Chapter Text
Rose plunged into the grand ballroom—a glorified fuckpile with an hors d’oeuvres table, really—her every nerve alight as she pushed deeper into the pulsing crowd. Daring to spare a glance over her shoulder, she watched with dread as the hooded figure who’d been trailing her on the terrace slipped in through the French doors.
Fantastic. She was most definitely being followed by someone who looked like a Scooby Doo villain, and there was zero sign of the Doctor. Typical.
The rush of blood in her ears was deafening, but she could still hear her stalker closing in, their footsteps perfectly in sync with her own.
The crowd was no ally. She stumbled past a naked woman, spraypainted gold and carrying a tray of drinks, sending champagne cascading in golden arcs, and narrowly avoided a crash into a masked couple spinning too close to her path. A hand brushed her waist, and she wrenched herself free, almost falling in the process. Behind her, the figure darted closer.
Luck—or something like it—intervened. There was a wet skid, the unmistakable sound of shoes skidding across marble, and the figure slid hard into a puddle of something milky and viscous.
Shedidn’t wait to see if they’d recovered. Her legs burned as she pushed herself up the grand staircase, one hand gripping the bannister for balance. The thought of what might happen if they caught her sent her pulse racing. Things were already far too Eyes Wide Shut for her liking.
She didn’t dare look back until she reached the top.
Leave it to the Doctor to inadvertently drop her into the throbbing centre of an intergalactic sex cult and then leave her to fend for herself.
Rose’s heart pounded as she turned a corner down another opulently decorated, labyrinthine hallway, cursing under her breath. She scanned for any hiding place that wasn’t already occupied by writhing bodies, her frustration growing with each locked door she rattled.
At an orgy full of voyeurs, why the hell was every bloody door locked? Privacy wasn’t exactly the theme of the night!
Other attendees, in various stages of undress, eyed her curiously, but none seemed bothered enough to intervene or ask what was wrong. Something told her this was the kind of gathering where chasing the prey wasn’t just tolerated—it was encouraged.
Between the high cut of her skirt, flashing just enough leg to hint at all the running she did, and the gentle bounce of her sweat-slicked breasts, she must’ve been a tempting prize indeed. This had, of course, been her intention when she picked out the outfit—just not for these apathetic glass-eyed revellers. She’d only wanted to catch the eye of a certain pinstriped and plimsolled alien with ridiculous hair, soft hands, a really nice bum…
And—oh, for crying out loud, focus, Rose! You’re running for your life!
All the same, she was glad she’d been thinking with her brain rather than more southern parts when she opted for slightly more sensible kitten heels over sexy stilettos. It was best not to take it for granted that any trip with the Doctor was likely to require running for your life at one point or another. Speaking of the errant alien…
She needed to find the Doctor. Now.
Sprinting down the universe’s longest corridor, dread driving her every step, Rose's sharp eyes finally caught sight of a door that was slightly ajar. Instinct took over, and without a second thought, she veered towards it, praying it would provide the refuge she so desperately needed.
The door creaked softly as she slipped inside, heart hammering, and she pressed her back against the cool darkness as she pulled it closed behind her. If still in pursuit, the hooded figure would hopefully pass by without noticing the sanctuary she had found. Lord knew there were enough locked doors in the hallway to keep them busy for a while.
Hopefully the Doctor found her before the hooded Scooby Doo villain did.
Squeezing herself into the corner of what she assumed was a linen closet, its faint mothball scent clinging to the stale air, Rose fumbled blindly for her mobile. Cramped and dark, it wasn’t much of a hiding spot, but it was better than being out there with prowlers and party-goers. Her hands shook as she pressed the home key, the screen dimly illuminating the closet. She needed to find the Doctor—needed him now.
The door slammed open before she could type a single word. Her breath caught, her stomach lurching as light poured in. But there he was—scandalously tight blue suit, Venetian mask, and an energy that filled the small space almost as much as he did. Relief flickered through her, but her grip on her mobile stayed tight.
“Where the hell have you—” she started, but her words faltered as she caught the faint smell of smoke clinging to him. What had he set on fire this time?
And then he leaned in, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.
This wasn’t like him. Sure, the Doctor could be a bit handsy now and then—grabbing her hand, tugging her along, the usual—but not like this. Never like this. If anything, any time their touches edged too close to crossing a line, he’d pull away, all skittish, like he’d brushed against a lit hob. The tension between them was always there, bubbling under the surface, but this? This was different.
Way different.
His kisses came fast and desperate—lips brushing hers, then her neck, her shoulder—like he couldn’t decide where to stop. And for a moment, all she could do was let it happen, too stunned to push him away or even speak.
Had the fear of someone else getting to her first finally pushed him over the edge? Or was this just him losing it completely, the pressure finally cracking him wide open?
Delirious, she remembered why she’d ducked into the closet in the first place. Presumably, her lurking stalker was still at large, and she was no closer to discovering why they were following her in the first place. With a gasp, she reluctantly pulled away, putting scant millimetres of distance between them. “Doctor, somebody was following me–”
“I was following you,” he said, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her back into his orbit.
"No, but there was somebody else, in a robe with a hood–" The words stuttered and died when she felt him grab her knee, his palm gliding from there up the inside of her thigh. Mouth suddenly dry, the words evaporated from her thoughts as she felt a rush of wet warmth to her core.
He whispered something under his breath—soft, almost inaudible. “Oh, but I’ve missed you.” She must have misheard. They’d been apart for no more than half an hour, but the weight in his voice made her wonder if, for him, even that had felt like a lifetime.
“I missed you too, while I was busy running for my life,” she laughed nervously, the will to hold him off steadily waning as her libido decided to remind her that it was, in fact, alive and well, thank you very much.
Pressing her thighs together, she made one last-ditch effort to remind him why they had come there, if only because she couldn’t bear the idea of finally having the Doctor make a move just to be interrupted by an ill-timed alien threat. “Again, and I can’t stress this enough, somebody was following me. Maybe the same somebody who led us to the party in the first place? What if they catch us in here?”
“Don’t worry about all that. I promise, Rose—I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Not again,” he said, his voice oddly flat. There was a whirring and a flash of blue light as the sonic emerged from his pocket and she heard the locking mechanism on the door click into place.
Before she could demand an explanation, his lips were on hers again, stealing her words and replacing them with wet heat and simmering longing. She might’ve rolled her eyes at the sheer cliché of it all—Jackie’s romances had taught her to be wary of the motives of heroes who kissed first and answered questions later. But then again, there was no denying it: the Doctor was her dashing hero, and if he wanted to snog her senseless, well, this heroine wasn’t about to put up a protest.
As it turned out, she cared far less about the identity of the stranger following her than figuring out what, exactly, his mouth tasted like. Tea with lemon—extra sweet—and something metallic? The thought barely formed before her knees wobbled, and she fisted her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, grasping for purchase as the world tilted slightly.
Time blurred as Rose gave in, her earlier reluctance dissolving under the Doctor’s touch. If he wanted to be reckless, she couldn’t bring herself to be the voice of reason. His hands, hesitant at first, grew bolder, pushing closer to places he never had dared to before. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—his desperation or her own.
Her grip on his hair tightened, almost painfully so, driven by everything they’d never said aloud. This was more than the simmering tension of the past—it was the here and now, breaking every rule, every line he’d ever drawn. And neither of them was stopping.
“Oh my God,” she thought, dizzy with disbelief. “It’s actually happening.”
The Doctor’s face was mostly lost to shadow, but his eyes found hers in the dark, silently asking for the go-ahead."Alright?" he inquired, his index finger delicately tracing the lacy edge of her knickers, the gentle touch a promise of something more.
Eyelids fluttering closed, a shuddering sigh escaped her. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Yes.”
Without further preamble, the Doctor slipped his hand into her pants and the groan that left his lips in unison with her own was positively indecent. “Oh, Rose.” He uttered her name like a sacred prayer, each syllable trembling with the weight of his devotion.
Flushing deeply, she imagined what he might have looked like sculpting her likeness as Fortuna, how carefully he must’ve always been studying her to render so perfect and generous a likeness. Now those same hands mapped her curves as though they were as familiar to him as the route home, and it was nearly enough to pull her undone.
And then, the Doctor shattered that poetic illusion by whispering the most delightful filth into the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ticklish on the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. “You’ve completely ruined these knickers, y’know.” He said this entirely too conversationally for somebody currently finger-deep inside of her. “Positively dripping wet, you are. I bet you’re just aching to come for me, aren’t you? My precious girl.”
Her insides were molten lava, slicking his fingers and the insides of her thighs, and the only answer she could offer him was a low and keening moan. Before, she would have claimed it was impossible te become so wet just from some snogging and light petting, but the Doctor, as always, shone a blinding beacon on exactly how inadequate the men in her life up to this point had been.
Somehow, hearing him talk dirty was almost more shocking than the feeling of his slender fingers dipping into the slippery cleft between her thighs, all while managing to skirt, quite infuriatingly, around the main target. Masquerade sex party jokes aside, it was extraordinary—and a little overwhelming—to see his mask slip away, to watch the facade of Time Lord propriety crumble in real-time. She’d always known him as a shameless flirt, regardless of the regeneration, but she couldn’t recall ever hearing him speak so explicitly.
Not outside her fantasies, anyway.
While his fingers worked their magic between her legs, she couldn't help longing for the reciprocity of her dreams of being with him—to feel their connection through her own heated touch. Rose was unable to keep the dark and carnal corner of her brain from wondering what he looked like beneath his pants, how it’d feel to stroke his length solid before taking him into her mouth and swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock. Whether intentional or not, he maintained just enough space between their bodies that she couldn’t indulge the impulse to touch him back.
Perhaps sensing her silent frustration, his meandering, feather-light touches became increasingly more firm and deliberate, finally pressing into her clit instead of skirting delicately around it, shooting white hot lightning straight to her core.
“Fuck!” she gasped against his mouth, as loud as she dared to be knowing there was a chance her skulking stalker could be nearby. Moments later, she tasted herself on the Doctor’s fingers as they replaced his mouth, thrusting forcefully between her lips and past her teeth, stopping just shy of gagging her.
“Hush now, you don’t want anyone to hear us, do you? There’s a good girl.”
Rose whimpered, her thighs trembling and squeezing involuntarily. She was so close that it hurt, her cunt slick and throbbing with the need to be filled and stretched tight. The Doctor’s hand in her mouth, tasting of the essence from between another set of lips, wasn’t helping any.
Fingers weren’t enough; she needed his hips slamming into her own hard enough to leave bruises as he buried his tumescent cock so deep, she’d be able to feel the imprint of him inside her for weeks to come. She wanted his lips tattooed on the swell of her breast, the tender spot below her ear, her inner thighs and everywhere else his bare skin burned hot against her own.
More than anything, though: she wanted to see his face crumble as his resolve had, to watch him break like glass as his cock twitched and pulsed inside her. The last of the Time Lords, brought to his knees by a timorous beastie in kitten heels and a skin-tight mini skirt.
If this was her one and only guaranteed chance to shag the Doctor, Rose was bloody well gonna make sure it counted—for both of them. She’d leave him with marks to prove it happened, the kind you don’t forget in a hurry. Even if he never wanted to talk about it again, she’d make sure he thought of her every time he looked at himself naked in the mirror for the forseeable future.
Her hands slid up his chest, deliberate and slow, until they settled on his shoulders. Rose dug her nails in just enough to feel him stiffen under her touch, the sharp exhale of his breath telling her she’d hit her mark.
Right as she was on the verge of begging him to get his cock out and fuck her (before she spontaneously combusted with lust), he hiked up her skirt, palming her through her sodden pants before yanking them unceremoniously down over her hips.
“Please, oh fuck, please,” she cried brokenly, her plea muffled by his fingers in her mouth.
“Shhhh, it’s alright, darling. I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he crooned, pulling his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop before reaching down to undo his fly. Nuzzling her neck, he pressed a damp kiss there. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. Oh, love, you’re just perfect.”
His voice was warm and thick as honey, as deep and dark as a gravel quarry on the moon. She’d only ever heard hints of that tone from him before, and every time, it was near enough to turn her knickers into Niagra Falls. Having the full force of that smoulder directed at her now, when he’d spoken so little thus far, was enough to stand her nipples at full attention.
Nudging clumsily between her thighs, the Doctor finally ended her suffering with a thrust rough enough to make her eyes water with the force of it. In the absence of coherent thought, Rose couldn’t muster the wherewithal to be embarrassed by how little resistance he met withdrawing before slamming back into her, completely sheathing himself in her fluttering, clenching heat. His right hand slipped between them to find her clit again, applying pressure until she couldn’t help herself, she was biting his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
“Kiss me, Rose,” he panted through clenched teeth. His fingers trembled as they brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Kiss me, please, and say that you love me.”
“I love you,” she gasped, her hands finding their way under his suit and running up his back, her fingers tangling in his shirt. She kissed him again, fierce and unrelenting, catching the taste of his need and hers colliding. “Oh God, do I bloody love you.”
Eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against hers, the rhythm of his thrusts growing increasingly erratic. “I love you, Rose Tyler. I know I don’t say it, but don’t ever doubt it,” he whispered, his voice wavering with unshed tears. Moments later, she got one of her wishes as he spent himself inside of her with a breathless cry, his fingers digging unmercifully into her hips as he rocked against her.
“Doctor!” Rose gasped, startled awake in the throes of a toe-curling orgasm.
Her senses were still buzzing from a dream so vivid, it was hard to believe she hadn’t just been living it. That night on Felicity had only been a few weeks ago, and it wasn’t like she’d forgotten a second of it. Wet dreams, though? She thought those were just a bloke thing. Clearly not.
She shifted awkwardly, her face heating up even though no one was there to see it. Her skin was still buzzing from the aftershocks, like her body wasn’t quite ready to let go of the dream. It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamt of him since Felicity, but this one? This one felt different. Less dream and more memory, like her brain was trying to remind her just how good it had been.
Not that she needed reminding. It had been the best sex of her life.
Too bad the Doctor was acting like it’d never happened.
*****
With his freakishly attuned hearing, the Doctor easily discerned Rose's voice calling his name from beneath the TARDIS console, even amidst the clattering of his tools. The urgency in her pitch suggested distress, prompting him to quickly wrench himself out from under the console and dash down the corridor towards her room.
He didn't progress far, however, before a dense cloud of pheromones smacked into him like a brick wall, so thick it was practically tangible on his tongue. Halting abruptly, he hesitated, pondering whether or not he was on the verge of intruding on Rose having a private moment. There had admittedly been more close calls in that department lately than he was wholly comfortable with. Was it really necessary for the distress and mating calls of human females to sound so bloody similar? What kind of evolutionary tomfoolery was that?
Still, he wasn’t as oblivious regarding human sexuality as everyone seemed to assume. The Doctor caught every sidelong glance Rose gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking, every wistful sigh, her cheeks betraying a subtle blush each time. He meticulously filed these reactions away in his vast memory stores, cataloguing those moments for future reference and private perusal.
Even amidst their casual banter, he noticed her fidgeting, occasionally twirling a strand of hair or adjusting the collar of her shirt–nervous habits that hinted at a deeper attraction. And he’d spent more than enough time cohabiting with humans to put two and two together as to why her room might smell like sex from a mile away, right after he heard her calling out his name in that thin and reedy voice.
Yep, still got it.
But a tiny sliver of doubt crept into his head; what if she was in trouble? What if something was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time one of his companions had been possessed or infected by something that toyed with their body chemistry or invaded their dreams. What if something like that had happened to Rose? Life and death in those instances could be a matter of minutes. Could he really in good conscience walk away without at least checking to make sure she was okay?
More importantly, would he be able to forgive himself later if it turned out she wasn’t okay and he couldn’t be arsed to check?
No. Of course, he couldn’t. Not that it would matter which of his companions it was, but the fact that it was Rose only propelled him towards her room faster.
Just as he raised his fist, ready to announce his presence with a knock, the door swung open on its own accord before he could make a move.
Rose stood before him, her hair wild and her cheeks blazing with fury—or was it embarrassment? Her vest top was askew, her shorts were plastered to her thighs, and her glare made it clear he’d noticed one second too long.
“You’re here,” she said flatly, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might snap in two. “Good. We need to talk.”
Humans weren’t normally horny and angry at the same time, right?
Perhaps he wasn't as well-versed in the nuances of human sexuality as he thought.
Shifting uncomfortably on his heels, he hesitated before gingerly crossing the threshold into her room. The air was still thick with pheromones, dizzying in their potency. If she hadn’t been…occupied, right before his arrival, he’d honestly be shocked. Swallowing hard, the Doctor asked a question he was already dreading the answer to. “I heard you calling for me. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” she repeated, her voice cracking as her eyes filled with tears. “What’s wrong is you! You’re still acting like nothing happened that night, and I can’t—” Her breath hitched, and she scrubbed at her face. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Under normal circumstances, he’d pull her into a hug without a second thought. But now? Now, she looked like she might clock him for even trying. “Can’t do what?” he pressed gently, his hands frozen mid-air, unsure where to put them.
“This!” she shouted, gesturing between them. “This thing where we act like nothing happened between us at that bloody party. I can’t just ignore it, Doctor! You might be able to, but I can’t. Humans don’t just switch off their feelings like that. I can’t pretend I’m okay with never talking about it again.”
The Doctor dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a huff as he paced a step forward and back again. “Alright, look. I’ve no idea what I’ve done, but I know I’ve done something. It’s written all over your face. That night, though—it didn’t feel…I mean, nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, other than the obvious. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss something.”
The look she gave him was nothing short of devastating—a mix of hurt and disbelief that cut straight through him. “Nothing out of the ordinary? Now you’re just being cruel.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply to keep his own frustration at bay. Whether she was being fair or not, her pain was unmistakable. Whatever had gone wrong, he needed to defuse this argument before it turned into a full-blown row. Hands shoved into his pockets to hide his restless fingers, he kept his voice as steady as possible. “Rose, I mean it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please just tell me why you’re upset with me. No more beating around the bush.”
She let out a short, barking laugh, her eyes narrowing. “Trust me, there was no beating around the bush that night.”
And then she added, with almost painful nonchalance, “But if you’re gonna keep denying it, fine. I’m late. Does that spell it out clearly enough for you?”
His hearts stuttered. Late. The word echoed in his mind, jarring against his hazy memories of that night on Felicity as he struggled to put it into context.
Tracking a temporal anomaly. A masquerade party. No, not really a party—an orgy, for the planet’s wealthy elite. His brow furrowed, the pieces clicking together in slow, horrifying succession.
Her words hung in the air like a live wire, crackling with unspoken meaning. The Doctor’s mind jolted, gears turning too fast to keep up, and then—like a switch flipping—it hit him. Horror swept through him, cold and sickening, followed by the kind of anger that burned hot and sharp in his chest.
Someone might have hurt Rose. Touched her. Violated her.
The thought twisted like a knife, its jagged edge dragging through his hearts. And worse—she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t felt she could tell him. That realisation sank in like an anchor, pulling him into the depths of his own guilt. Weeks had passed since that night, and not once had he noticed anything amiss with his best mate.
How long had she been waiting for him to see what was right in front of him? He’d left her alone for only a brief time, convinced she’d be fine. Convinced he’d return before anything could go wrong.
But something always went wrong, didn’t it?
He wanted to believe Rose could handle anything, because most of the time, she could. But those other times—those moments when he wasn’t there, when she needed him and he’d failed—those times haunted him. And they were starting to add up.
He was supposed to be better than this. He needed to be better than this.
He was a bad designated driver.
The Doctor’s stomach felt like it was collapsing in on itself, a black hole pulling him towards the void. “Did something…someone…do something to you at that party? When we were separated?” The words came out uneven, like they’d been pulled from the depths of his chest.
Rose didn’t answer right away, but her expression—angry, raw—was answer enough. His breath hitched as the possible implications struck him, each worse than the last. He’d left her alone to investigate, assuming she’d be safe. He should have known better.
His hearts thudded in his chest, a staccato rhythm echoing too fast in his ears. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him lightheaded. What if…? No. He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. Not without knowing for sure.
The room seemed to shift around him, his mind struggling to focus. He grasped at fragments of the party: masks, muffled laughter, the air thick with pheromones. It had felt harmless enough at the time, like theatre. Everything had seemed consensual enough. He hadn’t thought twice about it.
But now, something didn’t fit. His memory blurred at the edges, a gap where there should’ve been certainty. How had they left? What had they found? He couldn’t recall. The only thing he knew was that the trail of the anomaly had gone cold—and now, Rose was looking at him like this.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Rose, if someone… if something happened, you have to tell me,” he said, his voice tight with barely checked fury. “Did someone do something to you?”
Her gaze sliced through him, sharp as glass. “Not someone, Doctor.” Her voice shook, but her finger was steady as it jabbed into his chest, driving the accusation home. “You.”
Chapter 2
Summary:
He certainly wasn’t acting like a bloke merely pretending not to remember shagging her in a closet. Still, his cagey behaviour left her wondering what he knew—or suspected—that she didn’t.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Doctor’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled backwards as Rose rounded on him. For a change, he didn’t even try to cut in—not that she gave him much opportunity to.
“Two years,” she hissed, the months of pent-up frustration finally coming uncorked. “Two years of us dancin’ around each other, and I thought—no, I knew—you had to feel it too. How could you not? Even after Sarah Jane. After France. I made excuses for you, over and over again. But Mickey was right. Mum was right. Maybe you’re no better than the next bloke and I’m an idiot for thinking otherwise.”
She shook her head, pacing like a caged animal, like standing still for a moment would pull her apart. “And then Felicity happened. You…you shagged me in a bloody linen closet!”
Her laugh was sharp and bitter, almost a bark. “You gave me the best orgasm of my life in a closet. Great symbolism, by the way.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, her voice rising with every word. “Then you disappeared. Left me there after I told you someone was followin’ me. Stole my knickers and legged it, like it didn’t matter.”
Her voice cracked, but now that the dam had burst, she couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d wanted to. “How am I supposed to just forget? How am I meant to trust you ever again? I can’t, alright? I can’t pretend it didn’t happen, that it didn’t mean anything to me. Because it did. It still does. Even if it didn’t mean anything to you.”
Her hands trembled at her sides, her breath coming faster in sharp, short bursts. “I love you. And you said you loved me too, but then you go and act like it was nothin’. Like I’m nothin’.” She drew in a shaky breath, her voice softening but no less sharp. “But we can’t keep doin’ this. Not when I might be…”
The Doctor didn’t say anything at first, and that silence cut deeper than any denial could. She half expected him to pull away, to come up with some clever deflection, but instead, his arms wrapped around her—not as tightly as usual, but enough to steady her, to remind her she wasn’t alone. Rose pressed her face into his chest, the sobs she tried to swallow spilling out anyway as her body trembled against him.
“Rose…I’m sorry. I know you’re upset with me,” he said, his voice soft, careful. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? We’ll figure this out together.”
She wanted to push him away, to scream at him for how little that meant after everything. But his hands were gentle, his tone so earnest that her fury began to ebb, leaving only the soul-swallowing ache underneath. He really didn’t remember. She could see it in the way he held her, his touch tentative, like the wrong movement could shatter her. And somehow, that was worse.
Rose sighed, resting her cheek against the Doctor’s lapel. The fibres of his suit scratched against her tear-streaked skin, but she hardly noticed. All she could focus on was the way his arms tightened around her, like he was holding them both together. It wasn’t right—none of this was—but for a moment, she let herself sink into the familiar comfort of his embrace.
Every time he had touched her or caught her eye since the party, it felt like he was rubbing salt in the wound. Her skin hadn’t forgotten how his hands felt—warm, sure, and, more importantly, like they belonged there—and it made her chest ache. And the wanting—that stubborn, impossible wanting—burned hotter every time he looked at her with that stupid, lopsided grin, like everything was business as usual. Or worse, with the sort of silent, smouldering intensity that left her wondering what was really on his mind.
Like he was looking at her now.
She let out a shaky laugh, barely more than a hiccup. “This isn’t fair. I’m supposed to be cross with you.”
The Doctor’s voice came quietly, steady but not unkind. “You can be cross with me and still need a hug. They’re not mutually exclusive, you know.” His arms were firm around her, though she noticed a stiffness in the way he held her–like he didn’t quite trust her, or himself. “And I’m sure I’ve earned your anger. If I’ve been careless—well, that’s not new, is it? I never should’ve taken us to Felicity. The timelines were unstable, and I went charging in anyway, thinking I could sort it all out. Obviously, I got it wrong.”
Rose didn’t respond immediately. These words were more along the lines of what she expected from him—apologies wrapped up in excuses, delivered with just enough self-deprecation to make her feel guilty for being upset. She made a small noise of agreement, but her heart felt like it was imploding.
He wasn’t talking about her, about them. He was talking about timelines and blunders, mistakes he could fix with a bit of cleverness and a flick of his sonic screwdriver. He should be flipping out, losing his mind like she was. Instead, he was eerily calm and detached.
“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice losing its edge. “I suppose.”
She didn’t want to want this—not his arms around her, not the quiet relief she found in his presence. But no matter how angry she was, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning in. It wasn’t fair, the way he made her feel safe even when he was the reason she’d come undone in the first place.
