatively at her for a moment, brow furrowing. “I think that’s a compliment?” He hedged. “S’very poetic though, bit much for me. Anyone ever told you that you should write music?” He bumped her shoulder with a grin.

“Ha,” Rose scoffed. “Good one.”

“Come on,” he laughed, “I’m sure Donna’s foaming at the mouth with the fact that I’m not there yet, but she’ll be happy to see you at least. Especially since we both missed dinner last night.”

She cringed at the spike of guilt. Donna was used to Rose showing up sporadically, based on however her schedule lined up, but she knew how the Doctor valued those dinners with his sister and grandad. He’d been happy to miss it when it had meant the two of them going on a date— a concept she almost still couldn’t wrap her mind around— but he’d had to spend it taking care of her instead. The Doctor squeezed her hand reassuringly as they walked through the temple, and she tried to pull herself back to the present, focusing on the warm, strong grip of his hand around hers.

Donna was, in fact, craning her head around searchingly when they entered the congregation space. Her vibrant shock of red hair was easy to spot, with the way she was half out of the pew and watching the door like a hawk.

Rose watched with nervousness, and amusement, as her face cycled rapidly through a series of emotion: from aggravated searching to irritated relief at seeing the Doctor, to happy confusion when she saw Rose with him. Rose almost had time to smile herself at the sight of her best friend, until she jumped to worried shock when she saw Rose’s face, to pure shock when she saw their clasped hands. Donna slapped at Shaun’s arm, speaking to him rapidly. Her free hand came up and gripped the Doctor’s arm, just to steady herself a bit more, as they walked down the main aisle to where the rest of the Nobles were seated, and she pretended she didn’t feel dozens of eyes on her.

But she knew intimately the feeling of being watched.

The Doctor leaned down and whispered to her, “Be glad this congregation isn’t separated by gender, like some more conservative temples. At this point I’d be ok with it, ‘cept I don’t want to be separated from you, but to avoid Donna a bit longer?”

Rose laughed weakly. She was glad she didn’t have to face Donna on her own. Blimey, she loved the woman like her own sister and missed her desperately from having created a distance between the two of them the past few months due to her feelings for the Doctor, but she still wasn’t quite ready to be confronted by her over the events of the past few days. Still, a large part of her did yearn for her comforting presence as well.

“Oof, and my mother,” he hissed.

She started to wish desperately she’d waited at the Doctor’s flat when Sylvia Noble noticed her daughter’s excitement, glanced backwards at their approach, and went through her own rapid cycle of emotions: similar irritated relief at seeing the Doctor, an unconcealed eyeroll at seeing Rose with him. Her eyes locked on their clasped hands and Rose clinging to his arm first and her face twisted up angrily, but when she looked back up at their faces, her expression morphed.

She couldn’t read Sylvia very well, as the woman always seemed vaguely irritated to see Rose and spoke to her as little as possible whenever she came to dinner at Donna’s, so she was unsure at the emotions that flashed across her face. However, she thought she might’ve recognized shock, concern, and determination? Maybe? None of those would surprise her, she just hoped Sylvia would have the grace to not cause a scene until after. She didn’t doubt that the Doctor— or Donna, honestly— would defend her, however unnecessarily, even against his own mother, but she did hope it wouldn’t come to that.

Rose didn’t have any more time to contemplate it as they reached the pew where the three of them sat. An awkward shuffling occurred as they made room for the unexpected additional person, and she flushed with embarrassment. Donna also forced her husband to switch places with her, which he did with a grimace and a look to Rose specifically that screamed ‘help’ at now being directly next to his mother-in-law. His eyebrows shot up in shock, abandoning the conspiratorial look— which he often shared with her regarding the Noble’s antics— for one of concern.

She ducked her head, feeling hot. This had been an awful idea. She should’ve at least thought to text Donna, to warn her and give her some concocted story so she wouldn’t be so worried.

“No,” Rose told herself firmly. “No more lies.”  Still, she wished she’d had the foresight to tell Donna beforehand.

Telling anyone anything was still too unfamiliar for her to have thought to do so.

The Doctor guided her into the pew to sit next to his sister, projecting concern in his blue eyes when hers shot up to meet them in panic. His free hand reached over and gripped her hand that was on the crook of his elbow. His gesture, and the concern in his eyes, spoke to her as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.

“I’ll take care of you,” he assured her.

Rose sat.

She was blessedly spared any interrogation by loud music playing over a speaker. She wondered if the Doctor had timed their arrival so that would happen. It seemed like the kind of brilliant thing he would do.

She hadn’t been to a religious service since she was very young and her nan would take her along to church while her mum worked, but despite the long time and the difference in religion, Rose found the services to be much like she remembered. Welcomes, announcements, and the whole congregation standing once more to sing songs she was entirely unfamiliar with. The singing was pleasant to listen to, as pleasant as it could be when she didn’t understand the words or share the depth of familiarity with them when she did understand them, and there was a good deal of repetition that she could catch up on by the end of the song, if she did want to join in.

She felt the swell of emotion inside her that always came along with a singing crowd: a moment of connection, of spirituality. It happened rarely at her own concerts, where the intense choreography and performance left few moments for her to truly connect with the audience, but it was the one thing she enjoyed about being a performer, on the rare occasions it happened. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine how much more intense the feeling might be if she did understand or connect with the lyrics or shared some sort of belief with the people around her. Besides her conversations with Wilf, she’d never given much deep thought to religion, but in that moment, she could nearly understand it. She’d sought that kind of connection for years, some collective to be a part of, and she’d finally found it with Donna and the Doctor and the rest of their little family. A part of her still longed for something bigger though, and she could almost imagine it coming from this.

The Doctor didn’t sing, but he did hum under his breath occasionally in his soothing baritone. His own moment of shared connection and a glimpse into his history. She adored the opportunity to see it, and the shred of understanding it gave her for the man she loved. He didn’t release her hand through any of it, and she grew more relaxed, if only temporarily.

The singing ended and as everyone sat, Donna reached over and grabbed her arm. “What happened?” She hissed.

“Not now, Donna,” Rose whispered back. “Everything is fine.”

“Yes now! You can’t expect me to just sit here while you’ve got a bloody shiner—”

“Donna,” the Doctor cut in, his voice low and firm. “She said not now.”

Donna’s mouth shut with a click of her teeth and the twins glared at each other over Rose’s head, but finally Donna clenched her jaw and turned away from him, releasing Rose’s arm with a comforting squeeze. She met Rose’s eyes once more, not hiding her concern, but accepted the thanks Rose whispered to her. The older woman softened in understanding, and though she looked like she wanted to say more, she turned away. Rose had no illusion that Donna had given up but merely acknowledged that this was neither the time nor the place to press for answers.

She sighed a breath of relief that at the very least, she would have a little bit longer to come to terms with having to share what had happened with her. Her thoughts kept trying to return to concocting a story that would ease her concern, and spare herself the embarrassment, but she was determined. No more lies.

But that didn’t mean she was necessarily eager.

Rose turned from her friend to lean on the Doctor’s shoulder briefly in thanks. He kissed the top of her head, released her hand with a squeeze of his own, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. It was perhaps too familiar a gesture, too much intimacy, for such a public place— let alone a religious one— but she couldn’t help basking in it. Holding her hand was one thing. That could be passed off as him guiding her though the unfamiliar room around the crowd of people or even offering her comfort when she was obviously injured. He even could’ve achieved the same comforting reassurance, relatively, by simply laying his arm on the back of the pew behind her, which would’ve still been deniable. But this gesture was undeniably possessive, protective, and loving.

She shifted, just an inch or so, to be pressed more fully against his side in return, and let out quiet, happy sigh. At least she finally had this. Despite everything else that had happened, they had happened too.

Up at the pulpit, Wilf appeared, smiling warmly. He had his typical spring in his step, and a white cloth draped over his shoulders, striped with black and tasseled at the end.

“Shabbat Shalom,” he said jovially. The crowd repeated it back, including the Doctor.

She felt Donna’s eyes piercing her soul less and less as the sermon went on, which helped her to relax and enjoy Wilf’s speech more. She had almost anticipated that it would somehow ironically offer her a glimpse of meaning into… something. Maybe some comfort, or some statement about suffering and resilience, but it didn’t come. There was no deep meaning, for her anyway, to be drawn from the simple sermon he gave. She enjoyed it, and it piqued her curiosity, but it offered no grand revelations. She almost laughed to herself at having expected that it would, as if life could be that easy.

Wilf was an engaging speaker, and he made the crowd laugh often, sometimes with jokes she understood, sometimes with ones she didn’t, but she was surprised to find she didn’t mind.

She filed away each one to ask him to explain later, content in the knowledge that he would be happy to do so. The lighthearted air and frequent laughter were welcoming, and made the sermon feel almost like a conversation, rather than a lecture. It reminded her, quite strongly, of regular conversations she had with the Doctor in fact, where he often made jokes while they discussed even difficult topics. Such as when he’d broken the tension just yesterday in the shower by joking about needing his glasses. It seemed his grandfather shared the same belief— or rather, the Doctor shared it with Wilf— that humor was a great necessity.

It made Rose fall in love with the Doctor all the more, and her fondness for his grandfather grew as well. It amazed her, particularly after what he’d shared with her yesterday about his time in the military, that he could find a sense of humor at all, let alone make it a priority. It was a part of that spark in him that she’d admired since the beginning, the one that had inspired her to seek better for herself than the pitiful, detached from humanity reality she had been living.

She wondered what had come first, for either of them: the sense of humor, or the sadness.

All too soon, his speech came to an end and after a few more songs, the crowd seemed to collectively understand that the service was over. The low roar of people speaking to each other blurred together as people mingled. Everyone seemed to want to talk to the Doctor. He didn’t even stand, seeming to anticipate being flocked as he was.

Several older gentlemen shook his hand and formally addressed him as Dr. Noble and asked polite questions about how he’d been recently. A few women her own age eyed her with good natured envy, sizing up his arm around her shoulder with a wistful sigh or two that thrilled her. She practically preened, only barely restraining herself from snuggling further into his side. This handsome, successful, intelligent, kind man whom everyone admired was— finally— hers.

Everyone who saw them knew it, and it was wonderful.

Few people addressed her, but they were polite when they did, and as the Doctor had said, very welcoming. Their eyes seemed to glide over the bruise on her face, their staring more focused on her unfamiliar presence and who she was with, rather than herself. She almost started to think that she’d exaggerated how bad it was when she’d seen it in the mirror earlier, but then she remembered Donna’s reaction. Her friend had seen it all the way across the sanctuary.

She was surprised the woman wasn’t pestering her now, even with the Doctor’s warning earlier, but she seemed absorbed in conversation with Sylvia, in hushed, whispered tones, which Rose determinedly ignored even when she heard her own name hissed a few times between the women. Donna seemed to be warning Sylvia off confronting them, which she made a mental note to thank Donna for at the first opportunity. That was one stress the Doctor in particular didn’t need.

No, the other attendees were just being polite, and ignoring it, but she wouldn’t deny that she greatly preferred it that way. Usually, she cursed people’s determination to not get involved, when attending protests or listening to arguments from people who just used it as an excuse to not have to put in any work, but today she was bittersweetly grateful for it. She was also relieved that no one seemed to think that it had been the Doctor’s fault, given the way they were all still so engaged and friendly with him. They obviously respected him a great deal, which made her proud, both of him and to be with him.

People moved quickly though the sanctuary, never lingering very long in their eagerness to speak with everyone. It was pleasant, and warm, and the atmosphere was cheerful. The community was obviously tightly knit, but still welcoming. Any other time, she would enjoy Donna whispering in her ear gossip about the various attendees, but for now she was content to sit and listen to the polite conversation, occasionally chiming in when directly addressed, and enjoying the way the Doctor’s body was pressed against hers from knee to shoulder.

After a few minutes, Rose watched with amusement as no less than four old women pinched the Doctor’s cheeks and called him Jamie. They spoke over each other, telling him what a handsome young man he was and asking him when he was going to get married. The whole shell of his ear turned bright red, and he stuttered out a response that seemed practiced, like he had to repeat it often whenever he came, but they seemed delighted by his discomfort. They pointed to his red ears and tutted, laughing to themselves and flustering him further. Rose imagined he was usually very firm in his responses and flushed at the thought that it was her that made him nervous regarding their questioning. They seemed to notice her belatedly; not as if they hadn’t seen her entirely, but as if they hadn’t quite recognized that she was with the Doctor, despite his arm around her shoulder.

That made her even more pleased, that he hadn’t ever brought someone with him, or he usually protested their questions so vehemently that it shocked them that he had brought someone today. The flustered and red face man next to her was a side of him she rarely saw, with his steadiness and preference for control, and she adored it.

“Jamie!” One of the women said reproachfully, smacking him on the shoulder with a service pamphlet. “You rude little thing, introduce us to your lovely girl.”

“Oh, he’s horribly rude,” Rose poked at him, grinning with her tongue between her teeth.

“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said, still uncomfortable by the attention. “This is Rose. She’s my plus one,” he joked.

Rose had about half a second to enjoy how he hadn’t denying her being his girl before the full force of the women’s attention was on herself. They eyed her appraisingly at first, a blush rising to her own cheeks at their assessing, but quickly the cycle occurred again on each of their faces. Her joy was muted by the mixed looks of shock and concern as they took in the bruise on her cheek. They glanced at each other and her nervous nausea returned as they seemed to come to some unspoken agreement. Of course it would be a gaggle of nosy, well-meaning, older women who would make a point to address what everyone else had politely ignored.

Rose extended her hand in greeting, hoping to stave off their questions by showing them she was fine, but was quickly pulled to her feet by a woman who was much stronger than she looked. She staggered forward as she kept tugging on her hand, until she was out of the pew, and all four of them were suddenly surrounding her, cutting her off from the Doctor.

“Oh!” She exclaimed as she was jostled around.

The Doctor made a noise of protest, but Rose watched as Sylvia grabbed his jacket and pulled him back down roughly, and then her sight of him was cut off. All four women were crowded between them, gripping her arms or reaching out and touching her cheek gently. Each of them were tutting gently, or disapprovingly, or making other noises of concern.

“Oy, sheifale, what happened?”

“Are you alright?”

“Do you need anything?”

“Let me get you some food, eh? You’re skin and bones, love.”

“I’m fine,” she said politely, over and over. “I was in an accident, but just a few bruises, thankfully. Thank you for your concern. Oh, no, I’m fine, I’m not hungry, and I think we have plans anyway.”

They didn’t let up, and Rose huffed in mild annoyance, but was also touched by their care. It felt wrong to lie to them, even to soothe their worries, when they were being so genuine with her. She wanted to shout the reassurances, but the words caught in her throat. More women joined the group as they passed by to speak to someone else and noticed the congregation, with Rose in the center and not wanting to be left out, nearly every one of them reached out to her and touched her arm, or her cheek, or her shoulder, and all of them asked are you alright, what happened, can I help?

Between the touching— gentle and concerned as it was— and the growing crowd, she felt the stirring of panic in her veins. She itched to shake them off, to run, to shout, but found her limbs locking into place instead and her throat tightening.

Tears began to sting her eyes at the gentle concern each woman gave her. Her measured responses became more disjointed as they talked over each other, and she wanted to laugh, and cry, and shout in frustration in equal amounts. She looked back to where the original four women had pulled her from— much farther away than she had been— and finally saw the Doctor stand up and search for her with an angry expression on his face. His eyes met hers and the expression mostly melted away, and he tried to shove through politely to get to her.

The women were not having it. Word had apparently spread through their ranks while Rose was fending off questions, and the Doctor was facing an impermeable barrier. This was what she had feared. Nausea strengthened in her stomach, more churning than before, as guilt made bile rise in her throat. These people knew him, it wasn’t fair that she’d come in and made them doubt him. He was so good.

“Please, it wasn’t the Doctor,” she whispered, beginning to feel overwhelmed in truth now. “It wasn’t— nothing happened. I was in an accident. I’m fine.”

“Of course you are, bubbeleh,” one woman said, attempting to be soothing. “But us old ladies, we worry. Jamie’s a good boy, but ever since he came back he’s—”

“No!” Rose snapped loudly, anger clearing her head, drawing several looks. “No, don’t say that. The Doctor— James— he’s the best man I’ve ever known. He would never hurt anyone, least of all me. You don’t know anything. I won’t let you say that—”

“Ladies, let me take it from here,” a cool voice said.

Chapter Text

Rose whipped her head towards the new voice and found Sylvia Noble standing next to her with her hand on her shoulder. The women conceded with some grumbling after Rose latched onto her gratefully. Whatever issue Sylvia had with her— which she was sure she’d just given the Doctor an earful of— and whatever grievance she would air once they got away, Rose could handle. At least she would get her out of the crowd of women saying awful things about the Doctor before she well and truly snapped on them.

Their care was kind, but didn’t they know? If the same thing had occurred when she was with Jimmy— she felt a chill down her spine just at the thought. She wouldn’t have let them help, she knew, but he still would’ve… she didn’t want to think about it.

Sylvia guided her by the arm out of the congregation hall and through the building away from the people milling about. A sharp turn took them down an empty hallway and she pushed open the first door and flicked on the light to reveal a little classroom, complete with several little desks and a large chalkboard filled with carefully printed Hebrew.

Rose collapsed against the wall, holding her head, wishing she hadn’t come. Now she was going to get her arse chewed out by Sylvia for being disruptive, and she would deserve it, because she should’ve known better, and she wouldn’t even get to talk to Wilf, and the Doctor would be stressed and—

“Are you alright, love?” Sylvia’s concerned voice asked, her hand touching Rose’s elbow lightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize they were making you so uncomfortable when I was talking to Jamie.”

“What?” Rose asked, dumbfounded.

“Oh, dear, do I need to get him? Or Donna, if you’d rather. Or both? You can just sit here where it’s quiet, and I can go get him. He’s probably not being mobbed any longer by those busy bodies.”

Rose huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Right, and I suppose you’re just all fine about that?” She bit out and then winced. Now she was picking fights. “Sorry,” she sighed.

“Mm, I don’t love it,” Sylvia said, neutrally. “But I know my boy. I’d think the same if it were anyone else though. Some man that never shows except on High Holy days comes on a random Shabbos and brings a girl that looks like she’s been through hell? That’s obviously at least ten years younger?”

The admission wasn’t what Rose expected, and she didn’t know how to feel or respond, save to defend the Doctor again. “He would never,” Rose stressed. “They were sayin,’ ‘cos of his service—”

“You can’t be surprised people would think that,” Sylvia interrupted, though the admonishment was… kinder than she would have expected.

“I wasn’t! I just didn’t expect a million people to think it all at once. I expected they would know better. I mean— they know him! He’s… he’s the Doctor!” She huffed in frustration, both at the situation and her inability to articulate herself any better in her frustrated state.

Sylvia laughed, genuinely, and leaned against the wall next to Rose. Rose eyed her suspiciously but waited until she spoke.

“They do mean well,” she said, quietly. “But they don’t know how difficult it is. If it had been Jamie, they have no clue that there was no way you’d tell them like that. They have no clue they could’ve been putting you in danger.”

Rose’s eyes snapped up and met Sylvia’s— the same piercing blue as the Doctor’s and Donna’s— and understanding passed between them.

“I raised my children alone,” Sylvia said slowly. “I had my father, but their dad… well. He didn’t leave us.”

“You left him,” Rose finished. “They don’t know.”

“The second I found out I was pregnant. He died not too long after— drank himself to death, I heard. And no, they don’t know anything, except that he died before they were born. I kept meaning to tell them, once they got older, but how? You know he would’ve taken it especially poorly.”

