Chapter Text
It’s vague, hectic, the first time Rose sees him.
Her route is the same as always: down into the catacombs of the London tube, up to the bus stop.
She sees him from afar, a tall figure in a long coat, hands in pockets, artfully coiffed hair protected by the glass shelter above his head. She's struck by the stormy, disdainful expression in his huge dark eyes, the kind of gaze that makes you want to run away and never look back.
There’s nobody else at the bus stop, so she turns away, eyes fixed on the road ahead, and as soon as the long-awaited bus arrives, Rose lets out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding.
He’s standing by the window, hand on the metal railing. She steals a glance in his general direction, and he catches her eye as if on cue with an expression so sombre, she looks away almost immediately, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.
How dare he look at her like that? He doesn’t even know her.
The bus stops abruptly at the red light and Rose almost topples over, but he catches her by the elbow. She mutters a quiet thanks, searching his eyes, but he’s already gone back to his cosy spot by the window, facing away from her this time.
***
She catches glimpses of him on campus every once in a while, less often than she’d like. He’s always surrounded by people.
They're always different, swarming around him like bees, chatting, stealing him away. Sometimes he’s with the same loud red-haired girl, and most often than not she does all the talking, interrupted by his uproarious laughter or a bright grin.
Such a little thing, but the difference it makes is grave, because all of a sudden Rose catches herself seeking him out, looking for his pinstriped back in the crowds, his lanky figure in queues, long legs walking down the halls.
She doesn’t even know him, she tells herself. If he wanted to introduce himself to her, he would’ve done that a long time ago.
It’s early April when Rose sees him in the hall, a huge paper bag in his hand with the words Happy Birthday, Spaceman written all over it. It doesn’t take her long to figure it out. It’s like her brain has been wired for it for weeks.
She can’t wait to get home, bumping into people on her way out of the building.
She’s typing the date on the social networking website, her fingers trembling in anticipation, and the result pops up right away.
It’s him. She's found him.
An abstract profile picture, a couple photos, but they're elusive, like he didn't want to be in them.
Adding him to friends would be incredibly creepy, against all common sense, so she’s racking her brain for ideas.
Nothing.
A week goes by and Rose waits patiently, watching him from afar, and every single time their eyes meet she can't help but wonder what’s stopping him. He might not be into her, sure, but something in his eyes is telling her otherwise.
It's a gut feeling, hard to explain.
Getting him alone isn't easy to do; there’s always a new girl on his arm, like today, for instance, and Rose is watching them from her bench in the garden: the way he’s keeping his distance away from his companion, barely smiling, every line of his body screaming of disinterest.
At last they rise from their bench and head in Rose’s direction.
Her breath hitches, as he comes closer, about to move past her, and then Rose smiles at him.
She's struggling to hold his dark gaze, and oh. He smiles back.
It’s tentative, she has clearly taken him by surprise, but it’s there nonetheless and it’s glorious.
One of his eyebrows flies up, and he pauses a bit, but that girl is dragging him along, and all Rose can hear is a hurried We can’t be late for this.
She’s staring at their retreating figures.
He doesn’t look back.
Rose wants to sing and dance and God knows what else, and it’s so ridiculous, because nothing happened.
Yes, he smiled at her, so what? It doesn’t change anything. Another week goes by, filled with fleeting visions of him in the corridors and cafeterias; once he even walks past her with his coffee, eyes vacant, not even sparing her a glance.
Her heart sinks.
The extent of her feelings towards him is unveiled to her that same night, as she’s fighting inner numbness and apathy that only comes to her when she’s angry at herself, and things inevitably gain clarity: she’s hopelessly in love with a stranger who not only pays her no mind and hasn’t tried to contact her in the past couple of months whatsoever, but is also able to affect her mood in ways nobody could ever before.
Even when some bloke had upset her in the past, actually upset her, it had been nothing compared to this, this strange fascination with a guy who doesn't even know her name.
She dreams about him every now and then; tries to decode those dreams, understand why she's so drawn to him in the first place and why she absolutely has to do something about it.
