13.

"wait. they don't love you like i love you." maps by yeah yeah yeahs

She can't go back even after it's over. The first time they had stopped being friends she had been able to compartmentalize, shove her emotions about him into the corner of her brain and carry on with Mickey and Shireen like nothing had happened. It's different now though, and if she lets herself think too long she can feel the emptiness overtake her.

So she moves, keeps moving, like a shark, gives her two weeks' notice at work and scours newspapers and websites, calls up that favour with Joseph and schedules an interview to be an intern in the illustration department, keeps going because if he taught her anything it's that to travel is to live, even if she can only travel staying in one place.

The air is cold, the stars blinking out in the dawn, and the sun rises over the buildings stacked like playing cards.

Outside, it's beginning to look more like autumn, the trees are almost completely bare, and the winding branches stretch to the sky in waving patterns. It makes her sad to see everything so thin and empty, and she remembers how he explained that the fall was his favourite season, how everything isn't decaying, but rather preparing to return, bright and better than ever.

(Death, he said to her at the sight of her flowers beginning to wither, is a necessary part of rebirth.)

She traces the veins on her arms with cold hands, the blood winding along her wrists in blue lines, a roadmap of her life, her pulse, and she's not going to be reborn out of this because she will not die from this.

And she's awake at the crack of dawn because today is a very big day, and she can't sleep (just like a week ago, but now out of nerves instead of out of grief). She lays her clothing on her bedspread, switches from trousers to a skirt and back only to throw down a lace dress from work at the last minute, her hair in waves and eyes lined with black mascara.

She shuffles her food around her plate, Jackie still asleep in her room, and eventually gives up, dumps its contents into the trash and leaves the flat to kill some time walking around the city. She knows Peckham well enough to feel comfortable being by herself in the early morning, but she clings to the keys in her hands just in case.

The only people she sees are the early morning joggers, puffing out their breath like smoke into the air because the heat of the day hasn't set in yet. Everything is grey and stone, and she wonders why people seem to think that London is such a beautiful place.

She remembers, though, how after she met him (she shouldn't say his name) everything seemed more perfect, less rough around the edges. She thinks that maybe the people who want to see London just want to see their own love in the sharp, looking glass buildings, watch their own romance in the people on the street. It may also be because they don't realize that it's just like every other place in the world, just someone else's familiar space.

That is why she loves the stars after all, why she feels overwhelmed when looking at the bumps and ridges of the globe. No one can see it all, and that makes her want to see it more, search and devour and run until she gets tired. Of course she wouldn't. If she could, she would run forever.

She thinks maybe that would be lonely.

(Better with two, she said to him the first time he told her about traveling the world, and he promised to take her wherever he went, and she should remind him of that, remind him of his oath when the city was still warm with summer and he'd looked at her pale legs shining in the sun and her tongue between her teeth. He wouldn't listen even if she told him to.)

On her way home she stands by the stoplight, ready to cross the street, and she feels a hand on her waist, not large and heavy and warm but thin, pale, cold, already rotting on a still moving corpse. She startles, turns.

Jimmy leans toward her, his new girlfriend leans against the brick wall outside the pub, and he smiles, his teeth crooked and yellowing. There are more sores on his face, and if she could see his arms they'd be as marked up as one of her canvases, tracks running along the inside of his elbow like it's all he has in place of blood.

His pupils are huge for the thin light of day, Rose can't remember for the life of her why she ever wanted him, and he speaks finally, says in a reedy drawl, "Hello, love. Miss me?"

She wrenches herself from his grasp, and he doesn't even fight back, releases her not out of giving up, but because he doesn't have the strength to hang on anymore. He's been up all night, why else would he be awake so early, and it shows in every inch of his body.

"Jimmy," she says in a whisper, and her voice sounds foreign to her as she speaks words she never imagined she would say. "Christ, Jimmy, what happened to you?" He's all angles, all skin and bones, and he laughs at that, laughs like he isn't dying, like he can laugh because he's winning some grand game that only he's playing.