Rose understood what she meant. He would’ve. The Doctor would’ve internalized it and somehow got it so twisted up inside of him that he’d end up believing he was inevitably and inescapably the same, especially with her around. Forget that they would’ve never gotten to the point they just made it to— he never would’ve allowed himself to take her hand in the first place.

“That was very brave,” Rose whispered, unsure of what else to say, but attempting to wordlessly assure Sylvia that she wouldn’t tell her secret. “I wasn’t that brave.”

“There are different kinds of bravery,” the older woman said firmly. “You found a safe harbor, and you got there. It doesn’t matter how long it took. You did it.”

Rose sank to the floor, resting her arms on her knees, and put her head down. Sylvia lowered herself next to her slowly, and even more slowly wrapped her arm around Rose’s shoulders. It was awkward, but genuine and somewhat familiar— the way being hugged by someone else’s mother always felt— so she didn’t shrug it off.

“Are you safe?” Sylvia asked after a long moment, after Rose’s deep shuddering breaths evened. “Are you safe, and are you safe for my son to be around?”

She wished she knew. Her screaming words from yesterday echoed in her mind. “Leave! Don’t be so fucking stupid!”

She was still certain Saxon would try to kill her if given the opportunity, and she was terrified he would try and hurt the people she loved. She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she should just swallow the little pride she had and go to his office and apologize for her outburst, and agree to whatever petty little punishment he decided, and just focus on surviving the next few months. He might still hurt her, but with his attention on her, her friends would be safe.

Her pause was too long. Sylvia tensed at her side. “I see,” she murmured.

“I’m going to go back,” Rose decided. “I won’t let anything happen to the Doctor. Even if it means—”

“Jamie wouldn’t want that,” Sylvia sighed. “And I don’t want that either. My son can take care of himself, as hard as it is to admit sometimes. And he loves you.”

Well, it must be true if Sylvia noticed. The air in the room was suddenly not enough, and she couldn’t pull it into her lungs. The woman sitting next to her blurred as hot tears welled up in her eyes, too rapidly to be blinked away.

“I love him,” she choked in reply. “I love him so much. I— I feel like a person since I met him. He makes me want to be alive, instead of just fumbling around half asleep and letting things happen to me.”

It felt like too much to admit to her, but not enough at the same time. There was so much more, like how the Doctor didn’t give her purpose but had inspired her to find her own, or how his wonder and zest for life despite his pain had reawakened hers and she’d finally started living because of it. How he was home, how her soul knew his from the moment she saw him, how she’d never felt safer than she did by his side—

“But?”

“But how can I be so selfish? What if he does get hurt? It would be my fault.” Not just him, but Donna, Shaun, Jack, Ianto, and Mickey. She didn’t have a choice.

“Does he know?”

Rose nodded numbly. “He didn’t, not any of it, until yesterday. Couldn’t exactly hide it any longer.” She scoffed again at herself. “I definitely would’ve tried, but he found me right after. I’d left my phone at his flat and he got worried. He rushed over before I had time to clean up and well… I told him everything, after that. I told him to leave too, but he wouldn’t.”

“Then it’s his fault,” Sylvia said bluntly.

Rose’s head snapped up, looking at the woman next to her in shock. She laughed softly, shaking her head.

“If he knows, and he makes the choice to stick around, then anything that happens is his choice too. He’s an adult, same as you. So long as it’s an informed decision. Now I’m not saying that you won’t feel guilty, or selfish, or what have you, but I am saying that you shouldn’t let it make you make stupid decisions.”

“Kinda historically my M.O.,” Rose said sardonically. “One after another, my whole life. Only good decision I ever made was runnin’ after him.”

“Like I said, you got there in the end,” Sylvia shrugged.

Rose tilted her head back to rest against the wall and closed her eyes. She appreciated the way Sylvia didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t bother with those sorts of reassurances, that while she understood where they came from instinctively, didn’t necessarily offer the comfort people thought they did. Only someone else who had gone through the same would understand that, would understand that no matter how true it might be, it didn’t assuage the guilt or self-recrimination. Sylvia didn’t offer meaningless platitudes either. Her advise was practical, and experienced.

Feeling a tentative trust between them growing, Rose didn’t feel the need to justify anything to Sylvia, for once. But she did feel compelled to open up to her, at least a bit. If anything, to seek perhaps more of that practical advice.

“It wasn’t romantic,” she told her quietly. “In case you were wondering. Since no one seems to believe it was an accident, for some reason; the person that hit me yesterday was my boss. Though, he sort of owns my soul, more realistically. Sold it to him when I was sixteen to get away from the guy that really hit me. More of a lateral shift than I thought at the time,” she laughed humorlessly.

“So long?” Sylvia sounded devastated. “So young?”

“Been tryin’ for ten years to get away from it, between the two of them,” Rose confirmed, opening her eyes to peek over at the older woman and gauge her reaction. “But the contract finally runs out in a few months. I wouldn’t have taken up with the Doctor otherwise, ‘cept I thought I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and got ahead of myself. I started trying to make something of myself, and my boss didn’t— doesn’t— like it, and yesterday he let me know how much, basically.”

“I thought you were a dancer,” Sylvia stated, dumbfounded.

Rose laughed again, ruefully. “Sort of. Bit more than that though too. I’m Bad Wolf.”

Sylvia paused for a long moment, utterly gaping in shock.

Rose let her thoughts drift as she closed her eyes again and leaned against the wall while Sylvia wrapped her mind around the bombshell. She never anticipated telling the Doctor and Donna’s mum about Bad Wolf, had explicitly told Donna not to even. She still didn’t even understand why the woman was being so kind to her now, when for months she’d done everything she could to both avoid her and let her know she didn’t approve of her relationship with her son, nonexistent as it was at the time. Rose assumed her disapproval was due to her age, and couldn’t blame her there, when she didn’t know anything about her. Some young, blonde, foolish girl— a dancer, by her own account— chasing after her successful, professor son? Conclusions that she’d never worked to dissuade were drawn, and Sylvia had every right to worry and maintain her distance; given that she knew the Doctor would never let her speak on it, had it been genuinely what she thought.

No, it never surprised Rose— as easy as it was to see through her protests that she and the Doctor were just friends— that Sylvia had disliked her. It didn’t even offend her. It wasn’t like she liked herself either, especially when they’d first met those months ago at Hanukkah. Some sadistic part of her had even encouraged Sylvia’s dislike, or at least, she had never attempted to clear the air between them. It felt more realistic to her than the way Donna, Wilf, and even the Doctor did like her.

Rose also realized that this was the first time she’d purposefully broken the NDA, and she had no idea if Sylvia was able to be trusted with such information, but she was too tired to care. Bed seemed like it had been days ago, not a mere couple of hours.

“Hmm,” Sylvia hummed finally. “I like your song, the one about the rockstar.”

It was Rose’s turn to gape at the older woman. What was it with this family? How on earth had Sylvia Noble of all people, just told her that she liked the only other song she’d written that had been produced? The petty, revenge ballad she’d written after Adam almost got her killed, the one that had effectively ended his career, or at the very least his contract with Saxon Studios.

Rose burst into laughter at the unexpectedness of the comment, and after a moment, Sylvia joined in. They leaned against each other, laughing harder, when the door burst open and the Doctor rushed in, staring down at them on the floor, first with wild panicked eyes, and then with stunned confusion. Donna’s head poked in the door, wearing a matching look of pure astonishment, looking more like twins in that moment than they had the entire time Rose had known them.

Rose and Sylvia cackled, Rose pointing at their faces and Sylvia howling.

The Doctor and Donna both crossed their arms and stared at them, neither thrilled at being the subject of their mum’s and Rose’s laughter. Rose could see a fond, amused sparkle in the Doctor’s eyes underneath his faux stern expression, and how his shoulders had relaxed at least a little to find her alright.

They quieted down slowly, emitting little giggles still as they stood, clinging to each other. They stared at each other for a moment, and impulsively, Rose threw her arms around the older woman’s neck. Sylvia responded immediately with a tight embrace.

“Remember what I said,” she whispered in her ear. “If you tell them, and they choose to stay, it’s their choice.”

It was both a reminder of what she’d said about the Doctor, and an encouragement to share it with Donna, she knew. It made her almost tear up again that Sylvia was encouraging her to involve her other child. As if she was accepting Rose as a part of both of their lives but also telling her to do what she’d been unable to do, and welcome both the twins into her secrets so that they might know her more fully.

Sylvia pulled back and cupped Rose’s cheek fondly, brushing her thumb across the bruise and smiling sadly.

“Thank you, Mrs. Noble,” Rose whispered back.

“S’ mum, Rose. Just call me mum. You’ll be my daughter-in-law soon enough anyway,” Sylvia said, louder. Rose flushed, and Sylvia laughed again, patting her cheek gently and walking away. “What are the two of you looking at?” She snapped at her twins playfully. “Close your damned mouths.”

Rose turned just in time to see matching gob smacked, slack jaws on the Noble twins’ faces slam shut with simultaneous clicks of their teeth. Sylvia disappeared out the door, and Donna shot Rose a concerned look, but Rose nodded to her that she was fine, so she took off after her mum, leaving Rose and the Doctor alone.

Rose spared another thought of gratitude for Donna, who she knew was no doubt worried sick about her but was doing her best to respect that she’d asked for space. And not to mention, it was following months of Donna being in the uncomfortable position of being in the middle of her and the Doctor’s drama, where both of them had stubbornly shut her out. Rose owed it to her to be a better friend and vowed to work on it soon.

As soon as she had time to breathe.

She was in the Doctor’s arms before she could even process that he moved, the sensation effectively driving other thoughts from her mind. His strong arms wrapped around her waist and picked her up, holding her tightly and burying his face in her neck while she dangled in the open air.

“Are you ok, precious?” He asked, his voice ragged. Not waiting for an answer, he set her to her feet and pulled back to look over her, searching for any signs of distress or injury. He cupped her face in both of his large hands and tilted her head from side to side gently.

“Yeah,” she said, truthfully. “Yeah, I’m alright. Better than.” He calmed, holding her face still, and quirked a skeptical eyebrow at her. She responded with a tongue-touched grin. “Your mum liiiikes me,” she teased. “I’m slowly takin’ over your whole family.”

The Doctor laughed, squeezing her face fondly once before taking her hand and leading her from the classroom. There were far less people milling about and it was much easier to reach the doors to the outside, where the rest of the family had congregated.

“You had all the rest of us already,” he told her, lovingly. “It was only a matter of time.”

“There you are, my boy! And Rose, oh duckie, what a pleasant surprise!” Wilf exclaimed upon seeing them. “These old eyes thought they recognized you in the audience.”

He didn’t really sound surprised, nor did he react to her injury, so she assumed someone had filled him in. She looked over at Sylvia, who smiled at her, and her suspicions were confirmed. Wilf noticed their clasped hands a moment later and his kindly face turned stern. So she had not warned him about that.

He extended a finger up at the Doctor, who looked shocked once more.

“You better treat my girl right, James Wilfred Noble, or so help me. Don’t think I won’t take her from you,” he threatened. Rose beamed at the older man and the way his stern face couldn’t hold up longer than a few seconds before shifting into a mischievous grin.

“Is anyone in my family on my side?” The Doctor asked, exasperatedly.

“No,” they chorused together, Shaun included. He clapped the Doctor on the back with a wry smile.

Grinning, Rose stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. He turned and looked at her, doting, as she hung on his arm.

“I am,” she told him firmly.

“Well,” he replied, grinning back. “That’s alright then.”

Chapter Text

Rose managed to get Donna to hold off until the next day’s game night, which was set to be hosted at the Doctor’s anyway. She assured her friend that she would tell them everything— everything— but told her firmly that she would only say it once, so it had to be with everyone. After many assurances that she was, physically, fine, Donna reluctantly agreed. She gave her one last warning look, pointing a sharp finger in her face, and told her she wouldn’t wait any longer than the arrival of everyone at the Doctor’s flat before demanding answers.

Rose wasn’t looking forward to it but found that with it being the third time in three days that she’d be sharing at least parts of the story, at least she knew what to say. She just hoped it would be easier this time. They had more details already than Sylvia had and needed less details than the Doctor did about the specifics. Sylvia’s words gave her the resolve she needed to push through. In the end, they needed to know, and from there whatever happened would happen.

Que sera, sera.

She and the Doctor held off on their typical Sunday adventure once again, but they did go for their run. Rose was happy to get out and stretch her legs, especially after having missed last week’s adventure as well in preparation for her first hosting of game night. They ran a bit longer than usual and returned to the flat sweaty and breathless, only to get even sweatier and more breathless in the shower when he’d finally let her sink to her knees and take him in her mouth.

He'd kept a firm, controlling grip on her hair the entire time, guiding her and showing her exactly how he liked to be pleased, all the while heaping praise on her that made her lightheaded with pleasure. He told her how good and clever she was, and how well she took his instructions and his cock in her mouth, and he groaned filthily when she did something he particularly liked.

His cock was just as heavy and thick on her tongue as she’d imagined, making her eyes roll back when he thrust forward, and she imagined exactly what it would be like when he did just that inside her. When he finally came with a deep grunt, fisting her hair tightly, she hummed in satisfaction. She was nearly floating with pride and happiness from not just being able to please him, but the liberal praise he gifted her still: Beautiful, good, his.

After the warm water ran out, he carried her to bed and showed her exactly how pleased he’d been. Already, it seemed like his incredibly brilliant mind had calculated exactly how to best affect her according to what he wanted; to drag it out, to push her over the edge in seconds, to build her up to a previously unknown level of pleasure before letting her fall. Now that he’d spoken it aloud, she was more aware than ever of how empty she’d felt for so long, and she craved for him to fill her. He indulged her enthusiastically, discovering quickly how little it took for her to be ready for him, and how she ached for the pleasurable stretch and burn that came from him pushing a third thick finger into her. She’d never come faster than when she was clenching around the additional digit, and it made her delirious in want when she imagined how wonderful the stretch of his cock inside her would be.

And still through it all, his sexy, low voice told her how he loved seeing her writhe under his touch, commanding her attention and her compliance when he ordered her to come over and over for him. The Doctor whispered a string of nonsense into her skin as he traced her spine with his tongue, and she’d laughed in a pleasure drunk fit when he told her— very seriously— that it was the mathematical formula for the arch of her back when she came and another for the curve of her bum.

By the time they’d recovered, satisfied enough for the moment to keep their hands mostly to themselves, it was time to start getting ready. The Doctor told her he was planning to call in a takeaway order, but she waved him off. She was determined to make up for the soup debacle last week. She cooked better in this kitchen anyway; knew the quirks of the antique stove that even the Doctor didn’t get, knew the feel of his knives in her hand more familiarly, and had tea in her favorite mug to fortify her. Focusing on the cooking helped keep her from spiraling into nervousness as well, at least, that’s what she told herself.

When he let her focus. Of course, his fingers buried inside her under her skirt while he bent her forward over the kitchen counter— because he said he couldn’t concentrate on his book while she was there, wearing the article of clothing— was a decent distraction as well.

She was just pulling the finished and not burnt— by some miracle— Shepard’s pie from the oven when the first knock on the door sounded. She shared a glance with the Doctor, and he gave her a reassuring smile and went to let their friends in. Surprisingly, Donna and Shaun had arrived first, though from the way Donna fixed Rose with a glare from across the room told her that maybe it shouldn’t have been so surprising for her friend to be on time for once. It was Rose’s turn to pass along a reassuring smile, letting Donna know she hadn’t forgotten her promise to tell her what had happened. It probably came off more as anxious than reassuring, but it did its job. Donna nodded curtly and sat.

As if Rose could forget, when every sight of her reflection reminded her. When the Doctor got that soft, sad look in his eyes whenever he looked at her too long. When she’d had the pathetic thought, as his wide hand pushed her down into the countertop, searing between her shoulder blades in its warmth, that maybe he’d finally fuck her if he didn’t have to look at her face. Logically, she knew she was the hold up on that front, but she was unable to stand the thought of that sad look being in his eyes while they made love.

She couldn’t stand the idea that her battered face would be seared into his perfect memory.

She kept herself busy cleaning up the dishes, unnecessarily, while Jack, Ianto, and Mickey piled in, just to give herself a few more moments. Rose was pleased to hear Mickey arrive, surprised that he’d actually taken up the invitation, especially when it had been Jack that invited him, but to the Doctor’s flat. The Doctor greeted him cooly, once again calling him ‘Rickey,’ just to irritate him, and she stifled a laugh.

“Possessive prick,” she thought lovingly. “As if his hand wasn’t up my skirt half an hour ago.” It also seemed as if all of her high collared shirts had disappeared since yesterday, though she had no clue when he’d had time to do that.

Rose kept her back turned as long as she could, calling out greetings from the sink where her hands were plunged into the soapy water to hide their slight tremor. She wasn’t as nervous for their reactions to what she had to say, but she was nervous for their initial reactions of seeing her face. There would likely be yelling. It seemed that no one assumed that she’d fallen, which probably had far more to do with her air of nervousness than the actual injury. At least their friends wouldn’t suspect the Doctor, thank god. She didn’t know if she could handle that again. More likely they would think she’d been mugged, as he had initially.

Maybe, if she’d gotten lucky, Donna and Shaun had told Jack and Ian, and Jack might’ve told Mickey, so they wouldn’t be shocked, just concerned and curious.

“Rosie, what’re you doing?” Jack called out from the living room. “Don’t tell me the Doc is so useless he can’t do his own dishes.”

“Oi, I have lived on my own for damn near twenty years, Harkness,” the Doctor grumbled. “And I was in the army.”

“There was only a couple, and I don’t mind. He let me use his kitchen to try and redeem myself for last week’s dinner,” Rose joked back, drying her hands. “It’s already finished, don’t worry!”

She could no longer avoid her friends, especially when Mickey chimed in, “Yeah, it smells great, babe,” and she had to jump in before the Doctor said anything too rude to him for calling her babe again.

“Thanks, Mick,” she said loudly, talking over the Doctor, who shot her a glare. “It’s only Shepard’s pie, but I’m just glad it’s not burnt. Of course, the soup wouldn’t have burned last week if you all had shown up on time and not distracted me.”

Their friends took her comment, with its still slightly annoyed tone, with a grain of salt, laughing at the remark and prompting her to roll her eyes in exasperation.

The coffee table already had plates and silverware on it, as she’d set it up earlier, so all she could do was grab the baking dish and brace herself. She kept her head ducked, easy enough to pass off as being careful to avoid everyone’s feet and not drop the food and set the dish down only a little unsteadily once she reached the coffee table.

“Ok, dig in!” She said, lifting her head and smiling with bravery she didn’t actually feel.

Jack reached for the serving spoon first, taking it in hand and looking up, already talking. “Thanks, Rosie, it looks grea—”

She winced as the spoon clattered to the ground and Jack shot to his feet. Ah, so Donna had not told them.

Yan looked at his husband with a frown first, and then followed his gaze to Rose, who was doing her best not to duck her head and curl in on herself again. She waved at him, awkwardly laughing, and his steel eyes narrowed. Sweet, cheeky Yan replaced by unreadable, solicitor Ianto.

“Oi, Cheesy,” Mickey snapped. “Other people want the food too— what’s goin’ on?” He looked up in the same direction as everyone else and his irritation at Jack melted into rage.

Mickey was on his feet in an instant, in front of the Doctor before Rose could blink. Well, fuck, she hadn’t anticipated that. But of course, Mickey didn’t know the Doctor, which she’d forgotten.

“Mickey!” She shouted, but he didn’t hear her.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” he screamed, grabbing the front of the Doctor’s jumper in a tight fist.

