Fic Tennis: Twelfth Match, Part 2
This is a continuation of Jamie and my ongoing fic tennis match; we just didn’t want the other post to get too long. In case you missed it, Part One. If you want to avoid any potential TenToo/Rose feels, you might as well go ahead and savior “fic tennis.”
“I just wanted to say, what you did was brilliant.” The Doctor’s speaking slowly and deliberately; it’s strange to hear his gob operating at half-speed, as though he’s inspecting each word for defect before he sets it free. “Dimension cannon, hopping between universes, because the stars were going out.” All of this sounds strangely like an apology, with a quiet undercurrent of the same thing he’d had in his voice in the living room, when he was staring at the picture of her holding Tim’s hand in the tabloid. “You were brilliant, Rose Tyler.”
It occurs to Rose, like a thunderclap, that this Doctor – he wasn’t in the console room after the regeneration. He didn’t hear her, stuttering and blushing and admitting that she’d poured so much of herself, her waking hours and every last scrap of her energy, into the dimension cannon.
This Doctor didn’t hear why. Not because of the stars and the darkness in the sky; but because she was desperate to come back to him.
This Doctor has no idea. Because the gap between the Time Lord Doctor and this Doctor started the minute his regeneration energy was siphoned into the hand in the jar.
“Hallo,” he says, shifting from one bare foot to another — the jeans are too short on him, they stop above his ankles, and it’s distracting – skin and a smattering of brown hair and there are freckles on his toes, how does that even happen? “You look a bit pale, Rose.”
“If it wasn’t for you,” she says, “there would be a Dalek fleet ravaging the other universe at this very moment. So we’re probably even, on the universe-saving front.”
“Oh.” It’s sudden, that sound. The way his adam’s apple bobs on his long neck, the way his hand drops and his expression drops with it. “Right.”
Rose feels a headache coming on; she feels every grain of sand in her shoes and every particle of void stuff swirling beneath her skin and she’s going to be sick. She needs as scalding hot shower and a good night’s sleep.
Then maybe she can face this Doctor, right here in her flat, barefoot on the kitchen tiles.
Then maybe she can work up the nerve to call Tim, to see him and tell him that the alien she was so hung up on, well, he’s right here in her flat, barefoot on the kitchen tiles.
Tim was never part of Torchwood, never saw the innerworkings of what went on behind those closed doors. He’d tease Rose, sometimes, about how fantastically ridiculous the few bits of information she could tell him actually sounded. In the small quiet hours of the night, after their sweat had dried and they were lying still, and Rose was wondering if she should stay till morning, if she even wanted to stay – it was like Tim sensed her restlessness.
Because he never wanted her to go, he’d start talking. If each decision we make spawns an entirely new universe, then me getting up to go to the loo just now created a whole other realm of existence. Does Torchwood have a department to study that, the universe-creating qualities of piss?
Most times, Tim knew how to make her laugh, knew the right words to distract her. So occasionally, she’d stay. But there were boundaries he learned not to cross, when it came to that teasing. Your alien bloke, he must be a mind-blowing shag, if you’re making this cannon to get back to him.
Rose was out the door in two minutes flat, lips pressed tightly together, not listening to a word of Tim’s apology. Later she’d admitted to herself that his comment hadn’t been mean-spirited; it was a thin veil of humor over an earnest, inappropriate question. But that night she walked for seventeen blocks in the dark looking for a cab, her knickers in her trouser pocket and her shirt buttons crooked. She didn’t talk to him for weeks afterward. And Tim never, ever mentioned your alien blokeagain.
Rose stares up into the face of her alien bloke, at his warm brown eyes and the way he’s thumbing his ear in the now uncomfortable silence.
There’s another knock on the door and she jumps slightly with the sound, but the Doctor doesn’t seem to have even noticed, he’s still focused on Rose, long fingers wrapped around his wine glass.
“That’d be the food,” she says, and hopes it true.
She brushes past him on her way out of the kitchen, and she can smell her shower stuff on him, the slight citrus of her shower gel, the vaguely fruity scent of her shampoo.
He doesn’t smell much like himself at all and she wonders if he ever will again, or if that was a product of the TARDIS, of the other universe, of all the things lost to them now.
