Doctor Who Fanfiction: There's a Time to Live…(1/?) – Ten/rose

Title: There’s a time to live…(1/?)

Required Reading: Sequel to ‘Everything has its Time’ Can be read alone but makes more sense if you’ve read the prequel as it describes the current nature of the relationship between the Doctor and Rose.

Rating: Teen

Genre: Episodic, adventure, mystery

Disclaimer: Only borrowing these fine characters.  I own nothing and make nothing (in general but also concerning DW and the BBC!)

Summary: Sequel immediately following after, ‘Everything has its Time’.  Grounded in the quaint, Victorian town of Barrowsville, the Doctor and Rose stumble upon a spate of heart attacks.  The question is was it from natural causes or death by fright? 


“A time to live, a time to die,

A time to wonder and to wonder why? 

There is a reason, there is a reason…”  Caedmon’s Call

Rose had long since scoured the rumpled sea of polyester, velvet, wool and contorted, modern art metal of clothing rails that now higgly-piggled throughout the wardrobe room for something more appropriate to wear in their antiquated foster home.  Throwing some fluffy pillows on a slightly cleaner and clearer patch of console room grating she’d flopped inelegantly down in her restrictive and conservative Victorian attire and for several hours had been anachronistically flipping through back issues of Cosmo. 

About an hour ago she’d started slowly and arduously applying the colour changing, mood, nail varnish that they picked up at the bizarre on Rhinoss 7 even though the Doctor had scoffed that the concoction only reacted to ambient room temperature and had no discernable physic insights.  Still, she mused, he was always careful to keep his distance when the lacquer morphed into dark, black hues!

Normally she’d be champing at the bit to kidnap the oblivious, tinkering Time Lord but today she sat in contented silence as the Doctor administered his healing hands to the bowls of the ship.  The sparkle and vigour was back in his eyes, relief and the slight residue of dread warred in his animated mania as he soldered and prodded.  At times a look of such satisfaction, belonging and joy graced his angular features that Rose would simply watch him for countless moments undetected.

Rose had never seen the Doctor cry, never seen such forlorn grief and panic in his emotive eyes until they’d almost lost the T.A.R.D.I.S. and now that she allowed herself to fully replay her recent memories without the bitter sting of pain that imbued them she realised those eyes had flashed similarly during their heated argument born from her wrenching request to go home.

She mused over all this enigmatic alien had revealed to her since that climatic catalyst.  It would take time to fully trust and depend upon one another again but Rose now believed, without a doubt, that the Doctor wanted and needed her to stay with him. 

He is such a parody; in one breath he removes himself from petty and trivial human emotions, enforcing a distance between himself and the universe.  He is the last of the Time Lords.  No species could understand him, connect with him, challenge and spar with him on his elevated plain of consciousness and intellect and he defies and patronises any who try; yet on the other hand his magnificent flying machine is filled with human, historical sentimentally and familiar paraphernalia. 

There is the vast, mahogany panelled library with its sumptuous, red, leather armchairs, the beautiful and intricate pyrography on his wooden, writing bureau, the carved and etched neoclassical artwork on the banisters and struts of the spiral staircase and the smell of musty, well loved books – not holo-novels, e-books or flash drives of data superimposed straight into the mind.  The Roman baths/swimming pool, the easily recognisable white goods in the galley-esque kitchen, the pantry storing Earth food and drink in it’s majority and of course the fact that the man himself seems prone to the persuading of lesser, human species to accompany and occupy his time all starkly contradict his self-imposed control and superiority.

But what really gives him away is his hearts, his compassion and continued alliance with those of inferior times and birth, his childlike excitement and glee in simple and benign discoveries and his innate need.  A need that Rose had convinced herself was nothing more than her earthbound, romantic delusions but she now recognised in its vivid clarity. 

He may not have proclaimed his love to her like some Casanova or sonnet writing Shakespeare and they would probably never have the type of romantic love that Rose had spent many sleepless nights fantasising about.  Maybe he would always be too vast and too alien for something so simple and domestic to attract or dominant his epic mind and burgeoning breast so full of so many songs, so many moments, lives and emotions but they had something, something maybe even the great Time Lord himself couldn’t quantify.  That something had scared him enough to run to France and to confess a little of himself and his feelings in the aftermath.

The kind of something that meant that if you dropped a couple of random men on a beautiful and abundant island, they would still build their homes side by side, that leaves a child clinging to its injured brother on a cold, stormy night even though sanctuary and shelter are not far away, the need to share, to feel, to communicate and to have a hand to hold.  Rose also knew that with the whole of Time and Space at his disposal that she may not be unique but she was something infinitely special that her Time Lord should choose her as his companion.  She now realised that this wasn’t an idle choice nor one he would go back on willingly and that was something beyond sex or kids or houses and mortgages that was much more rare and valuable.

Thus, bored stiff, she didn’t disturb his work nor belittle his moment of regaining and reconnecting with his precious home.  She was, after all, jointly responsible for the depth of emotion that had torn it apart in the first place and as she smiled a fond and benevolent smile at the blackened and belching T.A.R.D.I.S. a feeling of contentment and understanding washed over her like nothing she had ever experienced in her life.