He’d finally gotten what he’d wanted. Another chance at a family.
a messy messy Tyler-Noble family doodle cause I can’t seem to draw anything else not Who related today. Also another tentoo headcanon of mine is that after the Doctor wearing glasses for so long just to wear them our human Doctor actually needs glasses in the end. please don’t mind me and my mess.
I already hate this why am I posting it?!
Rose,her name was. Rose. And…we were together.
I’M NOT EVEN A WHOVIAN, AND THIS IS BREAKING MY HEART.
NO I AM IN PUBLIC
OH GOD WHO BROUGHT THIS BACK NOOOO!!
I hate you
I only take the best. I’ve got Rose.
I’m so glad I met you.
"Against the Doors" - Digital Oil Painting
This is NOT a Photoshop filter, every stroke is painted by me.
This little exchange is so important. It’s where Rose starts to realize that she can make a difference to the universe. It’s also where the Doctor, who at the beginning of the episode hadn’t cared whether he blew himself up along with the Autons, starts to realize that maybe he has a reason to live.
Chaos ‘verse - And then there came a day when Rose said she was having a baby.
Thirteen Series Part 01 and Part 02 - Unrelated Doctor/Rose fics posted during season 3 and 4.
Barcelona - This is the general order of events that circle around the idea that Rose was lying on the beach in Doomsday. It was all started by those three words, ‘and the baby’.
The Process of Becoming - “Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.”
Alice - Stories, drabbles, etc. about the Doctor’s daughter.
Rapture - A series of short stories exploring the relationship between Rose and the 10th Doctor.
War Widow - Post-Doomsday, slight AU. Rose isn’t a war widow but its the closest words can come to the truth.
Windows - After the Doctor says goodbye, Rose has to live in another world. This series of vignettes explores the different ways her life might have turned out.
Feeling Eletric - He knows from experience that the unnatural silence that settles over the room when the bell jingles can mean only one thing: a hot girl has entered the comic book store…
Lost - This was born out of the idea that being so close to Rose in “Partners in Crime” left some vague impression on the Doctor’s brain. And on all the discussion about the Doctor’s song ending.
Miles to Go - And it’s all here for you, as long as you choose to stay. It’s all here for you, as long as you don’t fly away.
Incompatible - What happens when alien hormones bring the Doctor and Rose together?
Legacy of the Bad Wolf - When they said goodbye at Bad Wolf Bay, both the Doctor and Rose seemed to forget the message that would lead them home, but Bad Wolf did not. Follows the events that reunite Rose with the human John Smith in 1913 and her later travels with the Doctor.
Not So New New - People must grow old; love shouldn’t. The Doctor and Rose, together forever - her forever, at least.
Less Than Dignified Escapes - Through a series of adventures where aliens attack and clothing goes mysteriously missing, the Doctor and Rose find themselves seeing a lot more of each other than expected.
The Language Lessons - Rose teases the Doctor, and the Doctor responds. Emphatically.
Bump!verse - She waddles over, best she can, and swats him on the arm. “Your bloody fault, you know.”
Pocket!verse - The Doctor learns there may well be a higher authority.
DoctorDonnaRose’verse - The Doctor, Donna and Rose travel together in the TARDIS.
Morons ‘verse - AU from LotTL where the Master survives to travel on the TARDIS with the Doctor.
What if - A series of short, unconnected stories, drabbles, and ficlettes about all the what ifs that could happen in the new series.
Crossroads - They’re scattered across the universe, but you’ll probably never see one. They represent what doesn’t exist; they represent what might have happened; they represent a chance or a choice, depending on your point of view. But should you ever see a crossroads, and you wonder about that other path…if you’re the Doctor and Rose, this is what you’d do.
Bubble of Denial - After the discovering of an odd alien device, Rose, tired of waiting for the impossible, decides to take her destiny into her own hands.
Hope ‘verse - Sometimes you find something you hadn’t known you’d lost.
Skinned knees ‘verse - They read the book on the lawn in front of the library and he talks about sand and monkeys and zebras for an hour. Later it’s Morocco, Alaska, France, Argentina, the moon.