"Nothing, darling. Just haven't seen you in a while, is all." He's still grinning from ear to ear, and she moves away as the light turns green, looks back and sees him already moved back onto his girl, and even she looks worse for the wear when he gets close. She wonders why she was ever so afraid of him, why she was so frightened of what he signified to her.

It's like when she was a child, cowering behind her mother's legs when the buildings put out skeletons for Halloween, and she looked at them when she grew up and realized it wasn't scary after all, was a nothing monster. She was made of bones too, but she had muscles and skin and a heart that was beating, she was still undeniably, viciously alive.

She realizes now, at last, as she watches him from across the street, though for him it may as well be from across an ocean, that she can only feel pity for something so unbearably empty.

She actually eats her food once she gets back up to her flat, the memory of Jimmy burning onto her brain, and Jackie finally rolls out of bed and makes herself tea in the kitchen.

She doesn't say a word, simply hugs Rose for good luck and waves out the door as she grabs her purse on the way out.

The tube is crowded by the time she gets on, filled with every walk of life imaginable, and Rose huddles in the corner of the car because she found a spot, and she is not going to give it up. The train shuttles through the tunnels, the yellow lights from the walls blinking through the grimy windows, and a man next to her leers a little bit. He's dressed nicely, suit and tie, and Rose glares at him, just the way Jackie taught her when she was fifteen. She smiles when he cowers and moves away.

When the mechanical voice comes over the system, announcing her stop, she half-runs out, tripping a little over her heels in her haste to leave. She glances down at the directions she scribbled on the back of one of Jackie's grocery lists, walks out onto the street and begins making her way there.

It's warmer now than it was before, but only barely; the sun hasn't reached the highest point in the sky just yet. There are certainly more people on the streets, businessmen and women striding to work in expensive, tailored clothing. They're all grey and black and white, and Rose stands out in her flowery pink dress and yellow kitten heels.

The building is in a posher part of London, certainly, she can tell by the way the people speak and move and even carry themselves when they're only just standing still. She straightens her spine, walks with more purpose, tries her hardest to look like she belongs there. By the time she reaches the front doors, she almost believes it herself.

But not quite.

They direct her to the fourth floor, and she follows someone just walking into the lift, presses the number and listens to the tinkling music playing softly from the speakers. The doors open, sliding like the gates at the Colosseum, and Rose is about to fight the lions on her own now.

She takes a deep breath, steels herself, and walks over to the reception desk.

She waits to the sound of airplanes soaring by, flying lower and lower in the sky.

It's almost eight, and the days are getting shorter, the sunset already done and the moon brightening as time passes in a haze.

She paces in her bedroom anxiously, glancing down at the phones on her bed every few minutes. She's managed to scrounge up her mobile, the landline, and even Jackie's phone (just in case, she insisted when she took it), and she glares at them now, willing one to ring.

They told her after the interview was over that they would call in "a couple of days." It's been four, so naturally Rose is panicking.

She thinks she did well enough, considering her resume was fairly light. She has only ever worked at Henrik's and another shop before that, and her educational background is less than stellar, but she thought she had a shot when the interviewer went quiet when looking at her pieces.

She made sure to mention that she is self-taught, as Smith had advised her that sometimes people in the industry find that kind of raw talent impressive, and the interviewer clicked his tongue in appreciation.

But now it's been four days, and she hasn't heard so much as a word.

It's been the longest four days of her life for reasons besides that of course. If he were here it wouldn't seem so bad, but unlike the last time he almost broke off all contact she can't bring herself to go back to Mickey and Shireen and pretend everything is okay. It isn't.

And she would feel a whole lot better if someone would just-

Her mobile blares out it's ringtone, buzzing on the pink bedspread chaotically, and Rose scrambles for the phone, flips it open and says breathlessly into the speaker, "Hello, Rose Tyler speaking."