She opens the door to the delivery man, feeling herself relax. She hadn’t actually thought it would be Tim, but it wasn’t a complete impossibility. Not that those seem to mean much in her life anyway.
It’s just a pizza, and she should’ve ordered from something closer, but it was sort of a routine now, home from a Torchwood mission, pizza from that place that uses the little pepperonis. Of course, it’s usually Mickey and Jake in her kitchen, but she’d placed the call without thinking.
The Doctor steps up behind her as she moves to pay and takes the pizza from the delivery guy, shuffling back toward the kitchen with it.
When she joins him a few minutes later, he’s found two paper plates from somewhere in the pantry’s takeaway reserves and put a couple slices on each.
There are pieces missing from the pizza in a seemingly random order, but when she looks at her plate, she sees all her slices have those big, doughy bubbles near the crust, the ones she loves. She smiles at him gratefully and he returns it, reaching out to poke one of the bubbles with his finger.
“You’re losing valuable pizza real estate with those, you know,” he says.
“I prefer to think of it as gaining valuable bubble real estate,” she says and reaches for a slice, catching a glimpse of her fingernails with the movement. There’s a dark line of sand under some of them and she should really clean up before she eats.
“I should — I need to take a shower,” she says. “You can eat if you want. You should eat.”
He gives her a nod that she takes to mean he’ll be doing nothing of the sort and she leaves for her bedroom.
Her mobile is vibrating on the side table again and she glances down to see another text message from Tim — “Knock, knock.”
She can’t avoid him forever, especially if Henry had texted him, so she types out, “Who’s there?” and sets to stripping down for her shower. If he calls, she’s not going to answer, but a text seems harmless enough and she’s got to at least try and be fair.
His response chimes just as she’s turning the taps on.
She pulls down a towel with one hand, thumbing out, “Orange who?” with the other.
“Orange you glad you wrote back? I am, because now I know you’re alive.”
She sets aside the mobile aside and steps into the shower.
The Doctor doesn’t know exactly when he fell asleep – it hasn’t happened to him in longer than he can remember, falling asleep without intending to. Certainly not in at least the last five bodies, never in a body this young. He can go without sleep for days, sometimes weeks at a time – at least, he used to be able to.
He remembers eating a half a piece of pizza and drinking a glass of wine, sitting on the couch and most decidedly not looking at the tabloid or wondering whether there were any more pictures of Rose holding anybody else’s hand on the other pages. And by the time the glass was empty, his fingertips and toes felt incredibly heavy, and he’d stretched out on the admittedly short couch, and his eyes must have slipped closed.
When he wakes up, there’s drool on the wool pillow under his head. The windows are dark, the street outside is quiet, and there’s a blanket covering him. Which means that, at some point, Rose must’ve put it there.
He’s still for a minute, because this blanket – it smells like her. The scent is so familiar, something he’s missed for so long, something that sends hormones trickling through this new half-human body. It’s the same scent he remembers, lying curled together in an armchair on his TARDIS and watching telly, grabbing her and yanking her away from a werewolf, picking her up and swinging her back and forth after they’d both faced down an alien claiming to be Satan.
He hops up, silently pads to the door that leads to the bedroom. There’s a Rose-shaped pile of duvet in the middle of the bed, and she is most decidedly asleep. Quietly as he can, the Doctor puts on his red trainers and walks out the front door. Because Canary Wharf is nearby, and he’s done sleeping, and he needs to see the stars and get some air.
Rose is Rose, but she isn’t – not the girl he met in the basement at Henriks, not the woman who risked life and limb to make sure the Earth was safe from Cybermen and Daleks alike. She’s changed in these last four years. Become quieter, more determined, harder.
On the beach the first time, when he was a holographic projection, he’d told her she was embarking on the one adventure he could never have – day after day. And he’d wanted her to find happiness, hadn’t he? To not be lonely. To be fantastic, to live to a ripe old age and look back on her life and not feel regret for a single decision she’d made.
So Rose found someone else’s hand to hold.
Fair enough, so had he.
Maybe that kiss on the beach, it didn’t mean what the Doctor thought it did.
