A/N: Alrighty then, people. Hello, me again! I have returned, to update this story! Because I've finally decided to have this story Beta-read by the fantastic SapphireNight. She is fantastic, absolutely fantastic. Many thanks to her, because she's improved this story so much by her incredible editing of it! We've just got the first chapter done for now, and I've got her roped into editing more, though it will take a while, as we're both so busy! But anyway, thanks so much to her!

Also, as an updated note…oh my God, seriously? SEVENTY reviews?! For a four-part +epilogue story?! How did this happen?! You guys are amazing, you really are. Thanks so much!

Anyway, off we go! Allons-y! Or rather...er...this is 11...

Geronimo!

-CHAPTER ONE-

-?-

The Doctor never looked back.

Running, running, always running. Running away. Running away from the past. Away from the pain. From the guilt. Oh, so much guilt.

Some thought this meant he forgot. That as soon as they were gone and he never mentioned them again that he just forgets.

This wasn't true.

The Doctor never forgets.

He hoards things, like a magpie, like an old miser. The TARDIS is full of their stuff; old jewellery, lipstick, clothes, drawings, pictures, photographs, souvenirs, stethoscopes, hatboxes, Roman armour, even a paper Mache TARDIS. Old memories, long gone. He never throws anything away. He's too damn sentimental. Their rooms are always exactly how they left them, as if they'd only just popped out for another quick adventure. It felt comforting, feeling as though they could pop back any moment, rather than the cold hard truth—they had left him, years—sometimes decades, centuries—ago.

Sometimes he goes in their rooms and sits, not disturbing anything, but sitting and closing his eyes. Smelling their scent and pretending that maybe, just maybe, they'd be back. Any second, they'd waltz back into their rooms like they'd waltzed into his life all those years ago and stolen his hearts.

In the end, they always left them broken.

It's the same story, over and over again. They forget, they fall in love, they're abandoned, they leave, and they die. He picks them up out of nowhere, and it always starts with those same two words;

Doctor who?

His hearts budge up space and make infinite amounts of room for them. They have adventures, saving worlds, universes, sometimes the whole of reality…and then they're gone, and he's left alone. Traveling the universe when he should never be alone, the madman with a box.

The Doctor can never look back.

But sometimes, oh just sometimes, there are things that remind him of her.

He doesn't always think of her, oh no. With his regeneration, it became so much easier not to pine. Not every little thing reminded him of her. A new desktop theme, a new Doctor, a bowtie instead of Chucks and he no longer felt her ghost haunting his every step. But it was still there, it was always there, like the ghosts of all his former companions. Like Susan, like Sarah-Jane. Like Romana and Jamie. Adric and Peri. The Brigadier and Captain Jack. Leela and Grace. His ghosts.

Blonde hair, tongue-in-teeth smiles, promises of forever and run. Sometimes. Just sometimes.

Sometimes, it becomes impossible to forget Rose Tyler.

So whenever he spotted the Ponds in those special, precious moments when they forgot he was in the room, unbidden in his mind comes an image of her. When the moment comes, for him to elope with his bespoke psychopath to save the universe, instead of appreciating River for who she was, who she will be…unwelcome in his mind comes the thought of a heartbroken, jealous Rose.

He wasted so much time.

He would do anything, anything at all, for one more day. One more day, just one, and he'd tell her everything he never got to say.

And it's only after he's lost the Ponds, as he sits on his cloud above Victorian London. His hearts, broken from two losses too many. Withdrawn, alone, aloof. Like Time Lords are meant to be. He'd no longer interfere. All it caused was pain. After all this running, he finally understood why the Time Lords stood still.

His thoughts are too full of ginger hair and the couple who waited. Come along, Ponds. And then, gone. In the blink of an eye.

So he doesn't do it anymore. He doesn't save the world anymore. Because all he gets in return is pain.

There was no hope. Vincent Van Gogh was right. The Doctor was wrong. There was never any hope. Hope didn't matter, anyway, because he'd always, always, end up with his hearts broken anyway, cracked even more deeply than before.

And he sits, in that new chair in his darker TARDIS. Darker, darkness. That's how he likes it now. It makes it a bit difficult to read, but that's alright. He's got Pond's spectacles. And it's years, years and years, before he can even move from that chair.

And it's all because of the book. The book he pulled from the self at random. That book that was her favorite, that she'd curl up with at the end of an adventure. Socked feet tucked under a blanket, blonde hair curling around her finger as her eyes darted back and forth across the ancient pages. At first he thinks it's just another dull blow to his crumbling soul, but then…then he has an idea. An insane, completely mad idea.

