What if. Hear me out. What if I asked Molt if he wanted to cuddle/hug? I would be a friend or closely associated in this situation. I just wanna know how he take a rain of affection. (Aka hugs, pats/pets, boops, words of affirmation and bunch of gifts.)
To summarize for those who haven’t seen the post (or are too lazy to find it like me): Molt likes Hugs. In fact, he loves them. He’s actually a bit of a cuddle bug! The problem is that he’s wary of physical touch both because of lingering PTSD and because he’s terrified of the person he’s with falling under the influence of his magic. Hence, why this is usually only something he’s comfortable allowing with a close friend.
If a close friend asked for or offered a hug though, he would probably accept… then lean into it, and hold you tightly. If you offer to cuddle though, be prepared to be there for a while. You’re not getting up until Molt is too sleepy to insist that you stay. But why would you want to leave? He is very warm… and safe… you are so comfortable now, how could you bear to get up?
… but in general you’ll find that Molt is more receptive to smaller gestures of affection.
Boops will get a small startled smile out of him. Bewarned though, he will boop you back. (This is an Actual warning, he can’t see where your nose is, he will miss.)
Molt won’t quite understand pats or pets. But he’d tolerate them because they come from a place of affection. Once he gets used to the unexpectedness of physical contact, of course. (The progression of this will feel like slowly introducing a stray cat to the concept that pets = good things.)
The thing about affection, is that, it’s a very good source of positive energy. It’s a very pure source of positivity. Perhaps the purest. Expose Molt to too much of it too quickly, and he’ll start to feel that he’s being too greedy. Too selfish. He finds himself leaning in, progressively hungrier for these tiny moments of pure happiness, and that thought scares him. It scares him to no end. Because now he’s tempted to seek out these moments, to incite them even, and that feels too close to manipulation for him. It’s sick. He refuses to use a friend to feed his own power.
When it’s offered, it’s okay, because it’s a gift, but when he seeks it out, it’s not. (Molt is blind to the double standard he’s holding himself to. He is not allowed to ask. He is only allowed to accept or reject. And even being allowed to reject feels new.)
He also, low-key fears that, given his brother’s overall objective to weaken his curse, a person that is such a tremendous source of positive feelings for him will jeopardize that goal.
Rem is willing to do a great deal for what he believes is best for his brother. Even Molt is not sure how far his brother is willing to go.
Being surrounded by 'none biological family but might as well be' trope has me in choke hold, and honestly ima enjoy myself. Dialogue and prompt mix!
Card!
Angst:
Cradling the crying child that is not theirs in their arms after being either invalidated or abused by their actual parent/s, wiping away at their tears, and whispering gentle promises in their ear.
Fighting for the custody/adoption of a said child from incapable parents.
"WE MAY NOT BE RELATED BY BLOOD! BUT THEY ARE MINE, lay a single finder on them I will personally drag your ass to hell!"
"Where were you when the kids needed you? and NOW you want to be present?"
"No baby, I swear to you, they will not lay a single hand on you ok? go up to your room, we'll just talk, it'll be quick ok? pick the book you wanna read"
Rocking the kid back and forth after having a panic attack, both doing the breathing exercise they found online when they first witnessed their kid have their first panic attack.
Fighting and legalizing for the kid's custody or adoption because their parents aren't fit for the parental role.
"I fought for you, you're not getting rid of me that easily whether you hate me or not because I love you no matter how ugly things get"
Breaking down after arguing with the kid and hearing them scream how much they hate them and wish they were anywhere but near them.
Fighting and pushing for their kid's justice when the authorities turned a blind eye.
Serving their kid's justice themselves no matter how bloody and ugly it gets.
"Oh sweety, we didn't sacrifice everything just to build you up for someone to just bring you down. come on. I'll make sure they regret every tear that you cried"
"You don't deserve this wonderful kid! you don't see the mess you're putting them in!" "And you think you're deserving eno-" "AT LEAST I'M BETTER THAN YOU'LL EVER BE!"
