Fic Tennis: Gallifrey Records III, Part 2/2 (Finished)


Part 1 was getting long, so we’re launching part 2. Prompt gif by Emily/whooves, used with permission, from this picture postAs always, savior “fic tennis” if you want to get off this crazy train.

(Jamie’s Note on the Last Section: It’s not especially graphic, but, no, kind of it is, more than we’ve gotten so far, I think, so don’t read it if you’re not supposed to read that sort of stuff.)

“You know where you ought to be? Back in London with me!” Jackie says.

“Mum, the search efforts are based from here and Brisbane, I need to be close by.”

Jackie harrumphs as she sorts through the rest of the food tray and shoves a croissant into Rose’s other hand. “Need to be.Rose Marion Tyler, there are professionals managing this crisis, there’s no need for you to just linger around –”

“I tried to tell her, the entire trip here, but she wouldn’t listen,” Mickey interrupts, rolling his eyes. He’s gone to sit with Martha on the couch, and there’s a comfortable familiarity between them, in the way they share space, that makes Rose’s throat full and the pit of her stomach hollow. “Martha’s filled me in a bit, about the people you’ve called in.”

At that moment, Donna’s mobile rings. She excuses herself and steps into the bedroom. Rose draws a deep breath and turns to face her mum, knowing she’s going to get an earful about how ridiculous she’s being, that clinging to hope like this is only going to make it worse in the end. Jackie Tyler knows about loss –about being a widow – and Rose isn’t remotely ready to let her mother usher her down that emotional path.

“The US and Australian coast guards are performing standard search and rescue operations. Jack Harkness has called in some favors, and he’s got a few ships from the Australian navy out, as well. The Doctor’s in one of two situations: floating on a life raft at sea, or stranded on an island somewhere.”

“There are three situations, Rose,” Jackie says, blunt but not unkind. She blinks rapidly, and Rose realizes her mum is actually on the verge of tears.

Rose plows ahead as though she hasn’t heard a word. “He was on a Gulfstream G650, and the inflatable life rafts in that model are equipped with homing beacons. If he’s at sea, the raft will be transmitting automatically, until the battery runs out. If he’s on land somewhere, assuming the plane (or some part of it) is with him, there’s even more transmitting equipment available. The Doctor’s clever, he’ll figure out some way to send some kind of a signal.”

Jackie opens her mouth again, but before she can get a syllable out, Rose keeps right on going: “Martha’s friend Rita is an experimental physicist, and Anji helped design and build radar telescopes for a dozen space agencies around the world. I’ve hired them both as independent contractors to design and build a device that’ll be able to detect any kind of signal the Doctor might send. We’re already ordering the materials Rita and Anji need, we’ve got a team of engineers working around the clock, and I’ve rented a large ship to build it on.

“Even with Jack calling in his favors, the coast guard and navy will stop searching within a few weeks, max. If the Doctor isn’t home by then, I’m going to be prepared to keep searching. As long as it takes.”

Jackie steps closer, her hand coming to rest on Rose’s cheek. “Oh, sweetie,” she breathes.

Rose bites her lip so hard, she’s surprised she doesn’t taste blood. “I can’t leave him out there, Mum. You don’t know him like I do – he’s clever, cleverer than you can imagine – and I won’t leave him. I just … I just can’t.”

Jackie’s chin moves, the barest hint of a quiver, and she drops her hand with a resigned nod. “You’re so busy being Miss Project Manager and taking care of everybody else, who’s taking care of you?”

“You could, maybe, stay?” Rose replies, throwing her arms around her mum and burying her face in her shoulder.

“’Course I can,” Jackie says, stroking her hair.



For the first time in his life, he’s lost track of time. It’s been weeks, certainly, but how many? How many days, hours, minutes, seconds since he’s seen Rose? When he asks K-9, way past concerns about talking to a piece of painted-on luggage, the only response is “Too many.”

It feels like a long time, whatever the count, and he tries to ignore the idea that they’d have been here by now, if they were coming. Mostly because Rose would slap him, if she knew he was thinking like that. Instead he’s stuck inside his own head, chasing after birds, and shaking down coconuts, starting fires and conserving water. He’s thinking, all by himself, and that’s never good.

He’s relived his entire life on this bloody island; in the smell of salt from the ocean he’d found the Master again.