He's tall and a bit pretty, with great hair and a nice bum, but somehow she doesn't think he's a douchebag, even though experience taught her that pretty boys are generally not very nice.
His eyes are kind.
But then again, it's a gut feeling, and if her poor gut had any idea how much authority and power it has over her, it would've certainly put on airs.
Rose thinks she could spend the rest of her life being afraid of people rejecting her. Finally it's clear that she's the one alienating herself. She doesn't want that anymore.
Even things that have been the same for years and years can change. Maybe she can change, bring her own wall down, and let people in.
In a haze, she turns her laptop on. Her fingers are shaking, as she opens the social network page that has been haunting her for weeks, and starts typing.
***
“Hope you like haunted castles? I love haunted castles. Although, it does get a tad boring occasionally. Advertising those places for the sake of advertising? Spitting in the face of history and facts? Well…”
What is it about men in dinner jackets? Black tie makes even the most geeky bloke look gorgeous, and as for the already good-looking ones - it sends them into sex appeal overdrive, and they know it: Rose is torn between marvelling how he manages a bit of both and asking where he's going on a Monday night.
“Well, there was a murder here. In the 1600s. Lady Constantina Lucy threw herself from the top of the castle - with her son - way back when. Apparently because her husband was a real piece of work who kept her locked away. Rumour has it you can still see the ghostly visage of Lady Lucy staring pensively from the balcony. See? Right there. Perhaps questioning her actions. Or perhaps... perhaps, she doesn't even remember. No reports of her son though. Imagine he'd have a few choice words for his mother given the gruesome circumstances of his demise. Sorry, I’m rambling again. I’m the Doctor, by the way.”
It’s a bit ridiculous, this nickname, but somehow it just…fits him.
“Rose.”
He takes a bite of a red ripe apple that he pulls out of nowhere.
“Oh, I know. Not that I've been stalking you or anything." He rushes on, scrunching his face a little bit. "Don't even remember seeing you on campus, to be entirely honest."
She decides not to get offended by that.
"That social website thing, forgot what it’s called. I rarely even go there, last time was a couple years ago," He says, scratching his chin pensively. "Not sure. Maybe more. Yesterday I just needed to find something incredibly important in the online community for Quantum Physics. So, lucky you, Rose Tyler! I would’ve only seen your message in a decade or so, if it wasn’t for physics!”
He beams at her, biting into his apple with a loud crunch.
“So. How’s that survey of yours going?" He asks, wiggling his eyebrows. "Have you found any other respondents? Because you need, oh, maybe a thousand or so. For successful results, that is. I can help with finding you people; got them in spades. I know everyone. They’d be happy to help you."
They find an empty bench near the castle walls, and he turns to her, a mad gleam in his dark eyes.
"What’s the topic, again?”
Rose lowers her gaze, staring down at the damp laces of her trainers, which havegrains of sand stuck to them. “It's, well, about the Universe."
He sighs theatrically. "Can the universe be infinite? Why can't we find the edge of it, and what’s behind the Universe? Something like that?"
"Yeah, but it's still a work in progress, to be honest."
He throws his apple core into the bin next to him and turns to face her.
"Rose, are you busy today?"
She shakes her head, peering at him suspiciously.
"Wanna see the ghost of Lady Constantina?"
He walks her home that night.
Lying in bed, she thinks about him and the way he doesn't have much of a filter. It's hilarious.
They were exploring the castle and there was a woman with a pram, so when he said the baby was kinda cute, because it looked like a monkey, the lady was clearly insulted and he proceeded to “defuse” the situation by explaining which monkey exactly.
Now everything around her is connected with a thread, all the things in her room and all the thoughts in her brain, and the thread is taut, pulling on her.
That thread is him.
***
"So, what you're saying is… you lied to him."
"God, Martha, 'course not!"
"Do you even have a survey? What are you gonna do?"
Oh Martha. Always seeing right through her. They're not the closest of friends, only known each other for two years, but she's someone Rose can trust, easily one of the best people she's ever met.