"Tell me, how come they don't ever call? they're so ungrateful, after all I've done for them?" "Maybe a self-check would humble you, at least before I do"
Fluff:
Sunday routines of ice creams and park visits!
Fun sleepovers because they can stay past their bedtime with stories of their parent's earlier years.
Being accidentally called mom/dad while in the moment.
School visits and pickups when their actual parents can't! And they can get food on the way!
Being the kid's scapegoat when the kids sneak out of the house doing kids' stuff and they totally got the kid's back
"oh come on! Let the kids live a little! Not like you weren't their age once! You were far worst! Don't deny it!
Taking the kids shopping to spite their killjoy parents.
Wearing the kids creation with pride, clothes, jewelry or anything the kids gave them and countless pictures.
Parading around the streets with matching kids fashion, large sunglasses, tutus, skirts, bangles and dangly necklaces, and matching tiaras and fairy wings.
Running errands with or for the kids when they need anything.
"Oh come on kiddo, cheer up, you know you're mom can be a bit too much, I can assure you she means well"
They're practically on speed dial on every occasion there is.
Doing mani pedies with the closeted child and creating their safe environment for them and being their comfort if their parents show homophobia.
Chaos:
"NO! drop it! Don't put it in your mouth!!!"
"Where did you get that?! didn't I tell you not to snoop around where you shouldn't be snooping at?" "But come on! it's so cool! it's a self-destructive rocket ship! it's vibrating and all!"
Playing in the playground with the kids, screw being a grown-up, and sitting on the bench, if they can fit and slide in the kiddie slide they will join the kids.
Bumping every kid on-site in bump car rides, they are surrounding the kids and targeting any suspected enemy.
Dressing up as chickens taunting the kids' bullies' parents after having a meeting about it and the bullies' parents get away scot-free, they came dressing up as chickens and clucking out of the bullies' house before throwing hands.
"Geez! when I told you to hurry up I didn't want to slingshot yourself out the door." "It's effective though!" "KID YOU HAAVE A BROKEN NOSE!"
"I swear you are the reason I don't want kids!" "You love me though right?"
Picking the kids up in the middle of the day when they're requesting a pickup after cutting classes.
Playing tea parties with the kids with actual food and experiment/concoctions the kids made and they would eat that shit like it's bussin bussin.
Using their kids as partner magnets on play dates but utterly fails when said kids either pull them away or cause some type of chaos to get them home.
Egging bully houses and TPing their yards.
Camping out in the woods to try to live both of your fantasies of being fairies and or witches in the woods only to be attacked by mosquitos, bugs and no proper bathrooms
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling
Characters: Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Matthew the Raven, Original Characters
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Light Angst, Nightmares, The Dreaming, BAMF Dream of the Endless, Creepy Dream of the Endless, Fluff, Smitten Hob Gadling, Domestic Fluff, Minor Violence
Summary:
A nightmare is making Hob's dreams a living (well dreaming) hell, and he's at the end of his rope. Thankfully, he has the King of Dreams and Nightmares there to protect him, and punish those responsible. And punish he does. Thankfully, Hob thinks it's rather lovely.
or bamf creepy dream protects hob but is afraid he scared hob by that. he didn't, and hob makes sure to show him. fluff
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
After receiving a letter containing some potentially critical information regarding his son's activities at school this past year, Orion Black confronts his sixteen-year-old son for answers - but gets more than he bargained for when he enlists the help of a certain substance...
A commission fic for @kagetsukai, featuring her OC Hannah Fox, and my Poppy Hawke.
***
Today's the day.
Poppy squinted into the mirror, silently cursing the awful fluorescent lighting in the break room, and concentrated fiercely on getting her wings just right. She had been practicing for this, never normally one to wear make up, but today was important. Today was the day she was finally going to do it.