It would pull him out of the darkness, but it would send him spiraling even deeper into that darkness after. But it didn't matter. He could worry about that later. Because sometimes, he thinks he's self-destructive on purpose. Sometimes, he thinks he runs towards the pain instead of away from it. Sometimes, he thinks he likes it.

It scares him so much.

He's mad. He's completely lost it and he knows it. He knows how much it will hurt, and yet he doesn't care.

But he dashes around the TARDIS console anyway, sets the coordinates to the one place he swore he'd never go again. Not unless, by some small miracle…well, anything for a glance of her. She who made him better. She could make him better again, couldn't she? And she won't know him, won't recognize him, because she hasn't met him yet. She never has known this face, and he can pass through her timeline like a ghost.

It's not as if this is his first time thinking about it, oh no. Not so long ago, when he was faced with a final death at the hands of an impossible astronaut, he'd thought of going back. One last cheeky smile. One last glance. One last sight of rosy cheeks and blonde hair and one last beautiful thing to make him smile.

But he'd put it off, afraid of the pain. After all, when he'd actually came back, oh so many years ago when he wanted her face to be the last face that face saw, it'd hurt so much. But he'd known it was worth it. And when he'd been about to die, he couldn't. He couldn't go back, because it was already time. Time for him to die.

Now, he had all the time in the worlds. Because he doesn't save people anymore. He only saves himself.

The TARDIS grates, sounding slightly aggravated, as he parks her outside the council estate. She knows, as he does, it's a bad idea. But she lands anyway, taking him to the right time and place for once, because she can't resist seeing their Rose any more than he can.

The display screen reads 1991, and somehow, he just knows. It's Christmas.

He'll stay in the TARDIS, he tells himself; he won't go outside. He'll only wait to catch a glimpse of her on the scanner. He knows that he'll recognize her (how could he not?) even though she's only five years old.

He doesn't have to wait long. He clings to the scanner as he watches. He spots the little pink girl barrel down the council stairs as her mother's struggling to keep up. Jackie looks worn out. Tired. Rose keeps her on her toes, he can guess. But she looks happy, and he knows it's because of Rose.

He looks on, with tears in his eyes, as she makes a snowmen. His hearts are full to busting as he spies. Because, oh, isn't she beautiful, even so young, and isn't she just as precious as she always was. His precious Rose. He can't tear himself away from her smiling face. He can't leave, even long after she goes back inside and her little snowman sits as though a testament.

One trip, that's all he'd give himself. One trip. One stolen moment. That's all, one trip. Just one trip.

And yet he finds himself at the TARDIS console, setting the coordinates, not back to Victorian London and his cloud, but to a couple of years into the future, the same spot. And this time, he steps out. This time, he sits on a bench, the lonely old man, and waits outside a council estate for one glimpse of his love.

It's spring now. Early spring, the grass and trees still clinging to that last bit of winter as the snow melts delicately from their branches. Here and there, little flowers pop up, searching, reaching, desperately for the bright shining ray of hope, the sun. He's doing the same as they, searching for hope. For one sight of his pink-and-yellow girl. His own little ray of sunshine.

He watches as she skips past him, a knapsack hanging from her shoulder and a Barbie lunchbox swinging from her hand. That hand he used to hold. He never thought the day would come when he'd be jealous of a Barbie lunchbox, but there it was. She never looks round at him, the man staring at her so intently. He supposes that's a good thing, because he doesn't want to scare her. He doesn't want her to think he's a creepy, weird man. And old, so old, to her just a grown up, but to him so, so old. She's so young. But it doesn't matter. They're all young to him. The eight year old girl; the ninety year old man. They're all just children to him. He, who has lived so long. Too long.

It's only after she's long gone that he gets back in the TARDIS. He knows what he's doing this time and yet he doesn't care. He sets the coordinates for three years in the future, and he lands in a playground. This playground, the same one on the council estate, where he landed that fateful day of ghosts, that same day she let go.

But it's not that day, it's years before that day. It's summer, now, and it's hot, the sun blazing overhead and warming his tweed covered shoulders. The kids are playing, and he sits on the swing, the lonely old man, lost in thought, waiting.

