“We will sing to you, Doctor. The Universe will sing you to your sleep. This song is ending, but the story never ends …”
Someone asked me whether or not watching Doctor Who was worth a try and I went a little overboard.
Amy and Rory’s Wedding Album
Oh God don’t leave me here
I will freeze till you leave
Love is love’s reprieve
More from the Wedding Album
The hallway was silent, save for the occasionally thumping of the loud bass emanating from the room the Doctor shut behind him. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, glad to finally be out of that room.
He didn’t know why he had allowed Amy and Rory to drag him to one of these silly clubs; Amy had caught him “being all Mr. Grumpyface” and pestered him about a “fun night out” until he relented. The TARDIS had taken them to midway 2003, London, leaving the Doctor feeling a bit apprehensive but he kept his concerns under his tongue: Amy was already flying out the door, her hand locked with Rory’s.
When the Doctor stepped outside to join the pair, he found himself staring at some sort of popular club with neon signs and tons of people milling in and out, and the inevitable conclusion was drawn that it was no doubt a Friday night. Amy, excited, tugged Rory along, who shrugged and muttered something about having “not danced for a while” as they disappeared inside. Moments later, Amy had reappeared and dragged the Doctor inside with her, much to his protest, and left him in the mass of writhing bodies, shouting something along the lines of “loosen up a bit – and that bowtie, too.” Undeniably uncomfortable, the Doctor stiffly and rather awkwardly maneuvered his way out of the dancing crowd and stumbled into a door marked “lounge”, where he now found himself.
As it were, the lounge wasn’t terribly populated at all. A few clusters of people sat here and there, drinks and cigarettes in hand, exchanging low murmurs in the dimmed light. Feeling a little more awkward than the room before, the Doctor coughed a little, a hand reaching up to straighten his bowtie that had no doubt gone askew in that pit. He strode to one of the least crowded ends of the room and sat on a chair, a breath of relief falling from his lips.
Somewhere off to the side, the sound of sniffles reached his ears as they became more adjusted to the quietness of the room in comparison to the noise of the main room. Curious and concerned, he looked and saw a flash of yellow in the corner of his eye.
There she sat. Rose Tyler. Younger than he’d seen her in a while, it seemed. Her hair was still blonde, the way he remembered, although the bangs falling over her eyes weren’t. Doing some quick math in his head, he calculated she must have been around 16 at the time. It was so strange, to see her after so much time had passed. She was just sitting there, completely normal – well, except for the tears rolling down her face – her phone (an old one?) in her hands. He felt his hearts speeding up, the blood rush quickly through his body, a bit of that old longing ache start up again. How he wanted to reach out and…
She must have caught him staring at her, though, because she looked up quickly at him.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, her voice thick. “I’m being awfully noisy, aren’t I?” She seemed a bit drunk, too, but not too terribly, the Doctor noted. Just enough to make her a little more blunt than she usually was.
He missed that voice. Drunker and sadder than he would’ve liked, but it was her voice all the same. “No,” he said after a moment, “no, it’s fine.” He turned toward her.
“What’s with your suit?” she asked, nudging a toe at his. “Bowties are a little outdated.”
“Bowties are cool,” the Doctor protested, a hand going up to straighten it up a bit more. This earned a laugh that made his insides bend in ways he had forgotten it could.
“Only on you, I’d say.” Rose gave him that cheeky grin he loved so much; the barest hint of her tongue pressed between her teeth and he found himself chuckling, an unbelievably large smile on his face. “Really!” she insisted, her smile growing larger. “I’ve seen tons of blokes trying to pull that look off and you come in here like you wear it all the time!”
If only you knew, the Doctor wanted to say but he kept that remark to himself. Their fun was cut short when the phone clasped between her hands buzzed. Rose took one glance at it (and the Doctor did too: a quick glance at the name glowing on the plastic told him Jimmy Stone) and tossed her phone off to the table next to her, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips, obviously upset. Rose in the past, present, or future, she would always be his Rose, no matter what. And he would always be there for his Rose. “What’s wrong?”
A harsh sort of laugh escaped her lips, one he was unused to, and he flinched. She eyed him with suspicion and reached down for her bottle of alcohol, avoiding his question. The Doctor leaned forward snatched it before she could, placing it on the other side of his chair, out of his grasp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “That’s mine.”
“It’s not good for you,” he told her almost pleadingly, and she rolled her eyes sardonically at him. His insides were twisting in terrible ways now; how could she have ever been with a man like Jimmy if he ever made her feel this terrible? “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Like hell,” she muttered. “You can’t help; I’m damn sure you can’t do a thing, sir, sorry to say.” She gave a sort of hapless shrug and leaned back into her seat. “Who are you anyways?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, eyes slightly unfocused. “Have we met before?”
Of course I can help, he wanted to say. I’m the Doctor. And not only that, I’m your Doctor. We’ve met before. We’ve met as New Doctor and New New Doctor, but not New New New Doctor. But instead he said, “Trust me,” a crooked smile on his face.