It’s a few months until graduation, until the Doctor’s supposed to leave for an electrical engineering degree and the Master’s on to — well, he always was a vague sort of bloke. And the motorbike just appears. One day it’s on the edge of campus, no fallen rider or For Sale sign, nothing — just a broken down bike and two boys with a mind to fix it.

He knows now that it would never have worked. Not the bike — they’d fixed that up in a matter of days, wrestling over tools, pushing narrow hips against narrow hips, and the smell of grease and sweat on the air. Tongues and teeth and he never could understand why the Corsair never said anything. Why he didn’t mention coming across the Doctor and the Master in a tangle of limbs and ripped clothes, why he never asked what they thought they were doing or where they thought they were going.

No, the bike had worked from the start.

It was the two of them, blond and brown, Theta Sigma and Koschei, Bunk A and Bunk B, that wouldn’t work, wouldn’t go. The morning they were to leave there’d been a fight. He can’t even remember it now. And then graduation, and uni, and picking a label, where it had all fallen apart for good.

So it’s in the smell of salt that he finds the Master, but it’s in the breeze that carries it that he finds Rose.

She’s standing outside the backstage entrance to Wembley stadium, talking on her mobile. He’d hoped to find her before she’d become the Rose Tyler he’d seen in the papers, hoped they could meet as just two people who played music, instead of two musicians, but she’s already in her normal concert outfit.

The wind is whipping her hair around, somehow making it look better instead of worse, and he can just make out what she’s saying, scattered words like, “Mum” and “Haven’t met him yet” and “I can handle it” and the way she’s playing on her heels, rocking back and forth with the strong breeze, twists something in him.

She’s going to be trouble, or she’s going to keep him out of it, he can’t tell yet.

He’d done his research, of course he had, hours on the internet, more than a few not-so-casual conversations with people in the industry, but this is different and the laugh she lets out as the wind catches her and she falls almost too far before righting herself, oh yes, she’ll be trouble.

He tries to play with the breeze on the island, chases it to the far corners, tripping with it, and gasping, and choking, but it’s not fun, and he doesn’t laugh; it feels a little like drowning.

It’s the breeze that leads him back into the wreckage one morning. He’d searched the debris thoroughly the first two weeks, triggering the beacon on every life raft, sending up a few flares, but somehow he’s missed this, or it’s only just washed up.

The shell of the plane and one of the engines, damaged, but not unusable — it’s a Sun Engine, and he remembers something from a magazine, some air and space thing he’d picked up in an airport lounge, a company advert, “Can’t Turn Off a Sun.”

It takes him the better part of two days, and everything he learned in school, but almost 48 hours later, he’s got a small, sad-looking boat, and a small, sad-looking motor.

He sets off as day is breaking and he’s been on the water for hours when things go pear-shaped. He’d strapped K-9 in with a ripped up blanket and it’s just as well or he’d be floating away with the choppy waves, and it’s all too much.

He turns back just as the engine begins to smoke, using the very last of the power and more than a bit of jiggery pokery to pulse out a signal, before being forced to paddle back in.

He’d tried to get back to Rose, instead he’d burned up a Sun.



Rose sits in the wheelhouse, mug of instant coffee steaming in her hands, and stares out the window at the field of stars. She’s wearing her blue leather jacket – it’s cold at night, but she’d likely be wearing it in midday heat, too, because it’s become a piece of armor. If she takes it off, everyone will see the shredded mess of her heart, and she can’t lower the façade for an instant.

Even with Jack calling in every last favor he could, the coast guard gave up the search after the first month. Now, in the second, Rose is well aware that even Martha – steadfast Martha, whose very soul is the epitome of dedication and endurance – looks at her with a pitying gaze.

So the blue jacket stays on, and the ship she’s chartered and jury-rigged as an enormous listening device slips through the silent waters of the Pacific. Rose always mans the watch through the small hours of the night, alone, eyes glued to flickering lights and bobbing needles, looking for anything unusual. They’re following official coast guard search patterns, working outward from the last known location of the plane, tracing and retracing and putting into port only when they need to refuel and resupply.

