Title: Do What Thou Wilt

Characters: Nine/Rose, Jack

Word Count: 3,623

Summary: Destiny and fate can be rewritten, especially if you're dealing with the Bad Wolf. AU by The Parting of the Ways.

Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all related characters and storylines are the property of the BBC. Tarot card descriptions and images from Aleister Crowley's Thoth deck, written by James Wasserman.

Author's Notes: This was written for the then_theres_us fic challenge. Prompt was from theidiotgirl, which showed a deck of tarot cards from the Thoth deck, and displayed prominently on top was The Star. The title comes from Aleister Crowley, who was reputed to live by the motto "Do what thou wilt." I hope I managed to do justice to both the prompt and the characters. :) Comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome.

The Hanged Man

(Redemption through sacrifice. Enforced sacrifice. Suffering.)

He takes her for chips in London (he thinks of it as their first date - although when did he even treat companions as possible dating material? Time Lords do not date, said a voice inside his head that sounded vaguely like Romana) and he watches her as she seasons hers with salt and vinegar, the steam wafting above the greasy potatoes like the most potent perfume. She inhales it twice, her eyes closed, bright pink smile broadening as she carefully picks one from the pile and dangles it above her mouth. The chip is devoured, inch by inch, and he finds himself colouring up to the tips of his ears at the suggestive image that suddenly flashes in his imagination.

"Aren't you gonna eat those?" she asks innocently, pointing to his own basket of chips, already growing cold in the air-conditioned shop.

He flashes her a grin and starts popping them in his mouth. They taste warm and golden and present, and he realises that he's been running away, always running, and it was so very rare for him to finally have the opportunity just to stop, to center himself, to experience the now. And his present just so happened to have a pink-and-yellow girl in front of him that's rapidly becoming one of the most precious things he's ever seen.

"So," she says, wiping her fingers delicately on the paper napkin at their table and taking a sip of her soda, "tell me about your people."

His jaw tightens and he forces himself to keep looking at her, to keep staring into the warm brown of her eyes, the sunlight reflected in the irises that can keep away the rising dark. "I... a lot of it is hard, Rose. 'M sorry, but I can't."

She tilts her head to one side, her gaze worried. "Tell me what you can, then. Just one story, Doctor."

He pulls the lapels of his leather jacket closer to his chest to ward off an imagined chill. He stares at his hands - broad, calloused, work-roughened. They are the hands of a killer. His hearts break all over again.

"I just came from a war," he says quietly. His voice, the rough Northern accent sounding even rougher, barely carries past their table. People move to and fro, around and about and beyond, a sea of bright lives flashing in an instant. They are the ones he's saved; the ones he spared from a brutal non-existence, from nothingness. Them and countless other planets and galaxies and solar systems are alive today, and he takes comfort in that.

"It was called the Time War. The Last Great Time War. We... I... my people, they were called Time Lords. An' there was a reason for that. We could see everythin' that was happenin', could see all possibilities, an' that's how we live. An' of course we had enemies, everyone has enemies, but y'see, our enemies also found out the secrets of time travel an' movin' backwards and forwards in time.

"But you're not s'posed to mess around with time like that, y'see? An', oh Rose, I wish I could take you there, to the Citadel an' the mountains an' fields of scarlet grass - you'd love it. But Time Lords are idiots, stupid, an' they thought that if we din't fight, see, then..." The Doctor bows his head, afraid to show his face to Rose. He wants to stop, wants to sew his mouth shut, to keep his pain and horror and shame inside. But it bubbles up, words flowing from his lips like the tears he never shed.

"Doctor - "

"People were dyin' an' bein' alive again, an' stuff you'd never see even in your nightmares were suddenly there, right in front of you. It was like bein' burned alive, but in your mind, in your soul." The Doctor flexes his fingers on the plasticine surface of the white Formica table. "They had Deathsmiths and demons and the might of their empire an' we had our own weapons, an'... oh Rose, Arcadia fell, and they came for us in the Citadel, an' the Nightmare Child was there, an' the Horde of Travesties, an' it was just shadows an' ashes an' so much death." He lifts his eyes, finally, to see Rose's shimmering with unshed tears. She reaches across the table and cradles his hands between hers, as though she was trying to stop all the pieces of him from slipping through her fingers.

"You can stop now, Doctor," she says quietly. He hears the catch in her voice.