The Doctor’s eyes flashed cool blue fire, and Mickey faltered. But to his credit, he didn’t back down. “If you think, for a single second,” the Doctor hissed, “That I would hurt Rose, then you are an idiot. Some of us don’t slam the door in people’s faces when they need help.”

Mickey staggered like he’d been struck at the Doctor’s seething words, and Rose felt guilt churn in her stomach for telling him. Mickey had been a kid.

“Oi, get off my brother!” Donna yelled, jumping up, only to be held back once more by Shaun.

“Yan,” Rose begged for help, but the Welshman was not listening.

For once, his cool demeanor was cracked, and he was practically vibrating with fury. He and Jack both, actually. The affable captain looked downright murderous, though thankfully not directed at the Doctor. Rose almost flinched at the harsh expression on his handsome face, so unused to seeing anything but a smile grace his lips, even if it was the sad one he wore when he thought no one was looking.

“Well, she didn’t get that bruise on her face from nowhere,” Mickey spat, gathering himself back together. “And the way I see it, only one person made her cry last week, too. The bloke who then spent the rest of the evening havin’ a temper tantrum in the corner, and didn’t leave with the rest of us.”

“Stop it, all of you!” Rose shouted. “It was Saxon!”

Six pairs of eyes landed on her.

She sought out familiar blue and found them easily, soft, resting on her in concern. She watched as they flicked down to Mickey and hardened in irritation once more before shoving him off and coming up to her side. She reached for his hand eagerly, gripping it like a lifeline.

“I—” Rose took a deep breath and met everyone’s gazes, one by one. “I haven’t been honest with you all. About everything with Saxon, and the contract, and Bad Wolf.” The Doctor’s thumb stroked across the back of her hand soothingly. “You know almost everything. I just… I didn’t want you all to think less of me. But besides the contract exploitation, Saxon has been—” her words caught in her throat.

Ten years she’d kept herself quiet about this. Every instinct she’d honed her entire adult life was screaming at her to abort, to run away. She clenched her eyes shut and pushed on.

“Physically abusing me. Since I first signed. And before that, the reason I signed in the first place was to get away from my ex, Jimmy, who was also abusive. Saxon tricked me, made me think I was getting out, but instead he just… stepped in.”

The room was so silent she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. Her words came faster as she became more uncomfortable with the silence, head ducked in shame.

“I was only sixteen, and I didn’t know any better, and he drugged me. He convinced me no one would help, or care, and… he was right. He had— has— enough money that everyone I went to shut me out. Cops, solicitors, victim advocates. My mum and, yes, Mickey, were so mad at me for running away with Jimmy that they shut me out too, but they didn’t know about the abuse, or Saxon at all. And Micks, you were just a kid too—”

Rose knew she was rambling, but she felt as if she didn’t tell them that she’d at least tried to help herself, their judgement would be worse, and she couldn’t stand them thinking that she’d just let it happen. She also had to defend Mickey and let him know that she didn’t blame him or her mum for how they’d responded.

“I’ve been going along with it for so long now that he had stopped— for years— with the physical abuse. Well, from directly hitting me, anyway. A lot of the rest of it stopped when he started thinkin’ I was too old to bother with, but I messed up really bad on Friday and—”

“No,” a firm voice interrupted her increasingly panicked ranting.

She looked up to the Doctor first, instinctively, though she knew it wasn’t his voice that had spoken.

“No,” Ianto repeated, louder.

Rose turned to him, seeing him standing there, fists balled up, absolutely shaking with emotion.

“Yan?” Jack asked, placing a hand on his husband’s arm.

Ianto shook it off and strode forward so quickly, Rose didn’t have time to decide if she was scared or if she needed to move or contemplate anything at all before his arms wrapped around her tightly. She squeaked in shock, feeling the Doctor let go of her hand and step back as Yan crushed her to himself, one arm around her back, one hand cradling the back of her head and pressing her into his chest.

She was so sick of crying, but she couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes as she clung to him. They weren’t the chest racking sobs she’d cried multiple times into the Doctor, but they flowed endlessly down her cheeks. Yan felt safe, like that big brother she’d always wanted. He knew better than anyone— perhaps maybe Donna, though her knowledge, unlike Ianto’s, was second hand— what it was like to be so hopelessly, painfully stuck. He knew what it was like to have to be a different person and endure a boss’s humiliation, though in a different way. He had to be cold and calculating and hide nearly everything about his personal life due to the partners at his firm being so ruthless and homophobic. His sweet, cheeky, yet steady personality that complimented Jack’s so well had to be hidden behind a mask as real as Bad Wolf, and they’d bonded over it a few times over the past few months.

Rose knew his protective fury came from a place of understanding and affection for her, and it was humbling in the best kind of way; the kind that made her heart ache because it was so full.

“You listen here, Rose Tyler,” he whispered fiercely to her, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter what happened, with anyone, it wasn’t every because you messed up. It wasn’t ever your fault. And I’ll kill him if he ever even looks at you again.”

Rose didn’t doubt for a second he meant it, or that he’d get away with it either.

“Get in line, sunshine,” Donna said, just as fierce. “I’ve had a bone to pick with Saxon for years.”

“Either of you ever actually kill someone before?” Jack asked. “I’ll handle it.”

“I have,” Shaun said gravely. Everyone looked at him, alarmed. He smiled weakly and tilted his head. “No, not really. Just everyone else was sayin’ somethin’ cool.”

Rose snorted, pushing against Ianto’s tight grip just enough to lift her head and wipe her eyes. He looked down on her, and Rose took heart in his determination. She sighed and pushed away more fully, and he let his arms fall to his side, but stayed close.

She spared a glance over at Mickey, who had not said anything. He had at some point collapsed to the floor and drawn his knees up close to his chest and was staring at some point in the distance, eyes unfocused. His expression was haunted, and she was struck with another wave of guilt and a strong desire to comfort him, but she knew he wouldn’t take it well. Particularly in front of everyone. She made a mental note to herself to reach out to him privately to assure him once again that it was not his fault, and to try and get the Doctor to apologize. She doubted he would, but he should, in her opinion.

Rose wrapped her arms around herself loosely and continued, leaving Mickey to his thoughts.

“After he attacked me on Friday, I lost it on him,” she admitted, still in disbelief that she’d done so. “I started screamin’ and told him to leave me the hell alone, and that I was done with the fucking publicity stunts. I told him I’d finish out the contract, and do the tour, but I wouldn’t participate anymore in the fake relationships or let him keep jerking me around on my schedule. I thought he was gonna kill me, but he backed down, and before he left he told me that… he said, “I hope whoever is fucking you knows I’ll destroy him too if a word of your ‘relationship’ gets out.’ And, well, he’s been watchin’ my flat and—” Rose buried her head in her hands, and cried out, “I put you all in danger, and you need to know, because I don’t know what he’s going to do. I’m sorry.”

“He’s not gonna do shit,” Jack scoffed. “First of all, ‘cos he’s a damn coward. Only cowards treat people like that. Preying on vulnerable kids, fucking sick freak. But secondly, your identity is on lock. No one’s figured it out in ten years.”

“Except you,” Rose muttered sullenly.

“Yeah, well, I’m exceptional,” Jack grinned. “But also, you don’t have a relationship to ‘get out.’”

He said his last point with resolute certainty, as if the problem was solved. Rose bit her lip and made a face.

“Actually, Jack,” she hedged.

“I mean, obviously you’ve got us, but he’s just posturing and grandstanding. You said he’s been watchin’ your flat, but you’re hardly ever there, so he’s just guessing. And he’s an idiot, so he just assumed romantic relationship.”

“Jack—”

“I think between all of us, either someone can always stay there with you, or you could just come stay with someone. I don’t like the idea of you being there anymore, I know it’s your flat but Jesus, Rose, you got decked and whatever else. I mean look at your neck! Did the sick fuckin’ bastard bite you?”

Rose saw Mickey stir from the corner of her eye, angering again.

“Actually, Harkness, that one is mine,” the Doctor commented lightly. “And she’s staying here.”

Chapter Text

Rose whirled around on him, glaring daggers, and he grinned. “What. The. Fuck?” She whispered viciously at him.

He slid his arm around her easily, still smirking, and said, “Well, I’m not letting someone else take credit for my work.”

And unspoken, in his eyes, he told her, “They need to know he didn’t. It makes them think more happened.”

Ah. If he knew that, why the fuck did he hide her shirts? A flicker of guilt flashed across his face too, and she knew he’d just not thought of it until now.

“Idiot,” she thought, equally exasperated and fond.

At least telling them killed two birds, or possibly three, with one stone. It assured them Saxon hadn’t assaulted her in that way, it told them about her and the Doctor, and hopefully, it would relieve some tension.

It seemed to work for everyone, even Mickey. Shaun slapped Donna on the shoulder lightly. “Ha! Pay up,” he gloated.

Donna grumbled and reached into her bra, pulling out a ten pound note and passing it to her husband, who flicked it happily.

“What?” Jack asked, dumbfounded.

“Donna refused to accept it,” Shaun told Rose conspiratorially. “She just kept saying, ‘There’s no way they got their shit together on their own.’ And she thought he was just comforting you yesterday, and that grandad was being too optimistic. Sylvia has refused to accept that you haven’t been together, so she doesn’t count, she said.”

“It’s been months,” Donna defended. “Excuse me for being realistic.”

“What?” Jack repeated, spinning around between looking at Donna and Shaun, and the Doctor and Rose.

“Ugh, Rose, that’s disgusting. You couldn’t have told us any other way? Like verbally instead of showing off a big hickey?” Mickey complained, shaking his head. “I mean, who gives hickeys anymore anyway? What are you, fifteen?” He asked the Doctor.

A look passed between them, some kind of understanding, and Mickey relaxed, to Rose’s relief.

“That’s what I said!” Rose exclaimed, smacking the Doctor on the chest, like ‘See?’ “And I wasn’t trying to show it off, Micks, someone hid all my collared shirts.”

The Doctor shrugged, unrepentant. He accepted it, and Rose’s attempt at comradery with Mickey at his expense without complaint. Another mental note— to snog him silly in gratitude— was added to her list.

“Ew,” Mickey and Donna chorused. Even Yan wrinkled his nose playfully.

“What?!” Jack shouted, tugging on his hair. “But— my plan!”

Rose frowned and felt the Doctor tense up as he looked at his friend. His arm around her waist tightened protectively, drawing her closer into his side and angling his body between her and Jack, as if he was guarding her from whatever lunacy his friend might’ve thought up. Highly unnecessary, but she enjoyed it thoroughly.

“What plan?” He growled.

“Jack, fy nghariad, I’ve told you that it was a bad idea,” Ianto chided.

“No! No! It was a great idea, and it’s been working. Step one: weekly game night, get Rosie comfy in the family, confront the Wolf in the room, and make them spend more time together.”

“We spend nearly every day together,” Rose interrupted to argue.

“Step two: invite Mickey, make the Doc jealous.”

“Hey!” Mickey exclaimed.

“Step three: Take Rosie out, get her a date,” Jack continued as if neither of them had spoken.

“Sounds counterproductive to get her to date someone else,” Shaun interjected, but the Doctor was growling at Jack and looked ready to deck him, so Shaun put his hands up in defeat and muttered, “Or maybe not.”

“Step four: they fuck each other senseless!” Jack screamed. “It was foolproof!”

“Ok, so technically, we only skipped step three then,” Rose thought to herself. Although they still had yet to shag fully, they certainly weren’t keeping their hands off each other any longer either.

As utterly happy as she was about the fact that they were together now, she almost wished Jack had been able to institute all the steps of his plan. She wanted to see the Doctor really jealous and possessive. His behavior against Mickey was confident in his superiority, knowing that Mickey wasn’t a threat, but what would he have done if he wasn’t sure? If she had gone out with some stranger? Knowing the answer was probably more self-recriminatory bullshit in all reality, she much preferred to imagine a thunderous, cool and calculating Doctor storming up to her, tossing her over his shoulder, and stealing her away.

“If he wasn’t a storm,” she thought lustfully, “He was a fucking dragon.”

In the two days since their confessions, he’d made it abundantly clear how he liked her in his clothes and in his bed, on top of how he loved for her to say his name when they were intimate. He’d confessed that while he felt sorry that no one had ever treated her well in bed, he was also selfishly pleased that he got to be the first— the only— one to do so for her.

He’d also told her that for the past two months, since he’d opened up more to her speaking about Bad Wolf and what she had to do with Malcom, he spent all of his Saturdays in a jealous, brooding, grouchy mood, knowing that she was out with him. And Sunday evenings, because he had to share her.

“Isn’t what matters the fact that they are together?” Yan tried to sooth his husband.

Jack sat heavily on the sofa, head in his hands, and wailed, “No!”

“No,” Rose agreed, grinning a tongue-touched grin up at the Doctor when he looked down on her dubiously. “I really would’ve liked to see you get all jealous if I’d gone out with someone.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yan muttered, rubbing his forehead at his husband in exasperation.

Jack continued complaining, ignoring his husband’s comment and the Doctor’s glower. “I estimated that it had about a fifty-fifty shot of working, if you just told him you had a date, and seventy-thirty if I’d been able to organize the Doctor seeing you beforehand in whatever sexy outfit you would’ve worn. It might have short-circuited him enough to cut through his martyr complex bullshit. If you’d let me pick the outfit, it might’ve even been a sure thing!”

“I’d like to see where you got those numbers, Harkness,” the Doctor grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

“Did you calculate the probability of if I’d gone out with a woman, or just a man?” Rose asked, egging Jack on eagerly.

Ianto threw up his hands and walked away while Jack screeched excitedly. “I did! I knew it! Ten percent decrease in reaction on the first date, but I estimated a full crying in the rain confession by the third, whether it was the same woman or three different ones.”

“Damn,” Rose muttered, loathing the missed opportunity. “You think I could’ve gone out with three different women?”

“Oi!” The Doctor exclaimed. “Can you not wistfully imagine going out with someone else right in front of me? Particularly three someone elses?”

“And a confession in the rain?” She mused, dreamily, ignoring his protests. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic, Doctor.”

She looked up to him with another tongue touched grin, latching onto his folded arm and resting her chin on his shoulder. She had to go up on her tiptoes to manage, but the pinkening tips of his ears were worth the stretch.

He glared at her, and then at Jack, and then back at her, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

Still holding onto his arm, Rose turned back to Jack and asked, quickly, before she lost her nerve, “What do you think he would’ve done if I’d got back with Mickey?”

Mickey made a panicked noise of protest, Donna and Shaun both slammed their drinks back, and Ianto rushed back into the room holding his hands up.

“Aaaand we’re done with this conversation,” he ordered sternly, glaring at his husband.

Jack pouted, but smartly, he did not argue. Rose also pouted, having been thinking about how the Doctor might’ve reacting had she mentioned River, but conceded for Ianto’s sanity.

Mickey shot up and escaped to the kitchen to wipe off the serving spoon Jack had dropped, and returned cautiously, eyeing the Doctor the whole time, before digging into the food finally. It broke the conversation apart as Donna and Shaun also went for plates, and Ianto and Jack laughed and spoke in soft Cymraeg together, having reconciled easily.

The Doctor unfolded his arms and wrapped one around her side, gripping her hip to hold her in place

“We,” he bent down and whispered in her ear, his breath tickling her and sending shivers down her spine. “Will be discussing that little comment and the rest of your teasing later,” he warned, low and dark.

“Promises, promises,” she whispered back, bolder than she actually felt when his voice alone made her weak in the knees. “I wanna know what you were really thinking at the gala while I was talking about fucking your ex, too. While we’re at it.”

He glared at her with dark eyes, his hand flexing tightly on her hip, but he released her wordlessly. His eyes flickered subtly around the room, and she understood that his letting go had nothing to do with giving up on his threat, and everything to do with not following through with it that very moment. Her mouth went dry, while other parts of her were distinctively not. Oh, she regretted wearing a skirt, even though just earlier she’d sworn, with his hand up under the garment in the kitchen, she’d never wear anything else again.

“So, what’re we playing tonight?” Mickey asked.

“Well, it seems like I’m playing with fire,” Rose thought deliriously. “And the Doctor is playing me like a cheap fiddle.”

The Doctor’s lips quirked up in a genuine smile, as if he’d heard the thought. Probably had, the git. She had to turn away from him, feeling flushed and unsteady.

“How about charades?” She suggested, sitting in the unoccupied armchair and curling her legs up to the side, ignoring the Doctor’s smug aura as best she could.

“Aw, with the twins?” Mickey lamented. “Isn’t that cheating?”

Everyone except Donna laughed. She glared at her brother with some animosity that obviously went back quite a long time, and he grinned back.

“Nah, Rickey, see I won me first science fair project by thoroughly disproving the concept of ‘twin telepathy.’”

“Because you’re a dunderhead who couldn’t read a woman’s emotions if the instructions were written in Spaceman,” Donna spat. “Rose, you’ll know what I mean soon enough, if you don’t already. I mean nearly five months…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“I do alright,” he sniffed dismissively.

“He does alright,” Rose said at the same time, equally dismissive.

Even Jack looked up from his canoodling with Ianto to stare at the two of them again, and Rose flushed heavily.

“We are not playing charades,” Mickey said decisively. 

Chapter Text

Any second now, Rose was sure, her heart was going to give out, and she would simply die. Her tombstone would read “Killed by sexual frustration, teasing, and her own stupid, cocky mouth.”

“Fuck, Doctor, oh god,” Rose screeched, her back arching off the bed to the point of almost snapping as he once again sucked her clit directly into his mouth and curled his fingers inside of her.

She needed him to do exactly that just for a few… more… seconds—

He stopped.

Again.

“No, no, no, no please,” she begged, frustrated tears rolling down her cheeks. Her grip on the sheet was almost tearing as she writhed desperately.

“Please what, precious?” The Doctor growled, pulling his head away entirely so just his hot breath hit her oversensitive and throbbing clit. His fingers kept thrusting, but had slowed to deep, long pushes that drug against her walls tortuously.

“Don’t stop, please, I can’t take it anymore,” she cried. “James.”

“You wanted to tease, Rose,” he reminded her darkly. “And I told you, I don’t play fair.”

She shook her head, another ragged moan falling from her lips.

“Are you going to be good now?” He asked, nibbling at her hipbone.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she whined.

She barely knew what exactly she was sorry for at this point but had long ago decided it did not fucking matter. He’d pounced on her the second the door was closed and locked behind their friends and tossed her over his shoulder exactly the way she’d been imagining. She’d giggled in giddy anticipation until his large, rough hand came up and smacked her arse and her laughter turned into a breathy gasp at the warm sting. She’d not even had time to fully wrap her mind around the smack before she was tossed on his bed, and he was hovering above her. He was barely restrained, his wild eyes wordlessly seeking her permission.

Even after she granted it, lifting her head up and pressing a kiss to his lips that he melted into, he’d told her in explicit detail what he planned to do to her while he stripped her of her clothing so deliberately she had realized that he’d planned that too. He’d meticulously plotted exactly how he was going to divest her of every article until she was bare and shivering before him, and not from the cold.

His thrusting fingers sped up and she gasped. A minute falter in his rhythm was corrected before she could even be disappointed, and a third thick finger was stretching her. The pleasure- burn of stretching around his digits whited out her vision for several seconds.

“You still want me to be jealous?” He growled. “Or do you belong to me? With me?”

“Yours,” she gasped. “Yours, yours, yours, Doctor.”

“Good girl. My good girl,” he purred, lowering his mouth back to her clit and lapping at it with a wide, flat tongue. “Isn’t being good so much better than being such a fucking brat?”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes,” she agreed mentally, but couldn’t vocalize it. “Until next time.”

She could only plead, whining his name.