The man is talking on the other end, and Rose strains to hear him, but she can't because of the static in the background, so she has to say, "I'm sorry, what?" several times before she understands him.

"I said, you're hired for the internship position, Miss Tyler, congratulations. Can you start on Monday?"

She blinks, swallows, nods her head and absently agrees that yes, she can start on Monday, that would be fine, thank you so much for calling. As soon as she hangs up, she throws the phone back on her bed and continues pacing.

She watches as the sun sinks lower into the sky and smiles at the sight. She should probably tell her mum about the good news. She feels proud of herself, if a little empty from not being able to tell the person responsible.

(Oh, the places you'll go, he said to her after one of her lessons, had smiled wide and happy and carefree, and when she smiled in return she had felt like it could be true.)

She grabs Jackie's phone from her bed, bursts out of her room to tell her what happened, and stops short in the hall.

She can hear the blood pumping in her ears, her heartbeat loud and rhythmic, and everything comes into focus, sharp and clear, not slowing down so much as becoming more certain. Her mother isn't home, but the flat isn't empty either.

"Doctor."

He stands in the middle of the living room, looking like he was just about to sit down on the floral couch, and he straightens up again as she stares in shock. The moonlight streaming in through the curtains makes him look like something different. He looks younger, softer, more vulnerable, and it seems that restless wind could break him, scatter him around the room like so many stars.

She realizes that part of the difference is he isn't wearing his jacket; without it he doesn't seem so sure of himself. Like Samson, his strength in a garment, an accessory, so easily taken away, yet he let go of it on his own. He doesn't look like the Doctor without it, and she wonders if this means she should call him by name.

He's the first to break the silence (he always is). "Rose." His voice is hoarse, it rumbles and rasps over the word, and when he says her name like that he says it like it's something precious, like a prayer, reverent and quiet.

She shifts from one foot to the other, never taking her eyes away from his, but he can't quite meet her halfway, his eyes dart around the room, unable to settle. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought it was obvious. Should I explain?"

"Don't get smart, just tell me." That comes out harsher than she intends, and he flinches a little, not because of her words, but because he seems to realize what he did more completely. He understands, all at once, she can see the connection clicking into place in his mind. She feels satisfied.

"I'm here to be friends again." He looks so hopeful, she almost breaks, but instead she scoffs a little, turns her head so that she doesn't have to see him when she speaks.

"I think it's a little late for that." She's walking away, and later she'll be glad that there are no cars on the street, no parties in the building, because she barely hears what he says next as it is.

"I read it." She stops, turns her head slightly, and he takes that as her allowing him to continue. "I read your book. Only took me a few days. I don't know why I didn't just read it months ago, for the life of me, I don't know why I didn't just read it."

She swallows the lump that's formed suddenly in her throat, and turns to face him head-on. "So?"

"So you know where this is going already." He shifts his weight slightly, takes a step forward, then back. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to go somewhere else, get some fresh air-"

"No," she interrupts tersely, "no, I'd rather you do this here. I'd rather not have every cabbie in the city think all I do is cry when I go home." This time when he flinches, she feels a little guilty. She thinks she's not the only one who would rather forget those times.

"Okay," he acquiesces, moves to sit down again but stands instead. He gestures to the couch, signaling for her to sit, and she reluctantly obeys, folds her arms across her body and lifts an eyebrow skeptically.

"For the record," he says, pointing to his temple, and of course he still has to be so impressive, even now, "that book would've only taken me a few hours, but I was reading between patients."

"So what changed your mind about it?"

He heaves out a breath, shakes his head and smiles ruefully. "I s'pose I should start at the beginning. That always seems like the most appropriate place to begin. I had a speech prepared, but I left it at home." He pauses, and when she remains silent he coughs uncomfortably. "Not a good joke then, yeah?"

"No, it wasn't."

"Then I'll start where it starts." He loosens his limbs, rolls his shoulders, as if preparing himself for a fight, which, she supposes, he is. "This is going to take a while."

"Go on, then." She waits, looking up at him expectantly, and he sighs in response.