It wasn’t fair how every inch of her skin remembered the way his had felt pressed against hers.
Gods, he smelled lovely though. There was something about the combination of engine oil, ozone, and just the faintest trace of sweat from tinkering with the TARDIS. Add in the cologne he always wore—spicy, woody, and just a bit otherworldly—and it was unfair how good he smelled.
Rose had often wondered if this change was meant just for her. The sleek, tailored suit, the accent that had shifted to mirror hers, the way he found reasons to touch her more often—it all felt strangely intentional. And then there was the cologne. The Doctor had always smelled good, clean and sharp in a way that reminded her of the air just before a thunderstorm. But now? Now he smelled different. Warmer, richer. It wasn’t overpowering, but it lingered, catching her off guard when he moved close.
It was all so precise, so specific, that she couldn’t help but wonder if it was deliberate. A bit like a teenage boy trying to impress a girl, she thought wryly, though in this case, the “teenager” was a 900-year-old alien who probably didn’t even realise what he was doing. Or maybe he did. Maybe it wasn’t an accident at all. The way he smelled stirred something in her, made her practically feral with need.
Less the acrid bite of smoke, he smelled quite a bit like he had while they’d been shagging in that closet, their bodies sliding against each other like well-lubricated machinery, and…
Nope, nope, nope.
She wasn’t going to let her mind wander down that prickly path—not while he was holding her like this and her heart was still raw from weeks of waiting for him to acknowledge what they’d done.
What they might have made together.
That thought was sobering enough to drag her right back down to Earth. She shivered and pulled away, ignoring the flicker of hurt in the Doctor’s eyes before he managed to mask it with grim determination.
“Right,” he said, his tone clipped. “We’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he grabbed her hand, lifted it to his lips—and, for one maddening second, she thought he was going to kiss it. Instead, he flipped it over and ran his tongue in one long stripe from her wrist to her elbow. His brow furrowed, as if he were tasting fine wine, and he smacked his lips together with the air of a connoisseur.
“Oi!” Rose yanked her arm back, her reflexes kicking in before she could stop herself. Her hand cracked across his cheek with a slap that would’ve done Jackie proud.
“Blimey!” he yelped, rubbing the red mark with a wounded pout. “What was that for?” He held up a hand before she could answer. “No, wait—don’t tell me.”
“As if it’s not enough you might’ve got me up the duff—and apparently don’t even remember how—you just licked me!” she snapped, glaring at him. And really, why was she surprised? He licked everything. Of course, he’d lick her too. What was a lick between two friends who’d shared far more under the cover of darkness?
The sensation of his tongue—warm and wet—on her skin had simply caught her off guard, that was all. She might be cross with him, but her stupidly horny and traitorous body was none the wiser–it remembered all too well what it felt like to have those same lips suck the sensitive spot just behind her ear and there was no sense in pretending otherwise.
“I was checking for electrolyte imbalances and metabolic changes consistent with gestation!” the Doctor protested, sinful lower lip sticking out in that maddening way, completely oblivious to the effect it had on her.
The image of him tugging her top down and suckling the swell of her breast popped into her head, unbidden and unhelpful, sending heat rushing to her cheeks. She shook her head sharply, as if that could banish the thought. Focus, Tyler!
“And?” she managed to choke out, her voice cracking halfway.
“And the results were inconclusive. Which is precisely why we’re going to the infirmary. Right now.” His hand clamped around her wrist, firmer than she liked, as he practically hauled her down the dim hallway. She had to quicken her steps just to avoid being dragged along behind him.
The little germ of unease in her gut unfurled, sprouting into a full-on beanstalk of alarm, its tendrils snaking up her spine. Inconclusive?
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“Doctor… you’re hurting me,” she finally said, wiggling her fingers uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, the tension in his grip immediately going slack. Inhaling sharply, as if preparing to say something else, he exhaled with a whoosh, the words dying on his lips.
"Well, you might as well spill it," she said, trying to sound breezy, though she was practically vibrating with nerves. The Doctor wasn’t exactly known for being tight-lipped, so his sudden quiet was unnerving, to say the least. Rose figured it was like babysitting her cousins—when they went quiet, it was usually because they were doing or thinking about something they shouldn’t be. The difference here was that she couldn’t even begin to fathom what trouble was brewing in that alien brain of his.
She studied him, waiting for the inevitable flood of words. Reassurances, frantic explanations, or even one of his ridiculous tangents—anything would have been better than the unnerving silence. But his face stayed flat, his usual manic grin nowhere to be found, and it was starting to freak her out.
Oh, God. Was this it, her Aberdeen? Was this when he finally decided she wasn't worth the trouble? A quick goodbye, a pat on the head, and a cheerful, “Good luck with the alien baby, Rose!” She could already picture her mum’s reaction—half shocked, half triumphant, smug in her certainty that she’d been right about the Doctor all along.
Rose’s chest tightened, the tension settling in her lungs until it felt near impossible to draw a proper breath. What the hell had she been thinking, blurting all that out without even knowing for sure that she was pregnant? His silence wasn’t just unsettling anymore—it was starting to feel like a verdict.
Then, at last, he shifted. A nervous rub of his neck, a clearing of his throat, and there it was—the rapid-fire stream of babble she’d been waiting for.
“Right, so, time travel—especially the kind we do in the TARDIS—can sometimes play havoc with human biology. Specifically, uh, the, um, reproductive systems of those of childbearing age.” He winced, the blush creeping up his neck as his gaze darted to the walls, then the floor—anywhere but at her face. “Jumping between timelines, getting away from Earth’s nice, predictable linearity, it can…muck things up a bit. Hormones, cycles, that sort of thing. Totally normal! Well, not normal exactly, but expected. Ish.”
He gestured vaguely, fingers twitching as if they wanted to grab hers again but thought better of it. “That anomaly on Felicity—could’ve complicated things. Not that it’s dangerous or anything! Just…hormones are usually a solid indicator, and this time? Well, they’re just a bit fuzzy.”
He paused, his eyes darting to hers and then away, his voice softening slightly. “Inconclusive, see? And that’s not good enough, not for this. So, infirmary it is. Quick check, better safe than sorry. That’s the plan.”
Rose stifled the overpowering urge to wedge her fingernails between her teeth for a nervous nibble by tightly squeezing the Doctor’s hand instead. “We’ve encountered time anomalies before and I’ve always been like clockwork, up until recently. But I suppose anything is possible. You’d know better than me the odds of something like that happening.”
His grin wobbled, too wide to be natural. “I’m sure everything will be fine,” he said, with all the dripping false cheerfulness of a used car salesman.
A chill ran down Rose’s spine, standing every hair on end. She knew this tone too well—the forced nonchalance he only brought out when the situation was far more dire than he wanted her to realise.
The astringent smell of antiseptic wafted down the hallway from the infirmary, strong enough to churn her already unsettled stomach as the Doctor continued rambling. “Probably just something wonky with that temporal anomaly we were tracking. Never did quite nail down where it was originating from. Must’ve thrown everything a little bit out of sorts, y’know?”
He certainly wasn’t acting like a bloke merely pretending not to remember shagging her in a closet. Still, his cagey behaviour left her wondering what he knew—or suspected—that she didn’t.
As they approached the medical wing, his steps slowed to a snail’s pace, eventually ceasing entirely. The Doctor faltered at the infirmary threshold, his grip on her hand growing painfully tight again. The momentary hesitation was enough to pull Rose out of her anxious ruminating, her stomach threatening to revolt as he turned to face her.
“Rose,” he said softly, his voice catching on her name. “I want you to know…I don’t need proof to believe you. Whatever happened that night, it’s real to you, and that’s enough for me. It matters to me because it matters to you.”
His hands flexed at his sides like they wanted to reach for her, but he hesitated, his brow furrowing. “But the idea that I…that we shared something so intimate–so important–and I don’t remember it…” He dragged a hand through his hair, his breath unsteady. “It terrifies me. Not because I doubt you—I don’t—but because I’d never want to forget something like that. Not with you.”
He swallowed hard, his voice dipping lower. “And if it wasn’t me…if someone took my place, made you believe it was me…that’s not just terrifying, it’s unforgivable. Either way, Rose, I’m here. I’ll figure it out. For you. For us.”
Her irritation burned itself out, leaving behind the cold sting of fear curling at the base of her spine. The thought had been gnawing at her ever since he’d first implied it, and now it threatened to consume her whole.
What if it hadn’t been the Doctor? What if someone—or worse, something—else had been there that night? Wearing his face, touching her like they had earned the right?
If it had happened and he didn’t remember, that was bad enough. But there might be an innocent explanation for his memory loss—something weird but ultimately harmless. Temporal interference, maybe, or just a quirk of his Time Lord biology. Unlikely, sure, but not impossible.
The alternative—that he had not forgotten because there was nothing for him to remember in the first place—was so much worse.
Her breath hitched, the thought settling like a stone in the pit of her stomach. That would mean someone had taken everything that made the Doctor him—his face, his voice, his presence—and used it to trick her. That wasn’t by accident. It couldn’t have been. Whoever had done it would’ve planned every detail, calculated every move–up to and including the possibility of her ending up pregnant.
Her stomach churned at the thought, bile rising in her throat. No, there was no innocent explanation for that kind of manipulation. Whatever their reasons—genetic, strategic, or something far worse—it was deliberate. The hollow look in the Doctor’s eyes told her he’d likely reached a similar, equally horrifying conclusion.
She wanted to be angry at him—it’d be so much simpler than what she was feeling now. But standing there, with guilt in his eyes and worry etched into his brow, the anxious frustration melted away, leaving only a dull ache in her chest. She hated seeing him like this. Hated the way it made her want to fix things, even when she shouldn’t have to.
“Just tell me nothing’s gonna come bursting out of my chest, please,” she said, trying for lightness. But the Doctor didn’t chuckle, didn’t soften in the slightest.
The lights leading into the infirmary were too bright, too harsh, and her poor attempt at levity had fallen flat. She’d been hoping for at least a half-smile, maybe even one of his daft little quips, but all she got was a long stare.
If Rose had been drifting in limbo before, she was properly in hell now.
* * * * *
The infirmary was a strange comfort, its cluttered shelves and glowing amber lights grounding him in the here and now. Phials of alien cures stood alongside jars of Earthly remedies, each label written in his own distinctive, flowing Gallifreyan script. A vintage stethoscope dangled next to a diagnostic gadget from a world that didn’t even exist yet, and on the counter sat a tin of brightly coloured plasters, a little ridiculous but undeniably cheerful.
It was all so familiar, so distinctly him. And yet, something was noticeably missing.
His eyes swept the shelves, the unease in his chest growing with every passing second. There were no pregnancy tests. Not one. He was sure he’d kept a few—practical things, not often needed but always there just in case. Their absence didn’t just bother him; it left him unsettled. This wasn’t something he could brush off as a simple oversight.
Rose’s eyes were practically burning holes in his back as he rummaged through drawers and shelves, muttering under his breath. “Come on, come on, where are you hiding, you sneaky little…?”
The TARDIS, in its infinite brilliance, had all the tools he needed to figure this out. But reaching for them meant facing the answer head on, and that was the problem. What if Rose was pregnant? What if she wasn’t? Either way, he was in uncharted territory, and it wasn’t his favourite place to be.
The Doctor leaned heavily against the counter, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm against its edge. The thought of a baby—of Rose carrying his child—stabbed at him, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. But there was a catch. There was always a catch. He didn’t know for sure if there was a baby for sure, and worse, he didn’t know if it was his.
The possibilities whipped around his mind, each one worse than the last. If someone had been masquerading as him, they’d have to answer for it. Permanently. But if it had been him...how could he have let something so monumental slip away like smoke?
He sighed, letting his hands drop to his sides. The thought of that mansion—the one where this whole mess had started—popped into his head, and a wry smile tugged at his lips. Could blow it up, he thought. Wouldn’t fix anything, but it’d feel good. Maybe the planet, too. Just to be thorough.
"Doctor?" Rose’s voice was quiet, sunlight breaking through the storm clouds in his mind. "Everything okay?"
“Peachy keen,” he chirped, far too quickly to have a hope or prayer of being convincing.
“Oh, that’s good,” Rose said, arching a brow and crossing her arms. “Because I was starting to think you might be stalling.”
Her tone was sharp, her gaze sharper, and the Doctor’s eyes did what they often did in moments of tension—they wandered. Not aimlessly, of course. They were gathering data. Hormonal indicators, that sort of thing. Strictly professional. Clinical, even.
If his eyes strayed to her chest, it wasn’t because her vest top looked precariously close to giving up the fight to conceal her nipples. Certainly not. It was because, scientifically speaking, enlarged breasts could be an early indicator of pregnancy. And he was nothing if not thorough. He catalogued details—it was just how his brain worked. It was his job to notice things. Like her hair, her smile, and yes…her breasts.
Breasts he’d once sculpted with an artist’s devotion while being denied the reality of their warmth and softness in the flesh. Breasts he wasn’t staring at now, obviously. He was simply…monitoring. For science.
Breasts he certainly wasn’t obsessing over. Probably. This was important, after all. This was research.
“Not stalling, calibrating,” he said hastily, grabbing a diagnostic gadget and shoving it between them like a shield. “Just making sure this thing doesn’t think you’re an Auton. You’re not, obviously, but you’d be surprised by how stupid these smart computers can be.”
The Turling-Watson Autodiagnostic Tool emitted a soft hum, its sleek screen lighting up with a cascade of symbols and numbers. The display flickered as it processed the data, spitting out a mix of biometric readings and numerical codes that would have looked like gibberish to anyone from Rose’s time.
But the Doctor knew better. His gaze fixed on an icon pulsing in quiet defiance of reason: a fetal outline intertwined with the infinite loop of a Mobius strip. The icon glowed softly, but its implications screamed, urging him to delve deeper.
He frowned, scrolling through the data with a growing sense of dread. Time-displaced hormone levels. Temporal instability in her cellular makeup. Indicators that shouldn’t be there unless... unless the impossible was happening.
Rose leaned closer, her breath catching audibly. “Well?” she asked, the word barely more than a whisper.
His eyes darted between her and the screen. He needed time to think, to parse the data and figure out what it all meant. Time he didn’t have.
The Doctor hesitated momentarily but met her gaze with as reassuring a smile as he could muster. "It's not positive,” he said, hating himself for how easily the lie came, each word tasting like a bitter betrayal as it rolled off his traitorous tongue.
Notes:
I'm embarrassed to admit this was half finished in my drive for two months while I was caught up in employment bullshit. But here it is! Thanks again to ThirdEyeBlue for beta reading, any mistakes left behind are indeed my own.
I'm an old whore who loves positive or constructive feedback, so lay it on me baybee.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Rose nodded. Eyes closed. Ready.
The Doctor wasn’t.
His hands twitched. He could just—well—place his fingers on her temples. Standard procedure. Textbook. Easy-peasy. He’d done it a dozen times before.
But not with her.
No, that was too...impersonal. Too much like a mechanic tinkering with wires. She wasn’t a machine, and this wasn’t just a “scan.” It was her.
He swallowed. If he was going to breach the walls of her mind, he owed it to them both to do it with the same tenderness and care that he felt for her.
Would she feel it, the tiny, silent plea in his touch? Would she let him in again—into her mind, into that impossible, untouchable part of herself? Last time, she’d only let him because she’d had no choice. Life and death and all that. But now? Now it was different. She was different.
He was different.
Notes:
What insanity is this, two updates in one week? Something must be in the air or the water. Many thanks as always to my sibling in sin, ThirdEyeBlue, for betaing. Any mistakes leftover are my own.
Chapter Text
The Doctor's lips curved into a warm smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes before he quickly averted his gaze, pretending to focus on the diagnostic gadget in his hands to avoid meeting her eyes. “It’s not positive.”
No surprises there—domestic matters, including pregnancy scares, were undeniably outside his typically chaotic comfort zone. Or at least he pretended they were. Rose remained sceptical.
After all, this was the same bloke who had shown up to Christmas dinner, dressed to impress in a tight new suit with coiffed hair, like a boyfriend auditioning for the approval of his date’s parents. He’d seemed more than comfortable joking around with Mickey, pulling Christmas crackers, and bravely sampling Jackie’s criminal attempt at a figgy pudding. This was the same man who had seemed downright wistful while protesting about carpets and mortgages on Krop-Tor, back when he believed the TARDIS was lost indefinitely. And yet the Doctor hated domestics–or so he’d previously claimed.
Alas, here they were, facing yet another decidedly domestic conundrum. But, if she didn’t know any better, Rose might have interpreted the look in his eyes now as something akin to yearning.
The breath she had been holding escaped her lungs in a noisy whoosh, her relief palpable. Oh, thank God, she thought, ignoring the pained expression that indicated the Doctor knew exactly what she was thinking. All the same, she couldn’t pretend to be anything but pleased. Things were obviously still complicated between them, but at least they weren’t inter-species breeding complicated.
Except…
“Hold on.” Rose's brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What do you mean by ‘not positive’?”
*****
Oh, he was well and truly in it now.
The Doctor could practically feel the temperature dropping as Rose's glacial gaze pierced through him. He couldn't blame her; evasiveness was not this regeneration’s strongest suit, and he might as well have been trying to outwit a psychic with her.
Of course, his best mate could tell when he was lying – of course, she could – because she cared enough about him to notice when something was obviously amiss and he was acting unlike his usual self. Meanwhile, he had remained in blissful ignorance of her inner turmoil for weeks on end, chalking Rose’s melancholy state up to a delayed reaction from losing Pete a second time, leaving Mickey behind, and nearly being sucked into a black hole, all in fairly rapid succession. It’d be a lot for anybody to cope with…and it wasn’t as though he was the sort to press the issue and continuously ask if she was okay. She obviously wasn’t and hadn’t been okay for a few weeks now, but he’d selfishly ploughed on ahead. Business as usual, as if she hadn’t experienced a tremendous loss.
And now he was about to lie to her? A lie by omission, but a lie nonetheless.
This was it, the perfect opportunity for some well-timed, arse-saving clarification. Instead, for some foolish reason, the Time Lord decided to dig the hole even deeper and double down.
"Exactly like I said. It’s not positive. Not positive means not positive. It could also mean not not negative, I guess. But most importantly, it’s not positive, and I think we should focus on that.”
His fingers danced nervously over buttons and dials, an attempted distraction from the impending cataclysm. If Jackie Tyler was a hurricane, her only daughter was a tropical storm– slightly less intense, yet every bit as threatening and increasingly unpredictable. Rose’s "Hold on" held the weight of an oncoming tempest, and he braced himself for impact.
"So it's negative then?" she helpfully supplied, a masterclass in sarcasm. Her hand clenched and unclenched into a fist at her side, and he watched out of the corner of his eye, half-expecting an encore performance of the slap she had delivered when he licked her arm.
He sheepishly scrubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit ingrained over centuries that refused to fade. The probing intensity of Rose’s stare rendered him a scolded schoolboy, and he couldn't muster the nerve to maintain the charade any longer. “Erm, not exactly,” he admitted, his voice faltering slightly.
“Doctor,” she said, a dangerous edge to her tone, a warning shot before the barrage. If looks could disintegrate, Rose’s would have reduced him to ashes. The last time he’d seen this expression, she’d been directing it at the Emperor of the Daleks, and now, facing it himself, he found it far more terrifying than alluring. “Explain it to me in plain English, you knob,” she hissed.
Pausing to collect his thoughts, he carefully considered his words, mindful of not further exacerbating her agitation. Despite knowing they had long surpassed that point, he chose to forge on regardless.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed.
Taking a deep breath, the Doctor reached out and cautiously took Rose's hand in his own, gently squeezing when she didn’t pull away from him. “As time travellers, our experiences exist outside the linear flow of time,” he explained. “The events surrounding your potential pregnancy are unstable, not anchored to a fixed point. It's just as likely this event could occur in your immediate future as it is to have already happened in your past.”
He met her eyes briefly before continuing. "It's probable the night of the party is the origin point for the instability, given the unusual circumstances and temporal anomalies we experienced there. But because I'm also involved, it's difficult to see the timelines clearly." He shifted uneasily. "We may be stuck in a paradox of our own unintentional creation, so we need to tread lightly. I don’t want to alarm you, but whatever we do next could potentially create a fixed point around you, and that’s a whole different can of worms.”
Her eyes locked on his, sharp and searching—demandinganswers. Answers he didn’t have.
The blank spots in his memory prickled at him, like a gap-toothed smile in a mirror. Hours, gone. How? Why? The thought that he might’ve stood there, vulnerable, spilling his secrets to her, making love to her—to Rose—only to have it wiped away? No. That was wrong. All wrong.
Or worse. Worse…maybe it hadn’t been him at all. Maybe someone had been there, looked like him, sounded like him—twisting their face into lies and charm. Someone who’d been smooth enough to fool her. Someone who’d hurt her.
The Doctor swallowed hard, something tight and awful clenching in his chest. Because if that was true—if he’d failed her like that, let her be deceived by some cruel mimicry of him—then what right did he have to look her in the eyes now?
But here she was. Watching him. Trusting him, even if only barely.
And he needed that trust. Needed it like air in his lungs, even when he least deserved it.
Gently stroking his thumb against her wrist, the Doctor started, tripping over his words in haste. “Rose, listen, I–I need you to understand. I’m as deep in it as you are. Whatever happened that night, maybe I can’t remember it, but just the thought of you—of you hurting or scared— it tears me up, Rose. Two hearts, shredded. And I want to help. Not just because it’s the right thing, which it is, but—” He hesitated, eyes flicking away, voice softening. “—because I care about you.”
Rose’s expression softened, something shifting behind her eyes—understanding, maybe. How many times had he said it without saying it? All those moments, all those looks. Words he couldn’t give her, wouldn’t dare. Because the universe was always listening, wasn’t it? And the universe had a nasty habit of punishing hope.
Still, it lingered on the tip of his tongue—that he didn’t just care about Rose Tyler. No. It was more than that, wasn’t it? She was the breath between his hearts, the anchor that kept him steady, the one thing he could never afford to lose. And somehow, saying it out loud felt like daring fate to take her away.
“And how do you propose we do that?” she asked, her voice softer now. Gentler. Forgiving.
He hesitated, his eyes locked on hers, expression earnest but twitchy at the edges.
“I—well—listen, I could… peek. Into your mind, that is. Just a bit! If you’d let me. I mean, only if you trust me, which you might not, and fair enough, because—well, mind-peeking’s not exactly a polite thing, is it?” He scratched the back of his neck, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “But you might’ve noticed something. Something teeny-tiny, lurking in the corner of your memories. A clue! You wouldn’t even know you noticed it, but I might.”
There was a moment of silence as Rose considered his offer, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nodded, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. "Okay," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need you to promise me you won't pry any deeper than you have to, though. I don't want you rifling through my head without my permission."
He nodded solemnly, a wave of gratitude washing over him, a sinner granted absolution by a benevolent goddess. "I promise," he said earnestly. "I'll only look for the information we need, nothing more. But I'll need your help. Try to focus your thoughts on that night. Think of yourself like a lighthouse guiding a ship through the darkness—it'll help me navigate through the sea of thoughts to find the one I'm looking for. If there’s anything you don’t want me to see, just picture a locked door. I won’t try to look where you don’t want me to.”
Rose nodded. Eyes closed. Ready.
The Doctor wasn’t.
His hands twitched. He could just—well—place his fingers on her temples. Standard procedure. Textbook. Easy-peasy. He’d done it a dozen times before.
But not with her.
No, that was too...impersonal. Too much like a mechanic tinkering with wires. She wasn’t a machine, and this wasn’t just a “scan.” It was her.
He swallowed. If he was going to breach the sanctity of her mind, he owed it to them both to do it with the same tenderness and care that he felt for her.
Would she feel it, the tiny, silentplea in his touch? Would she let him in again—into her mind, into that impossible, untouchable part of herself? Last time, she’d only let him because she’d had no choice. Life and death and all that. But now? Now it was different. She was different.
He was different.
His hearts fluttered, hope and dread tangled up in every nerve ending, every thought sparking at once. Would she say yes? Or would she pull away? Humans were unpredictable like that. Rose especially. Brilliant, stubborn, impossible Rose.
His breath hitched, his hearts hammering loud enough to drown out the universe. He didn’t think—couldn’t think. Just moved. And then, suddenly, her lips were there. Soft. Real. And everything—everything—else vanished in a sharp, electric flash.
Rose froze. He felt it, that tiny moment of stillness, the tension in her shoulders, her breath caught mid-air. He nearly pulled back—nearly—but his hands found her face, cupping her cheeks, his thumbs brushing just beneath her eyes. It’s me. I’m here. I promise.
His mind whirred, shouting over itself: What are you doing? This is mad. Completely, brilliantly mad. But the noise didn’t matter, not when her lips were still there, still hers. For one impossible, fragile second, time forgot to move, and the stars stopped watching.
And for once—just once—the Doctor dared to hope.
He kissed her. Carefully, softly, like one touch might shatter the moment completely. A bridge, he thought—a bridge across the silence, across the things he hadn’t dared to say.
Her lips were warm, familiar, and for a fleeting instant, there was nothing else. Just her. But then the doubts crawled in, whispering at him. Too much, too soon, too late.
