Rose

XI.

If nothing else, thinks Rose, she's getting an education.

She hadn't known what to expect (the Doctor's explanation of this mad plan had been more confusing than anything) but Luna University in 2653 had not been it; however, the Tardis has provided her with all the necessary papers to enrol as well as a flat share on campus and Rose is deeply grateful to the fantastic ship.

She's spent some time perusing the endlessly fascinating possibilities of the various undergraduate programs, and in the end, she's chosen Interspecies Diplomacy and Political Sciences, because – well. She's finding the curriculum rather easy, to her utter surprise, and life as a college student is an engaging adventure, one she's amazed and grateful to have a chance to try.

She'd been so down when this surprising, mad adventure had started. Between Sarah Jane's poised grace and Reinette's sophisticated elegance, her confidence had been severely shaken; if that was the kind of woman the Doctor liked – clever, accomplished, refined – then she didn't know what he was even doing with her. She'd always known she didn't stand a chance, of course, but still...

It was being abandoned carelessly to a rather horrid death – twice – that had really shattered her, though. She'd trusted him – back when he wore leather, she'd trusted him enough to let him shoot missiles at her!... Now... now she no longer could. It was heartbreaking.

She'd needed a respite from the Doctor's obvious grief over someone else and her own tormenting insecurities, so she'd begged him to take her home for a visit. Mickey had grumbled and whined, however, (he didn't want to go back so soon!) so in the end, the two of them had gone off on their own – though the Doctor wasn't too keen on that – to look for spare parts on some asteroid or other, promising to come back for her in a few hours.

Instead of going to her Mum's, however, and face the inevitable I-told-you-so, she'd wandered around the Estate – only to run into a future regeneration of the alien git himself.

She raises her head from her tablet to regard him thoughtfully.

His cover here has him in the role of a doctorate student – a bit funny, considering his actual age, but in line with his youthful aspect this time around. Very conveniently, he's been appointed – or has appointed himself, she isn't quite sure – her tutor.

And what a brilliant tutor he is. And rather attractive (not that that's anything new).

She thinks he likes her, too – the blush-worthy way he looks at her sometimes, and the way he sometimes hems and hums and stutters around her...

Maybe he'll find the courage to ask her out. That would be... weird. But, quite possibly, the good kind of weird.

He catches her eyes from where he's pouring over tomes and she smiles instinctually, blushing when he returns it with a wide, pleased grin of his own.

He looks and acts so young, it's hard to believe he is the same man who's taken her hand in Henrik's basement, who's laughed with her at Queen Victoria's possible lycanthropy, who's begged her to help him hide while wearing a bow-tie, of all things.

Albeit a very cool one.

Of course, he isn't the same man – not right now.

Because he's turned himself human.

And if that isn't mind-boggling, she doesn't know what could be.

He is still there, however: not in the body that belongs to him now, with floppy hair and flailing limbs and a kind of uncoordinated grace she finds charming, but inside the ornate fob watch she keeps close to her heart and would protect with her life without hesitation.

She can almost hear him, or feel him, or whatever the weird not-really-telepathy she usually shares only with the Tardis is called: a stormy yet loving presence hovering just at the edges of her consciousness, thrilling and reassuring, a lilting cascade of poetry in silvery tones that warms her heart and makes her mind flare with dreams, not unlike the Tardis' golden-blue song she hears/feels humming through her soul, comforting and exciting.

And he'd been there to grab her hand and drag her inside the new, futuristic-steampunk looking Tardis: even distracted by gaping at the changes (to the console room, and to him), even busy trying to follow his hurried explanations and wrapping her mind around the tangled timeline, not to mention his convoluted plan, she'd recognized the infinitely kind, adventure-loving, burdened gaze in the green eyes that had been blue, and brown, and still looked at her with love.

X.

"It's not that I don't like my job, Rose, you know I love my job. It's a brilliant job and I love it. It's just that nothing's happening. How can nothing be happening? We're in New York! The Big City, the City of Dreams, the City That Never Sleeps! So Nice They Named It Twice! There's supposed to be all sorts of things going on here – felony and wrongdoings and I don't even know! The Modern Gomorrah, that's what they call it – seat of all sorts of sinfulness and organized crime and… and… and we're stuck here with nothing to do!"

Rose leans nonchalantly on the corner of his desk, her usual spot these days when they aren't on a case, and marvels that changing something as fundamental as his species hasn't changed his tendency to ramble at all.

They are, indeed, stuck; though she knows that Detective John Smith doesn't really have any idea of just how true that is.

Still. It could be worse. The Tardis has set them up as private investigators and although the job turned out to be a lot less exciting than movies had led her to believe, she doesn't really mind it. Beats being a dinner lady, that's for sure. Or even a shopgirl.

"I'm bored," he whines, but Rose isn't paying him any mind. She just contemplates him where he pouts dejectedly from behind his desk, wondering once again how she managed to fall in love with an exasperating, centuries-old alien.

Except the centuries-old alien is now just a human. Because he's made himself so. Not that he'd ever mentioned he could.