"I agreed to go on that trip because I was planning on leaving anyway." At her gaping, he holds his hands up in defense. "You know as well as I do why I would want to do that. I still wanted to wanted you to be happy, even if it wasn't for the right reasons, so I wanted to help you however I could before I did something I'd regret. An' I didn't mean to do what I did, I really, really didn't. That's not to say that it was on accident, but I didn't take you to Scotland to sleep with you. I didn't. But I- I don't know. I suppose thought that I wouldn't ever actually lose control like that, do exactly what I told myself I wouldn't do.

"I'd misjudged everything about you and me before that though, so I don't know why I was so surprised when I misjudged how possessive I am." (she noticed that, too, even before Scotland, when men would look at her on the street with too-wide eyes, and he would take her hand or put his arm around her waist, smile at her and glare at anyone who passed), "I was happy that you were making friends, but I was also angry that you were moving on. I was angry that I couldn't go out and have fun the way you wanted me to, I was angry that Joseph was better for you than me, and mostly I was angry that even though I was angry I wanted you in a way that I shouldn't have in the first place.

"So you were there, dark room, moonlight, tight dress, and you were looking at me like you wanted me too, and I stopped thinking, completely and totally.

"Of course, the next day I woke up before you did," (she could remember him leaving, feel his weight pull off the bed and his hand brushing her cheek like a man preparing for war, already saying goodbye). "It was like my brain was making up for lost time. I was happy, happier than I'd ever been, but I knew every single reason why it wouldn't work with perfect clarity, it was all laid out like a map." (like veins, her pulse, her beating heart). "I was older, I was wrong, I was broken. I couldn't control myself, so I was the one who had to suffer the consequences."

"So you left."

He nods, swallowing, his Adam's apple moving along his throat. "Yeah. I left. I didn't expect you to say what you did, but I'm stubborn, I know. I left because I really thought you would forget, move on, you'd be better in the long run. Of course, Jack practically started crying over the phone when I told him, he just kept shouting, 'You were perfect together!' and then wailing a bit more." His voice softens with the next words, he can't look at her. "My dad was scary, how angry he was. He told me I was being an idiot, except in more explicit language. They worked at it all week."

"But you still didn't listen. So what changed your mind?"

He actually laughs, and she almost wants to cry a little bit. She never expected to hear that again. "Jackie came by." When she gapes, he laughs once more. "I was shocked too. She found out my address somehow and invited herself in for tea. She told me to go back and apologize, that she knew that I wanted to stay as much as you wanted me to stay, and that if I didn't I would have her to deal with."

Rose rests her head in her hands, mutters to herself.

"What did you say?"

"Of course she would."

He chuckles. "She told me that I needed to go back if I wanted you to be happy. I kept telling her, 'No, don't you get it? Don't you get what I did to your daughter?' I just kept saying that it had only been a week, that she just had to give you time, but she just kept replying that she'd rather not give her daughter more time to grieve if she could fix it sooner rather than later. She said, 'Read her book.' I didn't know how she knew about that, figured you must've told her. But mostly what she said to make me come here was something Jack and my dad had already told me, what I refused to believe because it was coming from people who loved me more than you. But here was your mum, the woman who raised you, and she was telling me that you wouldn't move on because you loved me. That I made you happy."

"And?"

"And I read the book. And of course even before you met me you had a thing for older men, I mean, how old was Jimmy when you ran off with him? Nineteen? Twenty? So of course your favorite book is about a grown man falling in love with the girl he sends to school. I couldn't bloody believe it. An entire book about how a relationship with a massive age difference, including the fact that the man originally only wants to help her succeed in her education, actually ends up working by the end. Because she loves him. Jane Eyre did that, too, but I always hated Rochester, so I didn't care. But your book, it stuck."

"So?"