And then…there it was. A flicker. A spark of something bright and silent—telepathy, blooming between them like a thread of gold. Rose exhaled against him, her body softening, her arms curling around his neck.
The Doctor’s hearts stuttered. She was still there. Still his Rose.
The connection flared, faint and fragile, but enough to pull him closer.
With a slow exhale, he pushed forward, his mind slipping into hers as gently as he dared. Her emotions brushed against him first—bright, raw, alive. Love so fierce it caught fire. Fear, sharp as glass. Longing, vast and quiet as the stars.
It was beautiful and unbearable all at once. His hearts ached, the weight of it settling deep in his chest.
Through the chaos, there it was—her trust. Shining steady, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse on a stormy night. How? He didn’t know. He’d never quite understood it, why she gave him so much of herself when he’d done so little to deserve it.
But he clung to it anyway, wrapped himself in the warmth of it like a lifeline.
And for once, the future didn’t feel so impossible. Because whatever it brought, they’d face it the only way they knew how.
Together.
The Doctor waded into the recesses of Rose’s mind, and it was like walking into a museum he’d never visited before—strange and familiar all at once. The hallways were painted in a blinding riot of neon pink and yellow, because of course they were, and everything was a little off, vaguely like a fever dream.
The exhibits stopped him in his tracks. Photographs—some crisp, some blurred—of moments they’d shared. A battered leather jacket hung on a coat rack. A tiny potted plant floating like an island on a pedestal. And then there was his voice. Echoing everywhere, all at once, like someone had left a dozen radios playing on full blast.
“Nice to meet you, Rose. Run for your life!”
“I’m so glad I met you.”
“I could save the world, but lose you.”
The sound of himself—of things he’d said—pricked at something deep inside him. Hearing it like this, from the outside, was worse than uncanny. It was damning. Because it had always been obvious, hadn’t it? The way he looked at her. The way he spoke. So obvious that even a Dalek, with its soulless, hate-riddled circuits, had understood.
“What use are emotions if you won’t save the woman you love?”
His hearts twisted. If he’d been worried about saying it too loud, too clear—well, that ship had sailed ages ago. Long before he’d kissed the time vortex out of her and burned himself away, regenerating into someone he thought—hoped—she might love back.
Shadows clung to the corners, trailing him like smoke. He could almost feel them, curling around his ankles as he moved.
“He’s gone. The Doctor’s gone. He left me, mum. He left me, mum.”
Rose’s voice hit him like a blow to the chest. Even knowing how that day had ended—how he’d come back, how they’d been fine—he still flinched at the sound of it. Her heartbreak, her sobbing, all so raw and real.
Another moment where she’d needed him—really needed him—and he’d been bloody sleeping. Didn’t even know, was blissfully unaware of the peril she and her mother were in. It hadn’t been his fault, not really, but that didn’t stop the guilt from chewing at him, sharp and relentless. It had been downright irresponsible of him not to have prepared a companion for the possibility of his regeneration.
He’d been so selfish. Still was.
He picked up his pace, eyes fixed ahead, desperate to leave the memory—and his regrets—behind.
As he walked, a familiar mirror caught his eye—Rose’s bedroom mirror, the one on the TARDIS. Through its gilded surface, he saw himself seated cross-legged on her bed, fingers moving deftly as he braided her hair.
“Where’d you learn to braid hair?” Rose asked, tilting her head slightly. “I thought you didn’t do domestics.”
He remembered that day. Remembered how close he’d been to telling her the truth—I used to braid my daughter’s hair just like this. The words had stuck in his throat, too raw, too heavy, and instead, he’d offered the usual deflection, light and glib.
“Oh, y’know, just something I picked up along the way. 900 years of time and space, Rose. You think I never learned how to braid hair?”
Blimey. If only he’d had the faintest idea then of what waited right around the curve for them.
An invisible pull guided him deeper, past locked doors that tugged at his curiosity, their edges humming with secrets. He ignored them. He had to ignore them.
Then, suddenly—there it was. A hallway that didn’t belong here. A perfect copy of the one from the party.
His stomach turned. At the end of the hall stood the door to the closet, plain and unassuming, its wooden surface hiding far more than it should.
The Doctor hesitated, dread curling low and tight, the kind of fear you feel when you know something’s behind you but can’t bear to look. His hand hovered near the knob.
What if it wasn’t you? What then?
The voice was ugly, dark, and too close to the truth. He swallowed, throat dry. It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been.
But there was only one way to know.
He gripped the knob, drew a deep breath, and turned it. The door creaked as it opened, and, shutting his eyes as though it might soften the blow, the Doctor stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him.
Rose’s single human heartbeat pounded loud and hard, drowning out everything else as light split the darkness. Through her eyes, he saw it—himself, tall and sharp in a blue pinstriped suit and Venetian mask—before the image vanished, plunging him back into shadows.
The smell hit him next. Smoke and mothballs, sharp and suffocating, twisting in his lungs. Rose’s thoughts curled through his own, jagged and confused. Why does the Doctor smell like smoke? The question buzzed like static. Oh God, what has he gotten us into now?
He couldn’t think—there wasn’t time. The Doctor in blue was suddenly there, closing the distance between them. Strong arms pulled Rose close, a crushing grip, a kiss that jolted through her body—and his—with a rush of heat and dizziness, like a wire sparking too bright, too fast.
Shock. Disbelief. And yet… a pull. Her emotions hit him hard and raw, leaving him staggering under their weight.
And behind it all, the voice in the back of his mind whispered: This isn’t me. Is it? How could I not remember this?
Gods, she was getting wet already.
With a gasp of monumental effort, Rose momentarily managed to break free. “Doctor, somebody was following me–”
“I was following you.”
Those four words piqued his attention. Was this declaration hyperbole, or another piece of the puzzle? Who actually had been following Rose that night, and was their identity connected with his lapse in memory?
“No, but there was somebody else, in a robe with a hood–” The words died on her lips as the Doctor’s hand swept from her knee up her inner thigh, her entire body clenching and shuddering with the urge to feel him inside her. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was going to need to change pants after this little telepathic exercise.
Being trapped in Rose’s memory was like chasing an oyster dinner with a flute of champagne and a fistful of Viagra. His own heartbeats pounded wildly, every nerve singing like someone had flipped a switch somewhere deep inside him. If he’d ever been this embarrassingly, catastrophically aroused before, he couldn’t remember it.
“Oh, but I’ve missed you.”
The words sliced through the fog of hormones like a knife. Jarring. Too sentimental. Too… much. How could anyone say something so soppy to someone they’d last seen, what, thirty minutes ago? It wasn’t his style. Certainly not in a manner so thick with emotion it practically dripped.
Blue suit. Smoke. I’ve missed you.
The pieces clicked in his mind like tumblers in a lock, faster now, faster still. Whatever this was—whatever he couldn’t remember—he was sure of one thing:
It all added up to the same maddening, impossible answer.
“I missed you too, while I was busy running for my life.” Rose laughed, but it came out nervous, shaky. Her resolve was crumbling—he could feel it. She wanted this. Wanted him. It was painfully clear, even from her memory. She’d always held back, letting him take the lead, terrified of pushing too hard and watching him pull away.
“Again, and I can’t stress this enough,” she continued, voice edging on desperate, “somebody was following me. Maybe the same somebody who led us to the party in the first place? What if they catch us in here?”
“Don’t worry about all that. I promise, Rose—I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Not again.”
The Doctor’s thoughts splintered like glass. Not again.
His heart–well, Rose’s single, human heartbeat—thudded like a drum as he watched himself pull out the sonic screwdriver. The shrill whine cut through the memory as the lock on the door vibrated into place. It only looked like wood. He hadn’t noticed that before.
This isn’t right. This isn’t me. Is it me? How can this be me?
The alarm bells in his head were deafening now, clanging so loud he could barely think, barely breathe.
Rose’s own mind was spinning, had been spinning, unable to process the sheer absurdity of it all. A closet. Him. This.
How was this happening? How was she here, about to be—well, shagged senseless—by the same man who taunted Daleks and devils without blinking but couldn’t say three little words to save his life?
I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not again.
Not again?
Her breath caught. What does that mean? What the blazes could that possibly mean?
Frozen in numb astonishment, the Doctor felt his own fingers skimming the hem of Rose’s knickers, heard his own pleading voice begging for her permission. Her whispered sigh of acquiescence, and the slick sounds that followed as he parted her folds were enough to permanently rewire the circuitry of his brain.
In only the vaguest sense was he conscious of his physical body outside of the memory, of Rose squirming, pinned between him and the infirmary counter. His hand wedged itself down her pants and between her thighs, seeking the damp like a parched man in an oasis.
“Oh, Rose.” He groaned in synchronicity with the Doctor of her memory, heat and pressure building in the pit of Rose’s stomach, his stomach, as he thrust his fingers inside her. Touching everywhere but the one spot she was aching for it, he could feel that it drove her absolutely spare, being teased like that. “You’ve completely ruined these knickers, y’know. Positively dripping wet, you are. I bet you’re just aching to come for me, aren’t you? My precious girl.”
His fingers circled her clit, teasing the expletive out of her as he teased the dense bundle of nerves out from its hood. She was close, so close, so close, so close… “Fuck!” She gasped into his mouth as she came, her teeth catching his lower lip and drawing blood.
“Hush now, you don’t want anyone to hear us, do you? There’s a good girl.”
The line landed like a spark—soft, sultry, and utterly unforgettable. He could feel it, how it had caught in Rose’s mind and stayed, burned into her thoughts as the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to her.
The Doctor’s hearts thudded uncomfortably. Pride stirred first, unbidden, before giving way to something colder and less welcome—a flicker of jealousy for the man in blue. He didn’t remembersaying those words.
And yet, here they were, his own voice echoing back at him.
Oh Christ, his fingers were in her mouth, which meant he could taste her tasting herself on his fingers, which sent a bolt of white-hot lightning straight to the root of him, where he was rock solid and pressed against the damp seam at the crotch of her pants. No longer certain where the memory ended and the two of them began, he found himself grinding hopelessly against her through the sodden fabric.
“Please, oh fuck, please,” Rose cried brokenly, her plea to be filled by him muffled but nonetheless clear. Lifting her bum off of the counter, she wordlessly urged him to remove her pants, and he obliged. Slipping his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop, he eagerly reached between them to slip her bottoms down over her hips.
“Shhhh, it’s alright, darling. I’m gonna take such good care of you,” he crooned, reaching between them to free his cock from the constraints of trousers that had never felt more unforgivably tight. Nuzzling Rose’s neck, he pressed a damp kiss there, tasting salt and bliss and home on her skin as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. The sense of peace that washed over him felt like a universal imbalance finally being corrected. “Gods, you’re so beautiful. Oh, love, you’re just perfect.”
So help them both, he meant it, too.
The truth of it was there in the tenderness of his voice, the firmness of his grip as he held her by the hips, the luscious cradle of her thighs the only thing anchoring him to solid ground. It was there in the way they slipped so easily against each other, as if their bodies had always been destined to fit together. In the darkness, Rose’s eyes burned like golden fire, and that was perhaps his own memory creeping in. As their consciousnesses merged, the threads of their souls reached out for one another, inexorably weaving themselves tighter together.
“Kiss me, Rose,” he panted through clenched teeth. His fingers trembled as they brushed a strand of hair away from her face, just as they had in her memory. “Kiss me, please, and say that you love me.”
“I love you,” she gasped. Her hands slid up the contours of his back, her fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. “Oh God, do I bloody love you.”
So help them both, she meant it, too.
Eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against hers, the rhythm of his movements growing increasingly erratic as he flung open a door that had been locked tight since the war. “I love you, Rose Tyler. I know I don’t say it, but don’t ever doubt it,” he whispered, his voice wavering with unshed tears that he could only begin to pretend to fathom the nature of. Moments later, he spent himself inside of her with a breathless cry, his fingers digging unmercifully into her hips as he rocked them both through the aftershocks.
When he opened his eyes again, it wasn't the darkness of the closet that greeted him, but the soft amber glow of the infirmary, and a half-naked Rose Tyler, perched breathless and sweaty on the countertop. Her legs were still wrapped like a vice around his waist, holding him steadfastly in place. The Doctor didn’t have it in himself to withdraw or object.
Not that he would’ve wanted to anyway.
“So,” Rose panted, mussing her hair nonchalantly. “I don’t suppose that helped to jog your memory any?”
Chapter 4
Summary:
“Rose, please,” he said, his voice low and pleading as his hands gripped her shoulders. “It’s for your own safety. I’ve already lost too much. I can’t risk losing—”
“What, Doctor?” she pressed gently, her tone softening as she met his eyes.
He faltered, his gaze darting briefly to her abdomen before returning to her face. “I can’t risk you getting hurt. I couldn’t bear it. Especially if…” His voice trailed off, the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air.
But Rose didn’t need him to finish. She could fill in the blanks herself.
Especially if you’re pregnant with our child.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The universe would have to forgive Rose for feeling smug in her vindication. The Doctor rocked into her like he was trying to piece himself back together, like this single moment could keep them from coming unmade, keep the stars from fading.
And wasn’t that the point? The anomalies threatened everything, but so did the cracks in him—cracks that even time couldn’t fix.
But in this breathless moment, all of that fell away. The only thing that mattered was this—him, her, lips to lips, hips to hips, and a connection that burned brighter than any collapsing star.
“I love you. Oh God, do I bloody love you.” Her own words from that night echoed through the infirmary, accompanied by harsh breathing and the smack of flesh on flesh as past and present merged around them.
The Doctor confessed it back to her on the cusp of their mutual climax, just as he had the first time. ”I love you, Rose Tyler. I know I don’t say it, but don’t ever doubt it.”
It should be enough. She wished it would be.
His fingers coaxed her over the edge of pleasure, and he swallowed her keening cries with his mouth like they were sweet sacramental wine.
"I love you, Rose Tyler." Five words she’d been dying to hear, and he could only say them when they were shagging. Typical. It was supposed to feel like winning the lottery, hearing him finally say it, but instead, it felt more like a consolation prize.
If he’d been just some guy she picked up at the pub, she’d have told him to sod off ages ago. Shareen and the girls would’ve backed her all the way. But this wasn’t some guy. This was the Doctor, and holding him to human standards was as pointless as measuring the ocean with a teaspoon.
Rose would’ve been happy with a forever of hand-holding, hugs, and chaste, platonic kisses. Sexually frustrated, obviously, but happy all the same. Because intimacy wasn’t just about sex, was it? It was in the way his hand always found hers like instinct, the quiet moments when he caught her eye and smiled like she was the only one who understood him, the laughter they shared over the tiniest, silliest things. Those moments felt more intimate than anything she could’ve dreamed of, and they reminded her why being in his orbit was worth everything else.
That he could make her come like it had always been his full-time job was an unexpected development–icing on the cake that was travelling with him in the TARDIS.
“So…I don’t suppose that helped to jog your memory any?” she panted, pushing the damp strands of her hair over her shoulder as the Doctor sagged against her with a shuddering sigh.
His breath hitched as he straightened, his expression shifting from post-coital daze to something more flustered. “Rose…” He hesitated, landing a clumsy kiss near her mouth, his hands squeezing her shoulders gently. “That was… enlightening. Incredibly intimate and revealing, but…” He frowned, his voice lowering as he struggled to find the words. “It felt… removed. Like observing a memory instead of living it. I can see it all, but I can’t make it… mine. I can’t connect the experience with myself.”
Incredulous, she stared back at him before looking pointedly downward to where their bodies were still joined, unable to suppress a sarcastic retort. “Seems like you managed to connect to the experience fine to me,” she said, stopping just shy of commenting on the relative hardness of his length still lodged inside her body. “I’ll be sure to note that on the customer satisfaction survey, though.”
His eyes followed her gaze down to where their hips met, and they went wide with realisation as his face drained of colour. “Oh.” He swallowed, looking like a guilty schoolboy.
Oh?
That was it? He’d rooted around in her memories, turned the whole thing into a full-blown shag, and now he was sitting there like a deer in headlights with a single ‘oh’ to offer? Honestly, it was almost impressive how bad he was at this.
The Doctor blinked furiously, as though trying to reset his brain. "Rose, I… well, that escalated quickly, didn’t it?" He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice catching on the words. "I just wanted to…I don’t know, see the world through your eyes, feel what you felt. But instead, I managed to trip headlong into…this." He gestured vaguely, his cheeks flushing.
He hesitated, his gaze softening as it met hers. "I don’t remember it—not the way you do—but I don’t regret it. I couldn’t. Not for a second. It’s just…" He trailed off, his voice growing quieter. "You deserve someone who doesn’t stumble through this as much as I do. Someone who gets it right the first time. And I’m not sure I ever will."
Her chest tightened, and she swallowed back the lump rising in her throat. “Doctor, you were there. We were there,” she said softly, her voice barely steady. “You saw it happen. That was you. We nearly reenacted it move by move. How can you not remember?”
His gaze met hers, heavy with regret. “Rose, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “But none of it felt like mine. What we just did—it was beautiful, brilliant—but it felt brand new. Like it wasn’t supposed to belong to me. Like I was…” He paused, his voice catching. “Like I was stepping into someone else’s story.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his words slowing. “I thought maybe reliving it with you would change something, that it would click. But it hasn’t. It still feels…distant. Like it belongs to another version of me.” His expression shifted, and for a fleeting moment, Rose saw a glimmer of the man with blue eyes and a leather jacket. The ache in her chest deepened.
A heavy silence hung between them, broken only by the distant hum of the TARDIS's engines and the Doctor’s fingers drumming a nervous tattoo against the counter. Rose had no witty quip or follow-up to that question–if he still couldn’t make sense of it after being in her memories, what were the chances she could?
“Could you hand me my knickers, please?” she mumbled, shifting uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious of the cooling wet spot accumulating beneath her “I ought to get cleaned up…”
“Here, let me help you,” he said, stopping her from sliding off the counter with a firm hand on her inner thigh, his fingertips brushing softly against her curls as he crouched to kneel, eye-level with her sex. “That okay with you?” he asked, as casually as one might ask if she’d like a cup of tea.
Oh. Now she was the one rendered speechless.
Mouth dry and clit throbbing, Rose nodded, feeling certain she must be misunderstanding the Doctor’s intent, despite the obvious context of his gaze fixed intently on her crotch. “Okay,” she stammered.
If eating her out was going to make him feel better about putting her through the wringer emotionally, she was hardly going to protest his chosen method of penance.
“Splendid. Open up and scoot forward for me? There’s a good girl.” He offered her a broad and sunny grin before gently prying her knees further apart, propping her legs on his shoulders, and disappearing face-first between her thighs, his words galvanising her body like cold lightning striking hot steel.
The Doctor parted her folds with his tongue, emitting a hum of sheer delight that resonated through the depths of her being before terminating as a dull ache in both nipples and her clit. Burying her fingers in the damp hair at his nape, all she could do was hold on for dear life as he lapped up the last vestiges of their lovemaking with languid and obvious enjoyment.
Rose's head nearly collided with the cabinet behind her, caught in the liminal space between surrendering to the moment and watching with awe as the Time Lord reshaped their history with his lips and tongue.
Somehow, this was a thousand times hotter than tasting herself on his fingers had been. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think he was competing with himself.
Perish the thought, but Jimmy would’ve sooner died than kiss her after getting head, and Mickey? He might as well have been allergic to oral for all the excuses he would make about why he could never return the favour. She’d be lucky to get some half-hearted fingering out of him before he inevitably started snoring like a chainsaw, leaving her to her own devices.
If detachable showerheads could talk…
Maybe oral sex was just the Doctor’s incredibly erotic (and ultimately preferable) version of buying her roses or chips as an unspoken token of post-argument apology. Sorry I may have knocked you up the first time we ever shagged and don’t remember it, Rose. Please forgive me?
Oh, he had to know exactly what he was doing.
“I know it’s easier said than done with everything going on, but do try to relax and enjoy this, if you can.” The Doctor paused his ministrations just long enough to rest his head on her knee and whisper his encouragement directly between her legs. “I can tell you’re in your head about me doing this, but you don’t need to be. I just wasn’t prepared to face the possible demise of the universe without doing this at least once.”
“Okay, but maybe don’t mention the universe ending while you do it,” she moaned, eyelids shuttering as his mouth joined his fingers back between her legs. ‘It’s kind of a mood killer, thinking about dyin’ and all.”
“Duly noted,” he said wryly, ducking back between her thighs.
The Doctor approached cunnilingus with the same degree of scientific diligence and curiosity as he would any other task–hands-on, enthusiastically, and with near-clinical precision.
With two fingers and a few swift and persistent motions of his tongue, he managed to pull her back from the edge of sweet torment over and over again, always letting her dance right up to stare over the precipice before pulling her back at the last second. It was gorgeous and maddening and intense…and if he didn’t bloody let her come, she was going to squeeze him to death between her thighs.
“God, you’re such a tease,” she gasped, feeling him smile against her slick, swollen lips.
Allowing her to hang on a wire for one long, delicious moment, his fingers tugging against her g-spot and the flat of his tongue pressed against her clit were the last push she needed to come undone.
Rose let out an indecent moan she was sure she’d be embarrassed by if the force of her orgasm hadn’t promptly ceased all rational operations in her brain.
“There you go, love, there you go. I knew you could do it,” the Doctor murmured when the shaking of her hips finally subsided. “You were absolutely riddled with tension. I bet you feel so much better now, mmm?”
Gobsmacked, all Rose could do was nod numbly as he wiped his mouth with his tie before making it disappear into the inner pocket of his jacket. That man and his souvenirs, she noted with amusement, making a private bet with herself about the likelihood of ever seeing the lacy black knickers she’d worn to the party again.
From his kneeling position, the Doctor rose to his full height, casting an imposing figure despite the disarray of his appearance. As he moved to tuck his shirt back into his trousers, she was treated to an unobscured view of his stomach–the light smattering of hairs below his navel, and his erection bobbing freely below the waistband of his pants.
Rose felt her jaw clench.
Yum.
As much as her mouth practically watered at the thought of returning the favour, something told her the Doctor might literally regenerate on the spot if she tried. All of this was brand new for both of them, and she didn’t want to take that for granted.
Baby steps.
She grabbed him by the lapels instead, pulling him roughly back into her orbit. “Oh, don’t think I’ve finished with you quite yet,” she purred coyly, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I’ve hardly recovered from the trauma of thinking you were gonna just keep pretending we hadn’t shagged. Think I must need some sort of treatment, don’t you reckon, Doctor?”
“Is that right?” he said, quirking his eyebrows. “Fair enough. What kind of treatment did you have in mind?” His indulgent smile suggested he already knew precisely where this line of questioning was leading.
“I don’t think we have time for talk therapy to resolve the deep psychological damage this has done to me. I need something with…more immediate results,” she said dramatically.
He softly chuckled but humoured her anyway, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Like a vitamin D injection?”
“Well,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “You’re the Doctor, you know what’s best.”
Even he could no longer hold his composure. “Oh, c’mon. Now you’re just taking the piss,” he laughed.
“No, taking the piss would be calling my mum and telling her exactly how seriously you’ve been taking all this,” she shot back, tongue poking between her teeth. “Here I’ve come to a Doctor for professional help, and he’s just tormenting me by withholding his cock–errr, treatment—instead.”
The Doctor winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you agree never to mention your mother during sex again, I promise not to bring up the universe ending.”
Rose considered this. “Your terms are agreeable. Shall we shag on it?”
“Deal,” he groaned, angling his pelvis away from her body before slamming back into her again with embarrassingly little resistance. One hand gripped her by the back of the head while the other slipped between them to find her clit, stroking steadily until the pace of his movements grew increasingly more erratic with the stuttering of his hips. A container full of plasters and cotton rounds jumped off the countertop, jarred by the repeated thrusting, and crashed noisily to the floor nearby.
“You better not come before I do,” she gasped, grinding against him in a desperate search for the slightest bit more friction.
“Wouldn’t dare dream of it,” he grunted, sucking her lower lip into his mouth and nibbling delicately.
How was it possible she was already chasing orgasm number…five, maybe six or seven? Including the one she’d had in her sleep earlier and those during her trip down memory lane, she’d managed to lose track. The Doctor had made her come more in the last two hours than Mickey had the entire time they were dating.
He showed no signs of letting that streak cool, either.
“Go on, go on, go on.” His eyes were screwed shut, his jaw and forehead tightening with exertion as he whispered this mantra over and over, though if it were for his benefit or her own Rose couldn’t be pressed to say. The words were there on the periphery of her awareness, her brain buzzing and flickering like the basement lights in Henrik’s during a storm. “You’re already so close. Are you going to come again for me, Rose?”
Fuck.
“Yes, only for you,” she moaned. But before she could brace herself, the back of her head finally collided with the same cabinet she’d narrowly avoided concussing herself on earlier. The sharp and sudden pain flipped a switch in her brain, and she came so hard she nearly blacked out, every muscle in her body clenching simultaneously. The Doctor let out a strangled gasp, his cock pulsing and spasming as her walls clasped tighter around him.
“Sod it! Rose, are you alright?” The Doctor’s hand was at the back of her head in an instant, his expression quickly shifting from post-coital bliss to alarm. “Blimey, you just shaved ten years off my life. That’s gonna leave a bump, but at least you’re not bleeding.” He leaned closer, his eyes scanning hers. “Pupils look fine. No dizziness? Ears ringing?”