“Come for me, precious. Just for me, my Rose.” His lips were back around the bundle of nerves, suckling firmly and fluttering his hardened tongue against it, and his hand thrust twice more, and she convulsed beneath him.

Her climax exploded out of her so strongly she couldn’t even scream, her entire body tensing so much that the air was pushed from her lungs. Spots danced in front of her vision as waves of heat battered her and the Doctor continued to push her through the dramatic peak, not slowing or stopping his thrusting hand or the firm sucking. Just as one peak dropped off, she was right back on the edge of another and tumbled over.

This time, a harsh cry of his name was torn from her lips, and a rumble of approval sent shocks through her. He did slow and gentle this time, bringing her down back to the bed she’d practically levitated off of, and finally stilling entirely while she panted. She got the distinct impression that had she not shouted his name, then he would’ve kept going until she did, and she tucked that information away for the future.

She whimpered almost imperceptibly when he removed his fingers from her, but he kissed her stomach lightly in apology anyway as he climbed up her body. He crawled into the space next to her and gathered her in his arms, her head spinning at the movement, and continued to bring her back down with warm, soothing strokes of his broad, calloused hands across her back and arms, kissing her head and face, and stroking her cheek with his other hand’s thumb.

The entire time, he murmured to her sweetly. “You’re such a good girl, love, so good for me. Absolutely stunning. My treasure, my sun,” he whispered.

Rose knew she’d let him do whatever that was a dozen times over to hear him whisper to her like that. She was so loved, she was so seen, and cared for by this stunning man, who was so incredible inside and out. She was drunk on it.

“Love you,” she slurred. “Love you so much, my Doctor.”

He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer, stilling his movements in favor of holding her tightly. “Yours,” he assured her, voice thick with emotion. “Absolutely yours.”

She hummed, delighted, and burrowed further into him.

“How long are you gonna stay with me?” The Doctor asked in a raspy whisper.

Rose could hear the desperation in his voice, and knew she could rise up, and stare deep into his blue eyes, and promise him the world, but he wouldn’t believe it. Not that he didn’t believe her, but that he wouldn’t be able to keep hold of the happiness they had right now. He still believed that she would disappear, like smoke through his fingers, by some cruel trick of fate. She could do a lot, like scoot down between his legs and comfort his demons physically, argue with him, or make pretty declarations, but in the end, the only thing that would reassure him—and herself, if she was honest— that this happiness wouldn’t be snatched from them, would be time.

“Forever,” she vowed simply.

Chapter Text

Donna had told her, under no uncertain terms, that despite the fact Mondays were normally her days for volunteering, she would be missing those hours this week. Rose couldn’t find it in herself to argue, when she knew she’d been neglecting spending time with her friend, and how she knew she had hurt her by keeping secrets from her. Not to mention, she was hesitant to leave the safety of the Doctor’s flat, after the incident at the temple. The Doctor had confessed, lying in bed together before they drifted off to sleep, that he was equally hesitant about leaving her in the morning, but hadn’t suggested a single word otherwise, which she appreciated deeply. She knew he worried, but she was glad he didn’t let that worry make him stupid. She liked that he worried, though she wished he didn’t have to. It made her feel cared for, seen. Loved, even, though she still had a hard time accepting it.

So the next day, after the Doctor had lovingly kissed her awake and brought her a cup of tea to enjoy while he puttered around readying himself to go back to the university for the week, she reluctantly confirmed with Donna that she could either come to the Doctor’s flat or meet her at her office, which would be another neutral, mostly non-public space.

The Doctor had barely been gone for five minutes, and her text was still sitting on read when a loud, vigorous series of bangs sounded on the front door. Rose’s heart leapt up into her throat momentarily, until she heard the familiar, angry voice of her best friend muffled through the wood. Affection and exasperation for the woman flooded her in equal amounts as she clambered out of bed and threw on the Doctor’s dark blue dressing gown over her naked body. Her own dressing gown was right next to it, but anxiety had her reaching for the larger one, and bringing the collar up to her nose to inhale his familiar, calming scent as she padded her way down the hall.

“You’ve got fifteen more seconds before I’m usin’ the emergency key, sunshine!” Donna hollered. “And if I walk in on you shaggin’ my brother there will be hell.”

“Oh, if only,” Rose thought with a huff.

She yanked the door open on Donna mid-knock and snickered at the way the other Noble twin fell off balance. Her amusement didn’t last long as Donna glared at her and shoved past, grabbing her wrist on her way inside the flat and pulling. Rose barely had time to shut the door behind them before Donna tugged her away.

“Yes, hello, Donna. Why don’t you come in?” Rose quipped. “Would you like a cuppa?”

 “I’ll make the damn tea. You— go put on some fuckin’ clothes. You own clothes, mind. Just cause we’re all glad the two of you finally got your heads out of your arses doesn’t mean I need the reminder.”

“Well, if you’d told me you were comin’ over—”

“Go!” Donna ordered, pointing back towards the bedroom.

Rose rolled her eyes, but she decided the argument wasn’t worth it. That being said, she did still dress herself in one of the Doctor’s cozy jumpers, and her favorite pair of loose linen trousers. If she had to have this conversation again, she was damned well going to be comfortable for it. She took a moment to brush her teeth and splash some water on her face, barely resisting the urge to morbidly poke at the bruise on her cheek, and once again braided her hair back. With a deep breath and a resolute look at herself in the mirror, she felt marginally more prepared to face Donna’s inquisition.

Her friend said nothing, but she did huff and roll her eyes when she reemerged from the bedroom in the Doctor’s jumper. She was sitting in the same armchair she’d occupied the night before, but instead of taking the opposite chair as she’d done last night, Rose took her normal spot on the sofa, which was closer. Donna passed her tea over and she took it with a quiet, grateful, “Ta.”

British politeness allowed Rose a few sips of her tea before Donna spat, “Alright, out with it.”

“What do you want to know first?” Rose sighed. “I know I owe you a lot of explanations. And apologies. And… fuck. Donna, I owe you more than any of that. Where do I even start?”

Donna’s gaze softened and she reached out and laid her hand atop Rose’s. “What happened first? You and Jamie, or what happened with Saxon?” She offered.

Rose let out a watery laugh and replied, “Me n’ the Doctor. We were here on Thursday night and he was going to let me stay the night instead of drivin’ me back to the loft, and I… well to be honest I sort of snapped on him.”

 “Attagirl!” Donna cheered. “S’about time!”

 “Yeah, well. It didn’t go great. Blimey, but he’s a stubborn idiot when he wants to be.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” the other Noble twin muttered.

“We argued. Typical, I know. And I finally convinced him he was bein’ a git, and then we actually had a real conversation about… everything. Don’t hold it against him too much, he meant well, and he’s been in therapy and—” Rose sighed happily, shaking her head in disbelief at how lucky she was that he cared for her so deeply.

It still hadn’t fully sunk in that they were finally together, with everything else that had happened. She’d barely had time to reflect on their conversation that night. The quiet, heartfelt confessions they’d both made, the intensity of being the direct focus of his attention for almost every moment since, having barely left each other’s side in days, it was all so unbelievable that Rose from just this day last week would have laughed herself sick.

“And?” Donna prompted, impatient at the way she’d gotten lost in reminiscing but smiling.

“Oh, Donna, I’ve never been so happy as I was when we finally had it all out in the open. We kissed, and he held me until I fell asleep, and he was still holdin’ me when I woke up, like a dream.”

Donna wrinkled her nose playfully but encouraged her to continue. Her eyes sparkled happily, crinkling in the corners even as she hid her smile behind her mug, so very like her brother it made Rose ache with overflowing love for the two of them.

“We didn’t actually say, ‘I love you,’ until the next morning. He was leavin’ for work, and I was falling back asleep, so he tucked me back in and kissed me and it just slipped out!”

Donna barked out an incredulous laugh. “Of course it did. The way you two have been goin’ on the past few months, just on the cusp of saying it at any moment, I’m surprised it took that long!”

“But he said it back, and neither of us even realized it until he was halfway down the stairs. We ran back to each other and met right at the door. He swept me right off my feet and carried me back inside—” she cut herself off with a blush, torn between wanting to discuss the wonderful moment with her best friend, and unsure if the woman would want to hear those details about her twin brother.

Donna snorted, “I can fill in the rest, ta. If you want to talk about the details, you can call Jack. Let’s just go with, ‘he was late to work.’”

“Well, he might’ve been, I’m not sure,” Rose sighed. “Because right before he left again he was tellin’ me how late it was and that’s when I realized…” She clutched the mug tighter, shifting her gaze down at it and away from Donna’s face as familiar shame heated her cheeks. “I, um, overslept. Missed a big interview. I had a ton of missed calls and texts from Saxon, n’ I… I dunno. I didn’t think about it. I just went back to the loft, sorta on autopilot. I mean, I knew he was goin’ to be there.”

“Rose,” Donna breathed, devastated. “Why did you never say anything? I mean, I knew you thought he was watchin’ your flat but if you knew he could get in—”

“’Cos what’s the alternative?” Rose whispered. “I couldn’t just stay with you and Shaun forever. I’m barely keeping it together stayin’ here. Risking Saxon knowing who you all are— it’s bad enough he knows you and I are friends. I got too relaxed when I let you all come over last week, and like I told you last night, he’s already threatening the Doctor. It’s only because he doesn’t know who he is that I’m even comfortable with stayin’ here while he cools off. I couldn’t put you and Shaun into danger like that.”

“While he cools off? Rose, you practically live here anyway,” Donna scoffed lightly.

Rose flushed, but didn’t respond. True as it may be, she couldn’t cross that line with him yet. It was too dangerous, too sudden. She was still halfway certain he would snap to his senses any second and remember how he didn’t actually want to be with her or realize her position with Saxon was to precarious for him to want to deal with. Hinging her life on him too entirely by actually living here was too painfully familiar.

“Anyway,” she croaked. “Saxon was at the loft when I got there. I wish I could tell you he caught me off guard but… I can’t lie to you anymore. I won’t. I stood there and let him hit me and scream at me and threaten me, ‘cos fighting back was too risky when I just kept telling myself, ‘It’s only a little while longer.’ But he was threatening to send me out with Malcom that night, and it was supposed to be my first date with the Doctor since we’d gotten back together. Somethin’ in me just snapped, ‘cos I couldn’t let him take that from me. Not when he’d taken everything else for so long.”

Rose felt her mug being tugged gently from her grip, and realized how tightly she’d been squeezing it, and how shaky her hands had become. Donna shifted, slowly, in front of her to sit atop the coffee table, now holding both of her hands.

“Deep breaths, sunshine,” she coached steadily. “In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.” With Donna coaching her through steadying her breathing and holding her hands, Rose calmed faster than usual, and though it was a small victory, without crying again.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I didn’t want to tell anyone, but the Doctor showed up at my flat before I could clean up and it all just sort of spilled out. Everything, about Saxon and Jimmy, even about my mum—”

Donna scowled, and Rose almost laughed. That had been one thing she had told Donna, years ago, and the woman had never let it go even though she and her mum had. Donna flat out refused to meet Jackie on a few occasions because she couldn’t promise not to bring it up, and Rose had learned not to mention her mum’s disparaging comments to her friend unless she really needed a laugh at the way she got so worked up over it. It was endearing, the way she got so riled up on her behalf, and she’d threatened to buy a ticket to Ireland more than once to go over and give Jackie a taste of her own medicine. Rose figured it was because her mum was one person Donna could in theory actually take out her frustration on, since Jimmy was in prison and Saxon was untouchable.

“But,” she continued. “If he hadn’t shown up when he did, I still would have kept it from you all.”

“But why?” Donna asked, clearly heartbroken. “We could’ve helped you. I could’ve.”

“I just didn’t want you to think of me like that,” she admitted quietly. “A lot of it was tryin’ to keep you all safe from him, but it was that too. I hate that I just let it happen and I’m ashamed of it. I didn’t want you to know that I… that I’m so weak.”

Rose knew that all she had done, all she had allowed to happen to her, was calculated to the best of her ability to mitigate more harm. She let Saxon get his blow in first, let him scream at her to blow off his steam, to keep him from doing worse. She let him tug at her puppet strings to keep him from hitting her to begin with, after having spent years figuring out how to work around his hairpin trigger. What pleased him just enough, what gave him that edge over her that he craved to keep him satisfied enough to not do more? The line between her little rebellion keeping him entertained and actually enraging him was thinner than a tightrope, and each trick she had to keep her balance was equally shameful, in her eyes. If she was stronger, she could have gotten away. If she was smarter, she could have figured out how to escape him while she was still a minor, when the contract wouldn’t have held.

If she was worth anything in truth, she never would’ve gotten in with Jimmy to begin with, for Saxon to have found at that bar.

“I don’t deserve your help, Donna,” Rose croaked. “Or the Doctor’s, or Jack’s or Yan’s. It’s all my own fault, and I thought if I could just make it a few more months, it would be over. You wouldn’t have to know, and I could keep the little bit of dignity I had left. But I was being to optimistic— stupid, really— ‘cos if Saxon has his way, there won’t be an out. I should’ve known he’d rather kill me.”

Donna stared at her with glassy eyes. The clear blue that was so familiar to her, from both the woman in front of her and the matching set on the man she loved, was teeming with emotion. Sorrow, anger, understanding. Grief. It settled on her shoulders heavily, knowing she put those burdens on her fiery friend. Not for the first time, she almost wished Donna hadn’t found her at that party, if only because of the guilt she felt for bringing such a burden as herself into her life.

Donna was kind. She was empathetic to the point of risking herself to help others. She was ‘give the shirt off her own back to a complete stranger’ kind, despite all her abrasiveness. The same as the Doctor, and Wilf, and everyone else in their little family. Donna was the first bit of that selfless kindness Rose had known in years, and she’d known that sharing this secret with her would only give her pain.

But keeping it from her had hurt her as well. She could see the broken trust in those blue eyes, and it hurt worse than anything Saxon had ever done to her. It hurt worse than the pain of being separated from the Doctor the past few months. Breaking Donna’s trust in her was more shameful than anything she had done to keep herself safe, any concession she had made to Saxon or Jimmy or any of her grab-handed fans.

“I’m sorry,” Rose cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She all but collapsed into Donna’s arms, the two of them sinking to the floor together as Donna wrapped her arms around her and tucked her head under her chin. Rose was racked with sobs, but her body was wrung dry over the last few days, so she just trembled in Donna’s hold and hated the way she couldn’t keep herself together, when it was her who had hurt her friend. She took comfort from the older woman that she didn’t deserve, her touch-starved nerves keeping her painfully aware with every second that she hadn’t earned the soft petting on her hair or the steadying grip around her shoulders.

“It’s ok, Rose,” Donna murmured. “It’s alright. I understand.”

She could only cling to Donna tighter in response. “Undeserving, unworthy, unlovable,” her thoughts whispered to her viciously. “Liar, liar, liar. What a good little actress you are, fooling them all.” She couldn’t decide if that venomous little voice sounded more like Jimmy, Saxon, or herself. She couldn’t decide if it mattered, when it was only telling her the truth she already knew to begin with.

Surprisingly, the voice in her head that fought back against that thought wasn’t the Doctor’s, or even Donna’s. It was Ianto’s. “No matter what happened, with anyone, it wasn’t ever because you messed up. It wasn’t ever your fault.” Whether she believed him or not was a different matter, but hearing the words echo in her mind did help, at least a little.

After a few moments, she was able to pull herself together enough to pull away from Donna, and even sheepishly meet her eyes. “I am sorry, Donna,” she repeated softly. “For keeping it from you.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” Donna admitted, equally as soft. “But I do understand it.”

Rose watched a grimace flicker across her face, and her heart clenched fearfully. “No,” she begged.

“No, not like that,” Donna shook her head. “But… well, you remember that bloke I told you I was with before Shaun? The one that I was going to marry a few years ago?”

“Lance?” Rose dredged the name up from her memory. “The one that ran off with his boss?”

Donna scoffed in confirmation. “Yeah, him. Well, he— and don’t go tellin’ Jamie this, alright? I already barely kept him from killin’ Lance when he ran off. He never treated me the way Saxon or Jimmy did you, but he did his best to break me down in his own way. And I understand what you mean by how you think you ‘let it happen.’ I let Lance talk to me that way, instead of tellin’ him off and leaving like I should’ve. I let him tell me I wasn’t any good at anything, that I was too loud, and too brash. I let him call me stupid and worthless and tear me down. We worked together, at the time, and I think it was all because he couldn’t stand that I was better at the job than him, so he set out to undermine me. When that didn’t work, he started sleepin’ with the boss behind my back, getting the better assignments ‘cos of it, and it made me start to believe the things he was saying. Til they ran off together.”

She felt like she had forgotten how to breathe. Like gravity had ceased existing, or if she looked out the window, the sky wouldn’t be blue any longer. Donna had let someone speak to her like that? A man, no less? It was incomprehensible. Inconceivable. Donna didn’t let anyone diminish her— she wouldn’t even take her husband’s last name or hyphenate it. Donna didn’t compromise, or back down, or— oh. Oh. That was the point, wasn’t it?

She didn’t let things just happen to her. If Lance had come out of the gate speaking to her in that way, Donna would’ve decked him and spit on his crumpled body on her way out, yelling obscenities to the whole of London. But Rose knew, from her own experience even, that it was gradual. It started out with little things, pushing to see how far you would let things go, what wasn’t worth an argument, what pushed the line just a little farther back at a time to what you would accept. For her, it had happened so long ago with Jimmy that she’d forgotten. Saxon hadn’t put that ‘work’ in, he'd stepped into the role, knowing she was already beaten down. She’d already been pushed into accepting so much that it was easy for him, which was why everything about the contract and Saxon himself felt so consuming.

But it wasn’t. She’d only thought it was.

“Donna Noble, you are fantastic,” Rose breathed.

“Yeah,” she shrugged, lips turning up in a smirk. “I know that. S’time for you to learn that you are too, sunshine. Come on.”

Donna rose with an exaggerated groan and pulled Rose to her feet. They smiled at each other widely for a moment before embracing once again in a warm, lingering hug. When they pulled apart once more, she felt lighter and heavier in different ways. The guilt of keeping things from Donna had been relieved, and she was grateful, but the woman’s story settled in the back of her mind like a lodestone. It would always be there, alongside Sylvia’s now, just as she knew her own story would always be in Donna’s and her mum’s in return. Maybe one day, she could get Sylvia to share with Donna as well, and the three of them could shoulder it together. It was a weight she didn’t wish any of them had to carry, but even the weight of all three stories was lighter, when carried together.

In another respect, it also made a sick sort of sense. Why Donna tried so hard to take care of her, that instant connection to each other they had felt-- hell, it even explained the other part of the Doctor's reaction to the Bad Wolf bombshell that night in Donna's car, when he'd been so paranoid about her job and how she knew his sister. He might not know all the details of Lance's verbal abuse, but he obviously knew about the way it impacted Donna's job and self-esteem. The Doctor's fierce love for his sister had been something she'd admired since they'd met, just one more example of the passion he held that had drawn her to him, and she'd admired it even as it was painfully turned against her that night. It healed a little more of that rift that was still between them in her heart to know that it had been from a place of genuine protectiveness and worry, rather than just a reaction. Donna had been trying to tell her without telling her about Lance explicitly for months, but she'd been to down on herself to listen. 

Donna stayed a few hours longer, chatting about lesser things and watching daytime telly with her on the Doctor’s sofa. She pried for details of her and the Doctor’s relationship and gagged with disgust when Rose shared them— keeping a tight lid on anything more detailed than snogging, after Donna blanched at the way her own face had heated to a bright red when she almost said too much. Donna teased her for domesticating her feral, bachelor brother and promised that next time her twin pissed her off, she’d bring Rose over the baby photos and drag Sylvia along to show them off. It was the most carefree afternoon she felt she’d had in years, lounging in comfortable clothes on the sofa in front of the telly with her best friend, even with the weight of everything that had happened in the last few days.