With Isabela's advice still ringing in her ears, she slicked on a shade of red lipstick she would never ever have chosen for herself but annoyingly suited her very well, and straightened up, inspecting herself in the mirror. Honey-brown hair, shiny and clean, although unfortunately up in a bun because, work. Just enough make up to make her eyes and lips pop. Uniform fresh and clean and ironed for once, skirt instead of pants, cute ballerina pumps on her feet. Tiny lapel pin declaring her as a chaotic bisexual dragon. She felt as though she looked good for once.
"This is as good as it's going to get," she admitted to herself, sighing as she glanced at the clock in the reflection. "Okay, show time."
Turning on her heel, she walked out of the break-room and into the longest shift of her life. Celestial Stag's was a popular coffee shop certainly; had been since before she'd got the job as one of the baristas here. She enjoyed the busy-ness of the mornings usually, the challenge of keeping the line moving with all the impatient people on their way to work being served at a speed that just stopped them from losing their shit. Or those mornings when a harassed assistant came in, looking close to tears, with an order list as long as their arm and no way of getting it back to the office alone - Poppy loved being the one to calm them down, help make the drinks, package them up, and then walk the hapless victim back to their office and straight into the meeting itself, giving each and every one of the lazy fucks in suits a death glare for their trouble. Varric was pretty sure she was going to get herself cussed out at some point, but thus far, no one had dared push her past the death glare.
Today, though ... Well, today she was already wound as tight as a spring before they even got started. Today was the day. She'd been promising herself she would do this for weeks. Hell, months. It had taken Isabela sitting her down and giving her an excruciating lecture on standing up for herself and going after what she wanted before she'd even formulated a plan for today. And - Maker's tits - Isabela was already grinning around the sandwich display at her as the initial rush died down.
"What?" Poppy demanded finally, annoyed by how at ease her friend was about all this.
"Oh, nothing at all, precious," Isabela assured her, that luscious voice as smooth as molasses as always. "Simply admiring the view."
Perplexed, Poppy had to stop herself from touching her face.
"What view? You've seen me in make up before."
"Not that view, darling."
Isabela nodded discreetly to Poppy's backside. Her hand flew downward and, to her horror, touched lace and skin. She'd tucked her skirt into her panties without noticing. And served two hours of rush with my arse hanging out! She didn't need Isabela's low laugh to know she was turning as red as a beetroot, hastily pulling her skirt out of her panties and smoothing it down while her face burned with mortified embarrassment. And it was a pair of mabari superhero cotton shorts, too.
"You could have told -"
"I think they're adorable."
Poppy spun around, her blush intensifying as she looked into the face of Her.
There she was, 5'10" of brunette gorgeousness, brown eyes twinkling with warm amusement at what she had interrupted. Poppy only really knew her name - Hannah - and her daily order. Well, that and a few others things. Such as the way her face grew tight when she was annoyed about something and trying not to show it, or the way she was so obviously trying not to laugh at the situation with those wide eyes, or the way her smile could light a bonfire in Poppy's heart.
Today was the day; today was the day she was finally going to do it. She was finally going to give this beautiful, amazing woman her number.
"Caramel macchiato, right?" she heard herself say. "Sorry about the, uh ... flashing."
Hannah chuckled, a sound that was music to Poppy's ears and did absolutely nothing to quell the horror of knowing she had just flashed the woman she was crushing on. Along the counter, she could hear Isabela laughing to herself as well, inwardly steaming that all her plans had gone awry so badly.
"It happens to everyone," Hannah was saying as her drink was prepped. "Busy morning?"
"Aren't they always?" Poppy responded, trying to laugh it off. "I mean, I did wonder why the perverts were being so patient with me today, but I guess now I know!"