With a sigh, Rose leans against the wall, fingers absently picking at the chipped paint of the windowsill.
“I don’t know, but I decided it’s about time I did something. Time is short. Moping around wastes it. I’ve had enough people in my life leaving me out because I’ve achieved something. I'd been written off simply because I'm in Uni now, and they're not. And nobody knows how difficult it is, every single day. Sometimes I feel like I'm just not...built for all this. So maybe they were right.”
Martha shrugs.
“It’s not like you’ve won a lottery and suddenly moved to Ibiza. You’ve worked so hard. You've earned this. And you know it. If they’d stopped talking to you because of your success, they’re not real friends, Rose.”
“Exactly my point. I want to make real friends.”
“It takes time.”
“Yeah, but Mum bringing me bloody chocolate truffles and a copy of Smash Hits doesn’t make it all better.”
Martha regards her warily, the way she buries her face in her hands, slouching down on the wooden bench next to the window.
“I’ve made a huge mistake, haven’t I?”
“Well,” Martha sighs exasperatedly, “this whole survey charade is a bit of an overkill, to be honest. Why couldn’t you just ask me about him? I actually met him last year.”
“What? ”
“Briefly, mind you.” Martha rushes on, seeing Rose frown. "He attended my cardiology lectures. His paper on Vena Cava got him a Lasker Award and a hundred thousand quid as a bonus. He’s so young, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he went for a Nobel. His latest research on the possibilities of humans having multiple hearts is astounding.”
“Is that why he calls himself the Doctor?”
Martha laughs. “Dunno, maybe? He’s actually not from around here. Apparently his name is so long and unpronounceable that the nickname just stuck.”
Rose gawks at her, shocked.
“Wait, so English isn’t his first language? But he sounds—”
“Perfect, I know,” Martha agrees with a sigh. “Told you, he’s a genius.”
“Where’s he from, then?”
“Nobody knows. Rumour has it, his family immigrated when he was very young, because there was a terrible war in his country.”
Rose can almost pinpoint the exact moment the lightness and giddiness in her heart whenever she thinks about him turns into something else: the pangs of fear that this hallway crush has turned into something she has no control over.
In her mind’s eye she’s still sitting on that stone bench next to him, him with his happy, beautiful smile; and right now the guilt of knowing something so personal about him is gnawing at her insides, and Rose almost wishes she didn’t know.
Martha nudges her shoulder.
“He’s a bit odd, though. Heard him explain the chess rules to one of my mates before class once. He said, ‘Chess is easy-peasy once you get to the gist of it. If a player's king can't make any legal moves and is in check, that's called checkmate and the game is over, the other player wins. But, if the king who can't make any legal moves is not in check then that is a stalemate and the game is a draw.’ He explained it from the top down, basically. And that’s the same person who was eating a candy necklace through plastic vampire teeth last Halloween,” Martha pulls a face. “Doesn’t stop the girls and boys from pining over him, though.”
Bloody marvellous.
***
Sometimes it feels like a university is just a group of buildings gathered around a library, a place where anyone could take things they didn't own and feel no remorse about it; be alone and together at the same time. An island in the vast sea of ignorance, as a wise man said once. Rose didn’t expect it to become a meeting place.
“Mind if I join you?”
She drags her gaze from her keyboard to the hands with long, nimble fingers, all the way up to the familiar smiling face.
“Not many vacant places, I‘m afraid,” he mutters hastily, sinking on the chair opposite her.
Rose looks around. The library is almost empty, save for a quiet group of students to her left.
"Um, sure."
Quiet is not the word she’d apply to him, though, because his voice keeps getting louder.
"Janson’s History of Art!" He crows, patting the tome in front of her. "The 9th edition is the best, if you ask me. Hold on, I thought you said you study engineering?"
Rose covers the book with her palm.
"It's, well, extracurricular."
"A light read? D'you draw by any chance?" He asks, propping his elbows on the desk.
"Yeah, a bit. You?"