Sometime after the third episode of a game show they’d talked all the way through, the good company and heavy takeaway food began to lull her to sleep. Donna seemed to notice the way her responses were growing quieter, and her friendly chattering dropped off, but she didn’t leave. Rose hummed sleepily, figuring Donna’s fierce protective instincts weren’t quite yet satisfied with the fact that she was alright and she smiled to herself as she snuggled deeper into the sofa. The Noble twins were more alike than they liked to admit, and god did she love them both for it.

The last conscious thing Rose remembered for a while was Donna pulling the afghan further up her shoulders and sighing heavily in relief.

When his phone buzzed loudly where it was laying face down on his desk, the Doctor picked it up eagerly, hoping to see a message from Rose. She’d been suspiciously quiet all day, and his anxiety was high from the lack of communication. While it wasn’t unusual for them not to talk overly much when they knew the other was at work, the last time he hadn’t heard from Rose in several hours had been disastrous to say the least. He’d barely kept himself from messaging her and being an overprotective git through his classes, a department meeting, and video call with another professor for a paper they were co-authoring. Now he had just one last meeting with Clara about a chapter for her dissertation that he was waiting on and he could finally run home, and his itching to make sure Rose was alright was getting almost unbearable.

When he saw his sister’s name flash on the screen with a picture message, he frowned in confusion but opened up the text thread regardless.

The Doctor let out a sigh of relief so deep it came from his boot clad toes. The picture showed Rose, fast asleep, snuggled into his sofa and Donna’s ugly knitted over-large throw blanket. She was laying on her injured cheek, which he twitched to fix so she wouldn’t put any more pressure on the swollen and bruised tissue. But between the way she was lying and the angle the photo was taken from, it was like it didn’t exist. It was just a picture of his Rose, relaxed, content, and comfortable. Her soft features were slack, mouth slightly parted, and her golden hair was a mess as it was coming loose of the braids she’d set. She looked so very young and innocent it made his chest ache.

 Another text from his sister came through as he stared at the image, so he saved it quickly before swiping away to read the new message.

She’s fine, Spaceman. Quit your overthinking, finish your stupid meetings, and come home with chips.

The Doctor laughed to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

Maybe there was something to the whole ‘twin telepathy’ thing after all.

Chapter Text

Rose was already awake, staring at the ceiling with dread, when her alarm went off the next morning. She silenced it immediately, not wanting it to wake the Doctor. He was, for once, turned away from her, so in theory it should have been easy for her to slip from the bed to get herself ready for the day. The pale grey pre-dawn light streamed through the windows, a familiar enough sight to wake up to, even in the still relatively unfamiliar bedroom. She had to wake even earlier than normal to give herself time to travel the longer distance between the rehearsal studio and his flat, and her eyes burned. She’d slept very little, other than the brief kip she’d gotten after nodding off watching telly with Donna anticipation for the day keeping her awake.

Even after the Doctor had come home— surprising her with takeaway from her favorite chippy— and tried his very best to work her into exhaustion.

The soreness in her muscles from the Doctor’s demanding hands wringing pleasure from her over and over and the lack of sleep made her feel wooden as she flung the covers back and swung her legs over the edge. She bit down a muffled groan, pausing to suck in a deep breath before standing and pulling her dressing gown on over her naked body.

“Rose?” The Doctor’s sleep thick voice called out to her.

She heard him shuffling around and turned back to face him. “Go back to sleep, love,” she murmured. “S’ my turn to have to leave early.”

Her attempt to soothe him fell flat as he raised his head and looked around with a groan. “Rose, it’s bloody five a.m.” he complained.

“Yes,” she agreed, shuffling towards the bathroom, away from the temptation of the nest of blankets and strong arms.

Her red and tired eyes stood out starkly on her pale face, but not near as much as the lingering bruise on her cheekbone. The mottled red and purple had shifted to deep purples and blues, and the swelling had decreased significantly, but she still felt as though it was healing glacially slow. Logically, she knew it had only been four days since Saxon had struck her, but so much had happened since then it felt as though it had been longer. And waiting on the damn thing to fade was killing her, in a multitude of ways, only one of which had to do with the mental block she had on sex due to its presence.

She’d have to go back to the loft today. She’d have to see him today.

In their rush to leave her flat, neither her nor the Doctor had been thinking about how she would have to go back to work on Tuesday morning, back to the studio in Bad Wolf’s skin. Tuesday had seemed so far away from then. Neither of them had thought to grab any of her armor, such as their minds had been on getting her away from Bad Wolf and all she entailed. But Tuesday was today. And she had to put the mask back on. To do so, she needed to return to the loft, at least for her wig.

She wouldn’t be surprised if Saxon knew that, or if he was there waiting once more, given that she had followed up on her declaration and not shown on Saturday to meet Malcom. Regardless of whether he was at the loft or not, he would be at rehearsal at some point today, she knew. Not only that, but she would once again be forced to endure the surprise, pity, and concern of strangers from her dance crew upon them seeing her face.

“Well,” she thought, pushing away from the sink, “no amount of stalling will keep it from happening.”

She readied herself mechanically, exiting the bathroom when she finished to begin rifling through her duffle bag for her exercise clothes.

“You should really unpack that,” the Doctor stated from behind her, making her jump.

Rose turned around to see him walking back into the bedroom with their steaming mugs, and a piece of her melted. He was bleary eyed and frowning, wearing only a pair of thin cotton sleep trousers and his dressing gown. He sat back on the edge of the bed with a grunt, setting the mugs on the nightstand and rubbing at his face.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rose murmured.

He waved a hand dismissively, still frowning. She dressed quickly and padded across the floor to stand in front of him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in her chest, grunting again, though more contentedly. She smiled and carded her fingers through his hair for a moment before admitting her thoughts to the darkened room.

“I’m scared to go back today,” she whispered.

He drew his arms around her tighter. “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Just don’t go. Come back to bed with me. Come to the university with me today. Anything else.”

“I have to,” she said, raggedly. “I’m even more scared of what he would do if I didn’t.”

“I’ll come with you then,” he argued.

Rose shook her head, sighing deeply and starting to pull away. “You can’t,” she said, voice thick around the lump in her throat.

His head shot up, his eyes meeting hers. The pale pre-dawn light wasn’t enough to see the color in his eyes, but the frantic, desperate look in them was plain.

“You can’t,” she repeated. “You have your job to worry about, and even if you could skip one day, you can’t come every day. I have to face him eventually. And I don’t trust that you wouldn’t do something stupid.”

“And I don’t want him anywhere near you, in any capacity, where he could hurt you too,” she thought to herself. “He can’t know who you are, or he’ll take you from me too.”

“Wouldn’t be stupid,” he growled. “Very well plotted, actually. Genius, me.”

Rose scoffed, stepping from the circle of his arms fully and biting back a sad sigh at doing so. She took her mug in hand and curled it up to her chest before responding.

“You promised me,” she reminded him, softly. “You promised you wouldn’t ever hurt someone because of me.”

“You are worth it. And I gave up being a doctor,” he argued. She glared at him, and he softened under her gaze. “I know, precious girl. I know,” he conceded in a low murmur.

She knew he did. They’d argued about it several times already. She’d even let him attempt to call the police to file a report, just to shrug in hollow victory when they’d hung up on him the moment he mentioned Harold Saxon’s name. He’d called another station and had been given the run around after only having mentioned her name, and they’d pulled up her file only to give him an earful about not wasting his time with her.

“The girl who cried wolf, that one,” the officer had told him. “I’d stay away if I were you. She’s been in and out of here a dozen times with that story. I think that other bloke knocked her around too much. She sees echoes of it, I suppose. I mean, that Saxon guy agreed to be a character witness in her first case! Hardly his fault she can’t move on.”

She’d simply reached over and taken the phone from him, hanging it up before he could thunder at the man in anger.

“What are you going to do?” He asked, cautiously.

“Go back to the loft, grab my wig. Go to work,” she shrugged, attempting to be nonchalant about it. “At least when I see him today I’ll be able to gauge where he’s at in cooling down. I might be able to go back to my flat in a few days, depending.”

“Rose—”

“I need to go,” she cut him off. “I’ll call you if anything happens.”

They both knew she wouldn’t.

She set the mug down, still full, and tried to rush away. She couldn’t stand to hear him say it— that she didn’t have to go back to her flat, even if Saxon calmed— because she couldn’t stand to deal with the riot of emotion it would bring up. She didn’t like feeling indebted to him, didn’t like the idea of moving in with him only because of the threat, especially when their relationship was so new. It was too risky. He could still change his mind, and then what would she do? She couldn’t stand for him to feel like he was stuck with her.

The Doctor grabbed her hand before she could get too far away, stopping her short in the middle of the hall. He tugged until she turned back around to face him, pulling her in as he snaked his other hand around to cradle the back of her head. He both pulled her to him and held her still with that strong grip as he kissed her deeply.

He pulled back after only a few moments and dropped his forehead to hers, both of them breathing heavily.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, kissing her softly one more time before releasing her.

Rose nodded mutely, blinking her tears back. “I love you,” she croaked.

“I know,” he smirked, leaning against the doorway.

“Git!”

“Come home safe later, and I’ll say it back,” he promised, eyes softening.

With one last sad smile, she nodded and departed. She stood just outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath and holding the skin warmed key at her breast for grounding. With her resolve strengthened, she moved to leave for real before pausing once more.

She brushed her fingers at the mezuzah at the door, reminding herself of what all she was fighting for, and descended the stairs.

Saxon was not at her flat when she entered.

Glass still littered the kitchen floor, but she didn’t let her eyes linger on it. She shot up to her cold, empty bedroom, and despite her exhaustion, the bed did not call to her. She donned the wig and pulled it into a high ponytail quickly and left the flat before she’d been there a full five minutes. An involuntary shiver wracked her as she shut the door behind her, the slimy feeling of being watched settling over her skin once more and following her out the building. The chilly early morning air filled her lungs and cleared her head as she began her light jog to the studio, her typical morning warm up before the rehearsal began. The cold was bracing, not settling into her bones for once but merely waking her further as she inhaled it into herself. It sharpened her mind and her resolve further.

Let him come at her.

She’d shown him already that she would no longer be fucked with. Let him try again, so she could drive the point home.

She arrived exactly on time, her breathing steady and deep. She held her shoulders back and her head high as she strutted in to where her dancers were stretching languidly and waiting for her. They were all very kind, though she held them at an arm’s length. A few looked up to greet her warmly and gasped sharply when they saw her face. She let the probing, worried questions slide over her, assuring them cooly that she wasn’t injured further, waiting with muscles coiled to the point of snapping until she felt the familiar tingle at the base of her skull. Awareness that she was being watched was an instinctive sixth sense that had been instilled into her over, and over, and over again over the past ten years, and it served her well.

“Oh, Wolfie,” one of her dancers cooed to her, “What happened?”

Steeling herself, Bad Wolf responded.

“You know, I’ve forgotten,” she said, fixing her eyes past them to the doorway. “What was it again this time, Harry? Was it an accident, or did I fall? You know me, I’m so simple and stupid, I can’t remember what you told me.”

Several people gasped, following her gaze to where Saxon stood, frozen in anger where he had just begun to stroll in. Thick, oppressive silence followed as they stared at each other, hatred flashing between them. His colorless, rage filled gaze was crazed again. She held his stare, chin out, though her hands began to tremble. He snarled after a moment and took a long step towards her, nearly lunging, but he was intercepted.

Rose gasped in surprise as several of her dancers moved in between Saxon and herself. They kept their backs to her, staring him down intensely. He froze again, and even more of them stepped forward into the space between them, until there was an impenetrable wall of all ten of them between Rose and Saxon.

He straightened up, tugged his suit into place, and strode out without a word.

Rose shook, but by some miracle stayed upright, gasping, and wrapping her arms around herself. She was aware that she was trembling, shaking uncontrollably, but it took her a few seconds to realize that she was laughing. The dancers were both watching her and trying to pretend like they weren’t, several of them moving closer to the studio door to keep up a watch for Saxon possibly returning.

One of them, a fiery redhead named Amy that reminded Rose fondly of Donna, slid in next to her. Amy had been one that had been exceedingly kind to her, with a wicked sense of humor, and Rose often wished she could allow a real friendship between them. As with the rest of them, however, she forced herself to maintain a professional detachment, not wanting any of them to suffer the loss of their jobs due to Saxon’s vindictiveness and control.

“Wolfie,” Amy murmured quietly, using the nickname all the dancers used for her.

Rose hated it, but allowed it, because what else would they call her? To call her Bad Wolf in full would be worse. At least the diminutive was casual and held even the slightest sense of affection, even if it was false.

“Are you—” Amy cut off, shaking her head. “Never mind, of course you’re not alright.” She reached out, hesitantly, and wrapped her arm around Rose’s shoulder, guiding them both gently to sit.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” Rose whispered, breathlessly. She looked up at Amy, unsure what she would find on, but seeking any kind of reassurance, or human connection.

The girl’s face was drawn, a deep furrow between her brows and a frown marring her face. “How long?” She asked, her voice thick.

“The whole time,” Rose admitted, shamefully, but unwilling to lie any longer. “Almost ten years.”

“What made you—” Amy cut off again, hesitating. “Why say something now? Isn’t your contract over after the tour?”

“I’m so tired, Amy,” she whispered raggedly.

She buckled under the weight of the admission, drawing her knees up to her chest. Even with the lightening of her soul the past few months due to the small bit of happiness she’d carved out for herself, she couldn’t deny the bone deep weariness that wore her down. Particularly now, being confronted with it after four days where she was, mostly, removed from it entirely. The revelations she’d had with Donna yesterday had been welcome, but even trying to wrap her head around those was exhausting.

Amy drew her in closer, in a crushing hug. Rose stiffened at first, her body naturally protesting the unfamiliar contact, but the girl’s strength and warmth was so welcoming that she sagged into her quickly. She couldn’t bring herself to return the hug, keeping her own arms wrapped around her knees, but Amy held her until her ragged breathing evened out. She didn’t cry— she felt like if she cried a single tear more she would shrivel up into a dehydrated and wrinkled little prune— but she clenched her eyes shut tightly against the sympathetic eyes of the rest of the people in the room.

“Wolfie,” Amy started, after her breathing had slowed and deepened.

“Please, don’t call me that,” Rose begged. “Bad Wolf has never belonged to me, not really. I—” she choked on the lump in her throat. “She’s not real. I’m real.” Her heart beat faster, the claim trying to sink into her soul. She repeated it to herself, trying to make it stick, “I’m real.”

“Ok,” Amy hedged. “What do you want us to call you? We aren’t allowed to know your name.”

Rose froze momentarily. Was she ready to cross that line? These people had practically just saved her life, but could she trust them with her name? She wanted to. She wanted to. Some of them she’d known for years, having worked on her previous tours or music videos. She couldn’t push past the surge of panic, however, couldn’t push herself any further than she already had today. She couldn’t give herself away, no matter how much she wanted to.

“How about a middle name?” Amy suggested, kindly. “Or just your last name?”

Just her last name. She could do that. It was common, and plain. It didn’t give too much of herself away but gave them something real. It crossed the line just enough. “Tyler,” she whispered. “Please? At least when it’s just us.”

She looked up imploringly at the dancers that were surrounding them, knowing they were listening. A wide range of reactions graced her as she looked out across them. Several looked angry, though she could tell easily it wasn’t at her at the way they kept looking back at the door.

Several were sympathetic— though she had to force herself to see the real sympathy they displayed, rather than the pity she initially imagined— and at least a few looked determined and proud. Amy was one of those last few.

“Alright, Tyler,” she replied, rolling the word around in her Scottish lilt and releasing her shoulders with a final squeeze. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan?” She asked, confused.

“Yeah,” one of the other dancers interjected. Jake, she noted as he sidled in closer with his arms crossed, a determined expression on his face too. “What’re we doin’ to get you out of here?”

Rose shook her head, rising to her feet shakily. “Nothing,” she said plainly. “I’ve been trying for years. There’s no way out but through. No cops or solicitors will touch it with a ten foot pole— he’s got all the money, all the legal precedent, and he’s spent years crafting Bad Wolf’s reputation into someone no one would believe.”

He’d also done what he could to discredit her as Rose Tyler, as the Doctor had found out when he’d tried to call the police station for her and been subjected to the officer’s tirade. Saxon had been three steps ahead of her in the chess match before she’d even realized they’d been playing, when he’d offered to be a character witness in her case against Jimmy. In the officers’ minds, he’d been a kind, older gentleman who saved her; protective, encouraging, and helpful. And to them, she’d been anything from ‘simply confused,’ to ‘traumatized,’ ‘ungrateful,’ and, at their most judgmental, ‘money-seeking.’

“As long as Saxon stays away from me physically the next few months, I’m free of it all by the end of August,” she continued. “I walk away with nothing, but at least I’ll walk away.”

“That’s bullshit, Tyler,” Amy protested. Rose’s stomach fluttered happily at the sound of her name. “He can’t get away with this,” she continued, gesturing to Rose’s face.

Rose shrugged, unable to find her outrage beneath the weariness and the surge of warmth from the way they all had cared for her. “He has been for years, and he will keep getting away with it,” she said, sighing. “I’m not interested in rehashing all this, but trust that I’ve done everything I could to try and find a way out. Any loophole you can think of, or suggestion that would help any normal case— anything. I’ve pushed as much as I can, now I need to just focus on making it through. Anything else and he’ll go after someone besides me, and I won’t have that on my conscious.”

Jake and Amy both made noises of protest.

“No,” Rose insisted firmly, though she fought a smile. “You all are lucky we’re less than a month away from the tour or you’d be out on your arses by lunch for the stunt you pulled. He won’t be able to replace you all in time or want to pay the money for any dancers good enough to learn the entire routine in three weeks.”

“Oi, rude, Tyler,” several protests rang out.

Her grin burst free. “Thank you, sincerely, but if you want to help, just help me keep this train running as smoothly as possible for the next few months. Nothing changes, and then when it’s over— I’ll find a way to repay you.”

Amy knocked her shoulder against hers and rolled her eyes. “Repay us for what?” She scoffed. “Caring about you? Don’t be daft.”

“And nothing changes?” Another voice rang out. Peri, Rose thought fondly. “Yeah, alright, Tyler,” she continued teasingly.

Rose shuffled, suddenly anxious. “About that—”

“Only in rehearsals,” Jake assured her. “It doesn’t leave this room.”

Noises of agreement went up all around, killing the last of her reservations. Amy gave her hand a soft squeeze before breaking away and clapping her hands loudly. Attention fell to her as she ordered everyone into place, though that was normally Rose’s role.

As usual, the rehearsal went smoothly, a well-oiled machine from the months of practice they’d endured together. Many of them had complained over the months that the constant practice was overkill, that they were all professionals and certainly didn’t need this level of redundant rehearsals, but had been grateful for the steady, relatively easy work. Rose had been working with the choreographers since before she’d met the Doctor to come up with the routine, and they’d brought in the dancers a few months later to begin rehearsals starting six months before the tour was scheduled to begin. So while they were all nearly sick of the routines, she was secretly grateful for the way the movements had become so ingrained that she could entirely disassociate most days.

Today, however, she found herself enjoying it.

When was the last time she’d enjoyed dancing? Surely there had to have been some point. She remembered how she’d used to sneak out of her mum’s flat with her old girlfriends, far too young to be in the clubs they’d frequented, just to feel the thrum of music in her veins. She remembered how the stretch and burn of her muscles had been gratifying and electric when she was a gymnast as a child, the single-minded determination she found in the complex movements that sharpened her mind. She adored running with the Doctor, feet pounding across the pavement as they pushed each other faster and faster.