“Stop fussing. I’m fine, really,” she said, her voice shaking slightly as she prodded the back of her head and winced. "Just a knock. Cold pack, cup of tea, good as new."
She lowered her hand and steadied her breath, her eyes meeting his. “But seriously… what do we do now?” Her words were softer, loaded with meaning that went far beyond a bump on the head. It wasn’t just this moment—it was all of it, and the question neither of them could answer.
The Doctor frowned, gently disengaging himself and fastening his trousers. “We’re not doing anything,” he said firmly, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a cold pack, which he pressed into Rose’s hands. “I’m going to poke around. You stay here on the TARDIS, avoid trouble, and maybe steer clear of sharp corners. The timelines are wobbly enough—one wrong move, and it all comes crashing down.”
He hesitated, as if realising how terse that sounded, then tilted her chin up with a gentle hand. His thumb brushed her lower lip, his tone softening. “Sorry. I just… If I don’t sort this now, I won’t. Believe me, there are…” He smirked, his eyes dancing with mischief. “...other things I’d much rather be doing. But I think our anamolous little predicament might be on a clock.”
“You want to do what now?” she scoffed, incredulous. The sheer audacity of him! Her brain skipped like a broken record right over the implication of ‘other things’, a potential unplanned pregnancy being referred to as an ‘anomalous little predicament’, and jumped to the part where the Doctor thought he was going to just up and go off on his own. The question was purely rhetorical. She had heard him fine, but couldn’t believe he actually had the cheek to suggest she wait on the TARDIS while he went swanning off to investigate without her.
He wanted to sideline her now, of all times? It hardly felt coincidental.
“Oh, brilliant plan,” she continued, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Leave the one person who actually remembers what happened that night sitting on her hands while you go ‘poke around.’ Because I might be pregnant? What’s next? Wrapping me in bubble wrap just in case I sneeze the wrong way?”
“No, Rose,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “The Reapers. Your dad. You remember how dangerous meddling with the past can be. For me, it’s a risk. For you…” He stopped short, his expression tightening. “It could be catastrophic. The universe doesn’t hand out second chances.”
“Oh, I see. So you’re the only one allowed to take risks?” she fired back, arms crossed. “You can go gallivanting off to poke at fragile timelines, but I’m supposed to stay put like a good little human? If it’s so dangerous, why are you going at all? Or don’t you believe it happened like I remember?”
“Of course I believe you!” His voice rose before he checked himself, his face flushing slightly. “It’s not about belief, Rose. I know it happened. But I can’t remember it. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. And it’s maddening, to be honest.”
“Must be awful,” she quipped dryly. “Imagine if it were my problem too. Oh, wait.”
“Rose, please,” he said, his voice low and pleading as his hands gripped her shoulders. “It’s for your own safety. I’ve already lost too much. I can’t risk losing—”
“What, Doctor?” she pressed gently, her tone softening as she met his eyes.
He faltered, his gaze darting briefly to her abdomen before returning to her face. “I can’t risk you getting hurt. I couldn’t bear it. Especially if…” His voice trailed off, the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air.
But Rose didn’t need him to finish. She could fill in the blanks herself.
Especially if you’re pregnant with our child.
The thought sent her stomach flipping, equal parts dread and urgency. If she wasn’t before, she might be now. And if she was, this wouldn’t just be a one-time argument. It would be the beginning of him treating her like a glass doll—something to be protected, stowed away, kept safe. And that was only if he didn’t decide to drop her back at her Mum’s to gestate somewhere less dangerous than the TARDIS (and universe at large).
And what would that mean for them then? For the life she’d built with him here, among the stars?
Her shoulders slumped, her resolve faltering under the weight of his pleading puppy dog gaze cranked up to maximum. "Alright," she conceded in defeat. "I'll stay behind. But if you're not back in five and a half hours, I'm coming to find you. No arguments."
The Doctor's expression softened, gratitude shining in his eyes as he nodded in agreement with her proposed compromise. Without missing a beat, he pulled her into his arms, planting a tender but determined kiss on her lips.
Rose's heart fluttered at the touch of his lips, a fresh rush of endorphins flooding through her. It felt just as surreal now as it had that night, yet here they were, sharing a snog and embracing like a proper couple. Nestling closer to the Doctor, she relished the brief moment of connection, finding it hard to believe that this was their new normal and reluctant to let it slip away too quickly.
And as for the rest of it—well, that was a conversation for another time. Hopefully, while she was perched naked and on top of him in a bed at some gorgeous alien resort, far away from cool countertops and sharp-edged cabinets.
And bloody time anomalies.
"Thank you, Rose," he murmured against her lips, his voice filled with sincerity. "I promise, I'll be back before you know it."
*****
The Time Lord's departure left the infirmary suffocatingly quiet, as if the whole room held its breath in the wake of his exit. It was the eerie calm after the oncoming storm, and for Rose, the silence felt almost oppressive.
The infirmary wasn’t just quiet—it was stifling, the kind of silence that felt like it was closing in around her. She shifted in her seat, tapping her fingers against the counter, her rhythm quick, unconsciously mimicking the beat the Doctor had been nervously tapping out earlier.
Her stomach gave a sudden lurch, and she clutched it reflexively, trying to swallow past the wave of queasiness. Probably just anxiety. Probably. Except, her brain reminded her unhelpfully, this wasn’t exactly the first time her stomach had rebelled like this recently.
Five minutes with the ice pack. Five hours before she could storm after him. What was she supposed to do in the meantime? Sit here and hope he hadn’t already fallen into a crater while she tried to ignore a body that seemed determined to send her a message she wasn’t ready to hear?
Her eyes landed on the Doctor’s diagnostic gizmo perched on the counter, its sleek surface gleaming under the warm amber glow of the TARDIS lights. Handling it like a live grenade, Rose cautiously turned it over in her hands, her breath hitching as her thumb brushed against the smooth, unmarked surface.
"Alright then," she muttered, leaning closer. "Let’s see what you’re hiding."
Her thumb skimmed the smooth surface, finally landing on a button. The screen lit up, scrolling a stream of symbols she couldn’t hope to understand. She sighed, rolling her eyes as the TARDIS offered her no help in translating the nonsense.
"Figures," she muttered darkly. "Turling-Watson Autodiagnostic Tool my arse. It’s probably just a fancy thermometer."
The acronym felt ironically apt. Of course, her fate was being determined by an incomprehensible twat.
The universe was mocking her.
Well, the Doctor might have an arsenal of fancy alien tech, but Rose prided herself on being a 21st-century problem-solving type of gal. Tossing the useless device back onto the counter, she scanned the infirmary for something more straightforward. Peeing on a stick was hardly revolutionary, but it made a hell of a lot more sense than trying to crack the code on one of his shiny gadgets.
A quick rummage through the infirmary’s vast stores proved fruitless, much to her dismay. Despite the Doctor's mishmash horde of medical supplies, there wasn't a single Earth pregnancy test in plain sight. She couldn't help but shake her head in disbelief.
An MRI machine that folded up like a Murphy bed? Sure. An emergency stash of jelly babies? Naturally. But not one single home pregnancy test or even a basic bottle of aspirin. Honestly, for someone who called himself the Doctor, it felt like a bit of false advertising. For someone who seemed to collect human women like stray cats, he had a remarkable lack of foresight when it came to human basics.
By the time she slammed the last drawer shut, her frustration was at boiling point. Typical, she thought. The one time she could actually use some basic Earth tech, and the TARDIS was completely useless.
Then, like a lightbulb flickering on, she remembered. Her Mum’s last “care package,” tossed into the bottom of her wardrobe with an eye-roll. Condoms, a couple of pregnancy tests, and a tin of biscuits for emergencies. God bless Jackie Tyler.
“It’s really not like that, Mum.” Rose had insisted.
“Well just in case it does get like that, Rose.” Her mother had said tersely, shoving the bag from the chemist’s into her hands. “You think I haven’t noticed that himself regenerated looking like bloody Casanova? You’re only human, sweetheart. I remember what it was like to be your age, married and pregnant with an older man’s baby, let alone an alien’s. Don’t let chance be the thing that decides the course of your life for you.”
“Gee, thanks Mum. Sorry I ruined your life.”
“Oh, don’t you go starting, Madam. You know I love your more than anything. I don’t regret having you, not for a moment. But if I had a chance to do things differently, on my own terms? I absolutely would’ve taken it.”
Turned out Mother did know best, but Rose would sooner fling herself into the heart of a supernova than give Jackie the satisfaction of being right. That would mean admitting she’d been reckless—not once, not twice, but three times—and that wasn’t even counting the genius move of ditching her birth control after Mickey left. Whoops.
Not that she’d expected to need it. The Doctor wasn’t exactly the type to…well, do that. Or so she’d thought. Recent developments had proven otherwise, leaving her more than a little gobsmacked—and possibly pregnant. Brilliant.
Three times she had thrown caution to the wind and let the Doctor shag her senseless without any sort of protection. The second he looked at her with those eyes, it was like her brain and pussy developed selective amnesia and all bets were off. Logic and self-restraint got chucked in the bin all for another hit–a second chance at chasing the high of being fucked by the Doctor.
The worst part was, though she knew she should, she didn’t feel any sort of shame or remorse over it. If either one of them had insisted on being more careful, they may not have been forced to have a proper conversation about what had happened in the first place. And now–
Well, the evidence was there, in the bittersweet ache between her legs, the echoes of his whispered words still ringing in her ears, and the imprint of his lips on the swell of her breast.
And the mild head injury, but that had hardly been his fault.
The advice column in the last trashy gossip mag she’d nicked from Jackie claimed love confessions mid-shag came from the rawest, most honest part of the brain. Something about instincts taking over. It also said the English thrived on heat-of-the-moment affection—holidays, cake, and snogging included. Not that the Doctor was either human or English, but she didn’t half-forget it sometimes.
Somehow, she’d managed to crack through a hundred years’ worth of Time Lord emotional constipation. That felt like progress worth celebrating, even if he still couldn’t admit he loved her outside the context of sex.
It didn’t erase how she’d felt after Felicity, though—weeks of twisting herself into knots over whether that closet encounter had meant nothing to him.
Almost worth the stress. Almost.
The Doctor’s ominous warning had been annoyingly vague: “I don’t want to alarm you, but whatever we do next could potentially create a fixed point around you. That’s a whole different can of worms.”
Right. And then what did he do? Ignored his own advice, as usual. Shagged her senseless, not once, but twice. Typical. He’d always been better at issuing warnings than following them. Do as I say, not as I do, that was the Doctor to a T.
Rose let out a shaky breath as she dashed through the TARDIS, her thoughts spiraling with every step. By the time she reached her room, her nerves were on a knife’s edge. She tore into her belongings, her hands shaking as she hunted for those stupid pink and blue boxes.
They had to be here. They had to be.
Rose was this close to losing her mind. The bag she’d hidden—no, the bag she’d been absolutely sure was right there—had completely disappeared. Of course it had. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think as she tossed clothes and junk aside.
And, because she clearly wasn’t stressed enough, her mind kept flashing to the Doctor. Wandering off alone. Into danger. Like he always did. Only this time, it felt heavier, sharper—like the weight of it was crushing her.
Then, finally, her fingers brushed against something plastic under the bed. “Oh, thank God,” she muttered, yanking the bag out and clutching it like it was the Holy Grail. Her hands shook as she tore it open, her breath catching as she grabbed the test.
She staggered toward the bathroom, clutching the test like a lifeline. Enough waiting—she needed answers pronto, no messing about.
Heart pounding and hands shaking, she dumped the box's contents onto the counter: instructions, test cartridge, and a teensy pipette. She eyed the plastic dropper, its puny size taunting her. Seriously, who had the patience to pee in a cup and then meticulously squirt it onto the test with the world’s tiniest turkey baster? Maybe the beaming moms-to-be in those ads, but definitely not someone in her anxious state.
Hysterical laughter and near-sobs bubbled up inside her as she yanked down her bottoms and flopped onto the toilet seat. In her head, she could almost hear Shareen’s voice singing, "Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to pee on a stick again."
Oh, how she wished her old friend were here now, to squeeze her hand and assure her everything would be alright. Because at this moment, she wasn’t entirely convinced that she and the Doctor weren’t teetering on the edge of disaster.
Gazing at her discarded bottoms on the floor, she suddenly felt acutely aware of the urgent need for a shower and a change. She was a bit manky, thanks to the delightful mix of sleep, sex, and stress sweat she’d been marinating in for the past few hours. And her knickers? Well, they were basically a science experiment at this point, with enough of her and the Doctor’s DNA in there to start a whole new life form.
Yep, a shower was definitely in order, for the sake of her hygiene and her sanity. Heck, maybe even a soak in the tub—her tired muscles could sure use some TLC with a nice magnesium salt bath.
Who knew? If she lingered long enough, maybe the Doctor would join her when he got back.
Rose stared at her phone, each second dragging like it had a grudge against her. What would a positive test even mean? For her? For the Doctor? For everything?
She’d always imagined a future filled with wild adventures: alien worlds, impossible sights, the two of them against the universe. She’d told him she’d stay forever, once, and she’d believed it completely. But forever with a baby? That was quite a bit more complicated.
The Doctor wasn’t exactly the nursey run and nappy-changing sort, and she wasn’t convinced she was cut out for it either. And what if it was really nothing and she wasn’t pregnant at all? Maybe it was just some bizarre time anomaly messing with her body like the Doctor had suggested? Course he hadn’t believed it himself, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a possibility. That’d be easier. Safer. But it wouldn’t make this wait any less excruciating.
When her phone finally buzzed, she nearly dropped it, fingers clumsy with nervous anxiety. Her breath hitched, her hands trembling as she reached for the test. What would the Doctor say if it was positive? Would he even want this?
The questions churned in her gut, sharp and unrelenting. The tiny test in her hand felt like a lead weight, heavier than plastic and cardboard had any right to be.
Time was not a straight line, but the two pink slashes that marked her fate were.
Her heart jolted, the world tilting sharply beneath her feet. Dizziness surged like a tidal wave, and the edges of her vision blurred, narrowing to an inescapable point. She felt a sharp, fleeting pain at the back of her head, but it was already too late to stop the darkness from closing in.
With a soft, broken exhale, Rose collapsed, the test slipping from her trembling fingers as everything went black.
Notes:
Eternal thanks to ThirdEyeBlue, who I absolutely tortured with this chapter. 🥰
Chapter 5
Summary:
“You keep talking about flux and timelines and choices, but you haven’t said what you’d choose. What you want.” Nervous fingers twitched at first, then settled lightly over her stomach. Her eyes darted to his, searching for an answer. “Do you…do you actually want this, Doctor? With me?”
Notes:
Well, this one admittedly got away from me, as did 2024, so if you're here reading this update, I salute you.
I started this story while I was unemployed and had a lot more time on my hands. Then, in March, I started a part-time job that turned into a full-time job and finding the time to write even a one-shot became harder, let alone putting in the time needed for a project like this. When I say there wasn't a single day in 2024 that this story wasn't on my mind, it's not an exaggeration. I started a dozen different versions of this chapter, changed my mind twice a dozen times about what direction I wanted to end up going with this story, and finally, FINALLY, settled on this: a combination of two different chapter ideas I had with a giant dash of something totally different than I'd originally planned for. Then, I came off one of the psych meds I've been on for the last 4 years, I decided I hated everything I'd written previously, and had to edit all the other chapters before I could actually finish this one.
This story is not going to go the way I originally envisioned, I don't think-my number one sin as a writer is I often envision beginnings and endings, but flounder when it comes to defining the middle. My ending idea is still the same, but I suspect we'll be getting there in a fashion different than originally anticipated. I hope you'll stick along for the ride nonetheless.
As always, eternal gratitude to my beta reader and partner in fandom crime, ThirdEyeBlue.
Chapter Text
The Doctor leaned over the TARDIS console, brows knit together in frustration as he flipped the same cursed series of switches for the fifth time, determined through sheer stubbornness to outwit a machine that routinely outsmarted him.“Felicity,” he stated, his tone clipped. “Not asking for much. Just a nice, straightforward landing. Well…straightforward enough. A bit dodgy, I’ll grant you—but nothing you can’t handle. Come on, Old Girl. Please don’t make me beg. I’ve got very limited dignity left as it is.”
The time rotor groaned in response, its tone leaning more toward exasperation than compliance. Tapping the screen to pull up the diagnostics, he exhaled through his teeth. There was only room for one cranky, time-sensitive being aboard, and under the circumstances, he reckoned he’d earned the title. No need for the TARDIS to try and one-up him on today of all days. “What’s the problem now? Temporal flux? Chronon interference? Please don’t tell me it’s another phase-lock issue.” He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Those parts are near impossible to source these days, and I’m still banned from MacGronk’s Galactic Scrapyard for accidentally—well, technically on purpose—blowing up half his stockpile. Honestly, who leaves unstable quantum warp drive fragments lying about? Bloody amateur.”
The blinking diagnostic screen interrupted his meandering diatribe, radiating what could only be interpreted as smug ambiguity: No Faults Detected. The TARDIS hummed, the mechanical equivalent of a shrug, as if to say, Unlike some people I could name.
"Well, that’s ever so helpful." The Doctor straightened, ruffling hair that was beginning to look a bit like a startled bird from the anxious raking of his fingers. "No faults. No errors. No bloody reason. Just flat-out refusing to land. Brilliant. Love that for me."
Jabbing viciously at another series of buttons, he futiley attempted to reroute their destination through the manual controls, attempting to land the day before the party and outside the perimeter of the mansion–on the fringe of the paradoxical danger zone, as it were. It was a Hail Mary move, technically inadvisable, but he’d pulled off much crazier gambits before. His timeship though made a soft, almost pitying noise, as if to say, Nice try, you plonker.
And really, what was the point in trying to outsmart the TARDIS? He was a creature of habit, set in his ways, and his faithful ship knew all his well-worn tricks better than anyone.
"Right, fine," he grumbled, pacing a tight circle around the console. "We’ll just have to troubleshoot. Step one: override the coordinates. Step two: recalibrate the—no, wait. Step one is find the manual." He paused mid-step, his face falling as he remembered. "Oh, right. Threw that out an airlock yonks ago. Not my finest hour, I suppose..."
A bell mounted next to the computer let out a cheerful ping, the kind of sound that could only mean, ‘Finally, you’re catching on’.
A stream of muttered threats and half-formed arguments spilled from his lips. "Don’t make me get the mallet," he hissed, jabbing an accusatory finger at the console as if it had personally insulted him—and honestly, it was starting to feel that way. The TARDIS was often difficult, but this? This was insubordination. "All right, fine. You want to play stubborn? Let’s do it the hard way. Disable active programs, strip it back to basics—factory reset, if that’s what it takes. Don’t test me!"
Fingers flying over the controls, his incoherent rambling grew more agitated with every lever pull and button press. But the moment he flipped the final switch, the TARDIS let out a loud, unimpressed buzz, accompanied by an acrid puff of smoke that smelled vaguely reminiscent of his old Siva kit car when it started leaking coolant. The screen flashed urgently a message in mauve text: Landing Denied.
The Doctor froze, staring at the words as if they’d physically assaulted him. “Landing denied?” he repeated incredulously, voice climbing an octave. “What do you mean, ‘landing denied’? I’m the pilot! I give the orders!” He squinted at the fine print beneath, his righteous indignation giving way to dawning horror. Timeline Stability Mode Active. Please ensure the danger of paradox has passed before disabling.
For a moment, he stood there in stunned silence, the stillness broken only by the soft hum of the TARDIS. Then, with the dramatic flair of a man who’s just realised his own genius has turned against him, he groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Oh, perfect. That’s right. Put that in myself, didn’t I? Clever me. Too clever.” He gestured wildly toward the ceiling, addressing the ship like an exasperated parent. “Let me guess: can’t land anywhere I’ve been before, to avoid a paradox? Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And now I can’t even fix it because—oh, that’s right—I threw the bloody manual out an airlock!”
He spun back to the console, gripping the edge as he leaned forward, speaking as though trying to reason with the heart of the TARDIS itself. “All right, fine. If I figured out how to enable the program, I can figure out how to disable it. That makes sense, doesn’t it? How do I disable it? Anytime you wanna chime in, feel free, ‘cause that mallet is looking better by the second.”
Button after button lit up under his fingers, his calm facade slipping with every failed attempt. “Let’s see…Timeline Stability Mode settings…” The rising irritation edged into his tone. “Oh, come on! Where’s the bloody option to turn it off?”
With a loud huff, he dropped into a crouch and wrenched open the auxiliary panel, rummaging through it like a starving man hunting for crumbs in a fridge he already knew bloody well was empty. “You’ve got to be joking,” he hissed. Straightening abruptly, he pulled his hair into further chaos as he sputtered in disbelief. “It’s not here? Seriously? Who designs a safety feature you can’t switch off?” His words faltered as his hand hovered over a lever. “Oh. Of course. That’d be me again, wouldn’t it? Absolute genius, past me. Truly the king of self-sabotage.”
The TARDIS hummed again, smug as ever, and he threw his hands in the air. “All right, fine! You win! We’ll do it the old-fashioned way—land somewhere nearby, catch a ferry, and hope no one gets suspicious about a police box loitering in the middle of a port. Banger plan, absolutely foolproof.” He jabbed a finger at the console. “Happy now? Scenic route it is. Glad one of us enjoys wasting time when it’s least convenient.”
The ship offered no reply, but the faintest flicker of its lights carried a distinct air of self-satisfaction.
He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Blimey, is there anyone who isn’t cross with me right now? You, Rose, half the galaxy…” He trailed off, eyeing the console warily. “Go on then, rub it in. Flash some lights, buzz at me, really get it out of your system. Have a good ol’ proper strop for the both of us.”
The TARDIS remained silent, its quiet hum taking on an almost suspicious air of innocence.
He narrowed his eyes at the console. “Oh, you’re definitely laughing at me, aren’t you? Just too dignified to do it out loud.” A weary breath dragged out of him, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Fine. I probably deserve it. But you could at least pretend to be on my side once in a while, you know.”
“Right, so this was a bad idea,” he declared to no one in particular, gesturing at the smoky time rotor and making a mental note to check if the fire extinguisher was still under the jump seat. “Because nothing says ‘genius plan’ like crossing your own timeline and hoping for the best. Classic me—create a problem, avoid the real issue.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “The real issue being… y’know, the teeny-tiny elephant in the room.”
He straightened, pacing a few steps as if movement might help unknot his thoughts. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? Chain reaction’s underway, no stopping it. Brilliant work, me. Truly inspired.” He stopped, waving a hand in the air like he might swat the thought away. “Origin point? Could be Felicity. Could also be the infirmary countertop. Not that we’re talking about that. Or thinking about it. Ever.”
The Doctor leaned heavily against the console, his fingers drumming absently on its edge as his gaze drifted somewhere distant, unfocused. The thought poked at him like a splinter buried deep in his mind—persistent, maddening, impossible to ignore. A paradoxical pregnancy. He’d read about them in the dusty annals of Gallifreyan academia—right between “Don’t touch the Eye of Harmony” and “Don’t fall in love with humans.” But reading about them with scholarly detachment in some dusty old text was one thing. Living through it? Watching his best mate—who he absolutely didn’t fancy, nope, not even a little bit—possibly experience it? That was an entirely different can of worms.
Fate had played its hand, and he was powerless to undo it. All he could do now was wait, hope—beg—that when the dust and timelines finally settled, the baby would be his. By all accounts, it should be. The signs pointed squarely in his direction.
If only his memory of that night weren’t as patchy as an old quilt.
If only the Doctor in Rose’s memory hadn’t been wearing mourning blue.
It was such a small, seemingly insignificant detail to fixate on, but he found himself returning to it over and over, like the proverbial dog with a bone. He almost never changed his clothes—something Rose had teased him about endlessly. Every time she dressed to the nines for a new destination and he stayed in his same old suit, she’d make a point of commenting on it. Why would he have changed this time? There had to be a reason.
(Unless, of course, the reason was that it hadn’t been him at all. A possibility so gut-wrenchingly awful he was tempted to chuck himself into the Void and never think of it, or anything, ever again.)
“Let it be me,” he breathed, the words barely more than a whisper. The thought of Rose—brilliant, maddening, his Rose—forever tied to someone else, someone who had posed as him, twisted in his chest like a corkscrew. Jealousy wasn’t supposed to be his thing. He was above that. A Time Lord. Rational. Evolved. Superior. And yet here he was, neck-deep in it, wallowing like some lovesick teenager in a bad rom-com. Rose hadn’t spared another man a second glance since he’d regenerated, yet here he was, spiralling over the slim possibility that it hadn’t actually been him in that blasted closet.
“Pathetic,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m pathetic.”
But no amount of self-flagellation felt sufficient, nor could it shake the ache hollowing him out. If he couldn’t piece things together before the timelines solidified, he stood to lose everything. And not just Rose—no, that would be bad enough—but a future he’d dared to let himself imagine. One where he wasn’t running, wasn’t alone—one where she chose him.