"Used to. Not anymore, though. I've been feeling uninspired lately. Have you ever felt compelled to draw purely for the sake of drawing, with no outcome or goal in mind? Just get something out and see what happens with it?"
She thinks he must be doing it on purpose, the loudness and everything, because old Professor Mott appears next to them almost instantly.
“My dear boy, why do you come here again and again to wreak havoc, may I ask?”
“The place wouldn’t be the same without me, sir!” The Doctor quips with a bright grin.
"It sure wouldn't." Professor shakes his head fondly. “By the way, I’m still waiting for the final cut of your dissertation. I do not want it to be identical to the full set of my rough drafts. Put it into your pipe and smoke it, young man.”
Rose chuckles, as the Doctor gapes at the retreating figure of Professor Mott, cheeks flushed.
“Drafts, huh?”
The Doctor sniffs. “Everyone has them. Don’t you?”
“Most of my papers are left untouched.” Rose retorts with a tinge of pride in her voice.
“Smarty-pants, are you?” He winks at her. “ How come I've never seen you around before?”
She gasps mock-indignantly. “Don’t pretend you haven’t.”
“I swear! It’s like this world brought us together now for a reason, don’t you think?”
There’s something stuck in her throat, as she’s racking her brains for a witty comeback, but it looks like he can't bear staying silent even for a second.
“Tell you what, Rose Tyler. It’s a shame to be sitting here in this dusty, boring room on such a fine sunny day and whisper like we’re in a church or something. I've a better idea.”
They walk the city for the rest of the day and he suggests they grab a bite. They reach the pizza place he’s been gushing about for an hour, and there’s a guy screaming profanities at a pigeon that nicked his food.
The Doctor rubs the back of his neck.
“Maybe controversial, but I don’t like pigeons on pizza.”
She grins. “Me too.”
“Chips it is, then.”
She’s often guarded with people, and sceptical with strangers. Being with him, it’s like those dreams, where you’re longing for a place that doesn’t exist and somehow it’s right there, and it wasn’t the fact that they couldn’t stop talking, or maybe it was him nattering on, she can’t remember now, lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, when suddenly her phone screen lights up with a message from him.
[00: 23] There’s actually a Celtic phrase for this— anam cara. It means “soul friend”.
It's a weird, uncanny feeling.
***
They fall into a routine.
He texts her to ask whether she's at the library, but really he shouldn't, because she's waiting for him there after lunch anyway and he knows it.
No idea what happened to all of his other friends, he doesn't hang out with them anymore.
And he touches her, at every opportunity. Just a hundred incidental times in a day.
One of those touches is particularly disconcerting.
Rose is the first one in class when he stalks in, cheeks flushed, an absolute riot on his head, and takes a seat next to her.
She stares at him in confusion, because he’s not supposed to be here at all. Two years her senior, an entirely different faculty.
“What are you doing here?”
He's pulling out his things like it's the most natural thing ever.
“Thought I’d pop by. All those electromagnetic fields, signals and systems… They’re quite forgettable, after all.”
Rose regards him suspiciously.
“It’s one of the most boring lectures in the history of the world, Doctor. You should've seen my homework for this course. That had about 16 pages for just one problem! It was a nightmare.”
He waves it off.
“A piece of cake. I could always ask you for help!” He grins. “Anyway, I brought you something.”
He fishes out a sleek white book from his bag.
Robert Indiana. The Book of Love Art & Poetry. One of the rarest things in the history of art Rose lamented she would never have.
He remembered and sold his soul to the devil, apparently, because there's no other explanation for a divine miracle she's cradling in her hands like a newborn now.
“Where did you get this?”
He shrugs.
“Oh, you know. Here and there. It’s heavy, though. Could accidentally kill someone with this. I’ll keep it in my bag for now. You should really stop carrying all this around, by the way,” he points at the textbooks in her backpack, “Two more years and bam! A disc prolapse before you know it. And you do have a pretty nice spine, Rose Tyler, so we wouldn’t want that, now would we?’
Rose turns the page and gasps, grabbing his arm.
“It’s hand-signed!"
He smiles like the cat that got the cream.