The hands that touched her during the provocative and overly seductive parts of the choreography didn’t leave trails of numbness across her skin, now that she knew the people behind the touch had her back. The rhythmic beating pulse of the music and the sound of bodies moving in unison were electric. The walls of the studio normally felt oppressive, and she couldn’t wait to rush out at the end, but today she found herself lingering, listening to the quiet, satisfied but exhausted voices as they broke off in groups and pairs, wishing her a good day as they left.

When it was just her and Amy left, she found that she did not dread what would come next. She was instead, riding on a wave of hope that she knew would carry her through. What had occurred here today changed things, for better and worse. Saxon would no doubt be seeking ways to punish and seek revenge, but with such a group of people at her side, she was no longer terrified of being stranded, alone, for the weeks of the tour. It would be miserable, no doubt in her mind about that, but a knot that had been curled in her stomach since she found him in her loft those days ago loosened.

Even Saxon could not kill her, outright, if she was not so isolated. Everything he had done all these years to ensure her isolation, her constant loneliness and abject apathy, had failed.

“Tyler?” Amy’s lilting voice broke her deep contemplation. “If you need to— if you want to— talk about any of it… I mean, I’m sure you have people on the outside, but—”

“I would like that, Amy,” Rose said, smiling.

Amy returned her smile. “How about we go get coffee? After a shower,” she suggested as she wrinkled her nose.

Rose laughed and agreed but then realized that she’d brought no clothes to change into, as per usual. Her loft was so close by she never bothered using the locker room showers here, she just went home, but now all of her clothing was at the Doctor’s flat. She groaned, realizing she would have to walk all the way back to his flat in her sweaty clothing.

“Sorry, I just realized I don’t have any clean clothes at my flat,” she explained. “They’re all at the Doctor’s. My… companion,” she explained, seeing Amy’s confused expression, both at his nickname and the unconventional term of endearment.

It was the first time she’d thought to really try and define their relationship out loud, and she couldn’t make herself call him her boyfriend. The term was too juvenile, too impermanent, and simply not expansive enough to describe everything he was to her. He’d been the first to use the term companion, all those months ago, and she’d held it in her heart ever since.

“Your ‘companion’? ‘The Doctor’?” Amy asked, still confused. “Doctor who?”

“Just the Doctor. He’s… well there’s no real way to describe him, honestly,” Rose laughed. “He’s rather odd.” But he’s mine. “He’s a proper genius though, got an MD and a PhD, so everyone just calls him ‘the Doctor,’ and when you know him, you almost forget how weird it is until someone points it out. It’s just him.” Amy’s eyebrows shot up, impressed. Rose swelled with pride. “And as far as ‘companion’ goes, it’s just that… well he’s not my boyfriend, yeah? He’s so much more important than that,” she continued. “He’s my best friend, and he saved my life, and I love him. Being around him, I’m always learning something new. He’s… my adventure.”

“Blimey,” Amy sighed wistfully. “And here I can’t get my best friend’s head out of his arse to see that I’ve been in love with him since we were kids. Even though I know the moron feels the same way.”

Rose laughed lightly, sympathetic and understanding. “Oh, trust me, I know that feeling. I just finally had to practically jump him to get it through his thick skull. Genius or no, he’s an idiot. I was wearin’ nothing but the doofus’s shirt and knickers, and he bloody well shut his eyes and still denied it.”

“Men,” they sighed derisively together, before laughing.

“Tomorrow, then,” Amy said to her, after their giggles died down. “We’ll go for coffee after rehearsal tomorrow.”

Rose nodded in confirmation, grinning widely. “Sounds perfect,” she agreed.

They walked to the door of the studio together, separating in the hallway so Amy could head to the locker room and Rose could begin her walk back to the Doctor’s, when Amy called out to her down the hallway.

“Wolfie,” she said, reverting to the nickname as promised, past the bounds of the studio.

Rose turned to face her and saw with amusement that she was biting her lip in apprehension.

“You said you just… jumped him?”

She beamed and laughed, nodding again. “Just grabbed his shirt and held on so he couldn’t run away and told him point blank,” she condensed, leaving out the nerve wracking, near hysteria of the moment, and the rest of the emotional torrent, the near fight, and the rest. “After his circuits reconnected just enough, I went for the full snog,” she laughed.

Amy nodded seriously; brow furrowed. “Grab, spill, snog,” she muttered. “I can do that."

“Tell me about it tomorrow!” Rose called, as the girl walked away, lost in thought.

Amy waved her goodbye over her shoulder, distracted, and Rose shook her head as she left, smiling widely.

By the time the Doctor arrived home, Rose was showered, clean, and ready for him. She greeted him in the kitchen, barely waiting for him to set down his satchel and greet her in return before she grabbed the front of his jumper with both hands, pulling him in. He searched her face for any signs of her confrontation with Saxon, concern furrowing his brow, but she knew he would find nothing but the determination on her face, and love in her eyes. And lust, she wasn’t ashamed to admit.

He grinned down at her, eyes darkening quickly as he grabbed her hips.

Remembering the middle step, barely, before he could skip ahead, Rose met his eyes forcefully, making him pause.

“I love you,” she said firmly, watching with delight as he fumbled, ears reddening.

Not waiting for a response— though he’d promised her one— she pushed herself up on her tiptoes, slamming their lips together.

She was more than ready for step three, and beyond, to begin.

Chapter Text

The world did not stop turning, just because it seemed to have fundamentally shifted on its axis. A week passed in near bliss. Rose went out for coffee with Amy the next day, though she avoided taking her to her normal café, since they all knew her name there. Amy had floated into rehearsal the next morning with a familiar, devious grin on her face and Rose laughed brightly, thrilled for her new friend. Amy told her all about her Rory as they laughed over coffee, and Rose felt a slight pang of jealousy when Amy said the two of them had gone straight from their mutual confession into making love, but she was happy for her.

She heard nothing from Saxon. No texts, no phone calls, no emails from Lucy informing her of anything other than photoshoots and performances that had already been scheduled for weeks. The lack of retaliation unnerved her, and she spent long hours staring up at the ceiling while the Doctor slept. The safety she felt in his strong and warm embrace was unwavering, eventually lulling her to sleep, his deep and even breathing reminding her over and over that she was safe, and loved, and that nothing bad was going to happen as long as she fulfilled the rest of her contract.

Another Saturday came and went, and she didn’t go out with Malcom. Her anxiety had been higher than usual that Saturday, high enough that even the Doctor hadn’t been able to calm her easily, but he stayed with her the entire day even though she practically barricaded herself in his flat. He didn’t complain when she cooked enough food for a dozen people over the several full meals and dishes she’d pushed her frenzy into, and didn’t complain when she’d all but broken down into a mess on the kitchen floor.

Another Sunday came around, and she was too tired from her all day panic for their usual adventure, but he roused her in the early morning for their run, and that did help. Flying across the path they chose through the park that day helped to work out and lingering anxieties through the stretch and burn of her muscles. Keeping in step beside him as he pushed her faster and faster took all her focus, so there was no room for her worries. And if she was ever so slightly more reserved at game night— at Donna’s this week, though she had sheepishly brought in several of the dishes she’d made the day before, with the Doctor’s help— than no one commented on it.

This morning, she was determined she would no longer let that anxiety cloud her mind. Rose simply refused to let Saxon ruin anything else for her. Mondays were her days. She enjoyed her volunteer work and the courses she took online, as both left her with a sense of fulfillment and gratification she didn’t get from her ‘job.’ She had missed it the last week, though the time she’d spent with Donna had been necessary, both for their friendship and for the revelations the conversation had given her, but she was happy to go back, to get some semblance of normal back, after nearly her entire life had been uprooted the past week.

However, not all the changes in her routine had been bad.

Waking up blissfully in each other’s arms was still new and still made Rose completely giddy. He might’ve said she was clingy that first night, but he had since put her to shame. He was wrapped around her snugly every morning so far, his arms tight and strong even in sleep. He cradled her to his chest, curved around her back, tangled their legs together, and even slept with his head on her breast, clutching her like she’d slip away if he didn’t. She adored the way he seemed to need every inch of their bare skin pressed together that was physically possible and wouldn’t even dream of denying that she did as well. She was treasured, cherished, protected, loved.

And he was so warm.

That morning, well before his alarm went off, she was drug her from a deep slumber where she’d been dreaming of running across the stars with him, and she woke with a soft smile on her face. She was lying flat on her back, and he was practically on top of her with his face buried in her hair. His position almost mimicked hers from the first time they’d woken tangled up together, except his long, runner’s leg went across both of her hips and pinned both of her legs tightly against him where he was sprawled out on both sides of her. His torso covered hers more than halfway, his strong arm around her waist tucking her firmly into his chest, until his neck curved around her head, which was wedged perfectly between his chin and shoulder. His other arm was serving, quite comfortable, as her pillow.

His weight was solid and heavy, and warm, and she was convinced her body had woken her simply because she deserved the time to savor the feeling while fully conscious. Nearly every inch of her was covered in him, like the most luxurious blanket in the world, and it was maybe the most comfortable she’d ever been. Certainly, it was the safest she’d ever felt. Were it not for the insistent press of his bloody rock hard cock into her stomach and the answering ache between her thighs— which she knew was more realistically what had woken her— she’d be once more perfectly content to never move again.

She had no idea how he was comfortable, twisted up in such a position, even with his long, lithe body. Her one arm was trapped between their bodies, but her other was resting so she could hold onto his strong forearm and stroke the defined muscles there with her fingertips. Her motion seemed to wake him, at least partially, because his already clinging legs flexed as he ground his hips into her, his erection rubbing into her stomach and beginning to leak, causing her to whimper.

She couldn’t move at all to seek relief for herself, and she’d been wet since before she woke, only to become drenched when she’d first realized how trapped she was by him. His now even tighter legs around her own meant that she couldn’t even slide her thighs together.

He rocked his hips again and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose that indicated he had woken, but before he could realize his position and move away, she sunk her fingernails into his forearm to keep him from doing so.

“Rose?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and desire.

Her throbbing, achingly empty cunt clenched, more liquid arousal seeping out of her. “I’m here,” she joked weakly. “Definitely stuck with you, now.”

A rumbling approval sounded in his chest, and she felt it in hers since they were pressed so closely together. “Yes,” he purred, more awake but still low and gravely. “Quite like you here, me. No wanderin’ off.” He rolled his hips, purposefully this time, grunting deeply as she gasped, her grip on his forearm tightening again.

“Can’t,” she panted. “Can’t exactly go anywhere right now, that’s for sure.”

The Doctor chuckled, darkly. “S’that a problem?” He asked, just a bit mockingly.

His arm around her waist peeled away, leaving her skin cold without its coverage, but new heat flooded her quickly when his hand shoved in between them and down to where her thighs were trapped together. He didn’t bother loosening his tight legs around her a centimeter, and he didn’t have to. Her thighs were so slick that his probing fingers were able to slip between them anyway, directly to where he wanted. Had he wanted to do anything except tease her, he would’ve had to adjust some, but he was perfectly content to trace his fingertips far too lightly through her folds, but not against her clit or pressing inside her. He growled approvingly at the wetness he found, rocking his hips again. His leaking erection on her stomach slid through the fluid he’d already dripped onto her skin.

“Doctor,” Rose moaned.

“I asked you a question,” he reminded her sternly, pulling his hand back and relaxing his legs just enough to fit the heel of his palm firmly onto her clit. Her hips bucked, not succeeding in any real movement, and another wave of pleasure from the restriction surged.

“No, Doctor,” she responded, breathlessly. “No problem.”

“Thought so,” he said smugly. “In fact, I’d wager you rather like this. Being restrained,” he drew out the last word tauntingly, and ground the heel of his hand down.

There was absolutely no point in denying it, and she was beyond the point of being embarrassed by it, particularly if admitting it to him would earn her relief.

“Yes,” she confessed breathlessly. “Especially like this— by your weight pressing me down. Feels safe.”

“Oh good girl,” he praised, groaning deeply. “Very good girl, sweetheart.”

The Doctor ground his hand down again, and didn’t stop, setting up a pattern of grinding, rubbing, back and forth as much as he could move his hand trapped between them. Her hands clenched the sheets, gripping them with white knuckled force.

“I think such a pretty confession deserves rewarding,” he continued, letting out a short grunt at the end as his hips ground into her stomach once more.

He seemed to be holding himself back, only giving himself enough friction to keep right on whatever edge he wanted to be on. She wanted him to let go and use her almost as much as she wanted him to let go and take her. With a final, firm, grinding of his palm, he stopped and pulled his hand out from between them and peeled away from her a bit before stilling and growling at her.

“Do not move,” he ordered.

Well she already wasn’t going to, but fuck. She didn’t even move her head to watch what he was doing, though curiosity ate at her. She heard him open his nightstand drawer and pull something out, and her curiosity and confusion doubled. She wondered if it was handcuffs, or similar restraints, and felt a surge of excitement and pure jealousy at the idea that he just had those, and who he might’ve used them with before. Before she could ask, or upset herself too much with useless wondering, he was back.

“Arms above your head,” he ordered.

She turned her head to face him even as she mechanically did what she was told and flushed deeply at the look on his face. His dark eyes gleamed with a dozen emotions, pure dominant want being first and foremost, but also, just underneath that, with question. He urged her wordlessly to tell him if he was going too far, letting her know beyond doubt that if she refused he would understand and withdraw without question. Love and concern were directly beneath stern and possessive.

Pride radiated from him as she silently obeyed, tangling her fingers in the sheets above her head.

He did pull out a set of restraints, a pair of dark blue, leather cuffs. The cuffs were wide and padded, with a short chain linking them together, and thick, gold buckles. Every fiber of her being narrowed in on them, and she couldn’t stop the question that rose to her lips.

“How long have you had those?” Rose snarled.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at her, smirking imperiously. Instead of answering her question right away, he leaned down to hover directly over her face, straddling her waist. Her hot, angry breath filled the air between them, and she watched as his eyes flicked up, and then flushed when she realized that despite her anger and question, she hadn’t even thought of moving her hands back.

“Why?” He asked, instead of answering.

With slow, deliberate movements he reached up and grabbed one of her wrists, pulling it down and beginning to fit it into the cuff. She jerked her hand back finally, and though his firm grip didn’t allow her to go anywhere, it did make him pause.

“I won’t wear them if someone else has,” she growled.

Had River worn them for him? The beautiful, elegant woman didn’t seem the type, and in fact seemed rather the opposite, which was part of why Rose had felt her own brief attraction to her. However, just the thought of it made her stomach churn. The woman was practically her exact opposite in her educated intelligence and statuesque beauty and was much more equal to the Doctor in that way than Rose felt she herself was. Of course, she and the Doctor fit, but he and River matched. There was something to be said about how they were too much like each other, while she and the Doctor complimented each other with their differences, but she couldn’t think of that now. Not when all she could think about was the Doctor looking down at those cuffs and seeing the other woman who might’ve worn them.

Maybe she was being ridiculous, she felt a little ridiculous, but the gleam in his eyes at her statement rankled her further. As if he was amused by her jealousy. Like he was one to fucking talk— ohh, that’s why he seemed entertained. She remembered her taunting from just last week and his prolonged reaction, and she felt slight remorse for her teasing, but her anger stubbornly remained.

At the very least, she wouldn’t wear anything he’d used with someone else, even if her jealousy otherwise was ridiculous. She couldn’t stand the thought of him seeing them and thinking of someone else, anyone else.

“Good thing I bought them for you then,” he said, pulling her wrist again as she gaped at him in surprise.

He buckled the leather around her deftly and guided her arm back above her head, threading the second cuff through the headboard one handed and then pulling her second wrist up to meet them. Once she was secured, he tugged on them expertly and sat back to stare at her in satisfaction.

The inability to hide or draw in around herself against his gaze was far more daunting than she’d imagined, and she had to swallow a few times before she could speak again.

“When?” She asked, heart pounding.

“After the strike at the café,” he said, reaching back over to the nightstand and searching for something else. “I don’t even think you realized, outside your flat, what you showed me right then and there. After I got home and fucked my hand thinkin’ about you, I ordered them and then got off again thinkin’ about you wearing them for me.”

“What did I show you?” She begged, breathless and confused at his explicit confession.

After the café strike? She reeled trying to think of what she might’ve done. They got chips, he had forgotten his wallet, they’d walked around… he’d walked her back to the loft… she’d near begged him to kiss her, but he’d refused, with his damnably sexy smirk and need to draw things out. He’d been toying with her partially, but she’d thought it romantic in some way, that he wanted to build the anticipation between them. What could she have done, specifically? Unless he was that arrogant that he’d been just so sure he’d get the opportunity to use them. She could see that definitely being the case, and it’s not like he’d been wrong.

The Doctor returned again from his riffling through his drawers and smirked down at her.

“That you, Rose Tyler, are a sub. You practically begged me right there on the street but when I pulled back, deliberately testing you, mind, you accepted it without question. You submitted to me, right there.”

She burst alight with a flaming blush. Deep, flustering heat suffused her, making her entire face tingle in embarrassment. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of anything to say, but no words could be pushed out. She hadn’t even thought about engaging in that kind of dynamic until after attending his lecture. She’d thought of having sex with him of course, and that he’d be bossy and arrogant, because he just was, but she hadn’t imagined anything beyond that until he’d asked her, “Do you always do what you’re told?” She’d barely begun to understand that she even wanted to experiment with it by the time he’d pulled back after finding out about Bad Wolf.

Damn him! How did he do that?

“Now, my precious girl, we don’t have as much time as I’d like, but someone did wake up extraordinarily early, so we do have a while. And despite your little tantrum, I’m still inclined to give you your reward. Unless you want to argue some more?”

Tantrum?!

Why the fuck was him being so condescending turning her on so much? Why the fuck was he even being so condescending? So far he’d been commanding, no doubt, and exceedingly arrogant of course, but mostly gentle and praising. She had no problem admitting to herself how much she enjoyed any of that, even if admitting that she had an intense praise kink was embarrassing.

Was this part of that? The opposite end of the spectrum? She didn’t think she would enjoy being degraded, and even the thought of it now— of her Doctor calling her awful names— caused her chest to hurt, but she didn’t think that he was doing that. Instead, she thought he might just be riling her up, teasing her with her lack of experience and that stupid, well-earned confidence of his. She’d also mentioned something about River’s condescension at the gala, as a joke, but fuck her reaction to it was turning out to be far closer to reality than she cared to confront.

Rose shook her head, reeling. She was so turned on she could hardly think, and she was desperate for him to touch her again. She could be embarrassed about his statements later.

She wanted her reward.

She had been good, and she deserved it.

She shook off the embarrassment, and her earlier jealousy, and purposefully sunk back into the space she’d been in before; that open, wanting mindset, where she’d been free to admit to him what he wanted her to and then some. The warm, floating headspace she’d touched before, when he took control of her in the shower, or when she woke up completely immobilized and wanting.

“No, Doctor,” she murmured. “No more arguing.”

“Fantastic,” he growled approvingly. “I was hoping you’d say that. And, for the record, when we do have time later, I’m going to show you how absolutely fucking sexy you being jealous is, too. But for now…”

He trailed off, tracing a hand down her exposed side, and slid off of where he was sitting on her hips to kneel in between her legs. She had a frenzied, amused thought that she couldn’t believe she was letting him do all this and they hadn’t even properly shagged yet, but her desire to hold off on truly making love until he could look at her without wincing at the bruise on her face held. It should feel rushed, she also thought, diving into this type of dynamic so quickly, but then again, they’d been building up to it for months. No matter what they’d told themselves, it was always going to end up here.