He takes a deep breath. "They burned, Rose. All those ships, an' my planet, and I made them burn."

He feels her thumb stroking the delicate fold of skin between his thumb and forefinger.

"I had to let them burn."

"Why?"

"Because I had to save everyone else." He looks at her, really truly looks at her, and realises what he's done. His mind reels back in shock and horror - how could he inflict even the merest hint of how his people almost destroyed the whole of creation for a chance at transcending the horrors of the war? How could he tell her what a selfish bastard he was, the last man standing of an already dead race?

Rose takes a deep breath, and he realises that she will finally make her choice, that she will finally say goodbye to him, that she will finally leave him.

She keeps on stroking his hands, a comforting rhythm, as she opens her mouth and tells him, "I forgive you."

What?

"What?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"I forgive you." She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "I might not understand everythin' and I'm very glad I wasn't there, 'cos probably there were worse things've happened an' you don't want to talk about 'em yet, 's all right 'cos I'm here an' I'm with you an' I forgive you."

The Star

(Hope. Unexpected help. Clarity of vision.)

They are running. Again.

This time, they are being chased by giant aliens in (what seemed to her to be) leather, wielding laser blasters and whips. They run on four legs, with a spare pair of limbs to hold up the aforementioned blasters which are currently trained in their direction.

The Doctor aims the sonic screwdriver over his shoulder, peripheral vision approximating their relative position. She hears the familiar, comforting whirr of the sonic and breathes a sigh of relief as she hears one of the aliens go down in a tangle of limbs. But there's the smell of burnt ozone and a flash of scarlet light, and the Doctor beside her suddenly stumbles with a Gallifreyan curse and grunt, and she discovers she is running alone.

She stops and turns back, and the Doctor is crumpled on the ground, clutching his arm in pain. The aliens are advancing and he struggles to rise but stumbles and fails. Rose rushes towards him, one arm around his waist and slinging his elbow across her neck. She is much smaller than him, but they still move quickly, avoiding the blaster fire as they hobble towards the TARDIS. The Doctor aims the sonic as they reach the door, and she hears, rather than sees, their blasters suddenly falter, the mechanism jammed.

His face is pale, beads of sweat decorating his forehead as he cradles his arm close to his chest. He clomps up to the center console and initiates the dematerialisation sequence. Rose hangs back, watching the bright blue-green column rise up and down as the TARDIS shudders into the vortex. As soon as they stabilise, the Doctor stares up from where he's leaning on the console and trains his bright blue gaze on her. "Rose," he says, and promptly collapses on the metal grating.

She gasps and runs up to him. Her trembling palms grip his leather-clad shoulders and shake him. Harder. Harder. But his eyes are closed and his breathing shallow, and Rose can feel bile rise up in her throat in fear. But she pushes back that fear; the Doctor needs her now.

Hooking her arms beneath his, she half-pulls, half-drags him towards the medbay. It's hard work - the Time Lord is several stones heavier than her, but she makes herself move because she knows it's never comfortable lying down on the grating (she's done it before). The TARDIS has helpfully moved the medbay to the nearest corridor from the console room, and the door slides open with a whoosh as Rose pulls the Doctor up on the exam bay, her shoulders and back protesting as she deposits her precious cargo on the white sheets.

A golden, solemn presence in her mind, the TARDIS directs Rose through the process of performing first-aid on the Doctor. She tugs off the leather jacket from his body, trying not to let the sight of his upper body, encased in thin wool, from distracting her. Certainly it's not the muscles beneath her fingers or the contours of his chest that catchers her off-guard; as she takes the scissors and cuts off the sleeve of his jumper to expose the wound, she marvels at his arms, at the strength and elegance of his body. She allows the TARDIS to guide her movements and before she knows it, she's putting down the last syringe and checking the dressing on his wounds. His heartbeats are strong and regular, and he's lost the pale and wan look on his face. Rose raises her hand and smooths away the worry lines on his forehead, his cool skin making her aware of her own flushed and sweaty state.

A weariness settles on her shoulders and Rose feels her legs slowly give out beneath her. She pulls up a chair beside the Doctor's bed and falls on the hard plastic seat. Her eyes are heavy and her head feels too big for her neck to support. Perhaps a five-minute nap would be all right. She scoots over so that she can rest her arms on the edge of the bed. She leans down and pillows her head on her arms. One hand brushes the Doctor's fingers. As she slowly sinks into oblivion, she dreams that she can feel his hand grip hers tight, as though he doesn't want to let go.