And maybe Rose still wanted to hold this other bloke’s hand. The Doctor would never have sent Donna or Martha away, just because Rose came back to the TARDIS. (Although really, Timothy? Rubbish name. Rubbish name, rubbish ridiculous orange trainers, rubbish blond hair. Rose at least deserves someone who has a decent name and a decent sense of style, she does, but it’s her choice, always it has to be her choice.)
The Doctor looks up, realizes he’s standing in front of the Torchwood building at Canary Wharf. Realizes the sky has gone from navy to grey, and it’s his second sunrise in this new universe, this new life. Takes a deep breath and walks back to Rose’s flat.
Rose is up when he gets back, he can tell from the muffled noise on the other side of the door, which is just as well, because he’d taken care to lock the door before he closed it when he left, and now he’s stuck without a way back in.
There’s a sonic in his suit jacket, but it’s an old model, from bodies ago, and there had to have been a reason he retired it, even if he can’t remember it now, so it’s likely it doesn’t work properly. It’d been an impulse grab, nicking it from a bin of spare parts while his other self was saying his farewells to Sarah Jane, and anyway, his jacket is inside, with Rose.
He knocks lightly on the door, self-consciously running a hand through his hair as he hears her footsteps grow louder.
She unlocks the door and opens it and he’s struck with an overwhelming urge to hug her, take her hand, something, anything. When she steps aside to let him in, he can’t fight it anymore and he sweeps her up into a hug.
There, that’s nice and vague, they’ve hugged plenty of time before, people hug their mums, their dogs, it doesn’t have to mean anything beyond just being happy the person you’re hugging exists.
Rose’s arms wrap around him reflexively, he feels her shift her hand to nudge the door shut, and then her fingers are curling into the fabric of his t-shirt.
They stand like that for a few moments, just inside her flat, the first rays of sunlight streaming through the window blinds and he lets himself have this, at least this, even if he can’t take it any further.
She turns her head so that her face is buried in his neck and clutches at him tighter, pulling herself up onto her toes. He feels her lips graze the skin under his jaw, and it could have been an accident, a product of the way she’s nuzzling into him, but it makes him freeze up anyway.
He pulls back to look at her face and it’s a complete mystery, he’s got no idea what she’s thinking and the way her expression clouds over and then clears, it’s seems like he’s not the only one out of his depth.
“You’re up early,” he says, letting his arms fall away and following Rose further into the flat.
“Force of habit, early morning debriefs the day after a mission are a Torchwood favorite,” she says and he tries not to let his disappointment show. Of course she has somewhere to be, he’ll just, well, what? Watch Eastenders? Come along?
She leads him into the kitchen, checking cupboards like she expects them to look any different than they did last night.
“I’ll skip it,” she says and relief floods his veins. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
They’ve said fewer words to each other in the last 24 hours than it usually takes them to settle on a movie to watch and he doesn’t want to push it exactly, but he wants some sort of release valve for all this tension between them.
“Breakfast sounds brilliant,” he says. “I’d say I know just the place, but I noticed on the walk back that it appears to be a dry cleaners in this universe and unless you fancy a tall cup of tetrachloroethylene for the first meal of the day, we’d better let you pick.”
The Doctor’s holding a paper bag full of pastries, and Rose is holding a steaming to-go mug of tea as they walk together across the patch of green at Canada Square Park.
It’s surreal, being here in London, still in this London, with zeppelins overhead. It’s surreal, not feeling the incessant urge to get back to the lab, to try one more time. It’s surreal, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye and turning to look, and instead of being hit by a wave of disappointment when she realizes it’s just a skinny bloke with brown hair and a suit (so many years of that feeling, that disappointment, it’s almost second nature to her now); she’s hit by a wave of exhilaration, because now it’s him, it is the Doctor.
