The Gift of the Lover

"A wise lover values not so much the gift of the lover as the love of the giver."

-Thomas á Kempis

The man walking slowly around the column in his odd machine would look happy to a stranger. It would take more than an outsider to notice the weary heartbreak in his eyes that spoke of many years of loss. It would take more than a stranger to notice the slight stoop in his shoulders, as if he were slowly being crushed by the weight of a thousand worlds.

A friend might notice, though. That was why this side of the man only emerged when no one was looking, when no one would see. He did have friends; he wasn't alone, not really. In fact, down one of the nameless halls behind him, in one of the machine's many rooms, there slept a young couple, oblivious to the man's pain. The Ponds, they were called. He liked them oblivious. Sharing his pain wouldn't bring her back.

The man stopped pacing suddenly, adjusting his bow tie almost nervously as he cast a quick glance down afore mentioned hallway. When he was sure the Ponds were asleep, he reached under the counsel of his strange machine, pulling out a small picture, worn by years of being stashed in various nicks and crannies. It was only in these quiet moments, the moments alone, that he risked looking at the picture and thus looking down memory lane.

The image in itself was not extraordinary. It portrayed a couple, a young blonde woman and a man with wild brown hair and a wide grin. The couple stood side by side, arm in arm with all the ease and comfort that only young, naïve lovers show. If tonight had been like any other silent night, the man in the bow tie might stare at the image, cursing how naïve he'd been and the cruelty of fate.

However, tonight was not like any other night, so the man turned his focus to a small detail in the picture that could easily be overlooked. The laughing blonde woman didn't wear much jewelry, but by the zip on her hoodie the glint of a necklace could be seen. It was that that the man looked at, trying to see what he knew hung at the end of the delicate chain.

It wasn't a charm, like you might see on most necklaces. On this necklace hung a ring- not just any ring, either. A silver engagement ring. The man had always wondered about the ring, back before they'd been… separated. She'd had a boyfriend when they met, but the relationship had ended and besides, she'd never worn it on her hand like an engaged woman might.

He'd asked her about it before, of course. As they grew closer and fell in love (there was no use denying it now) it had bothered him, that silver ring. The girl had been young, only nineteen when they'd met, but there was a possibility she'd been engaged before. At his questions, she'd been quick to assure him that she was not engaged, nor had she ever been engaged. The ring, she claimed, had been a gift. When he'd inquired who'd given her the ring, she blushed and stammered out something about an old friend, as if embarrassed or expecting disbelief. She'd then proceeded to tuck the necklace under her shirt, hiding it from view. Hidden, but always there. She never took it off; he never asked her about it again.

The ring had always bothered him, whether it meant anything or not. He didn't want it to bother him. The girl deserved to be happy, and it was selfish of him to be jealous over the gift (at the time, he'd denied being jealous. He'd called it protective. The girl always knew better.) He'd pushed thoughts of the ring to the back of his mind, and although he never forgot about it, he learned to ignore the jewelry and whatever it might symbolize. He hadn't thought about the necklace or what hung from it in years.

Until now. Reaching into his never-ending pockets, he fished around until he found what he was looking for. Clasping the cool, metal object in his grasp, he pulled it from his pocket, studying it critically. It was, without a doubt, the same ring. The man was certain. He'd been out saving the world, as usual (they'd been on earth this time- her planet) when he'd frozen in front of a jewelry store. The store had been going out of business, obviously struggling to sell the remaining jewels it had on its shelves and at first glance was nothing special. You'd have to look twice at the shop to notice what the man did.

On display was the ring. The man would have recognized it anywhere. He'd waved the concerned Ponds on, promising to catch up, and entered the store. The ring was expensive, but the man bought it without a second thought, even though it emptied his wallet (yes, he did have one. He just preferred not to use it- and no, he was not just 'cheap', no matter what a certain blonde had said in her teasing way.)

Now, standing in his machine (the TARDIS, she was called) he examined the ring, finally knowing who had given her the ring. He had.

Going back on her timeline was dangerous, for him and for her. Too much could go wrong. It was simply against the rules. The man cracked a smile at the thought. Well, he thought wryly, adjusting his bow tie again, rules are only fun if you break them. Geronimo! And he pulled the lever.

The man stepped out of his TARDIS, the blue box concealing its time-traveling secrets behind its blue wooden walls. Inside said walls, the Ponds slept on, unaware their guide to time and space had landed them in back in London. In a few years, the man would arrive. The same man; but not the same man.

The man who would arrive in London in a few years would be ginger (lucky, him, getting to be ginger) and have a rather pronounced nose and equally large ears. He would look nothing like the man that now stepped from the TARDIS, who had floppy brown hair and considerably smaller ears. This man had a tendency to wear bow ties; to other man would wear leather. But that was time-travel for you. The floppy-haired man, who was simply an older version of the ginger man (although he appeared younger), would meet the blonde woman first. Not that she would know. Regeneration was tricky business- but that's another story.

