Geek. Nerd. Fangirl. GBLTQ. Cook. Book and Kitty lover. What's your label?
The Doctor writes the first note two days after he burned up a sun, one day after Donna turned him down. He’s standing alone in his console room, and there’s no one to chatter at, no distraction, nothing. His ship thrums around him, familiar and eternal.
Saying it aloud would mean he’d gone starkers, wouldn’t it? Talking to himself. He isn’t ready to hear his own voice echo emptily back at him, evidence of exactly how bleak things are.
The blank stack of sticky-notes is in a hidden compartment on the console, kept handy for the times he needs to attach a reminder to the display panel. Intergalactic coordinates, grocery lists, indexes of his favorite words, reminders about where he’s hidden his secret stash of biscuits so Rose won’t find them.
If this isn’t something he can say aloud, it seems at least something he should make note of. The Doctor pulls out a little square stack of yellow paper and writes the words in English (not Gallifreyan, maybe because he’s on auto-pilot, maybe because he thinks she’ll be back one day to read it).
Trainers making quiet noises on the grating, he navigates the halls of his TARDIS, and this path has been walked so many times there might as well be a groove worn into the floor. It’s gravity that takes him here, the way he’s come so many times before. Except this time the pull isn’t quite as strong, his stride is slower, because she isn’t waiting inside anymore.
He stops a distance from her bedroom door, staring at the warm bronze-colored metal. The note flutters in his hand as his fingers tap absently against the sticky bit on the top of the paper.
I’ll move on, he tells himself. I always do. Same old life.
With the reverence of someone approaching a shrine, he steps close enough to affix the note to the door. He doesn’t go inside — he doesn’t want to see it, her trainers under the bed, makeup table cluttered with tubes and bottles, the scent of her everywhere — but he rubs his finger across the place where the note sticks, making sure it’s secure.
He walks away and doesn’t look back.
It’s something his later companions — Martha, and then Donna — don’t understand, and even tease him about, his periodic stops at office supply stores in the past and the future, everywhere from Hallax IV to Surrey. The way he stands in the paper goods aisle and compares the adhesives on various brands, until he finds one with a chemical composition most compatible with the metal inside the TARDIS.
“I’ve only ever seen you use a handful of those, Spaceman,” Donna says, snatching the bag full of yellow sticky-notes away from him as they walk out the shop door into the green sunlight of an alien world. The Doctor stops, turns his face toward the star, and takes a deep breath. “I’m beginning to think the TARDIS actually powered by Post-Its instead of alien fuel or magic or” — she waves her hand — “whatever.”
He opens his eyes, turns to look at her, and smiles a little. “I knew you’d figure it out one day, Donna. Brilliant, you are! The TARDIS is, in fact, powered by Post-Its. At least for now. Someday she might not need them anymore — she’ll gobble up interstellar dust and rift energy and that will be enough — but for now, everything’s running on little bits of yellow paper.”
She puts her arm through his. “Now tell me more about this planet with the market on it — they have Post-Its there, do they?”
“Oh, Shan Shen’s markets are legendary,” the Doctor replies, his eyes sparkling. ”You’re going to love this.”
For the Doctor, the sense of wonderment would stay forever. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve to be reunited with the woman he loves, to be able to live a normal life by her side. He’s done such terrible things and has so much blood on his hands. And yet here he is. Sure, he’s half-human and there are adjustments to make. It’s not always easy. There are fights and misunderstandings and issues to work through.
But this sight makes everything worth it. Rose Tyler, hair messy from a night’s sleep, wrapped in their sheets, sitting in their bed in their small flat, smiling at him like it’s Christmas morning. And to him, it is. Because the Universe has given him the most wonderful gift he could ask for.
Can we leave soon, Rose?
#it’s remarkable rose thinks how much his #i am going to fuck you face #looks so much like his oncoming storm face #and it’s every bit as nuanced #the way she can tell that right now it means #this fucking is going to be done against a wall #with her dress hitched up to her hips #and her legs wrapped around his waist #and how after hours in a tux #charming and wining and dining #everyone at the party #vitex and champagne and too small nibbles #it is decidedly not going to be gentle #she remembers the last time he made this exact face #and how he lost patience with even the wall#pulling her away from it and lifting her to movement #until she picked up the rhythm on her own #and the angle was off just a little but it didn’t matter#because of the things he was growling in her ear #filthy things #things about how she’d been teasing him all night #and all the things he’d been thinking#and so maybe tonight #maybe she deliberately did a few things #bending down to pick up a napkin #chasing the champagne on her lips with her tongue#and she’s just been counting down #waiting for this look (via allrightfine)
Sometimes I have guests. I mean some friends, travelling alongside. I had… There was recently, a friend of mine. Rose, her name was Rose. And we were together.
#He could have stopped after saying her name #but he adds that clarification #we were together #because he needs someone to know. #He couldn’t get those words out while Rose was still with him #and he’s lost his chance to tell her that he loves her and he wants to spend the rest of her life being together. #He says it quickly like it’s an after-thought #but really it’s because those words ‘we were together’ are the words that keep his hearts beating #and he holds them close. #But he needs to say it out loud so someone else will know their story #The stuff of legends (via tennantscookiejar)
#here’s the thing: yes the head writer is different and yes rose is gone and yes the doctor has regenerated #but we the audience also know he’s the same man and he remembers every single companion he’s had #and even lots of the writers are the same#so when eleven said this there is NO WAY the writers didn’t mean for our memories to be tossed back to TIP #they’re far too parallel; they’re so similar one could have followed the other in the same episode #rose is alive and well in the doctor’s mind (via burnpasun)
#people need to stop trying to tell me to get over rose and that the doctor is over her. #because he will NEVER be over rose. #she fixed him after he was broken from the time war #and he was completely and unequivocally in love with her. #will he love others? does he love others? YES. #but what he had with rose was special. #i don’t think the doctor had ever fallen in love before rose. #you never forget your first love. #he will never forget rose. #but you know what? THAT’S OKAY. #because he will also never forget martha or donna or jack or amy or rory or river #or ace or susan or romana or barbara or ian or ANY of the people he has spent time with. #it’s like he said: ‘my friends have always been the best of me.’ #he believes in rose like he no longer believes in himself. #he believes in all of them. (via lastofthetimeladies)
a;ldkj;adf;fj; WHY DO THIS TO ME