Well, Rose is fairly certain it’s the Doctor, anyway. She watches him as he plops down in the shade of a tree, stretching his long legs out straight, digging into the pastry bag with gusto. He seems to be functioning properly for the Doctor, hasn’t shut up for the last half hour, babbling on about alien planets and things she remembers so clearly – running for their lives from wheeled spore-spewing plants across a salt flat on an orange moon, squabbling over who swam the fastest lap in the TARDIS swimming pool, him agreeing to let her put barrettes in his hair and her taking a picture, which led to the most aggressive game of chase they’d played to date, through nearly every single corridor of the TARDIS, until he’d cornered her in a dusty, disused bowling alley and tickled her until she handed over the camera, which he promptly used to bowl a strike. The picture was never seen again.
She sits down with him, takes a sip of tea and hands it over so he can have a taste. He takes the cup, fingers wrapping around the heat-resistant sleeve, and brings the cup to his mouth. He’s looking at her without looking at her, always tracking and aware even when his eyes are focused on something else.
Like right now, how he’s staring at the big, empty silver stage at the opposite end of the park.
He clears his throat. “Listen, Rose, that thing I said. On the … on the beach.” Clears his throat again, tips his head to the side, as though he’s trying to spot an ant onstage. “Just because I said … well-l-l-l, it doesn’t mean things have to be different. Between us. All that ‘one life’ stuff, it’s just” – he clears his throat again, sits forward suddenly, away from her – “it’s just that I want us to be us. The Doctor and Rose, just like things were. Doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
He finally looks at her, the creases around his eyes deepening as he reaches up to scratch the back of his head. She knows that gesture; it’s something he does when he’s uncomfortable. “And I reckon if you like this Timothy bloke, then I’ll like him too. Just so long as he’s … what you want. If he’s what you want, and he makes you happy, then I’m certain I’ll like him.”
Rose stares back at the Doctor in astonishment. There are blades of grass tickling the backs of her knees, and she doesn’t know why she chose to wear a dress – not jeans and a hoodie like she used to wear with the Doctor, not black trousers and a leather jacket like she’s worn every day since she landed in this universe, but something soft, something different and new for today. She wishes, for an instant, that she did have her leather jacket, because she feels bulletproof in that old blue thing. And right now, it’s like her beating heart is exposed to the air, fluttering and electric and surrounded by dancing motes of dust.
She forces herself to speak, to just open her mouth and let words spill out without thinking.
“You’re what I want, Doctor,” she says, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice. “You’re always what I want, but I had to learn to want other things, too, things that were still in the same universe as me.”
The Doctor looks like he wants to answer her, fingers pulling at the blades of grass with the force of keeping quiet, and she doesn’t know how much longer he’ll manage, so she keeps going.
“And you will like Tim, not just because I do, but because he’s a good bloke,” she says. “A good bloke that deserves more than I could give him, we weren’t, it wasn’t, we didn’t name it, you know? But I think I was his girlfriend, more than I wasn’t. I think I am, and I owe him an explanation, I think I ought to talk to him before — I think I ought to talk to him first.”
What comes second, what’s going to come after, with the Doctor, it’s another thing she can’t name, and it hangs in the air so thickly that she feels like she can almost see it.
“So, we’ll finish our breakfast, get you some clothes that don’t indicate an incoming flood, and then I’ll drop you at my mum’s — she’s missed you, too, even if she wouldn’t admit it — just for a bit, so I can, I don’t know, start to sort things with Tim. All right?”
The Doctor nods, eyes wide, and she can tell he’s trying to slot the woman that just proved she could match his gob with the woman, the girl, he used to travel with.
She’s worried he’s going to come up short.
They finish their breakfast in relative silence, watching people cross the park, coming and going, lives marching on even if Rose feels like her own is hanging in stasis.
The shops are just opening as they make their way back out onto the streets and the Doctor doesn’t put up a fuss as she leads him through the doors of a department store.
He gravitates toward the suits, but surprises her by stopping off for jeans and jumpers, too. She’s feeling more than a little guilty, about Tim, about the Doctor, about everything, and in an awkward gesture of comfort, she grabs a pair of jeans and t-shirt for herself.
Maybe they both need to feel a little bit like their old selves, just for now.
The Doctor dutifully tries on the outfits, exiting the fitting room each time to meet with her approval. The suits will all need to be tailored, but he finds a pair of brown trousers that fit well enough, pairing them with a blue button down and a pair of off-white Converse for the outfit he’s going to wear out of the shop.