"So I finished it and sat in my flat for about five minutes before I moved. And then when I moved, I ran." He's getting excited, moving with bigger gestures, and he sits down on the chair across from the couch that no one uses. "It was like something was screaming at me to go, God or fate or the universe, whatever you want to call it, I had to get here and see you. Of course, Jackie opened the door, and she just told me to wait out here. An' here I am."

She waits a beat, but he doesn't continue."So is that it then?" He furrows his brow. "I got the job at Torchwood, you know. Just now."

He grins, the same wide one as before. "Rose! That's fantastic!"

"So are you going to leave now? You said you were gonna leave once you'd helped me like you said you would, that you were no good for me. So do you think that? Are you gonna stay or go?"

He falters, looks at her with a hopeful expression. "I was gonna stay. If you want."

She tries to keep herself from smiling at that, but fails just a bit. "I didn't hear an apology anywhere in there."

He smirks in return, and it's a bit like old times. "I thought it was implied, but if you really need to hear it, then yeah. I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry that I got you all mixed-up in my own problems and then acted like you were the crazy one. I'm just sorry."

"So that's it? There's nothing else you want to say? Any last details, any confessions that should've been made a week ago?"

He drops his head, looks up with a bit of a plea in his eyes. "Does it really need saying?"

"No, I suppose not. I'll just wait though." She smiles, standing with her hands folded behind her back, and she can see the light in his eyes, the blue as tumultuous as a storm.

He moves towards her, taking her hands in his. Lines up his boots against her toes and leans in close, his eyes inches from hers, his mouth just brushing the corner of her lips. She shivers at the contact.

He breathes in softly, air passing from her lungs to his, and he tilts her chin up with his fingers, kisses her closed eyelids.

"Rose," he murmurs softly against her skin. "I love you." He says the words like they are foreign and beautiful on his tongue, a language he can't translate. "I love you."

When she opens her eyes, she can still see his touch, blue-green and sparkling, dancing across her sight like the stars.

This time when he moves towards her it's less uncertain, less chaotic. When he finally presses his lips to hers it's soft, delicate, a feather-light touch, and he feels both different and exactly the same.

And this is her dream, from the very beginning (from her very beginning), isn't it? Because her cornstalk hair, her long eyelashes look golden under the yellow light. When her arms wrap around his broad shoulders and cling to the thin material of his jumper they feel lighter than air, hollow bird bones and wings, growing right through, and his hands are large and warm on her slender waist.

He pulls back to gauge her reaction, and she wonders if he always tastes like strawberries. She walks closer, touches her toes to his black shoes. Shuts her eyes. Whispers his name, his real name, and he inhales in response, a great shuddering breath, like coming up for air. Closes the space between them again, like everything it was before (and will be after).

The blackbird sings on the windowsill, and this is everything and nothing she imagined, he is a paradox. Still drowning with a stranglehold on life, a doctor that stays with those he's already healed, and she knows that he loves her, loves her loves her loves her, like a man without a compass loves the stars and the sea, like a blind man loves the warmth of the light.

Like death loves only the most beautiful flowers, blooming wild and gorgeous in the sun.

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"for you hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns."

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"all the stars are abloom with flowers."

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"-listen, there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go."

A/N: The quotes are from, in order, "La Gitana" by Aleister Crowley, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and "pity this monster, manunkind," by e. e. cummings.

I've decided to cut out the epilogue. I'm sorry if anyone was really relying on having one, but I tried writing it three separate ways, and every time it came off sounding like a PSA. Stopping here just felt more in sync with the way I've been writing, and my favorite stories are the kinds that are open-ended, but still point to the ending in a way that says "this is how it will be, but you have to fill in the blanks."

(And they all live happily ever after.)

I may do more within this universe later in the year, like maybe a one-shot from the Doctor's perspective, or some post-story fluff, but right now this is all there is.

So, that's it. I guess we've reached the end. I just want to thank my family and friends, the Academy, and God. Except I really want to thank all of you, fabulous readers. Your reviews, your follows and favorites, and your silent support have gone a long way toward me finishing this. So thanks. Really. It's been fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.