Soon she arrives, with a black boy a bit older than her, and he knows it's Mickey. He's a bit scrawny, and the Doctor wants to laugh at Mickey the idiot. In fact he files it away under things to tease him about later, should he ever run into Mickey the idiot again. He's so young, and yet the Doctor can see in his eyes. That protective glare, that watchful gaze. He takes care of her, because she's got no one else. He loves her already, the Doctor can tell, even though Mickey himself probably has no clue.

But the real treat is in watching her, with her blonde hair in two plaits, as she laughs and plays and teases Mickey. The Doctor can't help but smile with her. How long has it been since he smiled? Not since before he lost Amy. He's not really, properly smiled, out of simple, pure happiness, since he lost Rose.

And here he is, grinning like a fool in love, and it's only because she's right there, smiling with her tongue in her teeth.

He so lost in his thoughts that she takes him by surprise, suddenly appearing on the swing next to him and staring at him as though she knows exactly who he is and can see right through to his soul, even though it's quite impossible. Not least because she hasn't even met him yet.

"Hello," she says, and his hearts are so full they might bust as she smiles at him and he smiles right back, bottom lip twitching almost imperceptibly.

"Hello," he says, his voice breaking, just a little bit. It's only when she's smiling at him like that with those big hazel eyes—and she hasn't even met him yet—that it fully hits him just how much he misses her.

"I'm Rose," she tells him, matter-of-factly.

"Hello, Rose," he responds. She wriggles her way into his hearts once more, and makes her home there as she smiles at him. He'd forgotten how easily she did that. "It's very nice to meet you."

She kicks off the ground and she swings, watching him.

"Why are you so sad?" she asks him.

Oh, his Rose! He laughs. Oh, his lovely, clever Rose, who doesn't even take notice when he's being attacked by a plastic hand, and yet can see right into him. Oh, his Rose!

"I'm not sad," he tells her, even though it's a boldfaced lie, and she knows it too. "Not anymore."

Not after seeing you again.

Little Rose peers at him inquisitively, and he's sure he's about to be graced with a magnificent, fantastic Rose-observation.

"You are, though. I can tell. You're like my mum," she tells him, and he blinks at this, taken aback. In no way was he like Jackie. "You smile when there's people around, and then when there's no one looking you're sad."

She floors him with this astute observation, because he really thought that Rose never paid attention to things like that. But now, he knows better, as he realizes this part of her personality he never noticed. She always knew things like that. She always saw, right into the heart of everyone. She just never spoke, being quietly observant, seeing everyone and speaking only when it was best for others. Even after all this time, she still has the ability to surprise him. He thought he knew her, so well. And now he realizes there were still so many things about her he didn't know, would never know.

"You're very clever, to notice that," the Doctor says playfully, his eyes alight. His shoulders quirk, digging into the chain of his swing as he kicks his feet and leans in, swaying back and forth.

"Really?" she says, her eyes and smile brightening; and he realizes that she must not receive many compliments on just how bright she is. Of course, he's not sure if anyone other than himself notices just how intelligent she it.

"Oh yes," he says, eyes twinkling. "The cleverest little girl I've ever met."

And then she smiles so brightly it hurts.

"Rose!" calls Mickey, realizing he's lost track of her. Rose huffs in annoyance and the Doctor grins. Some things never change.

"I've got to go," she tells him, jumping off the swing. "It was nice meeting you!"

"It was nice meeting you too, Rose," he tells her. She grins, her tongue touching her teeth, her eyes bright. She skips back to Mickey, standing up just that much straighter, shoulders more confident than before. And he realizes, as she rejoins the boy, what it must have felt like for Mickey all those years every time she walked away from him and went back to the Doctor. He knows, because he feels it now. But at the moment, his hearts are too full of Rose right now to feel guilty for how Mickey was treated. They always were.

Rose tugs on Mickey's sleeve, and points back at the lonely old man sitting on the swing. Mickey looks back, giving the Doctor a suspicious look. The Doctor smiles in amusement, nostalgic. Some things really do never change.

The moment Rose and Mickey leave his sight he goes back to the TARDIS.

He should go, he realizes; he should really, really go. Go back to his cloud, back to his isolation. He shouldn't interfere in her life anymore. He's seen his Rose now, and that's what he came for. But he knows—as well as he knew when the idea popped into his head, that three glimpses of her would never be enough. And so he struggles very little as he re-sets the coordinates, pops just a few years into the future, just a very few. Last trip. Last trip. He keeps telling himself, but he knows he'll never listen. He never does.

And really, he never listens to his rules when it comes to Rose anyway.

-?-