“Please,” he whispered again, his eyes shutting against the weight of his own longing. It was humiliating, really, how badly he wanted this.
Time Lords weren’t supposed to feel this way, weren’t supposed to be undone by something as simple as want. But then she’d come along, Rose-shaped and achingly human, ripping through his life like a supernova. She’d patched the wounds left by the Time War with her stubbornness and her smiles, made him feel alive again. And what had he done in return? Saved her life with a kiss. Regenerated with the taste of her adoration still on his lips. And ever since then? He’d been chasing that impossible feeling, that heady, terrifying high of being needed, wanted, loved.
And then…there was the infirmary.
That particular image burned brightly, too fresh to ignore, too vivid to shove into the overflowing junk drawer of his mind (with the other colossal blunders he wished to forget). Picturing her perched on the countertop’s edge rekindled the shame simmering beneath his skin, guilt that clung to him like Krillitane oil—near impossible to wash off and more than slightly irritating. He’d gone to the infirmary with a plan—a purpose—to protect Rose, to understand what had happened to her that night. Instead, he’d gone completely off-script, letting himself become a participant instead of an observer. Worse, he hadn’t even tried to stop it once he’d realised what was happening. Oh, no. Instead, he’d leaned into it, full throttle, like a man who’d just discovered gravity and decided falling was a brilliant idea.
“What sort of a man does that?” he choked, self-reproach dripping like poison from each syllable. He could still feel the press of Rose’s thighs bracketing his own, the smell of her arousal lingering in his hair and on his skin. Her warmth, her touch, her fingers gripping his shoulders like letting go might send her spinning into the void…it was all etched on the surface of his mind in stark and painful clarity. It had been perfect in its impossibility, a moment stolen from a future that could never be his, that he had no right to hope for.
He’d failed her, failed them both. She’d been fragile, emotionally vulnerable, and he’d taken what he wanted anyway. Worse, he’d allowed himself to believe it was what she wanted, too.
And it could never, ever happen again.
There were many good reason he kept himself at a distance, always holding even his most beloved companions at arm’s length. But it wasn’t noble or selfless—it was plain and simple cowardice. He knew how it ended. He always knew. No human being could love someone like him without it eventually destroying them, and Rose? Rose was no exception. But the real truth, the one he couldn’t bear to admit even to himself, was that he couldn’t survive it either.
He’d known it from the start, hadn’t he? Warned her after Sarah Jane, made his little speeches about “not doing domestics,” as if that could justify all the running. But of course, neither of them had truly listened. Not when it mattered. Because deep down, he hadn’t wanted her to. Not really. Not when letting her go would’ve meant admitting just how much he needed her to stay.
You can spend the rest of your life with me, but I can't spend the rest of mine with you. I have to live on. Alone. That's the curse of the Time Lords.
It was hard enough to lose a friend. A companion. Someone who trusted him, despite all the reasons not to. But Rose? He’d gone and made it so much worse, hadn’t he? He’d let himself need her, want her, until there was no separating where she ended and he began. When he lost her—and he would lose her, because that was how this always went—he wouldn’t just be losing a friend. He’d be losing the one woman he loved more than anyone else in creation—the woman who might be, against all odds, carrying his child.
(A child who would inevitably reflect Rose in every way that mattered—her fire, courage, stubborn will—and one who would long outlive their mother. An exquisite sort of cruelty, that.)
But still: beneath the self-loathing, the dark, treacherous part of him clung to that stolen moment. Not the remorse or guilt that came with it, but the euphoria—the way Rose had burned with affection for him, the way she’d seen right through him and still wanted him, too. He hated himself for it, hated the part of himself that couldn’t stop from wanting it again. The warmth of Rose’s body enveloping him was a drug, and now that he’d let himself indulge, he craved it with every fibre of his being. Now that he knew how sweet her lips tasted, how alive he felt cradled in the heat between her thighs…how was he ever supposed to go without?
And that was what truly terrified him—what made it impossible to believe he’d been the one in the closet with Rose, no matter what the evidence suggested. Because the thought was unthinkable: making love to Rose Tyler and not having it consume his every waking thought. Not reliving every second in vivid, aching detail. Not carrying the memory of her with him like a gravitational constant. Forgetting it entirely? That wasn’t just improbable—it had to beimpossible.
The Doctor slumped onto the jumpseat, covering his face as though he could smother the shame that burned through him, threatening to consume him whole. Rose had trusted him, and he’d shattered that trust utterly, in the most egregious and unforgivable manner possible. She deserved better—so much better—someone steady, someone whole. Not a broken man drowning in centuries of regret, wearing his failures like unbreakable chains. She needed someone to stand beside her in the storm, not someone who vanished with the first crack of thunder, leaving her to face the tempest alone. Or worse, someone who wouldn’t take the trust she handed him—the privilege of seeing her memories—and turn it into an excuse to do something as selfish, reckless, and self-serving as shagging her on a countertop.
Right now, he should be with her offering comfort, reassurance—something, anything—instead of hiding behind silence. But no. He was doing what he always did: putting off the inevitable, running from the truth, manufacturing excuses to distance himself from the one person he most wanted to be near.
He’d spent lifetimes pretending he wasn’t a coward, trying to be something more. But this? This was who he was at his core. A man who ran. A man who failed. A man who could never stop punishing the people who dared to care for him.
The sudden, resonant toll of the Cloister Bell reverberated through the room, dragging him out of his self-indulgent pity party. His head shot up, his stomach sinking as the console alarm blinked urgently:
Passenger in distress—Primary Habitation Zone.
“Rose.” The word was barely more than a breath before he was sprinting towards her room, the weight of his guilt currently eclipsed only by sheer and unrelenting panic.
The Doctor skidded to a halt outside his companion’s room, hearts slamming in panicked tandem against his ribs. The door hung ajar, pale light spilling into the dim corridor in an ominous sliver. He pushed it open, the hinges creaking dramatically—because of course they did, the TARDIS’s perverse sense of humour shining through at the most inappropriate of moments. His breath caught as his eyes swept the room.
It looked like a tornado had passed through the space—blankets tangled on the bed, clothes flung about like a cannon had launched them into the room, an overturned lamp casting jagged shadows across the walls. Honestly, not all that different from the usual chaos, save for the trail leading to the ensuite: a crumpled chemist’s bag and an empty pink-and-blue box lying abandoned, practically glowing with significance.
Crossing the threshold in a single, urgent stride, ice shot through his veins as the scene before him registered. Rose lay crumpled on the floor between the sink and toilet, knickers around her ankles, her head resting at an unnatural angle against the cold tile. Dropping to his knees beside her, her swept the limp strands of hair from her flushed face with trembling hands. Finger trembling, he found her pulse—weak, thready, but present—and the tension in his chest loosened just enough to let him breathe.
Gasping quietly, he swallowed back the cry of relief clawing at his throat; there wasn’t time for that. Not yet. “Rose? Can you hear me?”
Weakly, her eyes fluttered, accompanied by a soft groan. “Doctor?”
“I’m here,” he said quickly, pressing a grateful kiss to her damp forehead. His eyes darted to the object clutched in her hand–such an unassuming thing, but it carried the weight of the universe on its slim frame. The sight of it hit him hard, dread unfurling in his chest like a living thing. He didn’t need to process—he knew precisely what he was seeing. It was the sort of object that didn’t just alter lives—it rewrote destinies.
A sharp breath escaped him, his mind racing. “Rose, what happened? Did you faint? Were you dizzy? Talk to me.”
Her lips parted, the words so soft the air almost swallowed them. “I thought…I saw…two lines.”
Snatching the test up, the Doctor turned it over in his hands, his brows knitting tighter with every glance. “This—this test isn’t valid. No control line,” he said, his voice wobbling slightly despite his best efforts to stay composed. “Maybe you misread it. Or maybe it’s the head injury—double vision, confusion. You’ve hit your head, Rose.” The words tumbled out too fast, as if speaking them would make them true. “Come on, we need to get you back to the infirmary. I never should’ve left you alone in the first place.”
Carefully, he slid an arm beneath her, cradling her gently as if she were made of glass. Rose stirred slightly, her head lolling against his shoulder, and he steadied his grip, holding her protectively against his body. The corridors stretched ahead, quiet and dim, the TARDIS’s usual hum hushed to something that felt almost watchful, as though even the sentient timeship understood the gravity of the situation.
Once in the infirmary, the Doctor laid Rose on the examination bed with a care that belied his urgency. A clean drape was within reach, and he used it to cover her waist—something he hadn’t had the luxury of doing before. Plucking the diagnostic tool up from the counter, he scanned Rose’s vitals with one hand while her fingers curled around his other, her grip weak but deliberate. His throat tightened, and he swallowed heavily, forcing himself to focus on the influx of data lighting up the machine’s screen. The results were unsurprising, but the nausea brewing in his guts refused to subside.
“Still inconclusive,” he said, scanning the readout again—the paradox markers hadn’t budged. Then his breath caught as he picked up on something that definitely hadn’t been on the first test. Subtle neural fluctuations, microscopic swelling, and localised oxygen deprivation—all clear signs of a delayed concussion. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. “I should’ve seen this. I should’ve noticed this when you hit your head.”
“Some Doctor you are.” Rose glared at him, her tone brittle and sharp as she mimicked, “‘Blimey, you just shaved ten years off my life. That’s gonna leave a bump, but at least you’re not bleeding.’” She exhaled weakly, her anger thinning into something softer but no less pointed. “Come over here, mate,” she muttered. “I’ll shave something off of you, all right.”
He huffed a soft laugh but didn’t reply, reaching into his pocket for the sonic screwdriver. Some Doctor, indeed. “Hold still,” he said uselessly, as if she were in any condition to do otherwise. The pale blue light pulsed softly against her temple, her features relaxing as the device worked to reduce the inflammation from her head injury. Satisfied, he carefully brushed a damp strand of hair back from her face.
“Sorry,” he said, his tone softer now. “I should’ve realised sooner. I was…distracted.”
Understatement of the century, he thought grimly. But hey, why stop at one life-altering crisis when you can juggle three?
“Probably too busy legging it, I reckon,” she said, her tone dull but sharp enough to cut him down to size. Her eyes barely opened, but the words hit like a well-aimed jab to the ribs. “Cause that’s what you always do, right? Dash in, do as you like, and bolt before anyone has a chance to tell you off for mucking about with their lives.”
“Rose, that’s not—” he started, already flailing for an excuse.
“‘Course not,” she interrupted with a sarcastic laugh. “Why would it be? You never stick around long enough for it to matter, do you? Shag and scarper. That’s your thing now, isn’t it? Like clockwork.”
The words landed squarely, leaving him reeling. His chest tightened painfully, and he mumbled, “That’s not fair.”
Her expression softened, but her tone remained frosty. “Maybe not. But tell me I’m wrong.”
He couldn’t. He wanted to—oh, how he wanted to—but nothing came out. She had him dead to rights, and wasn’t that just perfect? Out of all the people in the universe, it would be Rose to see him this clearly.
The Doctor stared at their clasped hands, baffled that she was still holding on, like he wasn’t a walking calamity in a pinstripe suit. Like he hadn’t made a complete hash of everything. The silence was excruciating, the kind that felt like the universe was leaning against the metaphorical door frame, eyebrow raised, waiting for him to explain himself. And Rose holding onto him? It didn’t feel like forgiveness. It felt like…well, pity. Or bad habit.
And wasn’t that just the cherry on top of his ‘I’ve completely cocked this up’ sundae?
“Thought you were off trying to figure out what happened with your memories. Why are you still here?” she asked, her tone flat but edged with lingering hurt. A slow, weary breath escaped her, heavy enough to make him feel the weight of her exhaustion.
That was fair enough, he supposed, given how many sleepless nights he’d already caused her. (And how this situation was bound to add a few more, no matter the outcome.)
“Because I tried,” he finally answered, flapping a hand towards the console room. “Tried to take the TARDIS back to Felicity, back to that night, but she wasn’t having it. Wouldn’t even let me get close—kept throwing me off course. Apparently, she’s got opinions about where I’m allowed to go. Imagine that.”
A dry chuckle slipped out of Rose then, her eyes distant and unreadable. “She’s got more sense than you, apparently.”
“Wellllllll….quite possibly,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish shrug. Her frustration wasn’t unwarranted—even he understood that much—but not being able to charm his way out of it like usual left him fumbling over the right words to smooth things over. “Anyway, Plan B: land somewhere close to Felicity, hop a ferry, maybe even book an interstellar cruise ship. Slower, sure, a bit old-fashioned, but it’ll get us there.”
The anger drained from her cheeks, replaced by amused disbelief. “That sounds awfully domestic—a cruise ship, on the slow path? You’d really go through all that trouble to figure this out?”
“Well, yes, obviously,” he said, his eyes steady on hers until she broke away to look uncomfortably at the floor. “It’s important. You’re important.”
“A cruise ship, though? That’s a bit desperate—even for you.” Rose folded her arms, but the ghost of a smile was pulling at her lips.
“Hey, it’s efficient,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “It might even be fun! You know—lounge singers, mountains of buffet food, thrilling bingo nights. What’s not to love?” Her deadpan glare made his grin collapse. “No? Not even a little bit? Tough crowd.”
A sceptical brow quirked up, but so did the corners of her mouth. “What’s next? Booking us in for a holiday at a seaside B&B?”
“Only if there’s breakfast in bed,” he quipped, letting himself grin like he wasn’t on the verge of having an existential crisis over this entire exchange.
“Oh, I’d be skipping breakfast altogether.” Her smile turned wicked, her tone daring. “If you’re in bed with me, I’ll have plenty to keep me entertained.”
Oh. Right then. That was quicker than anticipated. Either she’d decided to let him off the hook, or she was enjoying watching him squirm. Likely a bit of both.
Ears flaming a mortifying shade of telltale pink, the Doctor desperately tried—and failed—not to imagine Rose sprawled naked in bed, languidly eating grapes like she belonged in a Renaissance painting. “Skipping breakfast is terribly unhealthy, Rose. Sets a bad precedent. Especially if you’re…eating for two,” he stammered, his eyes pinned to the floor because one glance at her lips or…other parts, and he’d definitely be violating every post-concussion guideline in the book.
She chuckled, the sound softer now, teasing, and blessedly free of the earlier bite in her tone. “Right,” she said, her grin turning downright devilish, “Guess we’ll just have to work up an appetite, won’t we?”
His mouth opened, then snapped shut, only to open again like a faulty hinge. No sound emerged–she’d once again rendered him speechless. Shifting awkwardly, his fingers worried at the edge of the sheet, plucking out a rhythm that practically screamed, What am I doing? And really, what was he doing? They’d already crossed every conceivable line of propriety—several times over, in fact—so why did flirting with her still make him feel like a schoolboy caught sneaking into the prefect’s dormitory?
“Work up an appetite? Right, yes…sounds efficient,” he stammered, his voice doing that irritating pitchy thing he couldn’t seem to control. “Though, uh…” His ears burned hotter as he forced himself to meet her eyes, an act of sheer bravery in the moment. “I imagine we’d be working well through lunch by the time we’re done.”
Her grin widened, her eyes dancing as she took in–and clearly relished–the full extent of his fluster. “Good job you’re stuck with me, then,” she teased lightly, tongue poking between her teeth. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.”
And oh, didn’t she just. Every single time.
Relief flickered across his face, his smile slipping into something bordering self-deprecating. “Stuck implies I’d rather be anywhere else, and I wouldn’t. Not even a little. Yes, I’m a knob—no arguments there—but apparently, I’m a knob you’ll still joke about shagging. Far as I’m concerned, joking about shagging? Well…that’s practically foreplay. So…does this mean I’m forgiven? At least halfway?”
The look Rose shot him carried both exasperation and affection. “Not even halfway,” she said, though her lips betrayed her with the faintest twitch of a smile. “Reckon you’re getting there, though.”
“Well, progress is progress, I suppose,” the Doctor said, flashing her a lopsided grin. “Though something tells me I’ll still be a knob by the time I get there. Bit of a permanent condition, that. Miracle you’ve put up with me this long, really.”
Rolling her eyes, she brushed her fingers absently over her stomach as she leaned back into the pillow. “Always a knob,” she said, her tongue peeking out the corner of her mouth. “But I suppose you’re not the worst one.”
Under the circumstances, ‘not the worst’ might as well have been a badge of honour. He could deal with being a knob, so long as he wasn’t the knob. That title, the Doctor reckoned, was still securely held by Jimmy Stone—a bloke so vile that even mentioning his first name was enough to twist Rose’s face like she’d smelled something rotten.
But as his eyes dropped, her hand resting on her stomach caught his attention, and his thoughts shifted entirely: Rose, carrying his child. The vision unfurled in his mind with startling clarity, like a painting coming to life—her blossoming figure illuminated by the golden light of some faraway sun, her laughter bright as starlight, the two of them cradling the swell of her belly like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it would be, wouldn’t it? Their world, carried within her.
Something warm ignited in the cold space between his hearts.
“You’d be the best mum, Rose,” he murmured, his voice quiet but full of certainty. “If this happens…you’ll be extraordinary.”
Rose scoffed lightly, her fingers tracing around her navel. “Dunno…I’ve never even thought about it before. What if I’m rubbish at it?”
“Rubbish? You?” he said, letting his hand settle over hers. “You’d love that child fiercely, protect them without hesitation, and teach them to be brave, kind, and just a little stubborn—like you. You’d give them the best of you, Rose. And that’s more than enough.”
Her voice wavered as she whispered, “You honestly believe that?”
“Rose,” he leaned closer, his forehead gently resting against hers, “I’ve never been more sure of anything. I’d stake every moment of every life I’ve ever lived on it.”
His hand lingered, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles over hers. For a moment, they stayed like that, the quiet hum of the TARDIS fading into the background.
“You’re being very…” she said, her speech hitching just a little. “Sweet. Borderline romantic, even.”
“Well, don’t get used to it,” he teased, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Rose’s face, and her attention shifted to where their fingers intertwined over her belly. “I wouldn’t want to do this if it’s not yours, though,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “If it’s not…not your baby, I mean.”
Breath coming in shallow gasps, his chest constricted under the weight of what he wanted—no, what he needed—to believe. His voice was unsteady, but the words carried the edge of a promise. “It would be ours. Because I can’t—I won’t—accept the alternative.”
Rose propped herself up on her elbow, chewing her bottom lip as she looked at him. “So, if I’ve got this right…If I’m pregnant—or about to be—it can’t be from Felicity, right? That was over two weeks ago. By now, it’d already be a done deal if it happened then. But your little diagnostic tool keeps sayin’ everything’s still in flux, so…it probably hasn’t happened yet, just the events have been set in motion. It would have to be soon though, yeah?”
Silence stretched between them as his mouth opened, then closed again, no words forming. It was simple, really, so completely obvious…and he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him first. After a moment that felt like an eternity, he drew in a slow, unsteady breath, his voice strained when he finally spoke. “Right. Yes, you’re…absolutely right. If it had been Felicity, things should’ve settled already. Timelines don’t stay in flux for two weeks. They’re funny, but not that funny. You being late…well, that may actually be a good old-fashioned coincidence. Interference, like I was saying.”
Rose nodded, her thoughtful expression indicating she was still ticking things over. “So…this is inevitable, then? Like…it’s not a matter of ‘if,’ it’s ‘when,’ right? What exactly needs to happen for things to be set in stone?”
And that was the question of the hour, wasn’t it?
The crease in his brow deepened, the silence stretching awkwardly as he struggled to find the right words. Rose had already pieced together most of it—clever as ever—but there were layers he hesitated to unravel aloud. How could he explain the stakes without sounding completely barmy or, worse, making her feel trapped? “It’s all about fixed points, really. Right now, the timelines are in flux, which means they’re waiting for… Well–a catalyst, so to speak. Something definitive to anchor the event—some action, some choice that leaves no room for uncertainty. Once that happens, the paradox collapses, and the pregnancy becomes…fixed. No longer a paradox. Set in stone, so to speak.”
What he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was the alternative. If the loop wasn’t completed, if they went against the grain of what the universe had already decided, the collapse wouldn’t just be metaphorical. Paradoxes like this didn’t just dissolve quietly; they tore through the fabric of time and space, ripping open black holes and imploding galaxies. But telling her that—telling her all of it—would sound too much like coercion. And that was the last thing he wanted.
Could the paradox be unrelated to Felicity—or to the gaping hole in his memory? Maybe. Anything was possible. But coincidences that sharp rarely came without a darker thread running through them, and that thread was the one knot he couldn’t untangle. What if he allowed himself to love Rose, to love the idea of their child, only for the universe to yank it all away? No, he had to know. He had to know what was behind the memory loss, had to be sure there wasn’t an even greater loss waiting for him just around the corner.
“You keep talking about flux and timelines and choices, but you haven’t said what you’d choose. What you want.” Nervous fingers twitched at first, then settled lightly over her stomach. Her eyes darted to his, searching for an answer. “Do you…do you actually want this, Doctor? With me?”
Placing his hand over hers, steady against her belly, his breath faltered under the onslaught of emotions he hadn’t dared confront in centuries. The words lodged in his throat, and he paused, his chest constricting under the weight of it all. “You’re asking me what I’d choose, but the truth is…” He swallowed hard and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to steady himself. “I never thought I could have that again. Someone like you. A future like this. A family.” His thumb brushed gently against hers as his head dipped, the enormity of the thought nearly overwhelming him. “But if the universe is offering this to us… Then yes, Rose. I want it with you. I want you. More than you could ever know.”
Rose’s fingers threaded through his, easing the tension between them, a quiet certainty in her voice. “If this is what you want, Doctor, what we want…take us somewhere we can make it real. Set it in stone. No more maybes.”
Chapter 6
Summary:
Her gaze landed on the freshly made bed, crisp and pristine in a way that almost felt staged. A thought struck her, and she turned to the Doctor, hands on her hips. “I’m not getting into that,” she announced.
He blinked, mid-fluffing a pillow. “What? I didn’t just spend ten minutes wrangling the duvet cover for the laughs. Why not?”
“’Cause I’m all manky,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Her fingers drifted to her neck, brushing away a stray strand of hair stuck to her damp skin before tucking it behind her ear. She glanced up, arching her eyebrow as a knowing smile spread across her lips. The opportunity to wind him up a bit was too good to pass up. “Worked up a proper sweat earlier, didn’t we? And I hate crawling into a freshly made bed like that. I need a shower. Or…maybe even a bath?”
"Oh, uh, yeah—right. I’ll just, uh, leave you to it then." Despite his words, the Doctor stayed rooted to the spot, swaying like a sapling in a stiff breeze.
Notes:
Eternal gratitude to ThirdEyeBlue for betaing this while nearly dead, ILU ILU ILU. This chapter was 2k shorter and had a different tone to it before her much needed intervention, so just know that's it's 1000% better because of her and that any mistakes left behind are entirely my own.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
-
“I want you. More than you could ever know.”
The words were sweeter than a proverbial angel’s choir to Rose’s ears, the exact kind of affirmation she’d been unconsciously craving since their confrontation in her bedroom. Fresh off the potent surge of hormones from her spicy dream and brimming with righteous anger, she’d felt fearless—justified, even—when she’d read the Doctor the riot act.
Two weeks. Two weeks since they’d shagged, and he’d spent every minute since acting cheerfully blasé—as though it had never happened, as if everything was business as usual. Or so she’d thought, at least.
The days had blurred together, time slipping by in a haze of routine and restlessness. Shagging the Doctor in a closet? That memory was seared into her brain, crystal clear. What she’d had for breakfast or the name of the last planet they’d visited? Not a chance. All she could focus on was the simmering, unrelenting ache in her chest—and lower—every time he so much as glanced her way.
So yeah, she’d been properly furious and ready to row with him when he’d strolled into her bedroom, looking (and smelling) like sex incarnate. But the anger that had fueled her courage to confront him drained away the moment she realised he wasn’t feigning ignorance about what happened that night.
Even after he’d relived her memory of Felicity and they’d shagged again in the infirmary—especially after that—a part of her had braced for the other shoe to drop. For him to decide, despite all reassurances to the contrary, that it would be best if they parted ways before things became any more complicated. Any more domestic. Ta, Rose, thanks for the laughs, I’ll call you about the whole ‘maybe baby’ thing.
The Doctor didn’t do domestics. Or at least, that’s what he always used to say, albeit in a ‘he doth protest too much’ sort of way. But then he’d regenerated into the sort of bloke who pulled Christmas crackers, choked down her mum’s sad excuse for figgy pudding, and beamed at her like there was nowhere else in the entire great wide universe he’d rather be. She’d joked about sharing a mortgage, and he’d looked downright wistful. He’d asked her how long she planned to stay with him, and she’d promised forever.
Now that they’d gone and irreversibly complicated things, someone had to say the things that needed saying, and it wasn’t about to be an emotionally constipated Time Lord who could only admit he loved her while they were fucking.
And it was definitely fucking.
Never in a bed, usually in the half-dark, always with him gripping her arse as if he was trying to tether himself to reality. Sex with the Doctor was a lot of things–raw, desperate, mind-blowing–but it wasn’t making love.
