Chapter 2: As the Garden Blows
"Typical," Alistair commented as he took another sip from his rapidly cooling cup of tea.
The Doctor had the good grace to look sheepish. "It worked in the end."
"Your plans generally do. After, that is, they go wrong."
"Everyone's a critic," the Doctor replied, shaking his head. "So, where was I? Ah, yes. Spielberg was right behind Rose..."
No time.
Spielberg darted forward, its clawed limbs extended.
He ran for Rose.
The animal's maw opened wide, revealing six rows of sharply pointed teeth.
She began to run as she sensed her imminent danger.
He intercepted her and, grasping her hand, he pulled her through the TARDIS doors and into Alistair's garden.
He could almost feel Spielberg's hot breath on his neck, but he didn't dare turn around. He had to keep running.
The creature wheezed.
He ran, companion firmly in tow.
Spielberg stumbled.
He kept running. When he heard the muffled thud of a heavy body collapsing onto the ground, he slowed to a stop.
When he turned, it was to see that Spielberg had collapsed in the midst of the rose garden. The creature struggled to return to its feet; yet it didn't have the strength. Its limbs flailed at the roses, slashing both the plants and the ground in its attempts to regain its footing. Its jaw snapped at the air, fighting to breathe in the deadly atmosphere.
It was doomed to fail.
Spielberg's tail crushed one of the bushes in its death throes. With a final twitch, the creature stilled.
He kept Rose behind him as he cautiously approached the fallen animal. There were times, such as this, that he rather missed carrying a brolly or a cane. He could have used that to tap Spielberg from a relatively safe distance. So he made do with a stick. Specifically the stick that had once been used to brace one of the plants. The plant in question was in ruins, so he figured he was safe in borrowing it for the all-important task of appeasing his worry that Spielberg might still be alive.
Tap.
Nothing. Not a twitch.
Tap.
There was only one conclusion that he could reach. Spielberg was dead. "There. See? Simple."
Nothing. "Rose?" he asked. He turned to see her blink blearily at him. Her skin was alarmingly pale and he felt his hearts speed up in unspoken panic.
"Doctor...I...something's wrong," she replied, and collapsed into his arms.
He felt something sticky coating her back and he didn't have to look to know it to be blood. "Hang on," he told her as he lifted her into his arms. He tried to be gentle, but she moaned softly as he touched her wounds.
Stupid. He should've checked. He should've known that Spielberg would slash at her. He should've known she could've been hurt. He should've pushed her in front of him, presenting himself as the target rather than her. Never her. Never his Rose.
He cursed himself silently as he sprinted for the TARDIS. "Hold on, hold on," he continued to murmur to her unconscious form.
Through the TARDIS doors, down the hallway, first left, second right, and into the medical centre. Gleaming equipment glared accusingly at him and he forced himself to focus. He would not panic. He could not panic. It was just blood.
Blood. So much of it, coating his jacket, coating his body. Death, red blood, everywhere. All things die.
No. He set her gently onto the bed, turning her onto her stomach so he could see her wounds. Three deep gouges had been torn into her flesh. Damn Spielberg. Damn himself. He should've prevented this.
No.
He firmly pulled himself together as he pulled out the instruments that he would need to heal her torn body. First problem was those wounds. Fix those and then deal with the blood loss.
It was a plan.
He carefully peeled off her shirt and the remnants of her bra. He could not let the soaked pieces of fabric get embedded in the wounds. "Oh Rose," he murmured as he continued to berate himself for his stupidity.
No. He had to heal her. That took priority over self-accusations.
He worked in silence, letting his body automatically perform the motions of healing her. Seal the wound, heal the flesh, add medication to prevent infection, and add a salve to soothe the damaged skin. Deal with the blood loss. Simple, easy, she would be fine.
All better. Fixed. He'd never know that she had been hurt were it not for the soaked bedding or the drying blood on the sleeves of his jacket. He pulled off the garment in disgust. He couldn't keep it against his skin, not coated in her blood. Not Rose's blood.
He braced himself against the side of the side of the bed. Her now-smooth skin bore little resemblance to the soaked ruins that he had healed. Not even a scar remained. But it was still there, accusing him. Unseen wounds, perhaps, but there.