The crew of the charter is happy to be at sea as long as she’s tossing fistfuls of money at them, and the Doctor’s friends have been coming out with Rose in shifts, flying back and forth from London. Jackie went home four days ago and Rose got an email not long after with photos of the tabloid covers – old pictures of her and the Doctor, along with the headlines “Pop Princess Sells Kingdom on Mad Quest.”

It was true, she was burning through her not inconsiderable fortune at a shocking rate. Martha came onboard after Jackie left, and when Rose told her about the tabloids during dinner, Martha had shrugged. “The Doctor’s got plenty of money. If he’s ever … I mean, if they decide to … y’know for legal reasons, they declare him … well, anyway, there’s a certain amount of his fortune that goes to charity, and the rest goes to you. So there’s something in case –”

“What?” Rose had blinked at Martha, forkful of lasagna frozen halfway to her mouth.

The other woman stared back with big eyes, realizing she’d let something slip she shouldn’t have. “They had me do a physical, for some of the insurance paperwork, and I figured he’d told you — had his will changed a while ago, arranged it with the lawyers and everything.”

And now, hours later, sitting alone at her station by the bizarre pile of machinery and clutching her cup of instant coffee, Rose shoves away thoughts of money and wills. Leaning forward, she adjusts a few knobs, watching needles and lights flicker.

At first she’s certain it’s an anomaly – they’ve had plenty before, warped whale song and ham radio operators from local island chains. She sits up straight in her chair and puts the coffee down, fingers flying over the keyboard in front of her anyway. If nothing else, the whale song is pretty sometimes.

When she sees the blip dance across the needles and lights again, her heart twists inside her chest. She doesn’t stop to worry about how erratic it’s beating or wonder if she’s having a heart attack; she’s on her feet, dashing out the wheelhouse door to the main deck. The pilot’s sitting in a chair tipped up on its back legs, his feet propped up on the railing.


“Yeah, Rose? You want another cup of coffee? I’m about to –”

Unceremoniously hauling him up by his sleeve, she drags him back inside, points at the equipment. “I just got a signal. I need you to chart it; we’re going to investigate.”

Danny’s already leaning over the laptop, staring at the data. “I see it. That’s not whalesong.”

“No it’s not,” Rose replies, and she’s digging her fingernails into his arm. He pulls away, turning to his navigational computers.

“We’re about twelve hours away from – whatever that is. But Rose, you should know, there’s nothing there, nothing anybody’s ever bothered to chart.”

“You can set a course?”

“Doing it now.”

Rose is exploding with sudden energy; she’s bouncing on her toes, resisting the urge to run laps around deck, trying to keep her thoughts in some semblance of order.

It’s him, it has to be, she feels it, the same way you can sometimes tell who’s walked into a room without turning to look at them, just because of the way the air changes, because their presence makes everything shift.

Rose would recognize the feel of the Doctor’s presence from across the universe.

“I have to wake up Martha!”



It’s been 11 hours since she noticed the signal and she hasn’t had a cup of coffee — or any beverage, really — that she hadn’t made herself. Running around the deck, shouting at the crew, and her friends, and the skies, as the ship moved forward in slow motion, stopping seems impossible.

She knows she should sleep, that she won’t be any good to anyone, least of all the Doctor, if she passes out right at the end, but the adrenaline is overriding her common sense (and it would most certainly override whatever’s in that little orange bottle Martha’s waving around).

They’re so, so close. And the next time she sleeps, she firmly intends for it to be curled around the Doctor.

They’re heading toward something, they’ve got confirmation from the air, and the radars are picking it up consistently now.

She doesn’t stop to think about the possibility that this isn’t it. She’s cannoning toward an end to this nightmare, one way or another.


There’s a strange sense of peace that comes over him once he reaches the shore again. He’s given it his best go, and while it wasn’t enough, he has every faith in Rose. If anything was going to work, it would be that final signal, and if she caught it, she’s already on her way.

By this time tomorrow, he’ll either be reunited with the love of his life, or he’ll be resigned to an existence on an island no one’s ever heard of. Maybe he’ll give it a name, even.

He squints at himself in the small mirror from Alonso’s dop kit. There’s a brand new razor, and a small can of shaving foam — he’d barely even noticed them before. He’d catalogued the blade as something to come back to, but he’s made do without.

But it seems like a time to shave now, time to prepare for a new life or — in that bright, hopeful part of him — time to resume his old one.