Rose isn't entirely sure she understands how that works. Is he even still the Doctor?

...Does she love him still?

What is certain is that they're stuck for a good while – three months at the very least, waiting for the Hunters on their trail to die of (for them) old age, and this is only the third week.

Being trapped in the Eighties with a human version of the Doctor – in New York, no less – isn't exactly what she'd envisioned when he'd come running at full speed into the Tardis, blubbering about Hunters and time-trackers and needing to hide. Though she supposes New York is a good option, all things considered… or it would be, if the boredom of a routine life wasn't slowly driving them both mad.

She understands why he chose to hide himself away rather than face them. Truly, she does. Once you've committed genocide once, you naturally hesitate before going that route again. She's seen the raw grief and guilt of his leather-clad him and she knows all too well that this new, more light-hearted version is simply hiding it, not over it. She suspects that he'll never get over it.

That doesn't mean this turning human business and playing at domestics is easy on her. Or on him.

She does have an ace up her sleeve, though, even if she's so far kept it in reserve.

She's so glad this is happening now, rather than when he'd first regenerated.

When they'd tentatively considered the possibility, on Krop Tor, of having to take the slow path together, she'd been hesitant and awkward and so very uncertain. She's had time to think about it, though, properly think about it, since then (and berate herself for how badly she'd handled that conversation. In a way, she isn't much older than when she first started travelling with him; but in another, she's grown so very much - and every day she understands him better, and herself as well).

Now, well, she's ready for the conversation to go better – she's found a path that suits them more. Without carpets nor mortgages.

"Who says we have to stay here?" she asks, because this is the conclusion she's come to after the Impossible Planet and she knows it's the right one for them.

She moves around the desk, resisting the urge to untie and retie the bandanna she's taken to wear over her head in nervousness.

"Who says we have to stay here?" she repeats and John Smith – this human not-Doctor who is, deep down, the Doctor but doesn't know it – blinks at her, blankly, for a long moment.

"No, seriously." She smiles at him charmingly, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth and pushing down the satisfaction at how his breath hitches and his gaze fastens on her lips. "We don't have to stay here and endure the smouldering boredom of summer in New York. We could travel instead."

"But what about the agency?" he protests, even though the hopeful light in his eyes shows he's already teetering on the brink of agreeing.

"John," she says cajolingly. "I'm pretty sure we could find mysteries to investigate in any port where we chose to dock our boat."

His eyebrows go up comically. "Our boat?"

"Yeah, well, we could rent one. Tour the world." She gives him a winning smile. "We could even paint it blue." She says, warming to the idea.

He doesn't understand the reference, of course, but his eyes shine with enthusiasm anyway.

"I think we should stick with trains at first," he says, amused. "Maybe hitch-hiking. Or a motorbike!" he adds quickly, ever the thrill-seeker.

"Works for me," she replies cheerfully.

And then his face breaks into the most beautiful smile and Rose can only smile back because, really. He's gorgeous when he smiles.

Ok, so they're stuck in a rather absurd situation, but... she grins even more widely.

Stuck with him, it's not so bad.

IX.

The warmth of an alien sun on her skin, the taste of a purplish sea on her lips, a scented breeze playing in her hair and his wide smile abaft. Rose cannot be but happy.

Their current life is, she reflects, at once mighty odd and rather normal. Well, their definition of normal at least.

After she ran away with the Doctor to watch the plasma storm in the Horsehead Nebula, she'd found herself living in a blue ship, travelling randomly around with this amazing man and stopping to help wherever they were needed.

Now that they have to hide from weird, short-lived alien Hunters for a few months, she's... living in a blue ship, travelling randomly around with this amazing man and stopping to help wherever they are needed.

Granted, there are differences.

They stop in various small villages of the Archipelago rather than on various planets; the Doctor is no longer an alien (and how she will ever wrap her mind around that, she doesn't know); and their ship is rather a sturdy boat painted blue, quite lovely to be sure, but certainly no match for the frankly magnificent Tardis.

Still.

Rose finds herself loving this life just as much.

She doesn't mind at all these few months undercover on a strange and beautiful world, keeping the Doctor safe and hidden in the ornate fob watch he's entrusted her with and enjoying the company of his human placeholder in the meanwhile.

Oh, she misses the Tardis, of course: her comforting hum and temperamental landings; she misses being able to visit her Mum and Mickey at the drop of a hat; she misses walking under a different sky every day.

Most of all, she misses the Doctor – manic and enthusiastic and broody and alien. A little. A lot.

But not too much, because she can see a shadow of him in this human man – this Captain John Smith who's a bit of a sailor, a bit of a wandering merchant (and a lot of a smuggler, because they both enjoy the thrill, deep down), with a fabricated past in the Navy and a careless cynicism hiding a golden heart, wandering this world like the Doctor wanders the universe, always ready to see something new, always ready to run headlong into trouble, always ready to lend a hand to whoever might be in need.

And who still keeps his other hand firmly in hers.