Instead of the laugh she had been expecting, Hannah's brows drew together in a frown. Poppy felt her heart sink right into her stomach. Apparently joking wasn't her thing, either. Today's the day, my arse. No, she was not going to do or say anything about her number today. Maybe not ever. She hastily grabbed the cup, popping the lid into place, and mumbled a, "Here you go," as she handed it over, sans any writing at all.
Hannah took it, eyeing her a little strangely.
"Thank you," she said. "And for the record? Perverts don't deserve to see your panties."
Poppy's eyes widened as she looked up at the other woman, startled to find those caramel eyes fixed on her as Hannah took a slow sip of her coffee.
"Mmm ... super."
To Poppy's ever-living shock and amazement, Hannah winked at her and smiled, turning to leave the coffee shop, with the love-sick barista staring after her. Isabela sidled up to Poppy.
"So ... how did that go?"
Poppy shook herself out of her stupor and scowled at her friend.
"You saw exactly how it went," she muttered, embarrassed and angry with herself for chickening out. "How much more of an idiot can I look in front of her, huh? This is as bad as the day I got stuck with my arm in the dishwasher and she was the only other person in the place!"
"Sweet thing, all you have to do is write down your number and smile at her," Isabela reminded her for the umpteenth time. "You really are making far too much out of this. You like her, she likes you."
"How can you possibly know that?" Poppy demanded, barely hearing the bell on the door as it opened again. "I mean, I get that you're a love goddess who can get anyone you want into bed, but I'm an awkward weirdo who can't even speak like a human being to the most beautiful woman I have ever met and who probably now thinks I'm just as dysfunctional as I look!"
"Not that dysfunctional."
"Shit! Sorry!"
Poppy almost leaped out of her skin at the sound of Hannah's voice behind her again. She whirled around, shocked and now terrified that the other woman had heard everything and knew everything, prepared to apologize for ever having had the temerity to even consider that she, the wonderful Hannah, would ever even think of having anything to do with a lowly barista beyond buying coffee daily.
"C-can I help you?"
Hannah's smile was wider this time, and definitely more genuine, though Poppy couldn't help feeling it was probably at her expense. She held out a folded napkin.
"I just forgot something, that's all," she assured the barista, pressing the napkin into Poppy's hand. "See you tomorrow."
And again, she was gone. Poppy was staring again, but this time, it was in genuine confusion. Did she really just come back just to hand over a used napkin? Was it code of some kind? Was it her way of saying Poppy was the equivalent of a trashcan to her?
A sharp elbow nudged her ribs.
"Open it, then," Isabela urged.
Mouth still working like a mute fish, Poppy did as she was told, looking down to find numbers. A phone number. And underneath it ...
Call me, maybe? - Hannah.
Isabela got the chair underneath her just in time as Poppy's knees gave out, totally knocked sideways and filled with existential delight. She beamed as she looked up at Isabela, dazed and befuddled and glowing with pleasure.
It’s impossible not to smile at him when he’s looking at her like that, and that is one "impossible" Rose believes in.
I.e., Rose gets a choice, even if she has to carve it out for herself. In this chapter, the metacrisis Doctor makes a choice, as well.
***
a journey’s end fixit (of sorts), dedicated to @travelingrose , whose very good questions reignited my love/hate relationship with this episode/storyline, and to @goingtothetardis , who kept me encouraged while writing (thank you dahling). (i believe this also fills some rose x tentoo / tentoo day prompts from @timepetalsprompts and @doctorroseprompts .) heavy angst, but also lots of flirting, fluff, romance, some adventure, and some smut; sfw versions on tumblr & ff.net, nsfw versions on ao3 and teaspoon.
***
prologue | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3
chapter three: got us a battle, leave it up to me
Rose double-checks her watch and sighs, bare feet dangling restlessly in the pool. Fifty-six hours. It’s been fifty-six hours, to the minute, since she last slept. Funny, though, she doesn’t feel sleepy at all. She just feels…drained. Depleted, fruit tossed into the wringer and squeezed free of its juices and pulp until nothing but a husk is left. Empty.
