Who: TARDIS and Tenth Doctor When: Right after this and this. Where: John and Gwen’s apartment. What: Feels. Lots and lots of feels. Rating: Some kissing, low language, but a whole lot of FEELS. Beware. Status: Complete
Tara knew her Doctors. She knew them far too well. She knew better than to assume that this was not going to happen. In nearly five minutes the two -- so similar, they were -- had their tempers flared over the most important human in their lives. She should have known, should have done something to prevent it.
But he was bound to discover the truth eventually. She had hoped it would be later, that he could see everything before he learned the truth. But here they are.
She hesitated at the apartment door. Tara didn’t really know what to expect. She had driven over and kept the tears away -- for both her Nine and Ten. She would have to be strong for them both. The TARDIS had always taken care of her Doctors, and she would do the same. She would have to be the TARDIS now.
Finally, she reached out and knocked on the door. She waited, arms crossed, looking somewhere between miserable and determined. What would be on the other side? Her best friend, her thief, her companion and her Doctor. The Time Lord the TARDIS loved, and the man that Tara loved beyond Time and Space. She hoped that both were alright.
But he wasn't alright. The Doctor (both of them, presumably) wasn't fine. John Smith wasn't fine.
He'd clearly made some mistakes -- big ones. One being that he'd thought nothing would change in his dreams. That he and Rose would be together forever just because he'd hoped that would be the case. He should have known more than anyone else that hope never beat odds. No matter how much he wished for something, the Universe had its own plans and even he, a Time Lord, could not always prevail above all.
In his own dreams -- the ones without Nine -- he was still new. Fresh, exciting. Everything was fun and funny and different. He was still learning who he was (Rude. Not Ginger. No second chances). That mingled oddly with the real world, here, until maybe he'd just assumed too much. Made one jibe too many at someone he knew almost better than he knew himself. And wasn't that funny? Because, technically, they were the same person.
The truth hurt. Because he didn't know. And he should have known. And maybe that was why Rose had looked so sad when they'd re-met in that bar. Maybe that was why she'd cried, and he was just an asshole for not knowing. For making light of the situation.
She'd never really forgive him, now. And The Doctor, for all intents and purposes still didn't understand why.
It hadn't taken him long to get through the first glass of wine. And by the time Tara knocked, he was half into his second. He was almost sorry for Tara because he knew just how tangible his mood was in the room.
Tara let out a breath as she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. She saw the half-finished glass before anything else, and frowned. Right, she had to be strong. Face this head on.
For him. Always for him. She met his eyes, concern and love the only emotion marking her features. “Hi,” she said, fidgeting a bit. Her posture was very closed-in, as if she were going into an execution. It felt nearly as heavy as that. The smile that reached her lips was small and quite obviously forced. Tara didn’t feel much like smiling.
The Doctor couldn't blame her. He didn't feel like smiling either. The only difference between them was that he didn't bother faking or forcing one onto his lips.
"Hi," he said in return, and he nearly winced at the sound of his own voice. He was never this serious. And yet, now, he couldn't help it. Ushering her in with a little gesture, he closed the door behind them -- and then couldn't help but lean against it for a moment. He was glad above all other things that Gwen was not home. It would have been too much to handle finding somewhere else to mourn things that he didn't even really understand.
"I'm sorry," he said to Tara, almost immediately. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this."
“Shhh,” she said, turning around to grab John’s free hand. Tara gave it a squeeze, that smile still lighting her features. It hurt her heart to see him like this. Part of her didn’t want to pick up the pieces that Rose had left. But above anyone else, she would do this for him. For her Doctor, and for John. And for Rose. She had to put her personal, human feelings aside.
Pulling on his arm, she led John back into the living room and sat on one end of the couch. Tara regarded him seriously, yet warm. Where could she start? She decided she needed to know how he was feeling before rushing into what she knew would be a painful conversation. “What are you thinking about?”
He sat too -- on the other end of the couch, back against the armrest, pulling his legs up until he could rest his chin on his knees. Bright red chuck taylor all-stars seemed all too happy in this strange sad environment, marring the scene. This Doctor was a sharp, angular sort of man and his lankiness made him flexible enough where a position like this was not entirely uncomfortable. If there was any discomfiture, he was sure he deserved it anyway.
He eyed his best friend for a long moment, and he was more sad now because she so obviously was too. A terrible circle of Sorry, that he didn’t even know where to start. “I don’t know,” he said, and his tone was honest, wary, lost. “I didn’t know. I just thought -- “ But he hadn’t known what he’d thought, honestly -- except for the fact that maybe he hadn’t. “She cried. In that bar. And I just -- I didn’t even stop to think why, Tara.”
Tara pulled her legs up onto the couch so she was sitting cross-legged across from John. She reached out, leaning forward and taking his hand. “It’s not your fault, John,” she addressed his human identity, because it was John she was speaking to. “You didn’t know. How could you have known?” It was a rhetorical question.