His beard makes him look mad, a couple inches long and decidedly unkempt. He clips it with manicure scissors first, a calming motion, like trimming that stupid bonsai back on the bus. When it’s short enough, he lathers his face, shaving and watching himself reappear in the mirror.

His hair is longer, curling at the base of his neck and around his ears, but there’s nothing to be done for it. He dunks his head under the water as he rinses the foam off, combing it with his fingers as it dries.

He’d spent most of his time without a shirt, the red giving way to a tan weeks ago, but he finds his Oxford, flat and dry on the roof of the lean-to and slips it back on. It hangs baggier than it used to and the sleeves are ragged, so he rolls them to up to his elbows.

His tie is a lost cause, but Alonso had some extras in his luggage. He cycles through a few before deciding to go without. It almost feels like dressing himself for a funeral, if he’s honest.

His trousers are low on his hips, frayed and torn off at the knees and his Chucks have seen better days, but he feels like the Doctor. The Doctor on a reality show maybe, but the Doctor.

There’s one can of Coke left, buried in the sand near the water to keep it cold, and he digs it out, opening the tab like a bottle of the most expensive champagne. He’s either celebrating or giving up, and he counts the seconds like drum beats, as he waits to find out.


The sun is at its zenith when the Doctor grasps proper hold of the reality that he’s prepared himself for his funeral. Not because he’s considering suicide – nothing of the sort, it isn’t in his nature, that kind of senseless death. Sure, he could imagine dying for someone else. But he’d never take his own life.

But living the rest of his natural days in this place, hours and days and years of sand and the pounding of surf, would be a kind of death in itself. This island is a limbo, a void, and deprived of human companionship, the Doctor knows he’s going to slowly go mad.

“Wel-l-l-l-l, you don’t mind, do you K9?” he says to the suitcase propped against a nearby tree trunk. “Me being a bit mad? Mad man with a box – that’d be you, the box, I mean.”

K9, predictably, says nothing.

The Doctor decides it’s definitely the beginnings of madness when he sees a speck on the horizon.

It’s positively a symptom of dehydration and derangement when the speck steadily grows bigger. He gets on his feet, shading his eyes as he squints against the glare of sunlight on the water, and wishes he had his specs. His other hand moves absently, fingers forming fret patterns for ‘Margaritaville’ against his hip.

When the speck begins to resemble a boat, the Doctor doesn’t care if he’s mad or dehydrated or anything else. He shouts, jumping up and down and waving his hands, and he’s so excited he doesn’t even remember to light the wood for the signal fire he’s had carefully prepared since his second day here.

It doesn’t seem to matter; the boat’s making a beeline for his location.


Five of them are piled into the skiff, heading into the shallower waters where the bigger ship can’t go, and Martha sits beside Rose, clutching her hand and shaking. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it,” she keeps saying.

Rose’s stomach is roiling nearly as much as the sea, every one of her nerve endings crackling with anticipation, and when the skiff gets clear of the boat and close enough for her to make out his wild mop of brown hair, she’s gone.


She doesn’t wait for landfall, leaps out and slogs through chest-deep water. He’s skinnier (she’d never have thought it possible), his hair is shaggy, his skin is deeply tanned and his freckles are darker than she’s ever seen them. And it’s wildly improbable, all of this – finding him here, in the middle of a vast expanse of dark blue – but most improbable is the fact that he’s still wearing his oxford and pinstripes, and he’s clean-shaven, and he looks exactly like himself.

The impossible man.

He’s wading out to meet her. He spares the skiff a glance, he flashes his beaming grin at Martha, and then nothing else exists except the two of them.

She’s sopping wet and she flings herself at him; she should be careful, Martha has warned her that he’ll be weak and malnutritioned, but the magnetic force that always draws them together is magnified a thousandfold, and she can’t stop herself even if she was inclined to try.

His long arms wrap around her and she cries out, burying her face in his neck and her fingers in his hair, clinging to him as they brace each other against waves of water beating against their thighs. She gasps his name over and over again and he’s mumbling something, she hears Rose and only have one life and she tilts her head back, pulling his face to hers.

His chapped lips are rough, his mouth dry, and she makes a choked sobbing sound as he shudders against her, his fingers digging into her waist.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs against her mouth.