“So is he saying all those things to push me away,” Rose asks upon hearing footsteps behind her, “or does he really mean them?”
Silence. “Yes,” is the eventual reply.
Rose chuckles mirthlessly. She’s not sure what else she expected him to say, question like that.
“Do you mean them, too?” she asks anyway.
Louder footsteps let her know he’s approaching; out of the corner of her eye, his trainers come into view, red and cleaner than usual and stopping just at the edge of the pool. “It’s been a long day,” the Doctor’s voice says, so softly it’s hard to believe it’s the same voice that cut so cruelly just moments before. “Long and complicated. For everyone.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“No,” the Doctor sighs. “It really doesn’t, does it?”
Toeing off his trainers and socks, one after the other, the Doctor plunks down next to Rose, his gangly long legs folding over the poolside until his feet reach the water, dipping beneath. His movement in the water sends ripples sailing outward until they hit Rose, lapping against her calves.
(He has sat himself very close to her; she wonders if he did it on purpose, or if it’s still second nature, the lack of personal space between them.)
Rose nods toward his feet. “Fancy the feeling of wet trousers?”
“Mm?”
“You didn’t roll them up. They’re gonna get wet.”
“So they are.”
Rose watches at the Doctor’s toes wriggle, the image distorted beneath the water-surface like video on a patchy analog screen. “I imagine that’ll be unpleasant when it happens,” the Doctor says.
“Yeah. Cold, for one thing.”
“Oh, yes. And drippy.”
“And heavy.”
“And heavy, too, can’t forget that. Clingy, as well.”
Rose worries her lip between her teeth. “Maybe they’re not the only thing that’s clingy.”
“True, they’re also a big snug in the bum, aren’t they?”
“No, I meant—well, yeah, that too, but—”
“Rose Tyler,” says the Doctor with a grin, “have you been looking?”
It’s impossible not to smile at him when he’s looking at her like that, and that is one impossible Rose believes in. But her smile fades as quickly as it came on, as Rose’s hand travels up from the poolside to hover near the Doctor’s face, hesitating just below his chin. Her fingertips itch to follow the constellations formed by his freckles, trace the sharp line of his jaw.
(How would he react, she wonders, if she cupped her hand around his cheek right now—would he crack a silly joke, or stutter and leave, or close his eyes, lean into her touch, turn his face to press his lips against her palm?
Would the other Doctor react the same way?)
“You’re exactly the same,” Rose murmurs, her hand falling away. “Except that’s not quite true, is it?”
“Technically,” says the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m still me, though, just me stuffed into a human suit.” He tilts his head, thinking. “A human suit with some suspiciously Donna-like qualities.”
“Like?”
“Stick around and you’ll find out,” he replies with a wink.
Normally that would set Rose grinning like an idiot, but instead her hands fidget restlessly in her lap. “Do you really think she has a chance? I didn’t—I didn’t make things worse for Donna, did I?”
“No. Once the metacrisis event was initiated, there was no stopping the degradation of her mind.” The Doctor laughs, and it’s a surprisingly nasty sound. “And the person responsible for that certainly isn’t you.”
Curious, Rose almost asks what he means by that, but thinks better of it—his candor has always got limits, and she suspects they just reached them. They sit quietly for a few moments, listening to the gentle tinkle of water lapping lazily in the pool, splashing against their shins as their feet swing back and forth. The Doctor nudges Rose’s foot with his, probably on accident. She nudges back anyway. He bumps her again, purposefully this time, and she sneaks her foot beneath his, locking them both by the ankles.
She smiles. “I win.”
“Hmm,” says the Doctor, thoughtful. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Well, winning implies a game, doesn’t it? And game implies rules, and players, and a prize, none of which have been discussed or agreed-upon.”
“Okay, a prize,” Rose laughs. “Like what?”
“Well,” says the Doctor again, drawing out the word this time while he tugs on one ear. “You could always, I don’t know. Kiss me again.”