As if to yank him from his thoughts, a familiar blonde woman walked past him, on her way to work, no doubt.

"Oh- wait! Hey! Rose, wait!" He cried, catching up to the blonde who'd stopped at the sound of her name. He could have kicked himself for calling out her name- now she'd think he was a creep- but there was no taking it back now.

"'Ello," she said in a thick London accent. "Sorry, but do I know you?"

"Not yet," the man said, then wanted to kick himself again. Not yet? What kind of an answer was that?!

"How'd you know my name?" She asked suspiciously.

"Uh… my friend knows you," he said quickly, rushing on before she could ask which friend. "Listen, I have something for you."

"Get on with it, then," she said, casting a glance at the shop behind her and sounding eerily like her mother, Jackie. "I'm already late."

"Here," he said, handing her the ring. Rose's eyes widened at the jewelry as she picked it up.

"I can't accept this," she said, trying to hand it back. "This musta cost a fortune!"

"Keep it, please," the man said, his voice breaking on the 'please'. That made the blonde woman pause.

"Are you ok?" She asked carefully, examining the man before her.

"Fine," the man lied.

"Come 'ere, sit down," she said gently, leading him to a park bench. "Why don't you start by telling me your name, yeah?"

"I'm the Doct- I mean," he corrected quickly. "I'm John Smith."

"Well, Mr. Smith, take your ring back, yeah? Save it for when you meet a nice girl," she told him gently, trying to return the gift. He wanted to say he had met a nice girl and he was trying to give it to her, but he couldn't say that. No need to scare her off. Instead, he just shook his head. Rose didn't seem to know what to do.

"Mr. Smith, I can't-"

"John," he interrupted. "Call me John."

"Ok, John," Rose took a deep breath, and then froze as if a new thought had occurred to her. "Is this some kinda prank?"

"Prank? No!" The man assured her, almost laughing. Trust Rose Tyler to assume that. Then again, he reminded himself, in her eyes, I'm a stranger offering her expensive jewelry.

"Keep it? Please?" He begged, trying to meet her gaze.

"Well, all right," Rose finally gave up. "Am I gonna see you again? I'll give it back then, yeah?"

"Yeah, I'll see you around, Rose Tyler," he smiled. "Might look a tad different, though," he warned, almost as an afterthought.

"What, off to get a haircut?" She grinned. The man going by John Smith grinned back.

"Somethin' like that," he smiled elusively.

"We all know how drastic haircuts can be," she teased. "Might not recognize you."

"Well, I'll tell you what, Rose Tyler," he dropped his voice as if sharing a terrible secret. "When I met you again, I'll take your hand and say 'run', yeah?"

"Sounds like a plan," Rose laughed, obviously thinking he was kidding. "I'll see you then."

"Goodbye, Rose Tyler," he smiled. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but Rose didn't notice. She didn't know him well enough… well, not yet, anyway. One day, she'd be able to read him like a book. Just not yet.

The blonde offered him a small wave and headed on her way to the shop she worked at. As she walked, 'John Smith' tried to memorize every detail: the way the sun glinted on her hair, the way her voice had sounded- everything. Then he left, before he could run after her.

A moment later, Rose looked back. John Smith was gone- he'd been odd, she thought, but nice in his own way. He'd had a rather cool bow tie, in Rose's opinion.

The man who'd called himself John Smith knew a lot; he knew he'd given Rose the ring she'd worn all the time. He knew she'd eventually figured out it was he who'd given it to her, and knew better by that time then to mention it (time lines and all). But he didn't know everything.

He didn't know, for example, that before his arrival- the other him- the ring had sat by her bedside for years. He didn't know that she'd felt like an imposter with another woman's ring, so she'd never worn it. He didn't know how surprised she'd been when his ninth self had grabbed her hand and said 'run'. He didn't know that she suspected the truth when she discovered he had a time machine (she knew the truth when he regenerated- it explained how he'd looked so different.) That was when she'd started wearing it around her neck; she no longer felt like an imposter, but she never wore it on her hand for fear Jackie would see it and jump to conclusions.

He didn't know what a comfort that ring had been during her time with him (and even after). He didn't know that whenever they'd had a particularly nasty row she'd retreat to her room and finger her ring, reminding herself that something had made him come back and that their time was limited. Reminding herself that he was rubbish at dealing with emotion and that he did care.

And he did.

When Bad Wolf Bay came and the unavoidable happened, the unfinished sentence didn't hang in the air like it might have. She'd touch her ring and think, I know.

And she did.

"It's not how much we give but how much love we put into giving."

-Mother Teresa