Leaning her chin on top of her free hand’s fist, elbow on her knee, she watched John from that weird angle for a long moment. “Doctor,” she began, addressing that part of him now. “You didn’t leave her.” Tara didn’t know the whole story, but she’d seen Rose nearly get sucked into the Void. And then her mind had disappeared from Time and Space completely. “She was taken away from you. And I couldn’t get you back to her.” She would understand if he was angry. “We burned up a sun to say goodbye.”
John Smith. The Doctor. It was all the same now, wasn't it? Every morning John woke up in this comfortable little flat that he shared with Gwen, the man (the Time Lord) found it harder and harder to differentiate between the two. Even if he didn't have dreams. It was just -- it was a bit like being taken over by himself until he didn't know the difference. Sometimes it scared him. Sometimes it made him so ecstatic. Today, it made him scared. Sad. Lonely. Even his TARDIS -- his Tara -- couldn't mend the wound that he hadn't known had been there until it'd been so hurtfully pointed out.
We burned up a sun to say goodbye, she said. But the Doctor knew -- so terribly and intrinsically -- that it hadn't been enough. How could that be enough, when it meant that he'd still had to say goodbye? To Rose Tyler? The woman -- all pink and yellow and perfect emotion -- had been his everything. Had shown him how life was still good and amazing and exciting. How there was still wonder in the universe to see and delight over showing others.
He'd left her.
John's eyes burned at the thought of it, and he laughed a hysterical sort of noise that held absolutely no humor in it whatsoever. Because in this world he hardly knew the other woman at all. And yet, here he was so, so close to tears because he'd left her. He'd let her down. Because he --
No. He couldn't think it. It'd just make things worse.
His free hand shook as he lifted his glass to his lips again -- and even the wine did nothing to lift his mood.
"Tara," he said, voice cracking. But what else could he say? He didn't know. And it was killing him.
She watched him next to tears for a moment. As he said her name, the smile she’d been keeping up dropped completely, and she frowned. She had to blink a fog from her eyes as the tears threatened to spill.
She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t let herself down that path. Tara had to be strong for him.
Sniffling, Tara rose up onto her knees and just wrapped her arms around John’s shoulders, draped over his folded-up knees. Her forehead ended up pressed against his as she let out a breath. “I’m here,” she said, rubbing his back absently.
John lost his wine glass somewhere between couch and coffee table, and he couldn't be interested enough to see if he'd actually found a purchase for it, or if it had fallen to the ground to spill there.
His tears were silent, terrible things that fell down the sharp angles of his face and wetted adams apple and neck. He hadn't even realized he'd started it up, but now that he had he couldn't seem to stop. John hugged his best friend like he always did -- his full body going into it; strong arms around her frame. But this time there were no giggles, no kisses, only silent sobs as he pressed his forehead into the smooth, girlish curve of the space between neck and shoulder.
Of course she was here. She always was. But he wasn't. Not for everyone, obviously.
Tara just held him as he cried, resting her cheek on his head. She had a hand at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair comfortingly. She didn’t know what she could do but let him cry it out.
So she was silent, rubbing his back and his head as he sobbed. At some point she pressed a kiss to his temple, then gave him a squeeze.
After a time, John had no more tears to cry. It wasn't that he wasn't still sad and this short of heartbroken, but just that -- well. The wells had dried up, leaving his face red and a bit blotchy; his eyes pink and uncomfortable looking.
Sniffing slightly, he let out a little sigh, turning his head into Tara's neck completely -- a soft, sad sigh brushed against her collarbone. He should have thanked her -- because she was his best friend through everything. Here and there. Through past and forward time and through almost every ordeal.
Instead, he sniffed again, feeling dull and slow, as if the brightness on all the edges of everything had faded. "I need a drink."
Leaning back, Tara tipped John’s head so she could plant a kiss on his forehead. She smiled slightly, then pushed herself to standing. “I’ll be right back,” she told him, then picked up his abandoned glass and hurried into the kitchen.
Deciding that more trips would get tiring, Tara returned with the box of wine and two new glasses. She filled them both and handed one to John, who she watched hesitantly as she sat back down beside him. For once, this entire night, she had no clue what to say. So she just took a long drink of her wine and waited.
Taking the proffered glass, John gave Tara a grateful look that was nearly a smile, even as he wiped at his eyes with the back of his freehand -- if nothing else, it just made his face look more red than when he'd started. He blinked for a moment, and then gave a sigh, pressing his lips firmly together in a thin, straight line before downing half the wine in a way that wine (even from a box) was not to be drank.
It was best to drink. After all, what could he possibly say to make this better?
You could cut the level of emotion in the room with a knife. Tara reached over and settled a hand on his knee while she sipped her wine. She wasn’t going to comment on how heavily he was drinking, however much she wanted to. John was an adult, and could choose his coping methods as he pleased. Tara was not about to get in the way of that.
“Do you want to talk?” she asked, not facing him fully but turning her eyes so they met his. “I’m guessing you... have questions.”
His gaze met hers as intended. His eyes had always been emotive -- large, round and so deeply brown. Today, they held such sadness it was a wonder Tara didn't immediately get lost.