He sleeps a lot more now than he used to; if he could do nothing but sleep, everything would be easier. Because there’s a dream he has, a dream where the other has left him on a beach with Rose, left them together and gone away to another universe. It’s a dream of sweet, wistful hope that is so much better than the reality of this new new life.
It’s just a dream, he knows that. It’s based in the reality of a singular wish that had once clung to his singular heart in the hours after his creation, after he’d woken naked on the grated floor of his burning TARDIS. When he wakes, it haunts him like the lingering ache of an old healed-over wound resurfaces with the threat of rain. (Barometric pressure, humidity, he knows the science; it’s just a metaphor.)
But his imagination is so lucid. It feels as real as anything, kissing Rose on a beach while the other turns away and leaves them together. He takes her hand and she lets him.
When he’s awake, the subliminal thrum of the TARDIS engines is there like a mother’s heartbeat from a womb, a pulsing slow clock-tick that brings less comfort every day. He gets up, heavy and dense as a dead star, and walks barefoot down the coral gangway in the direction of the library—his only distraction— the one just past his bedroom.
Or what used to be his bedroom.
Approaching to pass the closed doorway, it gaps open, and a shock of blonde and skin emerges in a long shirt—what used to be his shirt—and, from the look of it, nothing else.
He pauses, thinking to wait for her to continue forward. She’ll head for the galley to the right, and he’ll be able to pass without incident. These kinds of strategies are his life now; how to stay in the background, how to become a shadow. Less than a shadow. Invisible. Instead of behaving according to his projections, she sees him, hanging back like an abused animal at the end of the long gangway, and does up a few buttons to preserve her modesty.
The other—the Doctor, he supposes is what she would call him—is still in the bedroom. His imagination puts him on his back in his old bed, divested of his suit, wearing nothing but sweat and a gloating smile.
Of course, why would he gloat? After all, it’s not as though his world is centered on making his vastly inferior metacrisis jealous. He doesn’t even have to work at that; he knows it. Why he’s even been allowed to stay on the TARDIS as long as he has, he can only thank the other’s inability to say no to Rose. The other’s lording over him is imaginary; he doesn’t care enough to go out of his way to rub his nose in anything.
The Doctor is not a cruel man; but his selfishness might qualify, in this peculiar situation, as an exception to that traditional constant. Indeed, that he’s been allowed to stay at all was supposedly intended as a kindness. But more every day, he’s found it to be anything but.
“Hullo,” she says softly, fondly, if not a bit awkward. She never addresses him by name; she doesn’t know what to call him. Every day, he’s less sure of that himself.
Because for over nine-hundred years he was the Doctor. Until one difficult day, he woke up, and he wasn’t. Not the Doctor he’d been, anyway. Not the Doctor that Rose recognized as the one she’d crossed dimensions to embrace once more. Dethroned from his own life, he lives in a spare bedroom on his own timeship, and even she’d had trouble recognizing him. He doesn’t help with repairs. He rarely leaves the ship. The other speaks to him mostly to keep him in the boundaries they’d set up, their arrangement. He’s told him frankly, away from Rose’s hearing: the last thing he really wants is to spend sixty years travelling with himself, watching him growing old and weak in a way he never will.
He can’t blame the other. If things were reversed, he knew he’d feel the same. Would act the same. Would make the same arrangement. Enforce the same rules.
This makes absolutely nothing any easier, knowing he’d do the same to the other if their luck had been reversed. He’d put him through this torture without a second thought to have what he does. To have his life back, and Rose in his arms, and a universe wide open in front of him once again.
The first rule is to steer clear of Rose without insulting her. And here she is, with her hair a bedroom riot, smudged cosmetics and flushed skin. He can practically smell the sex on her, and every day since his birth and her return has been a new, positively unique kind of torture he’d never even pictured as possible until he was living it and lowered to questioning his own identity when his memories are really all he’s got left in this living, breathing hell.
Watching himself finally have everything he wants, looking through the prison bars of half-human eyes.