The trust they’d built, the understanding, and months of repressed desire, it had all been leading to the same place it had always been leading, since the very beginning.

“Do you remember your safe word?” He asked.

“Pears.”

The Doctor made a face, as if hearing the word alone was enough to disgust him. She bit back a laugh, thinking of his vitriolic hatred for the fruit. She’d brought a couple of them in her grocery bag one time, intent on attempting to bake a fruit tart that specifically suggested pears, and he’d thrown them out the window.

Oh, she adored this man. How he could be so effortlessly domineering, so infuriatingly sexy, and so damn silly at the same time, she’d never understand.

“Good girl,” he said, shaking off his grimace.

He made a thoughtful expression, and then a wicked grin, and before Rose could even tense in anticipation of whatever stupid thing he was about to do, he slid two fingers into her in one sharp thrust. The unexpected penetration hit her deep and she yelped, clenching down on the intruding digits as he prodded at her. He pressed into her g-spot relentlessly in several quick, thrusting movements, before withdrawing his hand from her entirely, and she moaned piteously at the loss. She watched helplessly as he immediately brought his fingers, now covered in her thick arousal, to his mouth and cleaned them gleefully.

“There,” he said when he was finished licking the fluid from his hand. “Much better. Even the memory of the taste of those wretched things is horrible, Rose, but you taste divine.”

An incredulous laugh burst from her. “Very obliging of you to help,” he continued, grinning.

“Glad to be of service,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Care to return the favor?”

 “Might do,” the Doctor teased. “Depends on what you’re suggestin’ though.”

“You could put those back for one,” Rose suggested, trying not to beg. Not yet at least.

“For one?”

“Or two, or three,” she quipped. “Definitely three.”

His wide smile didn’t drop at all, but it shifted, his eyes becoming hard and predatory once more. Her heart sped up at the change, the subtle quirk of his lips that turned the expression from a grin to a smirk, the gleam in his eyes that went from laughing to leering. The Doctor’s ability to turn everything into a joke, and yet lose none of the meaning, or feeling, or tension of a moment was just one more thing to admire about her brilliant love, but his ability to slip from joking to this sent her reeling. Under the once again dark expression, she slipped easily back into floaty submission, his smirk growing more pronounced at the way her eyes drooped to half open.

“Have I been playing with you too long, sweetheart?” He cooed. “Neglecting you?” His fingers did come back up to her cunt, tracing so lightly through her sodden folds she could almost believe she was imagining the ghosting feeling out of wanting it so badly.

“N-no, Doctor,” she stuttered, struggling to keep her hips from jerking.

It was much harder to keep still when she didn’t have the sheets, or his shoulders, to hold onto. Her hands were functionally useless, unable to grasp even at the short chain between the cuffs, and she tugged at her wrists instinctively. The cuffs, of course, held tight.

“No?” The Doctor asked, faux surprise in his voice.

“Yes?” Her head spun.

What did he want her to say? What response would earn her his fingers back inside of her? The emptiness ached, and he’d said they had a while, but not long, and she couldn’t go all day like this.

“Doctor, please,” she begged. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but please touch me, I—”

“Shh, don’t worry,” he soothed her. “I’ll take care of you.”

With that, his caress became firm, gliding through her slickness steadily now. Still just tracing the path from the top of her folds down to the bottom, barely dipping his fingertips inside of her, but at least a solid touch. She threw her head back to keep from screaming in frustration.

How was this her reward? This was just more fucking teasing!

Finally, finally he dipped his fingers inside of her. Only two, but she still gasped and involuntarily clenched down on them again.

“Fuck, you’re so wet, Rose,” he murmured. “All for me.”

She nodded frantically, and he finally thrust his fingers into her for real. “Yes! Doctor,” she whined. “Please, more. I need—”

A touch, finally, on her clit cut her off into a strangled gasp, but it wasn’t his fingers or his mouth. Her head shot up and her eyes snapped down to his just as he smirked, wickedly, and switched the vibrator on.

Her hips rocketed upwards, and she pulled hard at her bonds, but he followed her movements easily. She recognized the toy immediately, both by sight and by the familiar pattern it now hummed against her clit. She known he’d left her nightstand drawer open suspiciously but couldn’t care a single bit as the wide head of the wand pulsed against her. The Doctor increased the speed of his thrusting fingers, hitting her hard and deep, and pressed the wand firmly into her clit, ensuring she could do nothing to escape the dual sensations.

“James!” Rose called out, helpless and wild.

His only response was to turn up the vibrations and add that blessed third finger to her core. She sobbed in pleasure at the added sensation, the burning pleasure-pain of stretching around him and the quickly mounting heat spreading in her thighs and lower abdomen. He only let a few seconds pass, not even enough to adjust to the faster vibrations, before he increased it again. Her vision blurred and she could only clench her eyes shut against the overwhelming pleasure.

It wasn’t enough to hold it back, especially when she had nothing to hold onto to ground herself.

“Doctor— I can’t- I’m—” she panted.

“Go on then,” he growled. “Come.”

Stars exploded behind her eyelids. Her shoulders burned at the strain of how she tugged on her bonds, how she thrashed, how her back arched. Her throat felt raw as she fought with all her remaining consciousness to not scream his name at the top of her lungs, and she was not entirely successful as several ragged moans spilled from her mouth. Rose heard the vibrator’s buzzing decrease, but she did not feel it lessening and realized it was because she was trembling so greatly.

All the while, a steady stream of praise flowed from the Doctor, as intoxicating a high as the climax. “That’s right, precious girl. My beautiful Rose. Mine. No one else gets to touch you like this, see you break so beautifully.”

She collapsed, sagging against her bonds and panting heavily, head spinning. She kept her eyes clenched in anticipation of him withdrawing his fingers from her cunt, but several moments passed and he remained buried inside her. Belatedly, she realized the wand was still pressed up against her too, though it was off for the moment. She forced her eyes open, struggling heavily at first, and let her lolling head roll until she could look at him.

The Doctor was already staring at her in return, hungrily. Heat rose to her cheeks at the intense expression on his face, and she saw the gleam flicker in his eyes only a fraction of a second before the buzzing started again.

“No, no, no, no,” she protested, but it was too late.

The vibrations hit her oversensitive, pulsing clit hard, and her previously relaxed body seized all over, immediately. His hand thrust rapidly, pounding into her, fucking her relentlessly as the vibrations increased again, and again. A second crest hit her out of nowhere, having been driven to the peak faster than she’d ever gotten herself there. Instead of decreasing the vibrations to carry her through and lower her down, he increased them once more, and a second orgasm rolled into a third and uncontrollable shaking.

“That’s my girl,” he purred. “You take my fingers so well, Rose. That’s right, come for me again, let me hear you.”

At some point, she managed to plant her feet on the bed and try and push away from the overwhelming pleasure, but barely managed to lift herself before she collapsed, weak kneed and quivering. Her body could not take anymore, and she whined. She felt the Doctor finally turn off the wand and pull it away, but aftershocks still shuddered through her. The feeling of his fingers slipping out of her was worse, the sudden emptiness utterly devastating, but all she could do was weakly clench in protest.

He tenderly kissed his way up her body until he reached the leather cuffs. Her arms fell to her side, dead, when he released them, but he rubbed life back into them one by one with his gentle, warm hands. Considering how fast he’d worked her up, she hadn’t really been bound long, but all her limbs felt like lead. When he was satisfied with that, he turned and laid back down in his spot on his back and pulled her over, physically, to his side. The skin to skin contact revived her, and she was able to tiredly wrap herself the rest of the way around him, and while she clung to him, he rubbed his wide, calloused hand across her bare back soothingly.

He pressed lingering kisses into her hair and whispered over and over again, “Oh, my Rose. What did I do to deserve you?”

Rose groaned incoherently into his chest, and he laughed. Her mind was only barely clearing enough to begin to wonder how much time they had— how much time she had for him— when his blasted alarm went off.

“Damn it,” she complained, gruffly. “There’s no chance you’d ignore that, is there?”

“I could be persuaded to hit snooze,” he hedged. “If you still need—”

“Nope,” she shushed him, untangling her limbs from his. “For you.”

The Doctor reached over and slapped his phone, sending it falling to the floor, but the alarm did silence. She grinned, and when he turned back, he surged forward and claimed her mouth, tangling his fingers in her hair and drawing her closer. She pressed forward and swung a leg around his waist and pushed him back onto the pillows with a hand on his chest. He went but he refused to let go of her, so he pulled her down with him, kissing her greedily. She ran her nails down his chest, through the smattering of hair across his upper chest and over his nipples, and it was his turn to gasp and pull away, breathless.

Rose trailed her kisses down his jaw to his ear, suckling and nibbling at the sensitive skin and humming with pride as his large hands fumbled at her waist. She sat back on her knees— straddling him firmly now instead of hovering above him— and rolled her hips. His straining cock slid through the lingering wetness at her core, and they both moaned deeply at the friction, at the close proximity of where they both wanted him to be.

The Doctor took control of the pace of her rolling hips with his hands on her waist, predictably, and she diverted her attention to raking her nails down his chest the way she knew he liked. She pressed a little more firmly as she drew them across his nipples, and his hips thrust upward. Had her hips been on a backswing of their rolling, he might’ve thrust right inside of her, and she whined in frustration from the missed opportunity. Every single second that he ground up into her like this— every single second he touched her at all, if she was honest— made her irrationally angry at her own stupid need to wait until the bruise was gone.

The difference between what they were doing now and him being inside of her was so slight, it felt like it shouldn’t matter, but it was a hurdle her mind could not get past, even a week later.

Still, Rose was close again, and she needed him to be. She hadn’t anticipated this, she’d meant to crawl down and take him in her mouth again, but his bruising grip on her waist and the pooling heat in her abdomen wouldn’t allow for that now. She needed him to come, wanted to see him fall apart beneath her, wanted him to stuff her full of those wonderful fingers again while she rode him like this so she could almost pretend it was his cock.

She grabbed for his hand at her hip and tugged. His eyes, which had been alternating between clenching shut and staring unabashedly at her breasts, darted down to where she tugged his hand and he grinned, wolfishly.

“My girl, do you need me to fill you up again? Insatiable little thing you are.”

“Call me whatever the fuck you want, but please, James, yes,” she whined, scratching his chest again.

Blessedly, he didn’t tease her for once, shoving his hand between them and three thick fingers right into her cunt. However, he left them there, not moving his hand at all. That suited her just fine. It took some maneuvering to get the tilt of her pelvis right, but she was quickly able to set a rolling, thrusting rhythm that fucked his fingers into her deeply and rubbed his cock the way he needed, if the grunting that escaped his mouth with every roll of her hips meant anything.

“That’s my girl,” he growled again, the words making her moan. “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

“Yes,” she whined. “Need you to come, wanna see—”

“You imagining me fucking you with my big cock, fillin’ you up?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait to fuck you, precious girl. You think you’re full now, just you fuckin’ wait.”

The growling curses and his fingers digging deeper into her waist told her how close he was, so she reached her hand down to circle her clit, desperate to come with him. The Doctor snarled and batted her hand aside, releasing his grip on her hip for a moment to do so. With the hand shoved between them, he pressed his thumb firmly on her clit and rubbed in tight little circles. Both of her hands dropped to his chest to keep herself from falling at the unexpected jolts of pleasure, her rocking hips faltering as her thighs began to tremble.

“Doctor,” she whined. “You’ve got to—”

“You. Now,” he ordered.

Her head wasn’t even thrown all the way back before she felt him release beneath her, his harsh groan harmonizing with her broken whimpering of his name.

She collapsed onto his chest once more, sticky and utterly sated, just as his alarm went off again, signaling the end of his ‘snooze.’ The two of them burst into breathless laughter.

Chapter Text

Teagan and Nyssa took in her satisfied smirk and her ten minute tardiness with knowing grins. As she got closer, they took in the purple and blue bruise on her face with matching looks of confusion. Sliding her hair into a cap and taking her place in the food distribution line, Rose mouthed “Later,” to them and fell into a familiar routine with a relieved looking Mel, who had been frazzled and overwhelmed trying to keep up with both stations in Rose’s tardiness. She gave the woman her apologies and turned her attention to the line of people awaiting food.

Most of them passed by with barely a muttered thanks, particularly those who she hadn’t seen before. As usual, her heart went out to them— people put into a difficult situation through no fault of their own and still struggling to come to terms with it, usually. She’d been in the same position before, more than once, and knew she could’ve easily been stuck there as well. Her studio appointed flat was a prison cell, but at least it wasn’t the cold, rainy streets of London in the winter. She’d been through this very line before, on one of the several occasions where her mum had to choose between rent and food, or when she managed to get away from Jimmy before ultimately choosing to go back because she couldn’t face her mum.

Teagan and Nyssa didn’t know that about her, and they hadn’t connected her to the scared and malnourished youth she had been, but it was why she’d been volunteering here as often as she could for years. Though it had mostly been infrequently, on holidays and the like, until her schedule negotiation with Saxon, they’d always been exceedingly kind to her.

The regulars were a mixture of friendly thanks, some small talk, and some outlandish behavior that came with the territory of working with the unhoused. It was an unfortunate reality that many people became unhoused because of mental illness, but Rose and the rest of the volunteers and organizers were used to and capable of dealing with the worst of the outbursts with compassion. Teagan and Nyssa didn’t allow police or security of any kind within the premises, which was why they had so many loyal regulars to begin with.

A few people commented on Rose’s bruise, kindly, and she gave them easy answers that soothed their fears. Many of the regulars were on first name bases with the volunteers, and their worry was genuine and kind, and too many of them had all too knowing eyes. Fortunately, Rose’s happy glow, which she felt like nothing could dim after such a lovely morning with the Doctor, was enough that they took her harmless lies in stride. The Doctor had also allowed the bandages on her arms to come off that morning, and most of the cuts were either barely visible or hidden, so her lack of other injuries quelled most follow up questions.

Rose asked friendly questions in turn of those who she was most familiar with— oh, how is your ankle? How was your job interview? Did you see that new mural over on the bridge? — and the morning line when by quickly. Elbows deep in soapy water, she and Mel giggled over easy conversation, and Rose almost forgot her promise to Teagan and Nyssa until she was drying her hands on a dish towel and was abruptly pulled away by one of them on each of her arms, once again.

She wondered idly if she and the Doctor would ever be so in sync as a couple as the two of them were as she let herself be led away, waving goodbye awkwardly to Mel.

The older couple marched her right into their office and deposited her in a chair facing one of the desks before coming together in tandem in front of her, leaning on the desk and crossing their arms in unison, and she couldn’t help but laugh. The two of them were much like Donna, in some ways. Determined, nosy, and ultimately caring, they sometimes acted as if they were detectives out hunting for clues, rather than the co-directors of a non-profit.

And they acted more and more like they saw Rose as a real coworker, whose opinion they valued, than a volunteer. Maybe, even, they were starting to see her as a friend. Rose looked up to them a lot, as mentors, and since opening herself up to the Doctor’s friends and family, she’d been more open to the idea of potentially letting herself find friends of her own as well. Opening herself up was still hard— the line between Rose Tyler and Bad Wolf was thin and treacherous— but after the past week especially, with the Doctor and their friends and even Sylvia being so caring and kind, she was practically bursting at the seams with love and happiness that demanded to be shared.

So long as she could survive the next few months, and put Saxon’s threats behind her, that is. The work here was far too important, and Teagan and Nyssa were far too critical for operations, to risk even a whiff of trouble, which was why they fiercely kept out law enforcement.

She grinned up at the two women in front of her, more open than she’d been with them before, and saw both of them relax minutely.

“You alright, Tyler?” Teagan asked cautiously, jerking her head to gesture towards her face, as if she wouldn’t have known that’s what she was asking about.

“Yeah,” she said vaguely. “Sorry I missed last week, I had some personal stuff going on—”

“You know that isn’t what she meant,” Nyssa practically growled at her. “What’s with your face?”

Teagan placed a hand on Nyssa’s, calming her, and reached out to Rose as well, patting her hand. “It’s ok,” she said to both of them. “You don’t have to tell us, but we are worried about you. Obviously you don’t have any obligation to us as a volunteer, but it was unlike you to not be here last week, and you came in today with that. I mean, you seem alright, but—”

Rose sighed heavily, hanging her head. She hadn’t imagined having to tell the story again and grew frustrated. Not at Teagan and Nyssa, but at herself. Why did it never get easier? They were worried about her. They were her friends, her mentors. They deserved the truth, even if she hadn’t made a promise to herself to not lie to people any longer, if only to break the habit of doing so.

“My boss is a right bastard,” she said bluntly, cutting out as much as she could while giving them the details they needed. “It’s happened before, but not for a while. But for now, I’m safe. I’m staying with… um, well I guess he’s my boyfriend, but I wouldn’t really call him that— until my boss cools down. But it’s just a few more months, and my contract with him ends, and I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Nyssa’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What kind of job is this? I care about you, Rose, but you can’t be bringing shit like that around here—”

“I’m not a prostitute,” Rose swallowed her embarrassment to assure her. “There’s a lot a can’t tell you, because the contract has a really strict NDA, but it’s not that, and I’m not involved in anything to do with drugs either. Nothing illegal at all, he’s just an arse, and one with enough money to get away with it,” she said bitterly.

Nyssa glared at her fiercely for a moment more, gauging her honesty, but relaxed. Her arms uncrossed finally, and she rubbed her forehead. “Thank you for being honest. I’m sorry, I don’t even like suggesting that it would even be a bad thing if you were, because it isn’t, it’s just…”

“It puts the center in danger, I get it,” Rose assured her. “I know. And that’s the logical thing to jump to. Most people’s bosses don’t go around hitting them,” she joked weakly.

Nyssa smiled wryly at her. “You’re a good kid, Rose,” she declared.

She blushed at the unexpected praise, and the blunt way Nyssa delivered it. Teagan squeezed her hand comfortingly. “What else?” She prompted.

“Nothing else,” Rose shrugged. “There’s nothing else I can do about it for now. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but then it will be over. Just a few months left now, really. And I have the Doctor now, so—”

“The Doctor?” Teagan interrupted. “As in, Doctor James Noble?”

Rose gaped at her. “Yes, how do you know him?”

Teagan laughed, patting her hand and pulling back. “My aunt has been trying to set me up with him for years,” she laughed. “God, since I moved here, I reckon. They go to the same synagogue, and every time I let her drag me along she’s on the hunt for him.”

Rose and Nyssa both stiffened, glaring at her, and she laughed harder. “Anyway, we’ve had some adventures over the years, just trying to escape the matchmaking. Trust me, neither of us were interested. He’s a fun guy though, or at least, he used to be. We used to talk about travelling, since he went all over, and I was a flight attendant for a while. He stopped engaging with it at all, even playfully, after his last tour though. He got… dark. And intense,” her voice got more serious and she eyed Rose with scrutiny. “But I guess he’s not like that with you?” 

Rose shrugged, half-heartedly. “Yes and no. He’s done a lot of work to get to where he is now, but the kinds of things he went through— that we’ve both gone through— stay with you. The Doctor is complicated, but he’s the best person I’ve ever known, and I love him.”

“And he’s keeping you safe?” Nyssa asked.

“I’m staying with him for now,” Rose repeated, not really answering her question.

Again, she felt a sense of dread at their upcoming separation. She had less than a month before going on tour now, and the relative safety of the Doctor’s flat began to feel more like a stay of execution the more she thought about it.

“You want to talk about the Doctor being intense,” Rose said teasingly, deflecting again and pushing away her own dark thoughts.