The Lovers

(Attraction. Beauty. Love.)

Somewhere, in some other time, people are mourning. Right now, the only thing Rose is aware of is the fact that her eyes feel swollen and her mascara must be running down her cheeks. The Doctor stands in front of her, his arms around her shoulders. Her cheek is pressed against the soft wool of his maroon jumper, and the scent of leather and skin surrounds her. She never really understood the phrase "heart heavy like lead" until today; holding her father's hand as he slipped away from her made her entire body feel like stone.

She can feel the Doctor's cool hands stroking her back in soothing circles. She wants to curse him, to rail at the world and tell him why, why, why didn't he warn her?

But a small voice at the back of her head says that it's her fault, in the end - the Reapers, the Doctor's death (and oh, she feels so small and insignificant after that, as though her soul had been ripped out of her chest), and her father's sacrifice. None of this would've happened if she didn't insist of going back 'round the first time and the last time, if she wasn't so bloody single-minded about keeping her father alive.

"I lost you," she mutters into his jumper, and she's not sure if she's referring to her father or to her Doctor.

"You know I'll always come back for you, yeah?" The Doctor's voice is warm in her ear, and for a moment she's not sure if he's talking to her out loud or he's whispering the words inside her head.

A fresh wave of tears slides down her cheeks. She's faced down the Gelth and the Slitheen and the Jagrafess, the last Dalek, and yet this is what she fears the most - the loss of the Doctor. She's not sure when it's happened, how he suddenly became the most important person in her life, but she's not regretting a minute of it. She only regrets that the last thing she's done before he was taken by the Reapers was to tell him that he wasn't important to her (and what a lie that was), and yet the last thing he did was to protect her family, protect her.

Instinctively, she presses her lips against his chest, between where his twin hearts are beating out a familiar, comforting rhythm. He doesn't stop stroking her back, but she can feel him tense up underneath her.

"You're tired, Rose," he says, slowly disentangling himself from their embrace. "P'raps you should go on, get a shower 'n head to bed. All right?"

She tilts her head to one side. She must look a right mess - her clothes all sweaty and rumpled, her hair tangled on her head, make-up all streaked and smudged on her face. But he looks at her with his eyes as though she's a wonder of the universe. Maybe...?

"Doctor?" she whispers, and her heart is thudding in her chest.

He quirks an eyebrow at her.

She stands on her tiptoes, hands on his shoulder for leverage, and presses her lips against his. Once, twice, and his lips part to let her in, and they are kissing - kissing! - and Rose can feel her body shivering, tingling like a leaf on the summer wind, and his arms are around her waist as he presses the length of his body against hers, chest to chest, hips to hips, thighs to thighs. She can feel the planes and angles of his body against hers, can feel her softness moulding against his muscles, his hands sweeping up to cradle her head as he deepens the kiss. His tongue is firelight and flickering inside her mouth, sweeping up the taste of her into his mouth, and she gasps into his lips as he kisses - no, he consumes - her.

The Universe (Bad Wolf)

(The essence of the question itself. Synthesis. The end of the matter.)

She is inside the TARDIS and the TARDIS is inside her, and it feels as though she is surrounded by golden amber, her body a vessel for all the possibilities in the universe. She can see shining timelines, infinite in their splendor, twining around the vastness of space and time. Backwards and forwards, she scatters the words "Bad Wolf" across the stars, the compass needle pointing her towards home.

The wooden blue doors open and she steps out of the TARDIS, golden everywhere, and her mouth opens and their words reveal the truth. The Emperor of the Daleks shriek but she waves her hand and they burst into the dust of stars. The Time War ends.

The Doctor crouches in front of her, his eyes fearful as he stares at her. "Doctor," she says, and her voice echoes across eternity.

"What have you done, Rose?" he asks, standing up. She knows what he's done, how he's refused to set off the Delta Wave. But the Doctor is no coward, she knows that. He loves life too much - love, love, love, the word chimes in her head like a mantra and she remembers twisted sheets and bodies twining in a dance as old as time itself, sweat-stained skin and desperate kisses - and she loves him too much and now here they are and his hands are stretched out towards her in invitation. His smile is kind.