She kisses him again. 

“Did you find Sexy?” he asks when he eventually comes up for air again, arching his eyebrows at her.


"Did we — did we find what?" She’s touching him all over, fingers running over the hard planes of his body, the coarseness of his hair, his smooth face.

"Sexy," he repeats, the word garbled as her fingers pass over his lips.

"Oh my god, your guitar," she says, wrapping him in her arms again, "No, no, but I’ll buy you a new one."

He’s lifted her up, swinging them both in the weightlessness of the surf before they topple together into the water.

"I’ll buy you whatever you want," she says as they struggle toward the shore, weighed down by wet clothes and their unwillingness to separate hands.

They flop onto the beach gracelessly, him turning to her the moment his knees have touched land, bracing himself over her torso and kissing her once again.

She pulls back, still breathless from the swim, “Do you — is that soda?”

He grins, “Good ol’ Coca Cola, Rose Tyler,” and he chases her mouth once more, mumbling against her lips, “I’ve missed you.”

She manages a reply, “Been busy,” before his tongue slips past her lips and she rolls her body to pin him to the sand.

It’s only Donna’s voice that breaks them apart, a loud, “Oi!” audible even over the sound of the surf.

Rose slips off of him, standing to reach a hand down and help him up, but he’s already on his feet, bounding toward Donna and sweeping her into a hug.

Donna’s arms tighten around him before she’s pulling back with a stern look broken by her bright smile, “Don’t ever do that again, Rock Boy!”

Martha’s next, hugs and tears and even Mickey gets in on it, wrapping them both in a hug before Jack is prying the Doctor away and kissing him full on the mouth.

The trip back in the small boat to the larger one is a blur, it was a tight fit with the five of them and plus the Doctor and a damaged piece of luggage he wouldn’t part with and keeps referring to as “K-9,” it’s even cozier.

It’s just as well though, Rose wouldn’t be able to separate from him even if she’d wanted to, and settled into his lap is the perfect place.

"How big is this boat?" he murmurs into her ear, and she feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Donna overhears, “Not big enough! I’ll call once we’re aboard and get you two set up in a new room, one in the middle of the island.” She catches Rose’s eye and Rose understands what she’s not saying — that the Doctor wouldn’t want to see the one they’ve had for the last two months, the remains of Rose’s emotional state, cluttered and ruined around the space.

The Doctor nips at Rose’s neck, pulling her hips down into his as he growls, “Better get the whole floor.”

Rose is under no delusions that everything is okay. The Doctor’s clearly running on pure adrenaline, acting like he’s been off on a holiday, not trapped on a deserted island, and there are enough issues between the two of them to fill an entire cruise ship, but they’ll have this. They’ll have today and then they can process. Then the therapists can come and Martha can run tests and they can sleep and eat and heal.

But they’ll have today.


Taking the Doctor’s suggestion to heart, Donna books them the entire top floor, it’s just an expansive suite, but there’s no one else around and after several lingering goodbyes and more than a handful of reassurances to check back in soon, the Doctor’s got her pinned to the wall just inside the door, hips rutting against hers as he slides his tongue back into her mouth without preamble.

Her heart is pinballing around her chest, like it’s trying to keep up and burst free and stop all at once, and it’s when she works her fingers into his back pockets and comes away with a handful of sand, that she’s finally able to get herself under control.

It takes the Doctor a few moments to realize she’s stopped, his lips slowing against hers before he pulls back, “Rose?”

She rests her forehead against his chest, “Let’s — let’s get cleaned up. If you still want,” he bucks his hips into hers and she grins despite herself, “If you still want that after, then we can — you’ve been through a lot, Doctor.”

His shoulders slump, but he begins unbuttoning his shirt and making his way to the en suite, “I don’t want to talk about it, Rose,” and he disappears behind the door.

By the time she catches up to him, telling herself that neither of them can have any idea what the other person went through, and they can’t fault each other, he’s already started the shower and stripped down.

She takes her own clothes off, watching them drop wetly to the ground before finally taking him in. His body is freckled and tan, and he’s skinnier than she’s ever seen him, but with muscles she’s never seen either — his arms and his chest, it’s the wiry strength of someone who couldn’t just run down to the market for dinner, who didn’t have a limo to get him where he wanted to go.

