Disclaimer: All bow down to the BBC, because it's certainly not mine.
A/N: This is the sixth of thirteen completely unconnected stories I plan to write during the course of series three, all of which will be Doctor/Rose centric and probably rather shippy, lest the certain deluge of Martha eps and fics to come allows us to forget how wonderful the two of them were together. I'll post a new one a few days after each S3 episode is aired.
--
"Penny for them."
The Doctor, standing on the edge of the hillside beside her, breaks the silence without turning to look at his companion.
"Nothing," Rose replies quietly, as if speaking too loudly will shatter the beautiful illusion of the night before them. She shivers a little, thankful for the warmth his coat over both of their shoulders, and looks out to the expanse of star-spangled sky stretched before them. She wonders which one of these is home, wonders if she'll ever have the time to visit them all. "Nothing important. Just…thinkin'."
It's not the cold she's bracing herself against; they both know that. But, perhaps, if they throw themselves into this life, live every loud moment and stop taking the quiet ones for granted, they can fight off the inevitable. Because it's coming ever-closer, now, the utter certainty that one day, they will be parted. It doesn't matter how many times she promises him forever, nor how many times he tells himself that he's not going to believe her. The end is coming, and there's nothing they can do to stop it.
Just thinking.
She expects some kind of remark about how dangerous a pursuit that is, but it never comes. He turns to look at her just as an icy wind whips up and sends a spray of snow into their faces. Apparently completely oblivious to and unaffected by the sub-zero temperatures pervading their many layers of clothing, he doesn't even flinch. "Two pennies?"
Rose shakes her head, simultaneously dislodging her thoughts and denying their importance, and the Doctor grins. One quick grasp of her hand and they're off, his soaking Converse kicking snow drifts back at her, his grin widening as they reach the TARDIS. He drags her to the floor, acting out a suddenly irresistible, childish impulse, and it's not long before she catches on and follows suit.
They leave behind a set of two rather messy snow-angels, half-collapsed into each other and one with the shape of a sonic screwdriver imprinted onto its hand.
Tomorrow doesn't matter. Forever is now.
--
Two hours later, they are mistaken for Gods in a Bethlehem pre-dating Jesus by about two hundred years. They leave before any real damage is done, but a tiny golden statue of the TARDIS is still erected in their unknowing wake.
Sometimes, they don't mean to leave their mark on history, but it happens anyway.
--
It becomes a mission of sorts: visit as many places and times as possible in a single day to see if, just for once, they can exit a location in a manner other than running for their lives. To see just how far they can stretch that definition of forever. Perhaps, if they keep on going, never resting, never stopping, they can hide from reality a little longer. It takes every ounce of willpower he has to stop himself from whisking her off to the edge of the universe and living out an eternity with her there, safe from the dangers of separation.
"A storm's approaching," he had said, and that was prompt enough. Off they go, cramming in as much life as they can, almost as if they can feel the clock ticking against them, almost as if he'd guessed her thoughts on that hilltop earlier in the day.
Neither are sure who first decided to simply keep on going. It doesn't matter, in the end. Just as long as they never have to stop.
--
After a jerky ride on the walzters in a 71st century intergalactic theme park, the Doctor happily offers up all the remaining candy floss to much more balanced Rose. She'd take it, only she's sure he's licked his half all over, and soggy candy floss isn't the most appetising of foods. In fact, she'd be happier with his slush puppy, but he spilt most of it over himself on the ride, and she's sure that blue dye will never come out of that white shirt.
"Whoever even heard of blue raspberries, anyway? I've been all over the universe and I've never seen a blue raspberry. Blue raspberries…I ask you!" he grumbles as they make their way back and take a moment out for him to switch his clothes before the relentless adventure begins again.
--
He suddenly regrets taking her to the fashion capital of the Milky Way; he never knew it would involve so much dressing up, and he's getting quite fed up of having to change his own clothes every time they return to the TARDIS. It turns out that red lipstick doesn't come out of white shirts, either.
--
The Doctor gives into a whim in 12th century France, letting a twirly-moustached street artist paint their portrait. Rose wants to take it home with them, unflattering as it turns out to be, but the Doctor insists upon the artist keeping it for himself.
It hangs on his stall for the next week, a tangible reminder of a couple so very out of their time. On the seventh day, a rather rich, rather blind old man buys it for his personal collection, saying that the girl's hair colour reminds him of a woman he once knew. The Doctor and Rose are left to hang on a wall in a stately home near Bordeaux, the pained grimaces across their faces perhaps slightly more appropriate than the true smiles the models had worn, considering the amount of dust destined to gather across their frame in the next few centuries.
--
And then, of course, there's Bad Wolf.