No. New man. No more guilt. No more worry. No more angst. She was fine. He was fine. The TARDIS was fine. Well, as fine as she could be given that the library door was undoubtedly in splinters.
Rose would sleep as she recovered from her injuries. He had time now. Time to sort out the mess that they had left in Alistair's gardens. Time, too, to change the bedding and gather new clothes for his companion. She should not know how close it had been.
He didn't notice that her chest was bare while he cradled her against his body. He didn't notice how smooth her newly-healed skin felt against his palms as he gently transferred her to a new bed. Nor did he notice the pang of loss that he felt when he let her go.
She would be fine.
Sparing her one last glance, he bundled the bloodied bedding and jacket into his arms and left the room. One quick stop in Ace's old weapons locker later, he was outside.
He couldn't leave Spielberg's carcass where anyone might come across it. The discovery of its skeleton could either hinder or accelerate the natural progression of human history. There was no choice.
He dropped the bloodied clothing on top of Spielberg. It could all burn. And good riddance.
It took only a quick twist of the cap and a toss to put the canister of nitro-nine in the midst of the pile of fabric and Gallifreyan creature. Ten seconds.
He moved to a safe distance, counting the time.
9...8...7...6...5...
BOOM.
He really needed to do something about those fuses. However, it worked. All that remained of Spielberg was a smoking crater.
"You used an explosive?" Alistair fought the urge to slap the palm of his hand against his forehead. The Doctor had never been quite so violent before. It was behaviour better suited to one of his companions – Ace, if he recalled correctly – than him.
"Only way to be sure. When in doubt, blow it up," the Doctor quipped.
He sighed. Explosives. In his garden. Wonderful.
"My turn," Rose said with a grin. "An' no more explosives for the rest of the story."
"I'd certainly hope not." Alistair sighed again.
She began, "Bein' unconscious is highly overrated..."
Awareness returned far too slowly for her liking. The last she remembered, she had been overwhelmed by pain and weakness. What had happened?
Her body felt fine, maybe a little chilled, but fine. Nothing seemed to be wrong. She carefully opened her eyes to see the familiar features of the TARDIS' medical centre.
Oh.
She had been hurt. Which meant that the Doctor would be tearing himself apart from guilt. And she would have to knock some sense into him. Same old, same old.
Now she remembered.
She had started running and the Doctor had joined her and pulled ahead. The creature had been just behind her and she felt more than heard the whistle of Spielberg's claws through the air as it swiped at her back. She remembered the sharp, agonizing pain of her skin being torn, but she had forced herself to continue.
She had run until she had had to stop. Not because of the Doctor, but because of herself. The pain had grown until it had swallowed her consciousness and she had fallen into his arms.
She had fallen into the Doctor's arms.
Oh. That had not been how she had planned that eventuality. Not by injury, at least. It should've been by design. That was when a new knowledge tickled the edge of her consciousness. She was naked. At least, her upper torso was naked but for the thin sheet that covered her.
Of course he would have had to take off her shirt. Of course he would've had to take off her bra. They would've been in the way while he tried to heal her injuries. So, she was naked. Holding the sheet to her chest, she sat up and looked around for clothes.
Ah, there they were, right next to the bed. Just a t-shirt, but it was better than nothing. Dropping the sheet, she picked up the shirt and pulled it on. Better.
Feeling a bit more secure, she searched the room for the errant Time Lord. He wouldn't stray far, especially when he was worried about her. When she saw him appear into view, she knew that her predictions were right. His dark brown eyes were hooded, his expression blank. Though he leaned against the doorway in apparent ease, she knew it was merely a ruse. He was tense. She could see it in the fine lines around his eyes, in the way his hands were buried in his pockets, in the way he seemed lost within his thoughts.
"Doctor?" she asked.
He blinked and alertness returned to his face as he moved into the room. "Don't do that to me again." The Doctor's eyes reflected a mixture of emotions. Fear, relief, guilt, and affection. He might have a new body, but some things never changed. He would always blame himself when she got hurt.
She smiled and held out her hand to him. "Won't. So long as you stop bringing pets back to the TARDIS."