"Oh yes."
"Doctor—”
He puts a finger to his lips and the class begins.
It’s distracting, sitting next to him for two hours.
Their knees almost touch and at one point she can’t help but move a bit closer, sneaking a side glance to gauge his reaction.
He doesn’t flinch.
She leans back on the chair, and he follows her movement almost immediately, a pair of dark brown eyes on her thighs, where her tweed skirt has ridden up.
His posture is tense, rigid. She holds her breath for a moment, as he runs a hand through his hair and exhales, hunching slightly to write something down. His handwriting is messy, and she suspects it’s because his hands can't keep up with the pace at which he is thinking.
Rose feels a small shift in her stomach she promptly ignores.
That’s how it starts.
***
The Doctor comes to some of her other lectures, especially ones where they project scientific films on the wall. Auditoriums are vast and they always sit at the very top where there’s usually no one else with them.
Rose has given up writing anything down anymore, because the second he scoots closer and whispers something in her ear, all common sense flies out the window, and she’s deaf but for the words he’s telling her in a hushed tone.
"Physics is the sexiest of the sciences, Rose. Sure, you would argue that biology is all about reproduction, and chemistry has an intrinsically hot name, but when you get down to the guiding principles of the Universe, it’s all physics. The laws of motion, energy, gravity, and entropy rule. Literally. They trump all other laws and inform all other activity. That’s what makes physics so brilliant. It's firmly in charge.”
It's dark and he’s so close, his hand lingering somewhere between their bodies.
The door slams and Rose jumps a little. He’s noticed, because all of a sudden his fingers graze the top of her thigh, brushing over the hem of her skirt, and she feels a familiar tug between her legs.
The strokes of his palm are slow, languid, and her gaze drops down to make sure this is really happening, she’s not imagining it.
His hand on her thigh stops and she inhales sharply, waiting.
He doesn’t move it away.
She's desperately trying to make sense of what’s going on in the film, something about Triassic period and dinosaurs, judging by the horrible sound effects, but then she feels his fingers trail up, just beneath the hem, skimming over her tights.
She’s fighting the urge to push her legs together, drawing a breath as he pats her knee lightly, before removing his hand, and her heart skips.
Next time Rose ditches the tights for black lacy stockings.
The film begins and it feels like there’s some sort of an agreement between them, as his hand finds that secret spot right above her knee and lets it slide higher and higher, until he reaches the lace.
She watches him cross his legs and it can only mean one thing: he’s about to retreat soon and she almost wants him to.
His hand stays there, only this time he tilts his head ever so slightly to look down, eyes dark and disbelieving.
Is it too much? Has she overstepped some sort of line with him?
He angles his body closer, eyes finding hers and oh, she would give anything to be alone with him, surrender to the ceaseless caress of his fingers on the hot skin of her inner thigh.
When the throbbing begins, she knows they have to stop.
“We can’t do this here.”
Rose takes him by the wrist, and he unglues his hand, chest heaving.
She wonders what it feels like for him at that moment. The stupid, reckless desire to touch him in return is suffocating.
His hoarse whisper startles her.
“What are we watching, anyway?”
She has a strange talent for judging physical dimensions without a ruler, so when the historian on the wall explains that the skull of a Pachycephalosaurus was up to nine inches thick, holding up his hands to demonstrate how thick that is, she can tell he’s a bit off.
The Doctor turns to her with a smirk.
"I wonder where you learned that from, Rose Tyler."
"No idea what you're talking about."
She wants to kiss him.
It feels awfully unfair, the amount of touching between his hand and her thigh, considering…
Considering their lips have never replicated that.
He wants her. She knows he does, because his eyes tell everything: the way they trail over her body when he thinks she's not looking, or when his gaze drops down to her lips and then, in a split second, back to her eyes.
She bought at least three new skirts for their last row adventures in the span of three weeks, every single one of them earning her a lingering gaze and a complimentary memory erasure, and if anyone asked her what the films were about, she wouldn't be able to say.
But beyond that, nothing changes.