The whole of time and space, Rose said, so it shouldn't really be a surprise.
Bad Wolf, Bad Wolf...it still sends shivers down her spine, though. They come across it in the most ordinary of places, scrawled across a wall in person-sized letters opposite a corner shop in Devon. They're only meant to be buying milk for an impromptu cup of tea between trips.
This time, they can't escape the feeling that something is wrong, that the universe is trying to send them yet another message.
Trying not to analyse what any of this could mean, the Doctor decides that he prefers Tesco anyway, and it takes his hand in Rose's for her to step away.
They ignore it and move on, just as they always have, the giant, four-foot letters emblazoned across the wall behind them a stark warning they should always have heeded.
--
There's a side trip to Ancient Greece, togas and all, where he takes to calling her Rosocrates and they find out that Plato really was broad. Rose comes across a poorly-treated slave, makes a comment on equality and inadvertently inspires a whole chapter of Republic. It's not long before the Doctor decides it's time to leave, lest she causes something else to be written and prevents him from being able to take half the credit for this book, too.
She never did believe that he wrote Wuthering Heights.
--
Running down a high street in Cardiff for the hell of it, oblivious to the stares of other pedestrians. They reach the bay within ten minutes, surprised at how far they can run when they don't really think about it, and take a slow walk along the pier, remembering Turkish restaurants, Jack and Mickey and extrapolators. Things are getting a little melancholy for his liking, so he picks her up and throws her in the water (with little success – she shrieks and grabs onto his coat front, forcing him to tumble in with her). They smell like weeds and mud all the way to the middle ages.
Wet footprints, this time, trail back up the pier and along the highstreet, muddling and merging along the same, united path. She picks some sort of slimy green plant out of his hair, and they neither notice not care that there are even more stares than before.
--
They're neither of them quite sure how they get here, but the next stop is a prehistoric, breathtaking alien planet. "Forever," she promises, and he wants to believe her so much that, this time, he doesn't tell her not to say it. After all, isn't that what today is all about?
She writes her name in the sand, alongside a flower and a little smiley face, and persuades him to do the same. With no wind or waves to wash the markings away, it remains forever theirs. They can't own the universe, but this small corner of it will always read their names. In a way, she has fulfilled her promise.
--
21st century London, a photobooth outside Boots in Scarborough. The intention was a thirty-minute beach holiday, but the Doctor was bonked on the head with a beachball not long after arriving and they had to leave the sand lest his hair should be further ruined. Rose drags him into the passport photo machine as they wander up and down the high street, ice-cream in hand and, by the time they get to the photo, on face. He'd managed to trip and get his all over her when she dragged him into the booth, but she can't really be angry with him, not when he's so busy pouting over the loss of his cone. She offers him hers, instead, and he compromises by sharing, offering her his handkerchief to wipe her face and scooping up half the ice cream with his tongue when she isn't looking.
A pause for a quick wash in the TARDIS and it begins all over again. The handkerchief is in the bin, but a crumpled strip of photographs will remain inside his pocket for an eternity.
--
"Ooh, look at you, being all romantic!" Rose teases, clearly delighted when he presents her with a handful of flowers from a street-seller in Venice.
"I'm always romantic. I'm the most romantic person I know," the Doctor defends, sulking slightly, and Rose tries not to snort.
The dried, dead stems stay in the vase on her chest of drawers until he can bring himself to go into her room again, and even then he doesn't throw them away.
--
By the end of the thirty-two hours (they have, somehow, managed to stretch the day out much longer than initially intended. The Doctor blames it on Rose and her decision to stay on for that extra drink with Shareen, but Rose is sure it's down to him and the seventeen angry farmers he "accidentally" angered in Peru), even he's exhausted. They collapse into the TARDIS; tired but happy, flopping back against the doors and laughing together as enraged Peruvian curses reach their ears.
He springs up, grabbing her hands and forcing her to follow suit before she can protest that she's not got the energy for another escapade.
"One more adventure," he promises, "and then we can take that washing to your mum and have a proper rest."
Rose is tempted to check his temperature but doesn't argue; it's not often that he suggests downtime, let alone a visit to Jackie, and she intends to take full advantage of the situation.
The Doctor punches a series of random co-ordinates into the console, hoping that they'll end up somewhere totally devoid of pitchforks, and grins at her across the muddle of keyboards, bicycle pumps, post-it notes and masking tape. For this moment, they are timeless, and there is no-one else in the world but them.
Then they're off again, leaving their mark all across history in one final adventure so that one day, when the inevitable happens, there will always still be an oblivious copy of them somewhere, roaming the universe hand-in-hand and looking forward to the forever they so desperately want to believe in.