Her gaze is lingering around the jut of his hipbones when he finally moves, hands darting to wrap around her waist and propelling her into the cold tile of the wall.

He stops just before he kisses her, “We’ll get there, okay? I promise,” and he gives her a tentative smile.

This crazy man, this man who was trapped on an island for months, is the one reassuring her. She can’t help but smile back, letting her tongue poke at the corner of her mouth before she gives a nod, “Okay.”

Then he’s hoisting her up over the ledge of the shower, an arm wrapped arm her middle keeping her suspended above the ground as he pulls open the glass door and there’s a tiny, horrible part of her brain that doesn’t care where the strength is coming from and just wants to enjoy it.

The water turns brown, grains of sand falling to the floor as soon as the water meets their skin, and it’s enough to remind Rose that they really ought to clean up first, especially if — as she expects — these next few activities drain them of what little adrenaline they’re both running on. They’ll both sleep for hours after, if she had to guess.

She makes short work of shampooing and soaping up, doing him and herself in a matter of minutes, not necessarily ignoring the parts that are rising to meet the flannel, but certainly not encouraging them yet either.

He’s pulling at her as the last suds are ringing the drain, dragging a stack of towels right into the stall with them before giving up and bending down to pick her up. Her legs flail uselessly for a few moments before wrapping around his waist and then he’s walking them to the bed.

All the lean strength and endorphins and energy and she’s not going to fault a bloke stuck in the wild for becoming a little wild himself and then he’s pitching her down on to the bed and crawling to hover over her.

It’s overwhelming to see him here, hair wet and flat against his head, skin golden and smooth, and she pulls him down for a hug. The solid feel of his weight, the rapid thumping of his heart against her chest and she wants to cry and laugh and shout.

He buries his face in her neck, turning the hug into something more as he licks at her skin and winds a hand up between them.

"Coconuts," he says with a grin.

"What?" her hands scramble down his backside, trying to find purchase to anchor him to her.

"Coconuts! Every time I found a pair, I’d see how they fit," and he brings his other hand up, cupping and taking her measure, "But, I’d forgotten how soft they are," he moves his face down the column of her throat, wet little kisses in his wake, before nuzzling into the skin between her breasts, "You’re so soft, Rose.”

She arches into him, trying to move his mouth, his nose, his fingers, anything, to where she wants them.

He pulls up with a jolt, grinning wildly and bracing himself on his hands above her as her legs wrap around the backs of his.

His mouth drops to hers with a calm that belies the way his hips have begun to rotate above hers, “I know where else you’re soft,” and she feels his smirk against her lips at she swats at his arse.

She leans up to take control of the kiss, moving her hands to his hair before pitching her weight to try and roll them so she’s on top. He stops her, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the bed on either of her head, knocking pillows out of the way with his elbows.

"Now," he says and slides down just enough that the angle is almost right.

He releases one of her wrists with a wink and she sticks her tongue out at him as she immediately winds it up into his hair.

She feels his hand work between them, fingers circling and testing and, oh, just there, before he’s positioning himself and pressing forward with a groan.

It’s a sloppy rhythm from the start, short, fast strokes and she’s not even trying to keep quiet, biting out fuck and his name and yes and love you love you love you as he releases her hands.

She flails around, trying to find a grip, and then she’s got his bum and he’s worked his arms up under her back, curling at the wrists so his hands can cup her shoulders and there’s just enough leverage —

He meets her mouth for one last messy kiss, tongues and teeth and then he’s going stiff, growling into the skin of her throat and she bites down on his shoulder and it doesn’t matter who’s on this floor, the whole damn hotel just heard her.

He lets his weight settle on to her, pressing tiny kisses where her neck meets her shoulder that make her shiver and buck up under him with the aftershocks.

A few minutes later and he’s pushing himself up to use the loo, “A toilet, Rose! Never thought I’d be so thrilled over indoor plumbing!”

When he comes back to bed, she’s fallen asleep, but his weight on the mattress wakes her, so used to sleeping alone now.

"Shh, it’s just me," he drops a kiss on her lips and one on her forehead, "Love you." And then he’s curling up behind her, arm wrapped tight around her waist.

The next time she wakes, it’s to the sound of the Doctor humming in her ear.

"Think I’ll write a song about this," he says.


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