Teagan and Nyssa both groaned, accepting the diversion for now. She got the feeling they both knew she was pushing them back a bit, but that they were allowing it to give her room to breathe. She appreciated it regardless. They got the information that they needed, though she could tell they were still painfully curious, but they let her retreat to more neutral ground. She knew she’d have to tell them more eventually, but she simply didn’t want to talk about it anymore, after having to so many times recently.

“Yeah, I noticed you strutted in here looking like the cat that go the canary,” Nyssa teased her back. “Still getting those sea legs, Tyler?”

Rose blushed again but laughed. “It was a good morning,” she said evasively, with a wink.

The three of them chatted a while longer, moving on from the topic of Rose’s personal life and into planning some events at the center with ease. They’d received a decent amount of donations following Bad Wolf’s post about the organization, and they were planning on using it to put together and distribute some care kits, as well as stock the food pantry with essentials.

“You know,” Teagan said. “Between the donations, and the last big grant we got, we’ve been planning to hire a third full time staff member to help with the workload. I mean, the pay wouldn’t be amazing, but if we had someone else dedicated to running day to day, we could work on getting more grants and then we could give you a raise after we got some. Actually, I bet you’d be great at writing the grants, too.”

Rose’s heart clenched.

A full time job, here? Getting paid to help people? Getting to continue learning from Teagan and Nyssa about advocacy and activism, and organizing, and fundraising and all the other things she’d wanted so desperately to be a real part of? It wasn’t union organizing, but it was a step in the direction she yearned for. It was stability and consistency, at the very least, as stable as working for a non-profit could be. It was better than the whole lot of nothing she had lined up so far.

It was a carrot on a string, tauntingly out of reach.

“I can’t,” she said, devastated by the truth of it, hanging her head. “I still have almost five months left on my contract.”

“Ok,” Teagan said easily. “We’ll just have you start when you finish. The grant starts paying out around that time anyway, so we’d probably be needing to hire then, to keep up with the increased demands. Reports, and funds allocation, that kind of thing.”

“We’ll work it out,” Nyssa added dismissively. “If you want the job, it’s yours. Let us handle the details.”

“I can’t take it if you’re only offering because—”

“Hush, Tyler,” Nyssa bit out with no real heat. “We were already planning on offering it to you.”

Teagan reached around the desk and grabbed her planner, thrusting it in Rose’s face. Her eyes scanned down the carefully penned to-do list in front of her, and down at the bottom— highlighted in pink— was number nine: Talk to Rose about job. Under that, in Nyssa’s more scribbling handwriting, it said: Threaten Rose with job, which had been X’d out by Teagan’s pen. Teagan flipped the page backwards, showing her to do list from last week, which had the same thing written on it, circled, with an arrow pointing to Move to next week?

“Oh,” Rose whispered. They were serious. “I don’t have any experience,” she argued weakly. “I can’t even give you a resumé because of the NDA— I’ve been with that company since I was sixteen. And I didn’t get my A-levels, just equivalencies a few years ago.”

“And?” Nyssa scoffed. “We aren’t a company. We don’t give a shit about that kind of thing. You’re consistent, professional, and you care about people. You have passion for this kind of work. The rest can be taught, but that can’t.”

Teagan nodded in agreement. Resolve flooded her veins. She knew that. She’d been around advocates and organizers for years. She may not know the ins and outs, but she knew the principles already. She knew the difficulties, if just from listening to them talk the past few months. And it couldn’t be more difficult or demanding than touring or navigating Saxon’s hairpin triggers. She could do the job, and she could do it well.

Five months was still a long time, but she was finally beginning to see not just the light at the end of the tunnel, but a hazy outline of a life on the other side. A life filled with Sunday game nights, and Friday night dinners at Donna’s, and adventures across London with the Doctor, and good food, and purpose. A life where she put her energy towards thriving, instead of just surviving, and got as much out of it as she put in.

“Ok,” she said firmly. “I want it. Yes.”

Teagan retracted her planner and crossed off the line with a satisfied flick of her wrist.

Her eyes gleamed with pride, and Rose felt responding pride rise up in her for herself. “Excellent. Now, how do you feel about joining us at the boxing gym tonight?”

Chapter Text

Rose collapsed in TARDIS’s passenger seat, completely exhausted, but grinning broadly. Teagan and Nyssa had given her the run around at the boxing gym, showing her how to wrap her hands properly and setting her up in front of the punching bag. She felt silly as Nyssa instructed her over and over again on how to properly throw a punch, but the first time her fist connected with the punching bag and it swayed backwards, she felt good. Incredible, even.

Her arms felt like gelatin by the time Nyssa pulled her back, but both she and Teagan had been beaming at her, so after they forced her to drink some water, she’d eagerly asked them what was next. Teagan had shown her how to plant her feet until she was nearly impossible to push over, and how to keep her arms close to her body. Nyssa had donned big, padded gloves and held them in front of her, encouraging Rose to jab at them while she shouted corrections and various encouragements at her. By the time they called it quits, Rose was ready to collapse, but she’d been more than ready to accept their invitation to come back on Saturday, now that she didn’t have any obligations that day. It would be a wonderful distraction to the anxiety she’d dealt with this past Saturday, if it came up again.

Nyssa had insisted she call the Doctor to come pick her up, and she didn’t have the energy to argue. She’d texted him before they’d left the center to let him know where she was going, and she knew he’d either be on his way home or already back at the flat by now, so it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, she hoped. When he pulled up in his beloved blue car however, she could see even from the sidewalk the broad grin on his face, and she knew it wasn’t an inconvenience at all.

“Hi,” she breathed out tiredly after she fell into the seat. She looked over at him, smiling so widely it almost hurt her cheeks, and almost felt shy underneath his gaze. His eyes were soft, and loving, and gleamed with pride that would have made her blush if she wasn’t already flushed with exertion.

“Hullo, love,” he greeted her back warmly. “You look knackered.”

Rose laughed, pushing weakly on his arm. “Thanks,” she said dryly. “That’s what every girl loves to hear. Tell me I look sweaty and a right mess next, why don’t you?”

“Well…” he drew out and trailed off with a wink. “I happen to like that look on you though. Would prefer bein’ the cause of it meself, but that gorgeous smile speaks for itself too.”

“Git,” she said affectionately, warmth blooming in her chest.

The Doctor smiled at her for a moment more before turning to drive off. “I take it that boxing went well then?” He asked conversationally.

“It was fantastic!” Rose said excitedly. “Teagan and Nyssa invited me back on Saturday too, I hope you don’t mind that I said yes?”

For a moment, Rose was nervous. Maybe she should’ve asked him first. She didn’t expect him to come pick her up, especially after she went back to her loft when Saxon cooled down. But while she stayed with him, should she have asked? How much longer would she even be staying with him? Long enough that it mattered? She was already disrupting his life so much by staying with him then maybe being out of the flat so he could have some time away from her would be good too? Maybe—

He glanced over at her briefly. “Why would I mind?” He asked, confused. “I don’t go anywhere on Saturdays normally, so you can just take TARDIS if you want, or I can drive you. Can you even drive, actually? City girl,” he accused playfully.

Her growing panic halted in its tracks, replaced by a flood of relief, affection, and embarrassment all at once. Of course he wouldn’t mind. Why would he? They never saw each other on Saturdays typically anyway, so why would he be upset if she took a few hours to go to the gym?

“When will I stop doubting him?” She thought, frustrated at herself. “He’s never given me reason to think he would be upset by something so stupid.”

“Rose,” the Doctor called, pulling her from her thoughts. She startled, looking up and over at him, surprised to see him staring right back at her.

She looked around and saw the familiar carpark of his flat building and realized she must’ve gotten so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed several minutes go by. An embarrassed blush did find its way to her face now, her body having cooled while she was disassociated.

“Sorry,” she muttered, unbuckling her belt and starting towards the door.

The Doctor reached across and gently took her hand, stilling her. He didn’t say anything, but he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb lightly and watched patiently as she took a few deep, grounding breaths, using the same method Donna had coached her through a few days ago. Finally, feeling more present, she turned back to him and met his gaze.

Again, his eyes were soft and proud. “You are fantastic,” he said simply. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she pushed passed the urge to hide from his praise and his clear blue eyes. “They offered me a job,” she told him instead. “They offered me a job,” she repeated in an awed whisper. “And they said I could start when I get back.”

His face broke into a wide, enthusiastic smile, and he tugged her across the center console into an awkward hug before pushing back on her shoulders and shaking her excitedly. “That’s fantastic, Rose!” The Doctor whooped.

Rose beamed, reaching out and steadying herself by the back of her seat and the dashboard, against his shaking. He stopped, abruptly, and she giggled, but he fixed her with a confused look.

“What do you mean when you get back?”

“From the tour, Doctor,” she rolled her eyes playfully. “I know I’ve mentioned it. Just last week, even.”

And she had, she knew, because when she was telling their friends about her confrontation with Saxon, she’d told them how she’d stood her ground about no longer engaging with Malcom but would still be going on the tour. How had he not—

“Were you that mad at Mickey that you didn’t even pay attention to what I said?” She asked, exasperated. “You’ve got to let that go; he was a kid.”

At the mention of Mickey, his eyes darkened and narrowed in anger once again. “You were a kid,” he growled.

“Exactly,” she snapped back. “We both made stupid fucking decisions, because we were sixteen. If you’re going to judge him about it, you might as well judge me too.” She pulled back and climbed out of TARDIS with a huff, slamming the door. She winced, feeling guilty, and patted the door in apology.

“Sorry, old girl,” she muttered.

“Rose, wait,” the Doctor’s voice called out as she started to walk away towards the flat. “How long are you going to be gone on this tour?” He caught up to her and slowed just as her arms came up and wrapped protectively around herself.

“Off and on for three months,” she admitted heavily. “Won’t be back in London at all the first month, then I get a two week break— if Saxon doesn’t take that away now— then its six more weeks of traveling, and the rest is back here. It goes right up until the last couple of weeks of the contract.” She watched his face from a sideways glance, waiting for him to do the mental calculations.

“But that means,” he paused. “You’re leaving? In less than a month?” She didn’t know how to handle the devastation in his voice.

“Only for a while,” she said in a small voice. “And not because I want to.”

“But—”

Rose’s heart clenched, remembering his heartbreaking confession that first night in bed, where he’d told her how he feared her running off and leaving him behind, and how it had factored into him holding back on their relationship. She knew it had something to do with the way things had ended between him and River as well, though he hadn’t mentioned any details, which fed into his fear of her doing the same. Guilt crashed over her once more. It had been cruel of her to push him into their relationship when she did, she thought, not for the first time. She’d been selfish, and impatient, and she knew that she shouldn’t have tried until she returned.

She wished, in that moment, that they hadn’t even met again until she was free of the contract entirely. It would have saved them both a lot of heartache. At least then she wouldn’t have had to worry about Saxon hurting her friends, and if he did end up killing her, they wouldn’t have to mourn her. No one except Donna, anyway.

“Doctor, I’m sorry,” she started, her voice raw and painful from speaking around the lump in her throat.

He cut her off, fixing her with a devastated look. “How am I supposed to protect you if you’re gone?”

The question didn’t truly seem directed at her. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the one that told her that he was lost in his guilt. Rose took a deep, shaky breath and reached for his hand, hoping the gentle touch would be enough to ground him back in the present.

“Doctor, it isn’t your job to protect me,” she started.

“Of course it’s my job!” The Doctor snapped, his hand whipping out and slamming into the door of his car with a bang that made her flinch.

The sound of it, though made by his own hand, seemed to drag him even further into whatever memory he was stuck in. In a blur, his hand clamped around her wrist and tugged her to the ground, pinning her between the car door and his body. He bracketed her in on both sides with his arms next to her head, his breathing frantic as he crouched over her and looked around, eyes unseeing what was actually in front of him.

“Stay down,” he growled at her.

“James,” she breathed. “It’s not—”

She reached up and grabbed his face, pulling his head down to look at her. His eyes were flitting side to side, his arms on either side of her head trembling. His breathing was shaky, but she could tell he was trying desperately to find the grounding techniques he learned from Grace, not entirely gone, but hovering at the edge of falling into a flashback. Here, but not, struggling with his hold on reality due to his feelings of helplessness at war with his protective instincts.

The Doctor’s eyes clenched shut tightly, his entire body shaking now. He was mouthing instructions to himself, and she made out some numbers as he worked to slow his breathing.

“Take your time, love,” she whispered gently, stroking his cheek. “I’m right here, Doctor. Everything is alright. I’m not going anywhere yet, not without you. We can go back to your flat, and have tea, and you can complain to me all about what the knobheads at your university got up to today. We’re safe, I’m here,” she whispered over and over.

His shaking arms encircled her, dragging her to his chest tightly as he buried his face into her hair and rocked. “Rose, Rose—” he cried. “I can’t keep you safe. Why won’t you let me?”

“Shh,” she soothed him, stroking his side awkwardly, the best she could do in the tight embrace he had her trapped in. “I’m not going anywhere right now, love. Just home, with you.”

It took several minutes for her to coax him into standing, and she couldn’t get him to release his hold on her, so she had to guide him to his flat in an awkward shuffle. She warred with her own guilt; guilt for having forced herself into his life and having made him so worried, guilt for the horrible way his protectiveness made her feel— so loved it made her ache. She didn’t want him to be so torn up by it, by his feelings of helplessness that she knew stemmed from that trapped feeling in his memory, and his own guilt, but a part of her that she wished she could bury was intoxicated by it.

How could he have ever thought he was capable of hurting her, when the very idea of her being out of reach turned into this?

He seemed to come back to himself more once they were standing in his living room, firmly back in the present but still looking shell shocked. She was able to pull away enough to lead him just by his hand to the bathroom, and with the bathroom door closed and securing them in the smaller room, she was able to release his hand without him panicking. She fumbled her way through turning on his ridiculous shower with only a couple missteps, and the room began to fill with steam.

She knelt before him and untied his boots first, encouraging him to kick them off while she stood and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. The loss of both pieces of his armor seemed to make him more vulnerable, and the tremor in his hands returned, but she stilled him by grabbing both of his hands and placing them over her heart.

“I’m still here,” she reminded him firmly.

The Doctor swallowed and nodded, pulling back of his own volition to finish undressing. Relief crashed over her, and she followed suit quickly, divesting herself of her sweaty gym cloths and pulling him into the shower as soon as they were both free. Under the streaming water, she rose up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her and allowing him to once again crush her into his chest with his powerful arms. He lifted her up more than she pulled him down, but he buried his face in the crook of her neck and took deep shuddering breaths, filling his lungs with her scent. Absently, she wished she didn’t smell like sweat and the boxing gym, but he didn’t seem to mind as his breaths finally steadied.

“Rose—” he choked out again. “Fuck, I’m so—"

“Doctor, if you’re about to say that you’re sorry, I don’t want to hear it,” she said firmly. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry for, and I refuse to let you think that you do.”

His arms around her waist tightened momentarily before relaxing and pulling back. She fixed him with a firm glare as he stared down at her with a guilt-stricken expression. She pulled one arm down from his neck to point at him sternly.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“I could’ve—”

“You didn’t,” she cut him off.

“Rose,” he sighed, exasperated.

“James,” she mimicked in the same tone. “Shut up for once, Doctor. You didn’t hurt me. You were never going to. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be your fault, and I’m not going anywhere, and you don’t scare me. I will say this again— It’s not your job to protect me. Not from Saxon, and not from yourself.”

“It is—”

“Is that all I am to you then?” She snapped, jamming her finger into his chest. “A job? A duty?”

“What?” He sputtered, his hands floundering at her side. His eyes were wide and frantic. “No, of course not!”

“Then stop acting like it!” Rose demanded, poking him again. “Quit being such a git and listen to what I’m telling you.” Despite it all, his lips quirked up in one corner, fighting a smile at her insult. “I appreciate that you want to protect me— I love it— but I’ve been taking care of myself my entire life. Obviously you make me feel safe, and obviously I’d prefer to stay in London rather than go on this ridiculous tour, but I don’t have a choice. You’re already doing more than enough lettin’ me stay here until Saxon calms down—”

His slight smile disappeared into a deep frown, but she pushed on.

“And no matter what happens,” she stressed. “I’m gonna come home. And then it will be over.”

“And after that?” The Doctor asked, barely a whisper.

“I— I don’t know,” Rose admitted. “I said yes, to Teagan and Nyssa, to the job they offered me. I mean, I want to travel at some point, but it’s not like I have the money to. But I don’t want to leave. Not anymore.”

His eyes locked in on hers, cautious and hopeful. “Not anymore?” He asked, a small grin quirking up the corner of his mouth.

“Nope,” she said, popping the ‘p’ and grinning, tongue between her teeth.

“Somethin’ happen recently to change your mind, then?”

He wrapped his arms more securely around her back, pulling her closer, pressing their chests and stomachs together. She wound her arms back around his neck and scratched at the short hair on the back of his head, enjoying the way it made his eyelids flutter in pleasure.

“Recently? Nah,” she responded. His eyes snapped fully open, and he looked down at her with a frown that came off more like a pout, and she giggled. “Met this bloke a few months ago though,” she continued. “He started showing me how beautiful London can be. I think I’ll stick around a while, see what else he can show me.”

“Just for a while?” He teased.

“I don’t know. He owes me a whole universal tour. How long do you think it’ll take to see the whole universe?”

“Oh, forever,” he said, casually, grinning down at her widely now. “Can start by showin’ you some stars though.”

Rose laughed, bright and happy. She placed a kiss on the center of his chest, above his heart, and pulled back to rid herself of the sweat and grime of the gym. She reached for her shampoo, but as soon as her fingers touched the bottle, it was snatched from her.

“Hey!” She protested, whirling around on him.

He held it high above her head and she cursed. “Turn around,” he said.

“I was taking care of you,” she argued, feeling uneasy. He was deflecting again, she thought, trying to hide behind joking and diverting her attention.

“You did,” the Doctor assured her. “You are. But…” he trailed off, seeming to be searching for something. “I enjoy caring for you. It helps me feel in control. Grounded.”

She hesitated at that. His voice was gruff and low, like his words— his admission— were a struggle to voice, though they sounded almost rehearsed. Like something he had planned to say, perhaps with Grace, but hadn’t expected to do so in such an emotional moment. She stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge his sincerity, to read between the lines of what he wasn’t saying. His shoulders were drooped, but open, not pulling in on himself as if he was shutting her out, but also not posturing the way he did when he was acting arrogant or dominant. His face was open as well, earnest, but hesitant. As if he was waiting for her judgement?

Well, that was fair. She was standing here, trying to judge what was going on in his head. Everyone needed to feel in control sometimes, she reasoned, and people felt control in different ways. She retreated in on herself, blocking out as much as she could. She kept strict control over who and what she let into her life, as evident in how bare her loft was. She already knew he liked being in control over intimacy, though she wasn’t sure if that was psychological or just a preference or if it was a bit of both. But was this so different, if he needed to feel control by proving that he could… be gentle? Care for her, even if he could not protect her? Merely be in control of his own actions and gain clarity in the ritual motion of making something— or someone, in this case— clean?

Slowly and deliberately, holding his gaze until she could not, Rose turned around, and forced her hands down to her sides. It went against all of her instincts, letting someone else take the reins— outside of sex, though in truth she was still figuring out how to do that as well— to do something she was not only capable of doing on her own, but was used to doing on her own. Independence and control were both things that she felt she had very little of, and she held tightly to what little she did have. Both warred now with her desire to care for him and allow him the comfort he needed.

And a not so quiet part of her was crying out in desperate, yearning need to be cared for. She was still, ultimately, so tired, and her soul was still so battered and lonely, having been deprived of gentleness and care for so long.