Not that she was complaining. She wasn’t about to turn down any crumb of physical affection he offered, not when she’d spent so long pining after him. But if she was being honest with herself, she did want something else. Something softer. A Doctor who, at least some of the time, treated sex with her more like a connoisseur savouring a fine wine and less like an alcoholic on a bender.
So where did that leave them? Inventing an excuse to leave immediately after defiling her on a countertop might have fallen under his usual "no domestics" shtick, but when considering how comfortable he'd seemed otherwise— perfectly at ease, playing house on board the TARDIS — it didn't quite seem to fit.
Lying there in the infirmary, Rose threaded her fingers through the Doctor’s, feeling his grip tighten in response. The gesture sent a spark of courage through her.
Well…almost.
Right, then, she thought. Things that need saying.
“If this is what you want, Doctor, what we want…take us somewhere we can make it real. Set it in stone. No more maybes.”
The poor sod looked like someone had smacked him over the head with a frying pan: Mouth slack, pupils blown wide, not a single clever word from that gorgeous mouth ready to save him. Sucking in a breath, he tapped his tongue against his teeth before swiping it across his bottom lip in a way that made her thighs clench with the memory.
Honestly, how was she supposed to focus when her body was still buzzing with the memory of him burying his face between her legs on the countertop not ten feet away? And now here he was, fumbling like a nervous virgin in the backseat of a borrowed car. The shift was almost too much to keep up with sometimes, the way he could go from bold and brazen to bashful and bumbling in the blink of an eye. There had to be a joke in there somewhere—Doctor Jekyll in the sheets and Mr. Hyde (from the consequences) in the streets—but for once, she didn’t trust herself to say it out loud without breaking into hysterics.
She pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing, because seriously, what else could she do? One minute, he was seducing her like some kind of bloody Casanova, and the next, he was avoiding her eyes with the guilt of someone caught nicking biscuits from the tin. It wasn’t just baffling—it was whiplash-inducing.
Hysterical, really. Or it would’ve been, were this not the father of her potential child. The sheer absurdity of it made her heart stutter because, honestly, how was she meant to handle him being both the most brilliant man in the universe and the biggest numpty she’d ever met?
“Right. Yes. Good. Go somewhere we can…set it in stone. Or flesh, as it were.” Shifting from one foot to the other, the Doctor chuckled nervously, his eyes flicking from her lips to her sheet-draped hips and then back to the defiled countertop in question. “I mean, not that it’s just flesh, obviously. There’s a lot more involved—genetics, biology, um, timelines.”
Smoothing his fingers down his lapels, he straightened and then re-straightened them unnecessarily while studiously avoiding looking her in the eye. “We should go somewhere we can safely…conceive.” The word hung in the air for a second too long, and he grasped the back of his neck, rubbing it awkwardly as Rose watched in stunned amusement. “A plan! Conceive a plan. Or, well, not a plan exactly. More like…a child. Conceive a child. Which, I mean, we’d have to…actually…do. Together. To resolve the paradox. Not just for fun! Not that it wouldn’t be fun, I expect it rather would be. Paradox Baby, sounds like a Milton Bradley game—” The sonic screwdriver clattered from his pocket to the floor, cutting him off. “Oh, I’ll shut up now,” he groaned softly, stooping quickly to grab it, his face glowing as red as Rose had ever seen.
God, there was something painfully adorable about him when he was properly flustered.
From her spot on the examination bed, she had the perfect vantage point to watch the Doctor’s composure unravel in real-time. And it was impossible not to bask in the ironic glow, at least a little bit. It wasn’t often that he was so rattled he couldn’t find it himself to pop off with some clever comeback or a string of complicated sciencey technobabble to distract her. It had become one of her favourite games, toeing the line between friendly banter and outright flirting, just to see how far she could push him before he went pink and started stuttering.
If she had five quid for every time she’d managed to make him squirm like a schoolboy in sex ed class just in the last half-hour, she’d have enough to treat them both to a proper steak dinner. And if they were counting the last several hours? They’d be dining at The Ritz.
For a second she just let him stew, the low hum of the TARDIS filling the silence between them. Wide-eyed and completely lost for words, his face could be a picture in a dictionary right next to the entry for ‘gobsmacked’.
As entertaining as it was to watch him struggle, there was another surefire way to make the Doctor quit nattering—and it was a tactic Rose was only too eager for an excuse to employ.
Reaching out, she grabbed hold of his lapels, yanking him closer with enough force to send his knees bumping into the edge of the bed. Like a baby giraffe finding its footing, he wobbled, arms flailing briefly before one hand found her hip for balance. The other, of course, managed to snag the edge of her sheet.
Both of them froze, watching as it fluttered to the floor.
“Oops,” the Doctor muttered helplessly. His hand hovered, apparently debating whether to fix the situation or pretend it hadn’t happened.
Rose bit back a laugh. “Think I’ll save you from digging yourself any deeper,” she teased as she tugged him closer.
Before he could stammer out another rambling protest, she kissed him.
Rose half-expected the Doctor to freeze up, maybe stand there all stiff and awkward while his brain tried to catch up, but no. Warm and pliant lips met hers with no hesitation–it seemed he’d merely been waiting for her to make the first move. His kiss was tentative at first–he was testing the waters–but quickly deepened, his lips moving against hers with a fervour that sent her pulse racing. And when he carefully slid his hand to cradle the back of her neck, hauling her closer like he couldn’t bear the thought of stopping—oh, that was it. Her head might’ve still been ringing from the knock she’d taken earlier, but all the little thrills shooting through her now had nothing to do with the concussion.
He broke away, his forehead finding hers, his breath lingering against her lips as if he wasn’t ready to leave the moment behind. “All right then,” he whispered. “We’ll go…somewhere. Somewhere we can set things in stone. But only after you’ve had a proper night’s rest and time to recover. You’re exhausted, Rose. You need actual sleep, not a concussion nap on a bathroom floor.” His thumb traced the dips in her hip, idle and unthinking, drawing a shiver up her spine. The touch vanished almost as quickly as he realised it though, leaving her wondering if it had even been intentional. “That reminds me–”
The Doctor’s hands disappeared into his trans-dimensional pockets, plunging so deep it looked like he might never resurface. “I know they’re in here somewhere.” His brows knit together as he rummaged, muttering under his breath, “Honestly, what’s the point of bigger-on-the-inside pockets if you can’t find anything when you need it? Oh! Wait–”
With a triumphant flourish, he yanked out a pair of men’s briefs and held them up with a grin. “There we are then. These are clean. Probably.”
Rose’s eyebrows shot up. “Probably? What do you mean probably? Are they yours?”
He blinked, as if the question itself were absurd. “Well, yes, obviously. Who else’s would they be?”
“Well, you did nick my knickers, so excuse me if I don’t entirely trust the contents of your pockets,” she shot back. For all she knew, he could have had a souvenir pair of Jack’s drawers floating around in there too. Nothing would shock at her at this point.
“Be fair, I had no idea I had done that up until today.” Blushing so furiously he was nearly the same shade of burgundy as the pants clutched in his hand, he waved them at her like a flag of surrender. “Look, the point is, you’re not walking back to your room with no knickers on. I know these aren’t exactly glamorous, but they’ll do in a pinch. I don’t happen to have a pair of women’s pants stashed away right now.”
“Oh, sure, now you draw the line,” she chided lightly, plucking the briefs from his hand and holding them up with a dubious look. “You don’t have the pair you took from me, then?”
“Absolutely not,” he stammered a little too quickly, straightening his tie in an effort to look anywhere but at her. “And even if I did—which I don’t—they wouldn’t be appropriate for your current needs. Function over fashion, Rose!”
Right, my own knickers aren’t appropriate for the situation, that’s some time Lord logic. The git definitely has them and doesn’t want to give them back, she thought. Scrunching her nose, she tugged the briefs on with a sigh. “You’re lucky I’m concussed, or I’d have you returning all my stolen underwear right now.”
“Right, well, now that’s sorted,” he said briskly, hands clapping together. “Let’s get you back to your room to rest before this conversation becomes any more mortifying for either of us.”
She let out an exaggerated sigh, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Fine, I’ll rest—but only if you promise to get me there in one piece. Can’t have me wandering around the TARDIS all concussed, can we?”
The Doctor’s eyebrows shot up, indignation and amusement vying for control. “As if I’d let you wander off unattended, I intended to escort you myself. Learned my lesson the first time, thank you very much. What sort of a Doctor do you think I am?”
“The kind who could proably use a bit of rest himself, seeing as he missed the blooming concussion in the first place,” she goaded, tugging lightly on his lapels. “How about you walk me to my room, stay until I’m asleep, and then we’ll both be off the hook.”
“Stay with you?” He half-laughed, his hand drifting to rub the back of his neck, fingers kneading the tension there. “Rose, I’ve got—”
“Absolutely nothing better to do, and we both know it,” she cut him off, grinning as she grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the door. “You said you learned your lesson about leaving me on my own, so prove it. Besides, if you’re playing nursemaid, you might as well commit to the bit. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she shot him stopped him cold. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck before letting out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, bugger, alright then. Deal,” he grumbled, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “But no funny business. I’m supposed to be the responsible one, remember?”
Rose grinned. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
*****
Surprising absolutely no one, the answer was not long at all.
Or rather, only as long as it took them to tidy the disaster zone which was her bedroom.
Before Rose could climb into bed, they had to sort out the aftermath of her ripping her room apart in search of those bloody pregnancy tests. No way was she going tobe able to sleep with the place looking like a hurricane had hit it–well, more of a hurricane than usual anyway. Priorities and all that. Dirty clothes she’d flung onto the bed during her search hit the hamper, clean ones were hung back up, and the lamp she’d knocked over in her blind panic was set right again.
While the Doctor busied himself making her bed—with fresh sheets delivered right on cue by the TARDIS—Rose stuck into the rest. Trainers went back under the wardrobe, her makeup found its way to the dresser, and the crumpled crisp bag and candy wrappers from her last midnight pre-menstrual snack binge made a one-way trip to the bin. By the time they were done, the place was cleaner than she remembered it being since she’d officially moved in almost two years ago.
She paused, looking around the tidy room. It was...comfortable, doing chores and being domestic with him. Comfortable in a way that sent a little flip through her stomach—a feeling she wasn’t quite ready to unpack yet.
Her gaze landed on the freshly made bed, crisp and pristine in a way that almost felt staged. A thought struck her, and she turned to the Doctor, hands on her hips. “I’m not getting into that,” she announced.
He blinked, mid-fluffing a pillow. “What? I didn’t just spend ten minutes wrangling the duvet cover for the laughs. Why not?”
“’Cause I’m all manky,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Her fingers drifted to her neck, brushing away a stray strand of hair stuck to her damp skin before tucking it behind her ear. She glanced up, arching her eyebrow as a knowing smile spread across her lips. The opportunity to wind him up a bit was too good to pass up. “Worked up a proper sweat earlier, didn’t we? And I hate crawling into a freshly made bed like that. I need a shower. Or…maybe even a bath?”
"Oh, uh, yeah—right. I’ll just, uh, leave you to it then." Despite his words, the Doctor stayed rooted to the spot, swaying like a sapling in a stiff breeze.
Rose bit her lip, looking down to hide the sly grin she was sure must be overtaking her face by now. Attempting to school her expression into something more needy and defenceless and less wanton and hungry, she lifted her eyes back up, all but batting her lashes at him. “It’s just–with my head injury, and all–shouldn’t I maybe have a chaperone?”
His ears flushed pink as he smoothed the sheets with an unnecessarily aggressive flourish. “Rose, you’re a grown woman, not a toddler in a paddling pool. I think you can manage bathing without a lifeguard.”
“Well, yeah, course I can. But what happens if I get dizzy?” she said, her voice small. “You’re the one who said I needed proper rest, what if I nod off in the bathtub and slip under? Don't you think you should come with me, for safety's sake?”
“Oh, I’m not—well, I mean, that’s not really—necessary,” he stammered, his words tangling together. Stumbling, he caught his foot on the bed frame and let out a muffled curse, rubbing his ankle as his gaze darted anywhere but at her. “You’re fine. Fixed you up in the infirmary, didn’t I? Good as new—well, mostly. No complications, but you should still take it easy. And anyway, the TARDIS would let me know if something went wrong.”
Grinning wickedly, she arched an eyebrow. This had barely been a challenge, shifting him from loosely composed to dithering idiot. “Oh, come on, Doctor. We passed ‘necessary’ ages ago. Several times in the last hour, as I recall.”
Matching streaks of pink lit up his cheeks, the blush creeping past his collar until his entire face was as red and freckled as a strawberry. “That’s not—it’s not the same at all! This is—”
“This is what?” she cut in, leaning casually against the doorframe, her grin practically daring him to keep digging. “Ridiculous? Because, let’s face it, it is. C’mon, Doctor, it’s just a little soap and water. Besides, you didn’t seriously think I was gonna somehow end up pregnant without us getting naked at least once, right? Unless…God, don’t tell me Time Lords traditionally shag through a hole in a bedsheet or something.”
That did it—her absurdly brazen comment sent him reeling, knocking him straight off whatever precarious ledge of propriety he’d been clinging to. His mouth fell open, eyebrows shooting skyward before he spluttered an utterly scandalised, “Rose!”
“What?” she said, her grin widening as she pushed off the frame and strolled closer. “I’m just saying, you’ve basically seen me starkers already. And trust me, you didn’t look nearly this shy about it then.” Her lips twitched at the memory of just how not shy he’d been. Tongue deep inside of me, she thought wryly, fighting the urge to say it aloud.
Raising an eyebrow, she gave him an exaggerated once-over. “Closest I’ve ever come to seeing you naked was that Christmas when I had to wrestle you out of your clothes and into Howard’s jimjams, and Mum had to help me. No surprises, but she insisted we leave your pants and shirt on underneath. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Bit one-sided, if you ask me.”
Really, it was rubbish. She was practically naked already, and the git still had his full kit on. Even when they’d shagged, he’d kept most of it on. That was just not going to do...
“Tiny little Darth Vader, you are,” he said, crossing his arms with an exaggerated huff. “First, you want me to tuck you in. Now you’re dragging me into the bath. What’s next? Bedtime stories and a lullaby? This wasn’t the deal.” He shifted his weight and shot her a pointed look, but the telltale glint in his eye ruined the effect entirely.
“I am altering the deal, pray I don’t alter it any further,” she declared, tugging him toward the bathroom. “If it helps, think of it as practice for taking care of a baby. Now come on. I promise I won’t bite. Unless you want me to, of course.”
“Practice?” he repeated lightly, though his fingers curled loosely against the doorframe, betraying a hint of hesitation. “Rose, you’ve got this backwards. Shouldn’t you be proving you can keep me out of trouble first?”
“Pretty sure I already do.” Grinning, she gave his hand a playful tug.
He didn’t budge immediately, instead letting out a hushed sigh and glancing at the ceiling, as though mentally appealing to the TARDIS for backup. “Please,” he protested, weakly and unconvincingly. “I am trying to be a gentleman about this.”
Rose arched a brow, her grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Wasn’t this just like him though, to fight her tooth and claw about doing the exact thing she knew he was secretly wishing for? “Reckon it’s a bit late for that now, mate.”
“Look, Rose–” Inhaling deeply, he massaged between his eyebrows with two slender fingers. “I think I’ve already proven my total lack of control where you’re concerned. I need to put my foot down and be the responsible one. If you can’t behave…I’m not sure I’ll be able to either. And you’re recently concussed, Rose. You need rest now, not…other things.”
Rose peered up at him, the picture of innocence with wide eyes and slightly upturned lips. “I’m not sure what you mean. What other things do you think we might do in a bath or shower that aren’t bathing?”
A beat of silence stretched between them, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Yes, you do know exactly what I mean,” he sputtered, his face contorting as he tried—and failed—to compose himself. “Blimey, you’re quite set on making this hard for me, aren’t you?”
The words had barely left his mouth when his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he realised what he’d said. His eyes darted to hers, as if bracing for the inevitable. Rose didn’t need to say anything, though. She let her eyes drop, lips pursed, catching the way his posture shifted, his legs crossing in a transparent attempt to hide the distinct shadow of something rising in his trousers.
Saying the words pregnant and naked out loud had practically sent him spiralling into the abyss earlier. Telling the Doctor it looked like she had already made something quite hard indeed would probably give him an existential crisis.
No, subtlety was the way forward. If he wanted to play coy, Rose was more than prepared to let her body do the talking.
“Good,” she said, stepping closer, her tone dipping into that low, sultry register she usually reserved for when she really wanted something–chips, the good tea mug, to straddle his naked lap while they snogged in the bathtub. Batting her eyelashes for emphasis, she traced his bottom lip with her finger before letting it come to rest under his chin. Stroking the line of his jaw seductively, she coaxed his head closer with one hand while her other tugged on his belt loops. “It’s more fun that way, don’t you think?” she whispered into his open mouth.
A strangled noise slipped out of him—somewhere between a squawk and a groan—and for a second, she thought he might actually combust. His hands hovered uselessly, evidently caught between the urge to shove her away and the need to pull her closer. Not that it mattered. She already knew she was winning this round. “Rose Tyler,” he croaked, rough as gravel, “you’re going to be the end of me.”
“Probably,” she said with a wink, releasing his belt and grabbing his hand instead. Her grin widened as she finally hauled him over the threshold with a gentle tug, feeling like she’d won a game of chess against a genius. Which, in a way, she had. “But what a way to go, right?”
Glancing at the bathroom like it might offer him a sudden escape hatch, he sighed with theatrical resignation. “All right, then. You win. Not that I ever stood half a chance anyway.” His hands shot up to gesture broadly at the waterfall shower and the enormous clawfoot tub at opposite ends of the room. “Bath or shower? Your choice.”
Tapping her chin slowly, she considered the proposition. “Well, which one do you think is safer? Sitting together in very close quarters in a tub where you’ll have to keep me propped upright? Or standing under a shower on those wet, slippery tiles? ‘Cause, you know, concussed and all. Bit unsteady on my pins. Gonna need someone with strong hands in case I get dizzy.”
The effect was instantaneous. He froze, his mouth working soundlessly, hands fumbling at his collar like it had suddenly gotten too tight. His blush spread in a glorious wave, right up to the tips of his ears. Rose bit her lip, fighting back a grin. If she had any idea where her mobile was, she’d have snapped a picture to immortalise the occasion.
“I—I suppose the bath might be…less precarious,” he stammered finally, faltering just a little on “precarious.” “Logically.”
“Hmm,” she said, sidling closer with a teasing look. “But then you’d have to hop in with me, wouldn’t you? Holding me up’s not exactly a spectator sport, you’re gonna have to be more…hands-on than that.”
“Suppose so,” he agreed, his lips quirking, and was that a bit of nervous sweat on his brow?
“Don’t sound so disappointed to be taking a bath with me, Doctor.”
He let out a snort, half laughing, half flustered. “I can assure you, it’s not that.”
Rose cocked her head and gave him an indulgent smile. “You know, for someone who thinks they’re so much more clever than the rest of us, you really are taking your time figuring this out.”
Right on cue, his eyes narrowed, a flash of annoyance sparking to life. Bullseye. Oh, she knew exactly how to get under his skin, and even vaguely implying he didn’t know something? Nothing rankled his ego more. “Figuring what out?”
“That I’m enjoying this,” she said, stepping closer, her fingers trailing across his cheeks in a fleeting, almost teasing touch. “And maybe you could too, if you stopped pretending you’re some kind of saint.”
He leaned in slightly, the smallest shift that suggested he was seconds away from closing the distance between them, but he stopped himself before he could. When his eyes found hers, they stayed there, and a subtle shiver ran through her—not nerves exactly, but it wasn’t far off, either.
“You do realise I’m not trying to play the martyr here, I hope.” His words were measured, fingers fidgeting as though he didn’t quite trust them not to betray him. “It’s about not hurting you. That’s the last thing I’d ever want. But this… Rose, I’ve never done anything this complicated before. And I’m terrified I’ll get it wrong. Terrified I’ll let you down. I don’t even know which way is up or down anymore, what’s right or wrong.”
“And what if this is right?” countered Rose, brushing her fingers lightly against his chest as her eyes searched his. “What if this—” she gestured between them, “—is exactly what I need? What we both need?”
Silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. His fingers twitched nervously at his sides, his focus darting between her and the floor. Rose knew that look all too well—he was second-guessing himself, caught in that endless internal war. No matter how many people they helped, how many he saved, he still didn’t quite believe he’d earned any of the peace they felt with each other. But she’d seen him let the fight go, just for a little while, in those intimate situations when it was just the two of them.
For instance, when they’d end up curled on the library settee in front of the fire, her tucked against his chest while he lulled her to sleep reading Dickens in that soft, lush storyteller’s tone. Or when they sprawled together on the couch, his arm wrapped snug around her waist while they pretended to watch a film—though, let’s be honest, both of them rarely paid attention to the screen.
Those were the moments when the Doctor seemed most real, most hers. No universe to save, no one to impress. Just them.
She could see it then, plain as anything, almost a memory waiting to happen. The library was the same—cosy lighting, stacks of books just out of view—but her belly was round and unmistakable, her hand resting over it while the Doctor read aloud, the words warm honey flowing from his lips. His arm draped around her shoulders, his other hand—wearing a thin gold band—settled over hers on her stomach like it belonged there. She could almost hear him, soft and teasing, as he spoke the next words: “You know, Rose, if Mr. Darcy had access to a TARDIS, he could’ve skipped all the brooding and gone straight to the confession. Much more efficient, don’t you think? Though I suppose that would ruin all the dramatic tension, wouldn’t it?”
Her throat thickened, and she blinked hard against the sting in her eyes. God, she wanted this—wanted him—more than she thought possible. And for an instant, just a heartbeat, that imagined future felt so tangible, so real, she could almost believe it was already theirs.
“I guess I’d better stop pretending I could ever say no to you,” the Doctor said, the words soft yet certain, snapping her out of the daydream.
He leaned over the tub, his movements precise and calculated, as though he were solving some great universal puzzle. Testing the water’s temperature, he held his hand under the stream, his thumb tracing small circles against his palm. The familiar tic made her chest ache—it wasn’t about the bath, not really. It was about control. About feeling he could get something right when everything else felt so uncertain.
And there was so much uncertainty, wasn’t there? The two of them finally moving forward after years of skirting around what they were to each other—that alone was enough to take in without adding the possibility of a baby to the mix. She could hardly blame him for being as on edge as she felt.
But then, as if deciding he’d done all he could with the taps, the Doctor straightened, his movements slow and measured. Rose’s breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat as her focus shifted, her eyes glued to him now. Every tiny movement held her rapt attention, and when his hands finally reached for the collar of his Oxford, her heart nearly leapt out of her chest, forcing her to cling to the towel rack like her life depended on it.
His fingers teased the buttons open, slow and decisive, each pop of the fabric making her nerves spark. By buttons four and five, when a hint of his chest hair started peeking through, she swore he was intentionally dragging it out as a form of revenge. Surely no one unbuttoned a shirt that slowly unless they were trying to make a point.
When the fabric finally slipped off his shoulders, she couldn’t help herself–an audible gasp slipped out. One advantage of the bathroom’s mirrored sink was that it offered a view of the side of the Doctor’s body not facing her. Freckles dotted his pale skin like a star map, constellations that made her fingers twitch with the urge to trace them—not that she could pretend it was out of strictly scientific curiosity. And that mole, right between his shoulders, the one he’d once called his “cosmic proof of imperfection,” was practically magnetic, easily drawing her eyes in.
The long, lean lines of his torso were on full display, and Rose couldn’t help but drink it in—the faint outline of his ribs, the sharp angles of his hip bones, and that thin scar slicing across his abdomen, a souvenir from some rebel’s spear on Ethelia 9. The sight was nothing short of captivating—not just because of the Doctor’s surprisingly muscled physique–though that certainly didn’t hurt–but because of what it meant. Nothing was ever halfway with him. Every button undone, every inch of skin revealed, was a little declaration: I trust you.
God, he was bloody gorgeous. And—for now, at least—all hers. Impossible, improbable, this close to naked, and if she managed to remove her own clothes without passing away on the spot, it’d be a miracle.
Rational thoughts scattered when his hands moved to unfasten his trousers. The rustling of fabric hit her ears, and her brain practically short-circuited. Stay cool, Rose, she thought. He’s just a man getting undressed.
A man with very distracting hip bones and entirely too much grace for someone who claimed to be awkward, and a delicious smattering of freckles circling his navel, leading down to…
“Right,” he muttered, stepping out of his pants and trousers as though it was no big deal. “That’s that, then.”
When he turned toward the tub and she caught a flash of his bare abdomen and what rested between his legs, she felt like she’d been granted a glimpse of something sacred.
The spell broke with his words, subdued but more than a little cocky. “Enjoying the show?”
She smirked, the grin coming easily now. “Oh, definitely. You?”
The heat in his face didn’t fade, but he stepped into the tub smoothly, the water rippling around him. “We’ll see,” he said simply, leaning back with a hint of a smile. “Your move.”
Rose froze, her grin faltering as her chest tightened. Changing in front of him had never been a big deal before—just something they did without thinking, whether they were soaked through or covered in alien grime. But now, the air between them felt charged, every little move suddenly holding more meaning. It felt like walking a tightrope—wobbly, unsure—but the only sensible direction to move at this point was forward, no looking back.