He grasped her hand in both of his. "I should've known. I should've just chucked the egg out with the rubbish and let it be. 'S my fault."
"No, it wasn't," she said firmly. "Doctor, you couldn't have known."
She knew that look. Knew it far too well. Same man underneath, same guilt. He did not believe her. With her free hand, she clutched at his jacket, pulling him toward her. "An' since you don't believe me..." She touched his lips with her own in a brief kiss. "I forgive you."
He blinked owlishly at her, apparently stunned. "Blimey! I shouldn't..." His words trailed off.
She could almost sense the frantic pace of his thoughts as he tried to come to terms with what she had just done. She loved him. Always had. Always would. Why shouldn't she show him affection? Why shouldn't she kiss him? Why shouldn't she take the opportunity when it presented itself?
The Doctor seemed to reach a decision and he leaned forward. "Stuff the 'I shouldn'ts,'" he murmured just before he kissed her.
She felt her heart skip a beat as his lips gently massaged her own. One of her hands lifted to tangle itself in his hair while the other continued to clutch at his jacket. The Doctor was kissing her. He was kissing her.
And nothing would be the same again.
When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers and sighed. "I'm sorry, Rose."
"What for? For kissing me?" she asked, suddenly defensive.
"No! No, not that. For Spielberg. And for mucking this up. An' for your injuries, and for..."
She silenced him with another kiss. "You don't have to be sorry, Doctor. There's nothing to forgive. I chose this life, remember? And, yes, it's dangerous. Yes, I could get injured. Yes, I could die. But what I told you before? 'Bout how I wouldn't miss it for the world? Still true. Won't change, that. It's worth it."
He looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn't. She knew him. She knew that he would do all in his power to protect her, but sometimes luck just gave out. She couldn't run forever.
Nor could he.
She watched emotions flicker through his eyes for several long seconds before he smiled. "Will have to work on that. New man, new teeth, new mole, but same guilt. Can't say it'll be easy. Might take a bit."
"But worth it?" she asked.
"Definitely." He kissed her again, only this time one of his hands tangled in her hair while the other slid around her waist.
How was this possible? With just a touch, he could melt her. With just a kiss, she craved more. She knew it now. Knew it for a fact. He loved her just as much as she loved him. The words might not have been spoken, but his actions were far more telling. He loved her.
That was what made all the difference.
However, much as she would love to continue, she had to ask in between a breathless kiss, "What about Spielberg?"
He blinked. "Ah. Spielberg. Dead. Blown up, really. No more. Nada mas."
She looked at him quizzically. "Blown up?"
The Doctor looked slightly sheepish. "Yeah. Had a few spare cans of nitro-nine lying around, and figured that I'd put them to good use. Can't have anyone finding Spielberg – even a dead Spielberg. Might change the course of human history. Can't have that, you know."
"So you blew it up," she repeated.
"Yeah."
"You blew both Spielberg and Alistair's rose garden up?"
"That's what I just...oh. Oh." He hung his head. "Alistair's going to kill me."
She smiled as she pulled him in for another kiss. "Don't worry, I'll protect you."
"You blew up my rose garden," Alistair said, shaking his head. Only the Doctor.
"For the greater good. Couldn't just leave Spielberg lying around for just anyone to come across. That it happened to have died in the middle of your rose garden..."
"My prize-winning Gertrude Jekyll rose garden," he corrected. Admittedly, he was not angry. Not really. Considering the Doctor, it was lucky that the roses were the only casualty.
"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I can replace them. Have a few in the TARDIS gardens..."
He shook his head. "Only you, Doctor. And what about that hole your explosion left behind?"
"Can fill it up, no problem. Make it good as new. Might be a good thing. Been a while since I've been able to muck about with dirt. Could be fun." The Doctor grinned and stood, offering his hand to Rose. "Right then. Best be off. Filling in the hole, replacing the roses, playing in the dirt."
The two made their way to the doorway, where the Doctor paused. "Oh, forgot to tell you, Alistair..." The Time Lord's voice trailed off as he ran his hand through his hair and grinned sheepishly.
"Yes, Doctor?" he asked.
"Happy Easter."
FIN