Neil Gaiman
Closed Circle
(the school in which we learn)
Time rings on her fingers. One quick flick and she's gone. It's an elegant way to travel and Rose Tyler has been an elegant old lady for a long time now.
She left him when the lines in the mirror each morning meant more than the reassurances he whispered to her at night. She left him alone and alive and wandering.
Now there's a police box in front of her. The police box. It's not out of place here; it really is a disguise.
She's standing in a junkyard with broken bicycles and broken lives strewn around her. The smell is dull and faded and she can hear paper wrinkling in the wind.
Taking a step forwards, the world tips sideways. Bones brittle, but they do not break; her head cracks against the concrete. Her nose bleeds.
Later. Carried inside by a girl even slighter than herself. She hadn't realised how frail she had become.
Lights bright; bed soft. Sleep is fleeting. There is someone sitting beside her: an old man, so much younger than she remembers. Perhaps she is the wise one here. But looking into his eyes, she cannot believe that. Perhaps he has always been old. Older than she could ever be.
She reaches out. He takes her hand.
"Doctor?"
"Do I know you, my dear?"
She smiles. "Not yet. But I came to say goodbye anyway."
- - -
She is a human being with a travel pass for the universe. She is very tired.
- - -
The Doctor won't ask questions. Not real ones.
"Would you like a cup of tea?"
A gentleman, always, even when a Mancurian.
Rose sits up in the bed that is not hers and in a TARDIS that feels alien. Closes her eyes, the hum is still the same, but the light is artificial and white. For a moment, in her mind, she sees organic green. Home.
The tea is warm. Slides down her throat like silk. Her stomach protests, but she ignores it. She won't deny herself this pleasure, not here, not now. Nothing tastes quite so much like England, and that is where she's from, after all. And the Doctor makes very good tea.
The cup is empty and her hands are trembling.
He takes it from her. His skin reminds her of her own.
- - -
If there is one thing that she's learned, it's that time isn't linear. Now doesn't matter. Because then could come back. Can never be. Can change. Nobody writes the future. It's always been there. She is dead. Alive. Gone and back home in time for…
…how she wishes for shepherd's pie. Piping hot. Her mother's high-pitched voice in the background, drowning out the telly.
- - -
The Doctor doesn't need to sleep, so he stays with her. Holding her. Rocking her. So very gentle. She rests her head against his shoulder, breathes in. Mothballs and brandy, and she suspects he indulges in the odd cigar when he thinks Susan isn't watching.
He knows, though she hasn't told him. Hasn't told him anything about her.
Compassion is universal.
And he is a doctor, after all.
- - -
(the fire in which we burn)
A fat man with too much time on his hands and very dodgy HTML skills had warned her once. But death had become Rose's companion too. They had embraced. They had danced.
Death was just Time's younger sister, with blood red boots and a tight leather skirt. Rose wasn't afraid of her; she was afraid of being alone. And Death could be a capricious little bitch when the mood took her. Pruning people.
There was something more. Rose was sure of that.
But she no longer feels like an explorer.
- - -
"I'm sorry."
The Doctor shrugs and puts away the blood-stained handkerchief. He passes her another and Rose splutters again. A sharp cough. Brittle. Brutal. It's tearing her throat apart.
She ruins this handkerchief too.
"Will you tell me why you're here, hmm?"
"I didn't know where else to find you. I had to be careful."
He nods. He understands. She hopes she's given him enough. She hopes he can control his curiosity.
- - -
She walks a little because there's nothing much wrong with her legs. The Doctor's in the console room; Susan's at school.
Muttered frustrations, the angry clank of metal against metal. It seems some things never changed.
"You should be resting."
"It won't be make difference. I'd prefer…" She shouldn't be offering this; she shouldn't be here. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
The inside of the console is a mess. Rose knows how to fix most of it.
But she stays quiet; she can still play the dutiful assistant, even if she has saved the world, once or twice.
And when the Doctor offers her his arm to escort her back to her room, she accepts it. She is a lady and he is a gentleman and perhaps they are more similar now than they have ever been before. More equal.
She kisses him good night. His lips are dry as parchment. For a foolish moment, as she looks into his eyes, he wants to tell him everything. Who she is and where she's from and everything that's going to happen. She sees so much hope in him, and she knows how much of that will be chipped, crushed, torn away in a bloody and godless universe.
She wants to save him. To spare him.
If wishes were fishes…
"Stay with me." It is a whisper, but his hearing is perfect.
- - -
There is no passion here; it is a soft romance.
- - -
Rose wakes with her Doctor.
She is old and she has always been in love. Her fingers trace the lines of his palm. She draws constellations.
Some spark in his eyes stays the same no matter which body he wears.
- - -
There are time rings on her fingers, and she takes them off one by one. Old and worn, they feel like carved bone. The engraved symbols mean nothing to her; she knows the Doctor can read them. Watches that flicker of his brow as his eyes pass over the script when she hands them to him.
"You must take care of them. You must give them to me. Later." So much later.
He hmphs. "I'll forget them."
"That'd probably be best for now." One shouldn't think about paradoxes too much.
She kisses his hand, holds it against her cheek. Cold, dry as an autumn leaf. He is strangely still for a while.
- - -
Her throat is burning, but she forces the words out. "My name is Rose Tyler. And I love time travel."
She hopes he won't forget that.
It's very quiet now.
End