Still, she wasn’t about to let him see her nerves. Not when he’d just gone and bared himself in every way imaginable, or all the ones that mattered at least. She reached for the hem of her vest top, tugging it over her head in one smooth motion.
The Doctor didn’t look away—not entirely, at least. His attention lingered carefully polite, directed just above her head, but the faint red tint creeping down his neck betrayed him. She caught him stealing a glance as she stepped out of his pants and toward the tub, and the way his ears nearly matched the deep red fabric made her bite back a chuckle. She wanted to make a joke about the fact that she’d only had those on for a mere twenty minutes before he’d managed to get them back off again but held back.
“Enjoying the show?” she asked, tossing his words back at him as she dipped a toe into the water.
Adam’s apple bobbling softly, his expression played somewhere between indignant and amused. “Turnabout’s fair play, I suppose.”
The water enveloped her as she slipped into the tub, but it did little to calm the fluttering in her chest (and other places she was too afraid to think about lest she explode). Settling between his knees, the space between them felt entirely too small and vast all at once. Every nerve in her body seemed tuned to him—the way his breathing slowed, the faint ripple of water as he adjusted ever so slightly.
For a heartbeat, the air felt heavy, thick with all the things, even now, neither of them dared to say. Rose’s fingers twitched, the urge to close the distance warring with the fear of what might happen if she did. He studied her for a second, as if he might speak—but when he finally did, there was a sombre weight to his words.
“Rose,” he said softly. “This…us…you know it’s dangerous, don’t you?”
She nodded, her smile dimming as reality seeped into the moment. “Yeah. But I’ve never been one for playing it safe. You should know that by now.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The Doctor’s eyes lingered on hers, and the silence that followed swelled against her, as if waiting for her to bridge it.
Her chest tightened, the rawness of his expression striking a chord deep within her. But instead of pressing further, she tilted her head back, the suggestion of a smile tugging at her lips. “Wash my hair?” she asked, offering them both an escape from the weight of it all.
For a breath, she could feel him staring through her back, the shift in conversation catching him off guard. Then, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed and let out a soft chuckle. “Wash your hair?”
“Yeah,” she said, leaning as far back as she dared, scooting her bum along the porcelain until she could feel him pressing into the small of her back. “What? Never done that before?”
“Not in this kinda context, no,” he admitted, leaving her wondering. “But I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”
Reaching for the bottle of shampoo perched on the tub’s ledge, he poured a small amount into his hands, the scent of lavender and something else vaguely floral filling the air. “You’re not gonna be making a habit of this, are you?” he teased lightly, his fingers hesitating just above her head.
“Why? Worried you’ll get used to it?” She turned her head slightly to encourage him.
The Doctor huffed softly, his fingers slipping into her hair, the lather foaming beneath his touch as he dipped his hands into the water and brought it to the crown of her head. Each movement was methodical, his hands gliding through her strands with unmatched tenderness. The rhythmic movement of his fingers massaging her scalp sent a jolt skittering down her spine, her chest tightening in response.
Everything else fell away—the sound of the running water, the cool air against her skin, even the nervous energy that lingered between them. His touch felt impossibly gentle—like he was handling something fragile, something precious. She closed her eyes, her breath shallow and reedy. The comfort of his hands on bare skin, the tenderness of his touch—it all seemed to reach places she hadn’t realised were aching.
Sex was one thing, but this—this was deeper, something far more vulnerable.
“Rose,” the Doctor said softly, breaking through the lazy haze of her thoughts.
“Yeah?” she murmured, eyes slipping shut under the soothing motion of his hands. Really, he hadn’t been wrong to insist she sleep—she was positively knackered. Were it not for the sensation of him growing harder between them, she could’ve probably drifted off right there.
“Thank you,” he said, so muted she almost didn’t catch it.
Her eyes opened, turning to meet his. “For what?”
“For staying.” His hands stilled briefly before resuming their careful rhythm. “Even when you shouldn’t. For trusting me enough to do—welll, this. And a lot more, obviously. But this is…nice.”
She smiled, the sound barely carrying as she whispered, “I told you forever, didn’t I?”
The spell broke when the Doctor paused, his hands still soothingly lathering through her hair. “Right, then. Time to rinse. Can you lean back without getting dizzy?”
Rose blinked up at him, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “Think so. Maybe. Just go slow, yeah?”
“Here, lean back against me. Let me do the heavy lifting.”
She hesitated, but the affection in his posture gave her the confidence to trust him. Slowly, she eased back until her head rested just above the water, supported by his arm.
“This all right?” he asked practically under his breath, as though afraid speaking too loud would break the spell.
“Yeah,” she purred, her eyes closing. “Feels nice.”
Carefully, he cupped his hands to scoop water from the tub, letting it pour calmly over her hair. He worked methodically, taking his time to make sure she stayed comfortable and the water didn’t trickle near her nose or mouth.
“Doctor,” Rose teased softly, “you’re going to spoil me if you keep this up.”
He chuckled, his breath ticklish against her temple. “Well now, we really can’t have that, can we? Might set some sort of a precedent.”
“Good thing we both like breaking your rules,” she said, her lips curving into a smile as he continued his careful work.
Shifting back, the Doctor settled into the tub with an air of businesslike calm. “Right then,” he said, smoothing his hands over the surface of the water as though it might somehow settle the tension between them. “Anything else that needs washing, or have I fulfilled my supervisory duties?”
Rose laughed softly, the sound rippling through the stillness. “You’ve still got a bit of work to do as my bath assistant,” she taunted, turning to look over her shoulder at him. “I’ve been concussed, remember? Don’t think I can manage scrubbing my own back.”
Leaning away slightly, his hands moved slowly over the water, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Bath assistant, am I? Well, I hope you’re prepared to tip generously, considering the…personal attention this role seems to require.”
“Generous tips are earned, Doctor. Better show me you’re worth it.”
His brow lifted, hesitation flickering across his face, as if he might protest. But then he nodded, his usual fluster replaced by a grim determination. “All right.” He heaved a sigh of feigned exasperation, reaching for the flannel draped over the side of the tub. “Best turn back around then.”
She did as he asked, her grin softening into something more vulnerable as she let herself relax. His movements were careful, the rough weave of the cloth brushing reassuringly against her skin. It was soothing, his touch deliberate but never lingering.
Until it did.
She felt it—a pause where his hand stilled against her collarbones, the heat of his palm bleeding through the flannel. Her breath caught, but before she could say anything, he cleared his throat and shifted back, his voice pitched just slightly higher.
“There,” he said, the flannel dipping back into the water. “Good as new.”
Rose turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder to catch his expression. His face was passive, but the pink creeping up his neck–and the hard-on jammed against her back–told a different story. She smiled, biting back yet another comment that might have pushed him too far. Instead, she leaned back, allowing the energy between them to shift into something a little less charged.
“You’re good at this,” she said quietly, closing her eyes.
“At what?” he asked softly.
“Looking after me,” she replied. “Even when you’re trying not to.”
He didn’t respond right away, but she felt the shift in the water as he adjusted his position, his hand brushing hers briefly under the surface. “Someone’s got to,” he said eventually, his tone light but his meaning anything but.
Tangling her fingers through his, she guided their clasped hands to her belly, resting just below her navel, as overt as she dared to be. Holding her breath, she let go and waited for the Doctor’s reaction.
Tentatively, he brushed his fingertips over her mons and she couldn’t help but shudder against him, torn between arousal and relief he hadn’t shied away. “Oh, now this won’t do at all.” The Doctor’s voice was soft, almost a purr. “The whole point of this was to relax you enough for bed, and yet here you are, all tense and restless. What am I going to do with you, Rose? You almost leave me no choice but to intervene.”
Rose let her hand trail back over his, surprised by how breathless she sounded already. “Well, if I am tense, I suppose it’s only fair you do something about it. Can’t let me suffer, can you?”
“Wellllll…suffering builds character,” he quipped back, though his hand didn’t move, and his gaze flickered to hers, daring her to push him further. “Or so they say. Not me, mind you. But, y’know…some people.”
God, of all the times for him to play at oblivious. He was actually gonna make her beg this time, wasn’t he? As penance for winding him up?
Maybe this was actually his secret kink: teasing and tormenting her until she was literally desperate for him to make her come, by whatever means—or appendages—necessary. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise her to discover he had a wicked streak underneath all that goodwill towards a universe that slagged him off as often as he saved it.
And she had been extraordinarily cheeky.
“Good thing I’ve got plenty of character then, from all these years of travelling with a complete bellend,” she shot back, her hand pressing lightly against his, urging his fingers closer to where she wanted—needed—them. “Guess that means you’ve got no excuse not to help.”
“Always intended to help.” The graze of his lips on her neck sent a shiver through her as his fingertips traced the curves of her hip bones. “But winding me up like that? You’ve got to know by now—I’m not one to let that slide, being a complete bellend and all. There’s an old Chinese proverb: revenge is a dish best served cold.” He paused for dramatic effect, and she could practically hear the undoubtedly filthy grin on his face as he continued, “Like this bathwater will be by the time I’ve finished making you come. Now, open up for me.”
And there it was again, as if a switch had been flipped, fast enough to make her head spin. Jekyll and Hyde.
“Alright, where’s the shy one gone, and who’s this, then?” she joked, but the words came out shakier than she intended. Tightening her grip on the edge of the tub, the knot of tension in her chest pulled taut as he leaned closer, his lips close enough to graze her neck.
“Where’s the shy one gone?” the Doctor echoed in a low, amused rumble. The sound sent goose pimples racing along her arms, and she fought to keep her breathing even. “Oh, he’s still in here, somewhere. But I reckon you’re stuck with me now, aren’t you?”
Inhaling deeply through her nose, Rose closed her eyes and leaned back against him, hooking her feet around his calves and spreading her legs to grant him easier access. The Doctor made a soft sound of approval low in the back of his throat. “There’s a good girl,” he rasped, his breath raising the hairs on her neck where it ghosted hot over her bare, damp skin.
Sliding his arms under hers, he urged her even closer, until her back was flush against his chest and his palms were clasped between her breasts. The stubble on his cheeks lightly chafed her skin as his chin rested on her shoulder, his damp fringe brushing her temple as he planted a rough kiss to the curve of her neck.
Forgetting to be self-conscious for a second, Rose let slip with a quiet moan that didn’t escape the Time Lord’s preternatural hearing. He emitted a pleased hum, rewarding her reaction by nipping along her shoulder, his lips dragging heat and pressure in their wake, hard enough to leave a bruise. The thought of him marking her like this, laying claim to her in a way that others could see on her skin, sent a thrill through her—one she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to analyse too deeply. His touch held the same focused intensity as his kisses, his fingers tracing unhurried paths that left her shivering in their wake.
Bloody hell, and were his fingers ever long.
Long enough to stroke her nipples with maddening finesse, his hands stayed nestled snugly between her cleavage, as if he were praying directly to her tits. Those fingers were so impossibly long that, with just a twist of his wrist, he could cup each one fully in the palms of his clever hands.
“D’you know what I think, Rose?” he whispered into her ear, his breath torturously hot as it swept across her cheek. His thumbs traced slow, careful circles over her areolae, drawing a soft gasp from her lips when he chafed against her nipples. “I reckon you had ulterior motives for choosing a bath over the shower.”
He paused, letting his lips hover just close enough for her to feel the faintest brush of them against her temple. The tension in the air thickened, her pulse quickening as his touch grew firmer. “Not that it matters,” he murmured, low and rough, “I’d have managed just fine either way.”
His fingers shifted, exploring, teasing, as his mouth curved into a smirk she could hear in his tone. “Still…awfully naughty of you. If you wanted me to fuck you with my fingers, you could’ve just asked.”
His touch became rougher, more resolute—possessive, she thought—as he continued to fondle her. Not punishing exactly as he kneaded and squeezed, but certainly not gentle. Between them, she could feel the evidence of his arousal growing harder, pressing insistently against the small of her back. The urge to shift herself onto his lap so she could straddle that throbbing length between her legs was so overwhelming, she was nearly dizzy with it. Biting her lip, she grabbed his thigh instead and squeezed as a shudder rippled through her.
“Naughty, was I?” Turning her head just slightly, she caught his gaze and felt her mouth go dry—there was no warmth hiding there, just raw, aching need reflected in pupils as dark and fathomless as the black hole over Krop-Tor. For the first time, she felt a tingle of that danger the Doctor had alluded to earlier—there was nothing at all familiar in the hungry expression currently fixed on her. “You didn’t seem to mind being lured, though,” she continued, regaining her composure and saucily wiggling her bum against him. “In fact, I think you quite enjoyed it.”
“Enjoyed every second of it,” he admitted, his hands sliding lower, his grip firming with deliberate pressure that sent a shiver coursing through her. His movements slowed, intentional now, each touch measured and purposeful, as if daring her to challenge his control. “But don’t think for a minute you’re the only one who knows how to play this game, Rose.”
“Oh, is that right?” Twisting only slightly—still nearly as flexible as she’d been during her gymnastics years—she bent her elbow and reached behind her. For a fleeting, delicious moment, her fingers closed around his shaft–long enough to elicit a gasp from him– before he managed to intercept, his grip firm but careful as he pinned her wrist against his thigh. “Guess we’ll just have to see who’s better at it, then,” she challenged.
“Not tonight.” The Doctor’s hold was gentle but unyielding in a way that did nothing to temper the flames of want licking at the base of her spine. His expression softened, though his voice retained that undeniable edge of authority that she frankly enjoyed a little too much. “As much as I admire your–” He paused, considering his words, “—your enthusiasm, Rose, I don’t need you overexerting yourself.” He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Let me look after you for—oh, enough with the pouting, you’re incorrigible. I promise, that thing you’re so eager to get your hands on isn’t going anywhere. Just relax. Let me focus on you this time.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that he was still such a control freak—this was the Doctor, after all. And while he almost always sought her permission in some small way before ploughing ahead, once things went beyond what could reasonably pass for friendly contact bordering on fliartatious, he was almost always the one to initiate more…overt action. Every time she tried to touch him back, he’d hold her at a distance—affectionate, but firm, both literally and figuratively. Yet the way he deflected her was so careful, so tender, it was impossible to stay cross with him for denying her the privilege. Guiding him to exactly where she wanted him earlier was probably the most forward she’d dared to be yet—maybe it had shorted a circuit in him somewhere.
There was no way he was going to let her gain the upper hand now.
The Doctor released her wrist but kept his grip on her, guiding her back against his chest. “You don’t always have to give, you know,” he whispered, the softness in his touch mirroring his words. “Sometimes…it’s alright to let go and just leave it to me. Let me take care of things, take care of you.”
“You should take your own advice once in a while,” she scoffed lightly, allowing him to rearrange their bodies. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind returning the favour so much, if you catch my drift. Sometimes it’s better to give than receive. Not that I don’t love receiving, but it’d be nice if you allowed me to give sometimes, too.”
“If you love receiving, then receive,” he said simply, slipping his fingers between her folds as he sucked at the skin beneath her ear. Biting the inside of her cheek, a frisson of desire shot through her, so strong she nearly blacked out. Already slick as sin and ready to the touch—even underwater—she could hear the smug pride in his tone when he said, “Well now Rose, who’s making things hard for whom? I could cut diamonds with this.” He swirled a finger around the engorged bundle of nerves in question before dipping it inside of her.
Rose’s groan escaped before she could stop it, torn between the sheer awfulness of his joke and the electricity sparking along every nerve his fingers brushed. Heat coiled low in her belly, and she barely resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. It was unfair, really—only the Doctor could make her cringe and fall apart in the same breath, her body clearly not getting the memo about his terrible sense of humour.
And if that alone weren’t bad enough, there’d been a twinge when he said it. Of course there had. Because it was him. Anything even remotely dirty, spoken in that sultry scientist’s tone, hit her right between the legs—crude or childish, it didn’t matter.
“Be honest,” he said, his breath a slow, teasing caress against her ear. His fingers brushed over her skin, feather-light, before trailing down to settle just at the edge of where she wanted him most, a deliberate hesitation. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
His lips hovered near her jaw, close enough that her breath caught. “Lure an unsuspecting Time Lord to your bedroom,” he continued, his voice dropping lower as his fingers resumed their maddening dance. “Seduce him into your bathtub under the guise of medical supervision…” His other hand cupped her hip, his grip firm, unwavering, as if grounding her in place.
“Trick him into pleasuring you?” His lips finally found her neck, the kiss slow, measured, and entirely territorial. “Diabolical, Rose. Absolutely diabolical,” he murmured, the words brushing hot against her skin. His fingers pressed harder now, leaving no doubt who was in control. “Daleks and Cybermen have nothing on you.”
Rose leaned her head back against him, her breath hitching as her lips curved into a shaky smile. “You’ve got me,” she said, softer now as she turned just enough to meet his gaze. “What can I say? You’re a tough nut to crack, Doctor. Had to pull out the big guns. Soap and water. Irresistible, yeah?”
He huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating against her back. “Irresistible? That’s putting it mildly,” he said, his hands tightening briefly on her waist. “Frankly, I never stood a chance against your feminine wiles. I’m starting to wonder if you’ve got a hidden lair and secret villain arc I should be worried about.”
“Yeah, you’ve sussed it—my master plan.” A shuddery breath escaped her as he pressed a line of kisses from her shoulder blade to her jaw. “Soap, water, me naked—how could it not work?”
“You tell me.” His tongue dipped into her mouth as he slipped two fingers between her folds, spreading what remained of her arousal by rubbing tight circles around her swollen, throbbing clit.
“Oh.” The word escaped her in a hushed exhalation, and with that, Rose was teetering on a knife’s edge again. Her toes curled, the muscles in her abdomen and thighs tensing and trembling as she hovered this close to climax. “F–fuh–ah.”
“On the brink, aren’t you, love?” he said, all silk and smirk, his fingers coaxing her towards the edge of inevitable. “Cheeky as you’ve been, maybe I should make you say please.”
“Please?” she gasped, hips shaking as she struggled to keep hold on the English language. “As in–ah–’please don’t stop’? OhGod–”
“God? Flattered, really, but I prefer ‘Doctor.’ Rolls off the tongue better, don’t you think?”
“Shut up, shut up.”
“Enough,” he commanded in a velvet growl that sent a shiver through her as his fingers kept working between her legs. “The only thing I want to hear from you now is the sound of you giving in. Go on then, Rose… Come for your Doctor.”
Your Doctor.
Powerless against the certainty in his words and the insistence of his touch, Rose could only surrender. A breathless cry escaped her as her body arched and trembled against the Doctor’s, his strong arms holding her steady amidst the rippling bathwater. Her breaths came in shallow, hitching gasps, her fingers digging into his thighs in a desperate search for something solid. With her eyelids squeezed shut, the sensations overwhelmed her—heat building low, spreading in waves that left her shuddering, her mind a haze of euphoria.
Murmuring soft, unintelligible words of encouragement into her ear, the Doctor coaxed her gently through the aftershocks, his fingers slowing but never stilling completely, drawing it into something lingering and decadent—unlike any orgasm she’d ever had before.
Feeling as though she might drift away, Rose let out a breathless, contented sigh and melted into his arms. “Okay,” she slurred, synapses still buzzing. “Consider this my formal offer. Bath assistant… Part-time hours, benefits negotiable, strict non-compete clause. What do you say?”
“Strict non-compete, is it?” the Doctor repeated, his voice dipping lower, rough and gravelly around the edges. His lips hovered close, her shiver mirrored in the barely perceptible hitch of his breath. “Lucky for you, I’m not looking for new contracts. But I should warn you—specialists like me don’t come cheap.”
His fingers brushed her skin, hesitant at first, then settling, the faint tremor betraying his slip in control. The bathwater rippled softly as he adjusted his hold on her, the movement careful, measured. “Now that you’re nice and relaxed,” he said, his lips grazing her ear, “do you think you can finally go to sleep?”
Rose hummed, sleepy but teasing. “Sure. But only if you carry me to bed and tuck me in. I’m positive I’m not walking anywhere on these jelly legs, thank you.”
“Is that all?” he murmured, his tone warm and teasing. “Because I’m more than happy to tuck you in. Wrestling you into your jimjams might take a bit more convincing, though.”
“Convincing? Don’t be daft. You’d do it in a heartbeat and you know it. Lucky for you though, I prefer sleeping naked.” She snuggled closer, letting her head rest against his chest, her breath warm against his skin. “But…if you ever did decide to hang up the sonic and settle down, you could make a career out of this whole looking-after-people thing. You’re not half-bad at it.”
The Doctor didn’t answer right away, just let his arms tighten around her, his chin resting gently against her hair. The silence wasn’t heavy—it felt safe, comfortable, like they did this sort of thing all the time. And maybe now…they would.
After a moment, he shifted, supporting her with one hand while reaching for a towel with the other. Carefully, he draped it around her shoulders, the plush warmth of Venusian cotton cocooning her against the cooler air. His fingers lingered as he tucked the edges securely against her chest, grazing the soft curve of her breasts with a touch so light it might have been accidental—though the faint hitch in his breath suggested otherwise.
Rose barely registered the movement, her limbs heavy, her head lolling against the Doctor’s chest as exhaustion pulled her further under. The steady rhythm of his twin hearts, so close against her ear, blended with the hazy warmth wrapping around her, lulling her even closer to sleep.
As he lifted her into his arms, her voice slipped free, soft and slurred. “Love you,” she mumbled, the words barely more than a breath before sleep claimed her fully.
The Doctor paused, his expression unreadable, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly before he pressed a long, lingering kiss to her damp hair. His hand smoothed over the towel at her back, lingering just a bit longer than necessary, before he whispered back, “Come on, my precious girl, let’s get you to bed.”
Notes:
And now...a disclaimer about bathtub sex:
Look, what's sexy in fiction is not always practical in real life, and this definitely extends to bathtub sex for a number of reasons. I'm not here to give anyone a health lecture, just gently remind you that if you fuck around, you may find out and get a UTI or a head injury (ask me how I know). I agonised a bit over doing this knowing the unglamorous reality, but ultimately decided I wanted Rose to get fingerbanged in a bathtub without an immersion-breaking lecture from the Doctor, who would surely be aware of the risks, but has a TARDIS with sterile water and antibiotics. Whatever man, use your imagination and don't come for me in the comments, I was horny, okay?
Chapter 7
Summary:
Hypothetically, even if someone had tampered with his wiring upstairs—a thought so repugnant it made his skin crawl—seeing the night again through Rose’s eyes should’ve kick-started something. Neural déjà vu. Temporal resonance. Psychic muscle memory. Something, anything, the slightest telepathic tickle. But it hadn’t. At least not in any manner he would’ve expected. And the longer he meditated on the possible reasons for such a glaring discrepancy, the wider the black hole between his hearts yawned at the implications.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rose Tyler slept soundly beneath her freshly turned sheets, oblivious to the turmoil unravelling above them. After the day she’d had (and a frankly indecent number of orgasms), it only made sense that her beautifully uncomplicated human brain had no trouble finding the off switch while he struggled to pull the plug on his spiralling anxiety. Given all the necessary space and silence to whip himself up into a proper frenzy, the Doctor could make an Olympic sport of it.
Lucky her, he thought before guilt rose in him, fast and hot as a fever. Considering it was almost certainly his fault her peace kept being shattered, he had no business begrudging Rose a little rest where she could fit it in. No telling how many sleepless nights were ahead for either of them, but he was bracing himself for a reality where wakefulness overwhelmingly overran any semblance of rest.
His companion lay sated, boneless, perfectly content, and—most importantly—utterly unaware he was a hairsbreadth from having a total nuclear existential meltdown. And he intended to keep it that way, ta.
Rose was owed her respite, and he had no right playing the bitter voyeur. Tracking each breath, each shift, each susurrant fragment of sleep-talk, as though his salvation (or damnation) might lie in the half-formed fragments of her dreamspeak. As if her subconscious might play a sentient Magic 8-Ball and accidentally spit out the solution to a riddle the last of the Time Lords couldn’t manage to solve when he devoted every last brain cell to it.
But it was either play stoic sentinel to Rose or let his thoughts spiral through the same catastrophic loop, each one louder and more unhelpful than the last. A discordant one-man band he couldn’t outrun playing the same tuneless refrain he’d heard a thousand times before.
He wasn’t quite at full-scale mental meltdown levels. Not yet. But the warning lights were flashing, the emotional core was well past critical. The cooling system, assuming there had ever been one, had long since failed. Sirens were screaming shrilly in the distance, even if no one else could hear them. If not Chernobyl, a proper psychological Three Mile Island: contained, just barely, by the mental equivalent of cello tape.
For now. Until something inevitably tipped the scales and made the whole thing split wide open.
If he came unmade, the blast radius would be wide enough to swallow everything–the universe, the next petty dictator who stood in his way, the next innocent being unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, of course, her.
Rose. Who didn’t even know she was curled up beside a detonation point with the power to wipe out all of creation.
That’s why he was still awake, every vein thrumming, saturated with guilt and charged with radioactive energy he couldn’t burn off on his own. Too volatile for sleep, certainly. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if he deserved rest, not while so many questions went unanswered.