Rose stares at him in shock. “As for example,” he finishes, and is he blushing?
Despite herself, Rose laughs, a good proper laugh this time. From any other bloke, the statement would have been wildly inappropriate—wait, no, that’s still what it is, that’s exactly what it is right now, with everything that’s just happened—but she can’t find it in herself to be angry, somehow. Instead there’s just surprise.
(And maybe just the faintest amount of curiosity. Just the faintest, littlest, tiniest bit.)
“Have you always been such a cad and I just never knew?” she asks.
“You never asked.”
Swinging her foot, and the Doctor’s by proxy, Rose chuckles under her breath. “And would that kiss be a prize for you, or for me?”
His responding grin is unbearably slow, and very nearly the loveliest thing Rose has ever seen. “Yes,” he replies.
She’s not half-tempted to take him up on it, to bridge what little distance there is between them and press her lips to his, hungrily, drowning them both in a kiss until they just forget every awful thing that’s happened today. But Rose shakes the thought away (though she’s sure it will creep back later, sure as the flush blossoming lazily up the back of her neck).
“Doctor,” she says, hesitantly, “was it a bad thing, me trying to come back? Am I…”
She cringes. “…clingy?”
“Oh, terribly,” replies the Doctor, drily.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. After all, I certainly didn’t do everything within my considerable power to find you again. Surely didn’t waste any time looking for holes between universes that I knew for a fact weren’t there. Definitely didn’t blow up a star just for a last handful of minutes together.”
A pause. “And if Donna wakes up and mentions anything about a certain shirt of yours living in the console room for an unforgiveable amount of time, do me a favor and ignore her.”
“Then—did I do something wrong?”
His brow furrows in concern. “No.”
“So why…”
Rose swallows, hard. Her heart jackhammers so violently against her ribcage and stomach that she feels like she might throw up. “So why doesn’t he want me anymore?”
“You can’t honestly think that’s true.”
Rose masks her sniff with a watery chuckle. “It certainly feels true.”
“Rose.”
She buries her face in her hands, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes until lights pop in her vision. Feet shift noisily in the water, slip-slap-slop and the Doctor’s ankle is no longer entangled with hers, and the fabric of his suit-trousers whispers quietly against the ground as he turns toward her. Fingers gently wrap around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face until she can see him watching her. She forces herself not to look away, to hold his gaze, to ignore the telltale pressure building up behind her sinuses.
“When I said—” the Doctor starts, and stops. “I—when I told you—”
He draws in a deep breath. “What I said earlier, on the beach? I meant it. And not just from me, all right? Not just this body. All of me.”
Pausing, the Doctor searches her face for recognition. “Understand?”
Rose nods, licking her lips. She can’t help but notice how the Doctor’s eyes flicker downward, drawn to the motion. “You said you loved me.”
“Yes, well.” He drops her wrists, his hands settling uncomfortably on his thighs. “You said it first.”
Rose makes a noncommittal noise. “Only cos I thought I was never gonna see you again.”
“Mm-hmm. Admit it, Rose Tyler: you like me.”
She shoots him a shaky smile. “Never,” she says, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the word elongating into a yawn. Surprised, she covers her mouth to muffle the noise, but it’s too late for that.
“Just out of curiosity, when did you last get some sleep?” the Doctor asks suspiciously.
Rose stretches her arms out behind her until her shoulders pop—god, that feels delicious. “Thought you thought sleep was a waste of time.”
“Eh, I think I might be warming up to the idea of it, actually.” The Doctor covers a yawn of his own, wrinkles his nose after. “I think I’ll sort of have to.”
“It’s not so bad, sleeping every night. When you can, anyway.”
“Have you been having trouble with it?”
Rose shrugs, stifling another yawn. “Just don’t sleep like I used to, is all.”