"I bring life," she says, and she can feel Jack gasp air into his lungs, alive.

The Doctor steps towards her and she wants to fling her arms around him, drag him back into their room in the TARDIS and celebrate the joy of being alive because, once again, everybody lives! But something is hurting her, like small sharp blades behind her eyes, and she tells him so. She feels something warm and wet flowing from her eyes - tears?

"I think you need a doctor," he says and she wants to tell him off for that awful cheesy line, but before she can say anything, he's already gathering her up in his arms and taking her inside the TARDIS. Everything inside her head swirls, like patterns drawn in sand only to be erased by the surf, and she can feel the TARDIS pulling the power from her body, draining her of the sweet golden glow until she sags in the Doctor's arms, spent.

The door swings open and Jack pounds up the grating leading to the console, his eyes wide and frightened. "I was dead," he says without preamble.

The Doctor deposits Rose on the jumpseat, her eyes closed and her limbs limp, and fixes Jack with a hard stare. "You're s'posed to be dead, Jack."

"I know."

"She brought you back."

"She?"

He rubs his hand over his head. "Rose. The TARDIS and Rose, t' be precise. Guess they wanted you more alive than dead."

Jack presses his lips together in a thin line. "I can hear a 'but' coming on, and I'm pretty sure it's not the one I usually enjoy."

"You're a fixed point in time, Jack." The Doctor pats the TARDIS console lovingly as he gazes at his companion. "When they gave you life, they gave you unending life. You can't ever die, and it's not meant to be, nobody's supposed to live that long. We all die someday, Jack. 'Cept for you."

Jack walks up to the console, walks around to where Rose is lying, and smooths back the sweaty blonde locks from her forehead. "She wanted me to live."

"She wanted all of us to live."

Jack nods in understanding. "I'll collect my things then."

The Doctor raises any eyebrow. "Where d'you think you're goin'?"

"I thought you were - "

"Thought wrong, Captain. Not that I blame you." The Doctor gestures to one of the corridors that leads to the living quarters. "Get a fresh shirt on, Jack, and I'll see you here. Headin' to Earth in a bit, all right?"

"Aye aye, Doctor." Jack gives him a jaunty salute, relief evident in his face, as he bounds down the console platform and towards his room. Once his footsteps fade to silence, the Doctor starts the dematerialisation sequence and heads for the safety of the vortex. The TARDIS chimes in his head, berating him for Emergency Programme One and inquiring about the state of Rose's mind. He strokes the nearest coral strut in comfort as he approaches Rose and kneels down beside her. "Oh, my heart, my precious girl," he breathes out, finally allowing the sadness and fear of the day course through his veins.

A puff of golden light escapes her parted lips, hovering in the air like a will o' the wisp, before dissipating. Her cheeks are too pale, her eyes still closed, her body like a rag doll on the jumpseat. The Doctor gathers her up in his arms and moves towards their bedroom, kicking the door open with one booted foot.

He lays her above the crisp green sheets, and sets about attempting to make her more comfortable. He slips off her trainers and socks, unzips her hoodie and tugs her denims off. Once she is stripped down to her knickers and a white cotton tank top, he pulls the duvet up to her chin and slips into bed beside her.

She is small and warm and human in his arms, and he can feel tears threaten to escape from the corners of his eyes. He almost lost her; he sent her away and she came back, and now she's in his arms and he still can't believe it. He shudders, burying his face into her hair. She smells of artron energy and Gallifrey and sweat and sleep and all he wants to do is shield her from the world. His girl, the most precious and fragile of them all.

Rose snuffles in her sleep and he looks down to see her lift her eyelids and look at him sleepily. "Hello, Doctor," she whispers. One small hand slips beneath the hem of his jumper and snakes upwards, pressing against his chest, against his hearts.

"Hello, Rose." His voice is gruff and rough with unshed tears.

"Everybody lives?" she asks, her voice small and tired.

He nods against her hair, his arms around her back. "Yes, Rose," he says quietly. "Everybody lives."

"Good," she says. "Wake me up when we're at my mother's."

The Doctor chuckles weakly, the fear in his heart giving way to rest, to sleep, to the warmth of the woman sharing his bed. "All right," he says, and he follows her into her dreams.

For once, there are no nightmares to wake them up.