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Jackie nudged a steaming mug toward the Doctor, then curled her stubby, teal-tipped fingers around her own. They weren’t really teal, but more a “Tiffany blue”, if he had to be precise. Which he did, because he was desperately trying to ignore the look she’d leveled on him as soon as Rose excused herself to shower before bed.
Jackie drummed her fingers along the ancient porcelain—"Mum”, it read, surrounded by a web of scratched and faded roses—and sighed, long and exaggerated.
He almost looked up, but the squirming in his stomach reminded him, and he dropped his eyes to her hands, again.
Had he already noted how her right thumb nail was longer than the left? There were far more nicks and chips in the polish on her left hand, too. Was she a lefty? No, he’d have noticed that, surely. Maybe.
“How’s things, then?”, she asked.
He met her eyes; he couldn’t ignore her if she talked. That would be rude.
“Erm”, he elaborated, awkwardly. Very awkwardly.
“Right.”
Jackie’s chair whined when she shoved back, over the age-worn vinyl floor, and again, when she tugged it toward the heat-stained table with Tiffany-blue fingertips between her legs.
“Biscuits?”, she offered, crinkling the plastic and laying the sleeve between them. “I’ve got Jammie Dodgers.”
He took six.
“Rose likes ‘em, too. Not her favorites, though. Always liked—”
“Chocolate bourbons”, he finished.
Jackie pressed ahead, transfixed on the cigarette now smoldering between yellowed fingers, blue polish. “Never liked ‘em much, myself. Preferred somethin’ simple. But Rose… Whatever she wants, that’s fine by me.”
The Doctor nearly choked on his fourth biscuit, his mouth becoming far too dry to swallow effectively.
“What about you, Doctor?”
“Always fancied Jammie Dodgers, me”, he managed with a gulp of tea.
It was silent, except for the sounds of running water, Rose singing something he couldn’t quite make out, the crackling, creeping burn line on the cigarette Jackie still hadn’t brought to her lips.
“Doctor.”
There it was: she was doing it again, that look. And really, he deserved it. He knew she wasn’t asking about his favorite flavor of biscuit. He knew because, while the conversation wasn’t always hidden under the guise of biscuits, they’d already had this same discussion—probably a thousand times since he’d regenerated, at least.
“Jackie…”
“I just… She’s my little girl—”
I know.
“—not that you’d know anything about that, parenting.”
Her eyes flashed dangerously, some mixture of protective and assessing, and in that one statement, she’d solidified her standing over his in Rose’s life, and threatened him, in the event that he’d been some useless sod who’d pulled a runner on another woman, another family in his life.
Which he had, essentially.
But not Rose. I couldn’t leave Rose.
“I just…I need to know she’ll be safe, out there, now and when I’m gone.”
With my life—with every life I have—I’ll protect her. How could I not?
“I need to know she’ll be taken care of.”
Rose Tyler can take care of herself, but I’ll do my best to spoil her rotten anyway.
“Oi, are you listening to me? You’ve not said a single bloody word; you just sit there, and…”
She tugged at her bottom lip, just like Rose, and smothered the cigarette that had no doubt singed her fingers.
“I need to know she’s loved”, Jackie pled. “She deserves that, more than anyone, she does. Jimmy took care of her, but he never loved her. An’ Mickey, he loved her, he did, but he couldn’t… And she’s so happy with you… But can you take care of her, really?”
Yes, but more than that, I want to take care of her.
Drawing her own conclusions from his silence, she added, “and do you love her? I see the way you look at her, but can you tell me, right now, that you, honest-to-God, love her?”
I…
Jackie’s eyes hardened with every second that passed in silence, her knuckles whitening as she strangled her empty mug.
He figured he had E-minus ten seconds before those Tiffany-blue fingers abandoned the mug in favor of his throat (or face); he gulped, trying frantically to think of something to say.
Finally, he settled on: “does it even need saying?”
E-minus 4, 3, 2…
“No. S’pose not. Not to me, anyhow. But you hear me, Time Boy or Space Man or whatever it is you are—”
“Mum,” Rose soothed, filling the kitchen with the smell of lavender when she entered.
Crisis averted.
“Feel better, darling?”
“Much”, Rose hummed, leaning against the back of the Doctor’s chair.
The warmth from her skin seeped between the twisted rungs, blessed his scalp when she threaded her fingers through his hair. She rubbed in slow circles with her fingers, starting at the base of his skull, and despite himself, he allowed his eyes to close. He felt her smile in the dancing movement of her fingers.
“Good, I’m glad. Kettle should still be hot, if you want tea.”
Rose swirled past his crown, spelling half-words in his native tongue, love in his hearts, and when she reached his temples, she tipped his head backward.
“Thanks, mum.”
Gently, she smoothed his mussed hair to one side, making room to press her lips, soft and warm, to his forehead.
He inhaled as normally as he could manage.
She pulled away just far enough that she could form a sentence against his skin; “I’m gonna go make a cuppa”, she breathed.
He shivered.
“I’ll go", he offered softly, though he had no desire to move. "You can sit, talk with your mum.”
Her lips curled in a smile, just above his brows.
“Ta.”
**
He added the milk to her mug.
“Mum”, Rose enthused from behind the wall that split the kitchen, “can’t believe I almost forgot: we brought you something!”
Chair groaning, footsteps, bedroom door, light switch, backpack, back to the kitchen table.
“Bazoolium, it’s called. Isn’t it nice?”