If his companion dreamed about that night, there was no sign of it. No breathy sighs, no murmured cries of his name. Nothing to hint at whatever narrative her subconscious might be attempting to stitch together from the frayed edges of the day. He couldn’t help wondering what shape the Doctor might take in her dreams. Was he still himself? Or had her mind painted in someone who held her with more certainty, said the right thing without flinching, didn’t flounder when the moment came to speak?
Someone who said ‘I love you’ before she had to.
He huffed out a sigh, quiet and bitter. Dream him probably made breakfast, too. Swanned around in his shirtsleeves, kissed her neck, said things like “Morning, love” without choking on them. The kind of man who stayed with her in bed after making love. Who revelled in domesticity instead of dodging it.
Someone soft-edged and earnest, safe and warm. Someone not bogged down by survivor’s guilt.
So, essentially…someone else.
And oh, how easy it would be to look! Just for a second.
Just long enough to pretend—to lie to himself, really—that he was a different sort of man. The kind who didn’t need to go rummaging for proof when presented with the very thing he wanted most, offered freely. Served up on a silver platter and still he couldn’t bring himself to trust it.
Tempting, of course, to have a peek at Rose’s dreams. He was forever curious, and a distraction would be very welcome indeed. Sounded absolutely brilliant right about now, if he were being honest with himself. Which was something he was rarely able to do, especially where his favourite human was concerned.
But human dreamscapes were unstable at the best of times. Slippery things, stitched together with desire and delusion and the occasional stray memory. And if you were the one poking around? Well…if a dream gave you exactly what you didn’t dare admit you wanted, it was dangerously easy to get lost in it. Maybe even stay there, if no one came knocking. Forever.
Sleep was out of the question for him anyway. Not tonight. Not now. Maybe not ever again, at this rate.
Why could she remember and he couldn’t? That singular thought was chewing a hole straight through his brain, along with the nagging significance of the blue suit. Their first time—their first time!—should’ve been unforgettable. One for the cosmic record books. Burned into every synapse, etched onto both hearts. It should’ve been a sunrise in shades of pink and yellow, not a postmortem portrait painted in blue and streaks of blood red.
Certainly not by any stretch of the imagination an occasion that warranted donning what was, by all cultural metrics, the Time Lord equivalent of funereal black dress. A small detail, maybe. Minute. But it snagged at the edges of his mind, a mental hangnail: tiny, persistent, impossible to ignore. Especially with so few clues to grasp at. There was a reason he’d thumbed right past that suit in the wardrobe room when he’d dressed for Christmas dinner. That was a suit to wear when things were ending, and it’s presence here felt too specific to be mere coincidence.
Hypothetically, even if someone had tampered with his wiring upstairs—a thought so repugnant it made his skin crawl—seeing the night again through Rose’s eyes should’ve kick-started something. Neural déjà vu. Temporal resonance. Psychic muscle memory. Something, anything, the slightest telepathic tickle. But it hadn’t. At least not in any manner he would’ve expected. And the longer he meditated on the possible reasons for such a glaring discrepancy, the wider the black hole between his hearts yawned at the implications.
The image of Rose as a golden-eyed goddess, brimming with Time and forever on her breath, still lived behind his eyes. That stolen kiss they shared as he pulled the vortex from her lips sang through his blood, hummed along his nerves, echoed in the tandem beat of both hearts. This body had been born from that kiss, bursting with light, burning with longing. Regeneration lit by starlight and sacrifice. A singular instant spanning seconds had engulfed him completely and he’d walked out a new man, literally, on the other side of it. One who smouldered at his very core for Rose Marion Tyler.
So how could that be the bit he’d lost? That bit. Not another Tuesday, not what he had for breakfast three weeks ago, not the fourth time he nearly died in a week—no, this. Their first time. The moment everything changed. One would think that would leave a mark. Something seared into the neural pathways, a psychic breadcrumb or two. But no. Nothing. Blank as fresh snow.
And if it was him in that closet—really him—then something had to have lit the fuse. Something strong enough to override every instinct he’d spent centuries cultivating. Every rule he’d lived by, every carefully constructed boundary drilled into him by Gallifrey, by time and loss and caution: obliterated. Not bent. Not blurred. Blown apart. Atomised. The safeguards he’d clung to, the ones meant to protect her, meant to protect him, hadn’t just failed. He’d torn them down himself, with nary a second thought.
And not for war. Not for peace. Not even for the sake of survival.
For another taste of Rose’s lips.
Which meant there was an instant, a beat, a breath, something that turned the tide—and he didn’t remember that either. Not even a flicker. Just a blank. A hollow where the most important realisation should live. A whisper, maybe. The faint shape of a moment he ought to have carved into his mind with the same devotion he’d once used to carve her luscious curves into stone.
But he didn’t remember.
And that was infinitely worse than forgetting the whole thing outright.
The bookends of a story he couldn’t read. How they arrived and when they left were foggy impressions on the fringes of his memory. Everything in between? Static. White noise. Which was why he had hoped checking her memories would clarify things. Ha!
Instead, it’d had the opposite effect, and with grave consequences.
Fragile, fleeting, gloriously human. Rose. A mayfly with the audacity to roost right in the middle of his hearts like she owned the place.
Which, if he were being honest, she did.
And that, right there, was the problem.
She hadn’t known any better. He’d given her a taste of the universe, and instead of keeping his distance, instead of holding the line as he was meant to, he’d flung the door wide open. Did I mention it also travels in time?
Cosmically colossal git, him.
He didn’t deserve her. Not her warmth. Not her trust. Not the simple, aching comfort of her body curled next to his. Because how could he share a bed with someone he’d failed to protect? From the universe, yes, but worse—from himself?
So he brooded. Of course he did. What else was there to do?
Jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache, the Doctor stared up at the coral struts above him. Familiar, organic, elegant curves imitating the ribs of some great celestial beast. Funny, that. He’d never noticed how much the ceiling of his ship resembled the bars of a cage. And now, of course, he couldn’t unsee it. Given the state of things, it felt a bit too on the nose.
He was cornered, literally and metaphorically. Emotionally, temporally, sexually. A triple threat.
His thoughts snarled around paradoxes and unanswered questions, looping back on themselves, a faulty recursive algorithm sparking in the circuits of a mind ticking dangerously closer to implosion with each passing second. As for the rest of his body…well, that wasn’t faring much better. He was throbbing, in every way a man could, and not a whisper closer to peace or release than he’d been hours ago.
That tension had nowhere to spend itself. He couldn’t work on a stroppy and uncooperative TARDIS. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t exactly roll over and shag Rose while in the middle of an ontological crisis, even if his hindbrain voted overwhelmingly in favour.
Not that he hadn’t considered it. Briefly. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.
Instead, dread coiled tighter, dragging his gaze back to the ceiling as he tried not to think about the unbearable ache seeping down into the root of him.
He was trapped. Not by space, but by time. Constrained not by the stars, but by the silence between them. Choices made in a breathless rush echoed endlessly across every instant he lived, and now Rose was caught in the same ripple.
She couldn’t go home. Couldn’t see her mother. The course of her life had been altered, suspended because of him. Because of a paradox that might have sprung from his own hands, from the part of him that still believed he could fix everything, even when the universe proved the notion patently absurd at every opportunity.
He’d once incinerated a species to stop a war and called it mercy. Now here he was again, quietly breaking something precious. Slowly this time. Intimately, with feeling. What was one more shattered family, after all?
Maybe that was how it always ended: the Doctor, and the wreckage he left behind.
The only living Time Lord and his TARDIS, the last two sad little relics of Gallifrey, psychically tethered for better or worse, in complete and utter catastrophe. Harbingers of fate for anyone unlucky enough to get caught in the crosswinds.
He used to think their bond was symbiotic. Noble. Poetic, even. These days, she was more of a sulky co-pilot with a long memory and no sense of timing. Slagging him off at every turn. Blocking coordinates, denying landings, all when he could least afford it. They were tap-dancing on the edge of a fixed point, and his ship was taking the piss.
But for what? He’d pulled far riskier stunts on less sleep, with worse hair, and she hadn’t so much as blinked a bulb. Now she was throwing tantrums like he’d insulted her all the way down to her primary circuits.
Perhaps he had.
Maybe it wasn’t just her being temperamental. Maybe she was trying to warn him—because of course, in a fit of peak brilliance, he’d gone and promised Rose they could “set the paradox in stone.”
Genius. Absolutely genius.
What on Earth had possessed him to say something so catastrophically unrecantable? Arrogance? Hope? Hormones? The incorrigible, intractable appendage between his legs?
Bold, sweeping, irrevocable. And worse, said out loud. As if stone were some perfectly stable medium for temporal mechanics, and not what you carved the names of the dead upon.
He’d meant it, though. That was the worst part. He wanted it—of course he did. Desperately. Completely. That impossible, forbidden thing. Someone to anchor him again. To quiet the screaming in his head. To fill the hollow ache where an entire people used to live.
But that was madness, wasn’t it? The height of hubris. To imagine resurrecting an entire species through a single human. Through Rose. A girl, really, in comparison to him. A fleeting solitary flame dancing in the void beside the eternally-burning pyre of a Time Lord.
What right did he have to offer her a future when he couldn’t even explain the past? When the foundation beneath them was made of question marks and wishful thinking, and she loved him far too much to notice the cracks?
Biological impossibilities. Paradoxical implications. Entire branches of temporal mechanics tied up in knots. And still, he dared to hope.
And how could he—honestly—let himself take her youth, her time, her life, when he couldn’t even manage three stupid words in return? Not even when it would’ve cost him nothing. Slurred and sleepy, she’d whispered I love you, and he’d what? Froze. Fizzled. Blue-screened his entire emotional subroutine. Shut down faster than a thrifted first-gen vortex manipulator trying to calculate the origin point of the Big Bang.
It had been right there. Right on the tip of his tongue. I love you too. Hadn’t he said it before? When he was buried inside her. When it had felt real, and warm, and inevitable? It should’ve been stupidly easy. She was barely lucid, and the conversation he’d been dreading, the one about what they were now, was well and truly postponed.
And still…nothing.
Instead, he’d gone stiff. Silent. Brittle as frost creeping over glass. Freezing her out when he should’ve been pulling her in and holding her close.
Something was wrong with him.
Some emotional short circuit. Some ancient, Time Lord-shaped fault line that rumbled and threatened ruin anytime he got too close.
He shouldn’t have to analyse it to say it. Shouldn’t need a flowchart and a team of linguists just to string three little words together. I love you. Humans tossed it out like confetti at a wedding after sex—reflexive, half-conscious, timeworn tradition. Practically hardwired. A post-coital cliché, biologically primed and culturally rubber-stamped. Even his emotionally stunted arse knew that.
But if he couldn’t say it—couldn’t give her the words when it mattered—then what did it all count for? If love was meant to live in the lull, in the hush, in the moments too soft to name, and he left those spaces empty…what would grow in their place?
He shuddered to imagine.
Rose yawned and slung her arm over him, her fingers threading into the hair on his chest with all the certainty of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. His lungs forgot how to function for a second, respiratory bypass kicking in as his chest tightened, the universe inside him folding in on itself. Because Rose Tyler had reached for him without hesitation, as though his presence had always been a foregone conclusion.
He wanted to fold himself into her warmth, her trust. The quiet gravity of her reaching for him, even now, when he felt least worthy. But want and worthiness were galaxies apart, and he was still tumbling somewhere in the middle.
Orbit decaying. Thrusters offline. Burned too many bridges to bank on re-entry.
Despite everything he still hadn’t untangled—he was here. Still hoping for a future he had no right to want. Still praying, against all probability, that the hoofbeats he kept hearing were from his own horse…and not some paradox-zebra galloping in to trample everything he cared about into oblivion.
Dragging a hand down his face, he let out a slow breath, quiet as he could manage. No point waking her from what seemed like a restful sleep. Not while she still believed he had everything under control. Better to let at least one of them live in blissful ignorance, at least for the time being.
There had to be something he’d missed. Some angle. Some memory, hers or his, that held the key. Anything to stop this unbearable limbo. Anything to trade the constant gnaw of not-knowing for something solid, even if it was awful. Even if it broke him.
Maybe…
Maybe there was still a way to make sense of it. To see what she had seen, just enough to poke at the seams—gently, carefully—without rattling her. Test the shape of the memory, that subtle wrongness he couldn’t stop turning over in his head. Just enough to know if he was losing it. Again.
She trusted him. Completely. Naively. As though trust was something you handed out for free to idiots in pinstripe suits with time machines and a track record of cocking things up. And if Rose knew what he was thinking now? She’d probably still trust him.
And that, somehow, made it worse. Because he’d already done it before, hadn’t he? Slipped into her memories. Told himself it was fine. Just a peek. Just to help. Ha!
But once he’d slipped inside, he’d gone and let the whole thing devolve into a reenactment shag on the infirmary counter. Brilliant work, really. Swept up in the sensation. Drowning in it. And somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten what he was even there for.
He hadn’t examined. Hadn’t questioned. Hadn’t looked. Not for inconsistencies. Not for clues. Not for anything other than his own pleasure, at the expense of the one person who trusted him most. It was reckless. Selfish. And if he went back in now, who was to say it wouldn’t happen the exact same way all over again?
But something was wrong. Not just a nagging sort of wrong, not your everyday 'left the kettle on' wrong—this was deeper. Fundamental. A kind of wrong that sang in his teeth and hissed along his bones. The kind that made the blood thrum in warning before the mind could catch up. A wrongness that resonated on a molecular level.
Rose’s memory of what happened in the closet had been crystal clear. Polished, seamless—a showroom model built for seduction. Just flawed enough to feel real, just smooth enough to slide past his suspicions. Too perfect, really, in a way that should’ve been obvious from the get.
Almost as if it didn’t want him to look too closely. As if pleasure was the point. A beautifully engineered smokescreen meant to hold him in place. Keep him calm, compliant, comforted—right when he should’ve been tearing the illusion to pieces.
What if that was always the plan?
He didn’t want to do this. Not again.
But suspicion scratched at him, sharp and relentless, just beneath the skin. He had to check. Had to press, prod, dig.
Just once more, he promised himself.
Just enough to see if the edges of the memory would bleed when picked at.
Before reason could catch up with regret, the Doctor drew a slow breath and let his hands drift to Rose’s temples.
*****
Everything was still.
Hushed.
Unsettling in that precise, skin-crawling way—as if the air itself was shouting, You shouldn’t be here.
Like walking through a crypt. Or worse: the quiet hum of Henry Van Statten’s vault, where malevolent dead things sat sealed in boxes, waiting quietly for someone to breathe life and relevance back into them with an innocent touch.
And so the Doctor tiptoed through the liminal dark of Rose’s memories, the universe’s guiltiest cat burglar, glancing over his shoulder even though he knew he was alone.
Well…mostly alone.
Memories weren’t living things, despite appearances to the contrary. But they weren’t exactly inanimate either, were they? He knew better than most that the sharpest thoughts had a nasty habit of drifting through the subconscious aimlessly in the twilight hours. And he wasn’t particularly keen to cross paths with the wraiths of Rose’s unprocessed feelings.
Especially not tonight. Not after the last emotionally charged twenty-four hours, which she was no doubt still mulling over, as was he.
The first time he’d entered her memories—with permission, thank you very much—it had felt like finally being invited into the sort of posh, exclusive club he’d always pretended not to care about. Oh no, not him, far too aloof to pay attention to that sort of thing. Except secretly, of course, he’d always been dying to get in.
Now, though? This was most certainly the mental equivalent of breaking and entering. After hours. Lights off, doors shut, everyone gone home, and him creeping in through the skylight that had mistakenly been left open.
The memories he’d passed before sat neatly where he’d left them, softly lit, drained of the pastel riot vibrance of Rose’s waking mind, fading paintings under smudged glass. The cheerful pink and yellow hues were still there, somewhere underneath, dulled now to tired greys and inky blacks in the shadowy gloom of unconsciousness.
The Doctor slowed, turning a corner toward the only other place he’d been dreading as much as that cursed closet. The one space he’d studiously been avoiding but could afford to no longer: Rose’s personal museum of his worst transgressions.
Every moment he made her guess. Guess if she mattered. Guess if he’d stay. Guess if the next reckless leap he asked of her would leave her stranded, abandoned, alone.
Every word he hadn’t said. Every reach he hadn’t made. Every second he forced her to be brave first—to step forward, to risk everything—while he hid behind walls and silence and a thousand well-rehearsed evasions.
The last time he’d passed through here, it had tingled painfully and he’d hurried past. Now he walked toward it with the certainty of a man heading for his execution, fully aware of what waited at the end.
Knowing it was coming didn’t make the sound of her voice any less painful.
Not the brilliant Rose who teased and forgave him far too often. No. This was her in ruins. Sobbing into Jackie’s arms, all broken and small: He left me, Mum. He left me, Mum.
The Doctor’s stomach twisted. Worse than Daleks. Worse than Cybermen. Worse than anything lurking in the shadows of the universe. Hearing her like that, knowing he’d done that to her, without even trying—that was the bit that broke him. Because deep down, he was terrified it was happening again. That he’d miss the damage until it was too late.
Until he was looking at it from the outside, helpless all over again.
Then, something else. Resistance, soft but firm, meeting him with invisible pressure like a hand to the chest. Not hostile. Just…decisive. No entry, mate. Not tonight.
Last time he’d ignored that resistance—and the instinct to run here, strolled right past it without a flicker of hesitation—and found himself exactly where he now suspected someone (or something) had always intended him to end up. The Felicity hallway. That bloody closet door at the end. So plain, so unassuming, humming with quiet intent. Like it hadn’t just been waiting for him—it had been expecting him.
And now, here he was again.
One foot in guilt, the other in desperation. Wanting to run. Needing to stay. Terrified of what he might find.
Rose’s voice echoed through his mind: I don’t want you rifling through my head without my permission.
Yeah, well. Bit late for that, wasn’t it? The ship had sailed, the horse had bolted. The bus had not only left the terminal, it’d run over his better judgment on the way out. Pick a metaphor. They all meant the same thing: he was already here. Trespassing. Wading through the sort of guilt that no amount of time or penance could wash clean.
Too far gone to turn back now. And if the only way out was through, then through it was.
Besides…how was he meant to stop now?
Suspicion had its claws in him, sharp as razor wire. Pulling tighter with every breath. No room to retreat. No room to breathe. Not even if he wanted to—and he absolutely did. But wanting didn’t matter.
He had to look.
He pressed through the barrier. That polite, unyielding pressure: don’t.
Forward. Again.
Past the mirror, where he sat on Rose’s bed and braided her hair, just before things got weird with Elton and wildly out of hand with the Abzorbaloff. Past locked doors humming with secrets, calling to him with all the soft seduction of a mirage in the desert.
Don’t look. Don’t open. Don’t you dare. Okay, maybe just a peek…
But he walked on anyway.
Curiosity didn’t just kill cats. It gutted Time Lords. Burned through them, slow and deep.
And he didn’t exactly need any help on that front.
The Doctor was perfectly capable of dismantling himself, piece by jagged piece.
Now wasn’t the time to veer off course or become distracted by a past before himself. No detours into heartbreak, no lingering at the edges of memories where he had no business being. He had to find the passage again. Back to the hallway and the closet, to whatever truth might be buried there.
He had to confront the memory and settle this once and for all. Either silence the malevolent whisper gnawing at the back of his mind or bleed out on its edges. But at least then he’d know. Know whether that doubt came from somewhere real…or was just the festering mess of his own insecurities and pathological aversion to happiness.
He clung to that idea: the truth. The one thing that still burned through the chaos: he had to fix this. For Rose. Even if it broke him.
And then he crossed a threshold, and it was as though a switch had been flipped.
He stopped short, pulse thudding faintly in his ears—distant and dislocated, like it belonged to someone else. A quiet drumbeat, reminding him his physical body was still lying flat on the bed, playing dead while his mind trespassed where it had no business being.
The corridor hit him wrong. Too sharp. Too vivid. Where the rest of her mind had been dim and blurred at the edges, this was a lit screen turned to an eye-watering high contrast.
Rose’s other memories had bled into one another, hazy and overlapping, swallowed in the shadows of sleep. But this? This was a stage set. Cut clean. Self-contained. No doors branching off. No emotional debris.
And that was wrong.
Human memories didn’t work like that.
They meandered. Sprawled. This one was a freeze-frame, cut out of context–and how on Earth had he not noticed this before?
Now he realised: landing here clean, untouched by surrounding memories of that night, wasn’t just odd or unlikely. It was nigh on bloody impossible.
He hadn’t noticed it the first time, too focused on the trail Rose had left for him, too lost in the euphoria of letting another mind brush against his own. Seduced, for lack of a better term…but perhaps that had been by design.
Plain wooden door. Brass knob. Polished smooth. So bland it almost buzzed with intentionality. And that was the thing–there was nothing else to see. No connected memories or associated feelings, only a suspicious lack of them.
But he didn’t look away. Couldn’t. That door hadn’t emerged from memory, and now he was nearly certain of it. It had been placed.
Deliberate. Waiting.
“Well,” he muttered. “Curtain’s up.”
His skin crawled. Not just from fear, but from that familiar, deeper wrongness. Skittering over his nerves like a thousand spiders.
He’d been here before. Same corridor. Same door. The same weight pressing on his chest, like the universe holding its breath.
It had made him hesitate then, without knowing why.
Now he did.
Now he saw it for what it truly was: a lure. A trap dressed up as a memory he wasn’t certain belonged to either one of them.
Still, he stepped forward. One foot, then the other.
The passage constricted around him. Shadows at the edges curled in, an audience leaning forward, waiting in anticipation for the show.
The Doctor stopped in front of the closet door, fingers hovering above the knob. Familiar. Ordinary. Too ordinary.
Focus.
Observe. Analyse. Look for seams, anomalies, anything to prove the memory was a fake. That was what he had come here to do. Not to lose himself in lurid sensations, breathy whispers, the spoken words that read like dialogue from a script.
His fingers tightened around the knob. “Just a memory,” he whispered, though it felt like a lie the moment it left his lips. “Maybe. Hopefully. Still…nothing to be afraid of. Right?”
Right. And the Titanic was just a boat.
He took a breath he didn’t need—and stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The world inside the closet tilted around him, the memory snapping shut like a vice.
He was back. Hearts pounding in his chest, cock aching with a shame he refused to name back on Rose’s bed, as light spilled from the open door and caught him square in the gut.
The suit again, impossible to miss. Impossible to misconstrue. That deep, Gallifreyan blue, blood-washed thread running almost invisible beneath the surface.
Not meant for beginnings. Not meant for love. Mourning colours, plain as any flag of surrender, worn by someone who already knew how the story ended–and was apparently too afraid to show it on his face.
And still he’d worn them to meet her. Hadn’t he? Whoever he was.
Whoever he’d let himself become.
Then, the smoke.
Now it loomed. Piped in. Deliberate. A magician’s flourish to distract from the trick, though he wasn’t quite sure what the trick was yet.
Had Rose ever really smelled it? Had he? Or had it been added, like a stage note?
Not woodsmoke—it was far too chemical. Acrid and thin, laced with burnt plastics, wiring insulation, scorched alloy. He catalogued it absently, the way you do when your body recognises a pattern your mind isn’t ready to name.
Sulphur, too, he noted. That was strange. Explosions in a rocky environment? An underground base?
The memory moved quickly, too fast for him to thoroughly pause and mull the significance over before he was hit with yet another detail that snagged like broken glass against skin.
Rose’s mention of the hooded figure, the robed stranger she said had followed her. The one he’d dismissed the first time: I was following you.
Was it a throwaway detail? A bit of misdirection? Or the clue he’d missed?
And then the words, whispered in quiet desperation: Oh, but I’ve missed you.
Saccharine sweet on the surface. Maybe even romantic, in some context. But they itched as out of place as the suit, something out of sync in time, that didn’t make sense in the current context of him and Rose.
The memory still felt too sharp, real in all the wrong ways. High-definition. Oversaturated. Every detail too clear. Real memories didn’t behave like this. They stuttered. Stumbled. Skipped beats. Changed slightly over time. This one landed every cue.
A fantasy. A projection, built by someone left behind.
Curated. That was the word.
Not imagined, no. Assembled.
This hadn’t been remembered. It had been built. Not invented entirely from scratch—that’d be too obvious. But shaped. Stitched into the right neural grooves to pass as truth without arousing suspiscion.
And that was the tell.
Which begged the question: who? And—far more terrifying—why?
You didn’t dress a stage like this without a reason.
And in that light…well, the blue suit made as much sense as the mask.
Mourning clothes. A disguise. The kind you wear when trying not to fall apart.
A man on the other side of an unbearable loss.
With monumental effort, he shoved sensation aside. The scent. The sound of his voice, low and lost in pleasure.
The darkness pressed close. Living. Breathing. He leaned into it.
Reaching. Searching.
Not for heat. Not for rhythm.
For the seam.
For the stitch.
And then, he found it.
A beat out of time.
Not a wall. Not a shape.
A join. A splice.
Like a taped-over reel, one scene bleeding into the next.
A seam.
And in that same instant, Rose cried out his name, tearing the thread before he could follow it any further.
Notes:
This chapter is mostly unbeta'd, any mistakes left behind are on me and Grammarly.
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