He gestures at the jeans and shirt in her hands, “Aren’t you going to try yours on?”
She wasn’t planning on it, but she shrugs and makes her way into the stall he’d vacated. The look he gives her when she steps out of the fitting room, the funny feeling in her chest like she’d get after a visit to the wardrobe, it’s enough that she decides to keep it on, and the Doctor helps her snip the tags to take to the register, fingers brushing against her skin in a way she forces herself to ignore.
They’re back on the street within an hour, laden down with bags, and she flags down a taxi to take them to her parents’.
As the cab follows the drive up to the mansion, she’s already planning out her next moves, fingers scratching absent patterns on the fabric of her jeans. Drop the Doctor off, show him the kitchen, and her old workshop, and then borrow a car to take to Tim’s.
It’s only when the cab’s pulling to a stop in front of the door that she realizes that’s not going to be necessary, there’s already an extra car in the drive, and it belongs to Tim.
The cab comes to a stop, brakes whining. Rose sits utterly still, staring at the green Mercedes in front of them, thinking about the man it belongs to, the man waiting inside. She leans forward to the acrylic partition between them and the cabbie, says a quiet word, and the cabbie nods. The cabbie lets the meter run, and Rose closes the little window in the partition, so they aren’t overheard.
“Pete introduced us,” Rose says. The Doctor, who had been gathering shopping bags from around his feet and reaching for the door latch, stops. Watches her. She doesn’t look at him, not yet. She’s not entirely sure why she’s saying this aloud; it’s not as if she has to prove anything to the Doctor.
“Tim’s the son of one of Pete’s old school mates. He, ah” – her fingers flex, ball into a fist, unclench – “he lost his wife and son in a car wreck, just over a year ago. My mum found out, found out that six months later Tim was still in the thick of it emotionally, and she thought maybe we had something in common. Losing someone. The grief, and all of that. Thought maybe I could help him or something. I’m good at that, helping people.” She looks at the Doctor. “Making them better.”
A soft clicking noise comes from the back of the Doctor’s throat, and he manages a strained, “Oh.”
“There was a terrible and awkward dinner here at the house with Pete and Mum. I don’t know what they were expecting. Tim was nice enough, but he was still hung up on his wife. And honestly, I was in worse shape than Tim – three and a half years on, and still completely …” Rose lets out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping as she tries to swallow the warm wad of emotion welling in her throat.
“A few weeks after that dinner, Torchwood cut funding for the dimension cannon. Shut it down completely. Reassigned me as an agent instead of a specialist, put me on regular cases.” She swallows again, because that ball of heat is just getting bigger, cutting off her air. “I pleaded with the Director. Yelled. Lied. Used every connection I had. Then I ate my pride and came to Pete, asked him to fund the cannon privately, to buy the tech from Torchwood and let me develop it on my own.”
Her fingers are fluttering on her lap, and she doesn’t notice him moving, but she feels the Doctor’s hand slip around her own. Grasp tightly, warmer than she’s used to, but familiar enough. She squeezes back.
“Mum and Pete sat me down, told me that it was time to let go. That I shouldn’t waste my life, that even you would want me to move on. I thought about that for a long time, about what you might’ve wanted for me. About what I wanted.
“One day after work Jake dragged me to this new pub – the bartender he fancies, the beginning of that thing, with Jake crashing at my place and keeping a spare change of clothes – yeah, we went to this pub, and Tim was there. Because the firm where he works is just around the corner. While Jake was hitting it off with the bartender, Tim and I started talking, and we realized that we were both so very … lonely.”
“That was five months ago. It was only two months ago that the stars started disappearing, going out. All the higher-ups at Torchwood were panicked, desperate to figure out what was going on, and they finally listened when I told them we should try the cannon again. And it worked.”
“Honestly, I think I was more surprised than anyone, about that dimension cannon.” Rose scratches her cheek, can’t feel her own fingernails on her skin. ”I should’ve broken things off with Tim then, should’ve let it go. Because the jumps, they weren’t always – safe.” She forces herself to meet the Doctor’s eyes. “There are universes between this one and ours that … don’t bear thinking about.”
