She lingers in the shadows, watching. There are fireworks bursting in the sky and the sight of them tugs at her heart.
She walked in the street with the Doctor, swinging their twined hands, joyful at the realization that she’d nearly lost him again only to get him back. “They keep on trying to split us up, but they never, ever will.”
The Doctor halted, looking at her and saying with a sort of fierceness, a finality, “Never say never, ever.”
She was so naïve, back then. She really did believe nothing would separate them. She really did believe it would never end.
She watches as a Doctor—not hers, but she knows it must be him, would have known even if she hadn’t seen him step out of the TARDIS—kisses a woman beneath a sky bursting with fireworks. She watches as the woman refuses him, and she smiles at that—that is a woman who knows her own self, a woman who will doubtless do great things without the Doctor. She watches as the Doctor steps into the TARDIS alone.
Same old life. Last of the Time Lords. (Or is he, at this point? She has no idea, doesn’t think she’ll ever know.)
She wants so desperately to run to him, to offer herself, to fill the empty space. But she knows that somewhere out there, her past self waits, will be waiting five more years until her own Doctor shows up and grabs her hand and tells her to run.
That familiar whooshing nearly does her in. The sight of the TARDIS dematerializing almost destroys her, but she does not let it. She will find her Doctor somehow. She knows she will.
But as a bit of insurance, she finally emerges from out of the alley and goes to the spot where the TARDIS had been just moments before. It is a public space, a park of sorts, and as ever, there are remnants of children playing, bits of chalk and abandoned toys and jumpers left on the grass. She and Mickey used to play in places like these.
She kneels and takes one of the bits of chalk into her hand, scraping it over the sidewalk and leaving the words she knows he will notice, should he ever come back as her Doctor, either of them. B, A, D, W, O, L, F.
She gets up, breathes in, the scent of the night air almost reinvigorating. It is New Year’s Day, the turn of the millennium, and she wishes she could stay. She wishes she could stop wandering, stop searching, but she has not come this far to give up after catching just a glimpse of the Doctor. She will keep going.
She takes a breath and reaches for her phone, grateful that the Doctor soniced it… oh, so long ago. She might not be in the right time, but the signal will somehow find its way to Pete’s World, to Torchwood. “Control? Bad Wolf. Bring me back.”
One breath, two, three—
A flash of electricity, icy blue. Breath, stolen from her lungs. Wrenching, tearing, reality warping—
And she is back in Pete’s World, doubled over with her hands on her knees, chalk dust still on her fingers and fireworks still flashing in her sightline.
“Nothing?” Pete asks her, once he has ascertained that everything is still in its right place on her body.
Rose looks up, a tight smile on her face. She wants to pretend it doesn’t bother her, but in a way, it does. “It wasn’t him,” she says quietly. “But close. We’re getting closer.”
from my work-in-progress.
The Eighth Doctor
Need more Eight on my dash too, so here’s an illustration from Big Finish’s The Sword of Orion. Not my favorite Eight audio, but I definately love the creepy image of the Cybermen awaking from their cryosleep.
You know, I’ve noticed that I don’t know any straight girls who are madly in love with/would do terrible things to Paul Mcgann. Mostly I know lesbians and ace people who are infatuated with him. I legitimately know one straight girl and like two bisexuals maybe who like him.
Interesting. (It is because his hotness defies sexuality)