“Well, if you think it would help, you’re welcome to—”
The Doctor cuts himself off midsentence, cheeks flushing a brilliant sunset-red. Rose wonders if she’s ever seen his face color like that before.
“That is,” he stammers, tugging on one ear, “We could—I mean, I know humans and, and co-sleeping…”
“Right,” says Rose, her own face heating up as she cottons on. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s a…thing.”
“It’s just—we could, if you think it would help. Help you sleep, I mean.”
“Yeah. Not like we haven’t done it before. Sharing a bed,” Rose adds quickly.
“For sleeping.”
“Sleeping together, yeah.” And now her cheeks are surely as hot as the surface of the sun. “I mean, both of us sleeping in the same bed, at the same time.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
Neither of them move to leave, though, both fidgeting awkwardly in the quiet. In some ways, Rose wants nothing more than to shed all these layers and just climb into bed with him, and they could just leave it at that. No, it would be enough to just wriggle comfortably into each other’s embrace, her ear pressed to his chest, feeling the reassuring heartsbeat—or no, she remembers, it’s heartbeat now, singular—their ribcages expanding and compressing in unison until the sense of each other’s breathing lulls them both to sleep.
(But that would be rushing things. Wouldn’t it? Would it?)
“Or you could always go to your old room,” the Doctor says hurriedly. “It’s all still there, everything you left. Hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t changed, since—well, since the last time you were in there.”
“Really?” asks Rose, surprised. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, I guess I thought you would have cleaned it out, the way you always used to tease me about being such a slob. Or had the TARDIS chuck all my things out a chute or something.”
The Doctor suddenly seems to find his hands in his lap to be terribly fascinating, judging by the way he watches them. “I couldn’t,” he admits quietly.
Rose doesn’t know how to respond to that. She wonders, now, just how hard things have been for him—she knows he cares, of course she knows, she’s not daft, but with all his many years and his endless roster of companions coming and going, would the loss of one more unspecial Earth girl really make that much difference? Is there any chance he could have mourned her loss like she did his? Did he rail bitterly against the unfairness of it all, did he curse the universe and everything in it, did he miss her like a grounded bird misses the sky?
If so—good grief. Rose’s heart twists in her chest just at the thought.
On impulse, she leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek. And if she lingers just a second longer than necessary, breathing him in, mapping the texture of his stubble on her lips, well. She doubts he minds too much.
“Good night, Doctor,” she murmurs. “And just so you know, even with everything…I’m so glad to be here with you again.”
She doesn’t know if she’s ever seen him quite so shy, his smile so tender in the corners of his eyes. “Me too.”
This time, Rose can’t resist one last look at him before she leaves.
***
He’s right; she reaches her room and it’s exactly the way she remembers it, everything from the too-much-pink to the rumpled bedclothes to the laundry (both clean and not) scattered pell-mell across the bed and the chest of drawers and the floor (or “floordrobe” as the Doctor once called it, rolling his eyes the way he used to a lifetime ago). The room hasn’t been disturbed by even a single dust mote, the mirror on her vanity as clean as it was the day she left, save a lipgloss-kiss she’d pressed to it the day before, when she’d wanted to blot the excess and couldn’t find a tissue quickly enough.
Curious, she touches the shape of her own lips, and her fingertip comes back sticky and melon-pink. The lipgloss is still tacky to the touch, like it never properly dried. Like no time has passed here at all.
Rose doesn’t even bother changing into any of the pajamas strewn about, just drops her boots and socks and shucks her jacket and climbs right into her old bed. She doesn’t inhale the scent of her old duvet, not on-purpose, anyway, even though it hits her in waves, the soft barely-there imprint of whatever detergent the TARDIS uses. She doesn’t let herself think too much about how it smells so differently from the detergent her mother uses for Tony’s things, doesn’t dwell on how she’ll never smell it again, a universe and a forever away.
She doesn’t cry.
***
Previous: Chapter Two | Next: Chapter Four (forthcoming)