He looks like he’s hovering on the edge, like he might try to take her into his arms, hug her, hold her, and she isn’t quite ready for that. So she forces the corners of her mouth up just enough to ease the rawness of her words, to keep him in check. “It wasn’t fair. Not for either of us. But I was being so strong, in everything else – leading, guiding, driving, doing the dimension jumps – this was the one thing I couldn’t be strong in. Honestly, I didn’t know how.”
The Doctor’s entire body feels hot and prickling and out of his control. There’s a rushing in his ears, his mouth is dry and if he doesn’t touch Rose, doesn’t at least hold her hand, he’s going to — well, he doesn’t know exactly, but he can’t imagine it will be pretty. Or healthy.
What has he done to her? All this talk about needing to be strong, and being lonely, and, oh, the shape she was apparently still in three and a half years later. Not that he was in much better shape, but part of what had helped him, what he did want for her, it was always a fantastic life.
He stuffs down the tiny, ugly part of him that feels pleased that she hadn’t found it with Tim, not the forever sort of fantastic, at least.
Rose is watching him carefully, shoulders beginning to slump under the weight of what she’s said, or the weight of the last several years.
He’s still itching to touch her, to let her lean on him in the metaphorical and physical sense, but she’s holding herself in a way that he can’t tell if it would be welcome or just make things worse. He settles for inching his hand toward her, pinky finger edging along the outside seam of her jeans.
She covers his hand with hers and he flips his own upward, so he can knit their fingers together, squeezing briefly before he begins to speak.
“I’ll wait,” he says. “In this cab, or in the foyer, or back at your flat. I’ll wait.”
He hopes she knows he means that in the larger sense, too, that he’ll wait as long as it takes, because the last thing he wants from this one shot he has with her now is to bollocks it up right at the start.
She gives him a smile that feels more like a sigh and lets go of his hand to reach for the door handle, twisting it open.
“Let’s just see how it goes,” she says, and steps from the cab.
He follows her out, standing in the sunlight on the Tyler driveway, and they make their way to the door.
Rose uses a key instead of knocking and the entryway is quiet for a moment before Jackie’s voice echoes down the stairs.
“Rose, is that you? I’ll be down in a bit!” Jackie pauses, voice somehow quieter even though she’s yelling, “Tim’s here.”
He follows Rose through the house and nearly collides into her as she stops suddenly in the living room.
There, on the carpeting, playing trucks with Tony Tyler, is Tim.
His eyes go wide at the sight of her, and then shift to the Doctor, fingers dropping the small yellow car he’s holding to the ground.
“Hello,” he says, just as Tony sees her, pushing up from the ground to barrel into Rose’s legs.
Rose picks Tony up for a quick cuddle, “Tony, you remember the Doctor,” then she turns to Tim, “Tim, this is the Doctor. Doctor, this is Tim.”
Tim unfolds his legs, long and skinny, and oh, Rose Tyler, you do have a type, don’t you? And then he’s standing in front of the Doctor, hand extended.
“Nice to meet you, Doctor,” Tim says.
The Doctor shakes his hand, floundering for the appropriate response, settling for returning the greeting and adding, “I’ve heard a lot about you,” in a rush of words at the end.
Tim looks — pleased? Surprised? It’s hard to say, but his lips curl up into a small smile, teeth straight and white just peeking through.
Rose’s attention shifts back to Tony, “Tony, I need to speak to Tim, can you play trucks with the Doctor for a bit?”
Tony nods and shifts from Rose’s arms, dropping back to the ground.
Tim stoops down to speak to him, “I’ll be back,” and he makes a fist with his hand, holding it up to Tony. Tony makes a fist in return and they push them together.
“T and T, kaboom!” They say, fists uncurling and fingers waving and somehow this is more telling than anything the Doctor’s heard yet. Tim is a part of Rose’s day to day life, her family life, in a way he’s only dreamt of, for years now.
Rose leads Tim from the living room and the Doctor can just hear their conversation trailing off.
“You’re wearing jeans,” Tim says. “I didn’t think you even owned jeans.”
Rose’s voice seems tight when she says, “I did. I do.”
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