After every lonely, hollow day he’d spent missing her; regret sinking its roots deep and growing rampant and choking like weeds, now he spends every day desperately avoiding her. Not just because of the rules. Because being close to her hurts so much he can’t breathe in her proximity. He stands with his pitiful human heart pounding in his skinny chest, his blood rushing with enough force to render him lightheaded. He averts his eyes like a scolded child. Anything to lessen the impact.
“Sorry,” she continues, biting gently at her bottom lip. She talks out of the side of her mouth, biting back what’s almost a smile and what’s almost a knife in his gut. “I…I’m never sure…never sure what I should call you.”
He just gives her a grim smile that almost hurts forcing out. “Does it matter?”
She looks surprised, maybe a bit wounded. Bless Rose and her empathy. “Of course it does.”
Litanies rush up his throat; he has to click his teeth shut to cage them in. Everything’s a cage now. This body is a cage; this new life a punishment for something he probably deserves. These past weeks living in a guest bedroom have been spent in suffering, deciding where to go to get away from this, from the sounds of them together coming through the ventilation, the gasps and sighs, soul-rending moans drifting up the aisleways and through the walls in the vast timecraft as though they are always in the next room.
Yes. Embarrassing as it is, there is ever present, white-hot jealousy. Shame. Angry, bitter arousal. He’s passed her in the corridor every so often, hands clenched into fists at her familiar scent, the same fists he’s used to violently relieve himself in the shower after she’s paid him a bit too much attention by talking to him, touching him—where his once vast personal empire is dwindled down to the scalding water and his own, resentful humiliated tears—because in this worthless body he can’t just turn it off like he could before.
Like the other could, if he wanted. Like he always had, like flipping a light switch to sidestep these unwanted, complicated, base biological urges. Evolutionary holdovers, like appendices and tonsils; lust is his vestigial tail. Love is a splinter, a barb burrowing into his pathetic single heart; he wants to sink his fingers in and dig the whole thing out in clutching handfuls, like a rock buried in beach sand.
To think, that for this offshoot of his consciousness, this is how everything ends. All the places he’s been, the things he’s seen. He’ll grow old this way; he’ll die one day, never regenerate. And living like this, that day almost can’t come soon enough.
Never in nine-hundred years has he ever debated the fairness of anything. The universe is cruel and uncaring, it takes and kills and the strong survive. The weak are cornered and culled and eaten, their bodies contributed to nourishment of predators and eco systems. Fairness is an imposed construct created by societies to minimize advantages of natural selection. Fair is not a naturally occurring phenomenon.
And this is all so devastatingly unfair, he can’t stop himself from thinking it.
The Doctor, is what he wants to tell her to call him. Who else would I be?
Don’t you know me?
Do you know…how this feels?
Instead, he gives her that painful smile. She licks her lips and his insides twist. He wants to touch her, wants to hold her and feel her breathe and her ribcage shake when she laughs in his arms the way she used to instead of looking at him with that phlegmatic smile like he’s the man at the counter taking her order. Or rather, like he’s some kind of accidental doppelganger wearing a beloved face.
Instead, he says, “What do you want to call me?”
And when she looks uncertain, biting her lip the way he itches to do himself, it’s actual, physical pain. She tilts her head and he can see the marks where the other’s mouth has been, and a bottomless ache echoes up from the vacancy in his chest where a second heart would be broken if the universe had any concept of equity—
And he wakes up.
He wakes up shaking with a dull pain between his lungs. Rose is asleep in the dark beside him, her knee slung over his calf, the warm sole of her naked foot against his like praying hands. Her hair is the same bedroom riot he’d dreamed up; she breathes out the night air in the stoic-visaged grip of sleep.
Moonshadows stretch over the ceiling and fade while he watches, breathing controlled to combat the deep, slow panic that wraps its hands around his throat every time this nightmare surfaces from the depth, bringing with it the buried terror that it’s all an illusion, some kind of cruel fever dream he’s bound to wake up from one day. He listens for the familiar moaning grind of type-40 engines the way children listen for claws scraping under their bed—the phantom, impossible sound of him coming to take her away. Holding Rose, nose buried in the tangle of her hair, he lies awake the rest of the night.