"Should I even know?" He asked her, his tone oddly concerned. She would know of what he spoke -- because it was only one thing, today. Spoilers, everyone said. Even Nine had said so -- although goading-ly, angrily. But what did spoilers matter in a place like this? He'd learn eventually, anyway.
He shook his head then -- finished his glass of wine and did not hesitate to pour another. "Tell me," he said, before she had time to answer the last question.
She had to look away from him if she was going to make any sense. With his eyes as intense as they were, Tara couldn’t hold his gaze and a thought all at once. She couldn’t bear it.
Fidgeting, the girl brought her hand back to her lap as she began. “It all began with Torchwood,” she said, going through the events in her mind. “They were fascinated with a Void Ship. It came through to our universe thanks to the Cybermen, and inside there were Daleks.”
She shivered. Tara had never uttered those words before. She took a moment while sipping her wine, to process it all. “Do you remember the parallel world?” she asked, meeting his eyes for a moment.
“No,” responded the Doctor -- quiet and thoughtful, but so clearly hanging on her every word. He didn’t know about half this yet, but he knew the Daleks and the Cybermen both. How could he not? They were deadly enemies that he’d met time and time again. Just -- apparently, not as himself yet. He did know of Torchwood though, sort of. Or at least knew, vaguely, that it had something to do with Queen Victoria, who he and Rose had met in his last dream.
We are not amused.
“Okay,” she said, deciding she’d have to explain that too. “We -- I -- made a mistake and we crossed into a parallel world. There was only a spark of me left functioning. While you waited, you discovered that the Cybermen had taken control of the parallel Earth.”
She paused, shrugging. “You’ll remember it soon enough. But the people that helped you fight there, they passed through the Void to help again. In order to seal away the Daleks and Cybermen, you had to pull everything that had passed through the Void back into it.”
Tara met his eyes then. “Those who came from the parallel world traveled back, but Rose stayed. You both held on as the Daleks and Cybermen were sucked back into oblivion, but...” She found that she was having trouble finishing. She had to look away. “Rose slipped and she was falling back in. She was saved, but she was transported to the parallel world. You’d closed it off.”
She shrugged, not knowing if that was too much information or not. She didn’t much care at the moment. He’d wanted to hear what happened. “We found a tiny hole, a few months later. And I projected an image of you for her in the parallel world. We burned up a sun to say goodbye.”
John just sat in silence for a long moment, not sure what to say -- even the most effective of story tellers might not have been able to do this scene justice, and he found himself both lacking details and not wanting to do with having any more than what he'd been given. It hurt. More details could only hurt more, he was sure.
The fact that he'd lost her -- Rose -- and then burned a sun to talk to her once more was telling. It confirmed what he already knew about the blonde woman of his dreams only more so.
"I should have found a way," he said finally, looking away. "I'm meant to be the cleverest. I brag I'm so very good all the time."
“We couldn’t,” she told him for what she felt like the hundredth time that day. “I couldn’t. I would not have survived the trip, surely. You would have been stranded there.” Without me. She turned to watch his reaction. Because as much as she knew his thoughts were on Rose alone, a small part of Tara hoped that he’d considered her as well.
After all, she was so human here.
The Doctor’s expression turned bashfully regretful, as if he understood the implication that Tara was making, and refused to say anything incriminating on the matter. He knew himself well enough to know that above all else he loved his freedom. And the TARDIS was his freedom, among so many other things.
Still, he couldn’t help but think, ponder, deliberate. “I just mean -- it’s time travel,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I break the rules, just the once?”
Tara had turned her gaze to her lap, hands folded around her glass. Why was her stomach full of butterflies? And why did her heart hurt? Absently, she lifted a hand and placed it over that spot on the left side of her chest. It was beating out of control.
“There was nothing you could do. I wouldn’t let you,” she said finally. “I wouldn’t take you there, or break the rules. It was me.” Tara couldn’t know that for certain, but she knew that the TARDIS never would have allowed it. It was impossible. She’d given him what she could: a goodbye.
For as much as he knew Tara believed it, John very much remembered forcing his TARDIS into odder, worse situations. Or maybe that was just what he thought he’d been doing at the time. He realized here and now more than ever that Tara kind of did what she wanted, and took him along for the ride where and when she felt so inclined. He loved her for that, of course.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” he said after a moment, both because he felt guilty for making her sad and taking the blame, and because he believed it. He finished his glass of wine -- and what did that make it? The fourth? -- and scooted a little closer to her.
It was easier to take the blame than to see John hurting. It was one thing to live through the Doctor’s life without the ability to say or do anything, unable to take any of the responsibility. It was completely another, now that she had a mouth and ears to communicate, to continue watching without comment.
“You haven’t even seen it yet,” she said finally, watching as he scooted closer. “He shouldn’t have told you. Not yet.”
“He was mad,” John said, and it wasn’t really an answer that denied her words so much as it excused them. He wasn’t mad at Nine. How could he really be? He wondered if in the same situation he wouldn’t have done the same. They were, after all, the same person in some regard.
But now he didn’t know what else to say, and so he only leaned over a bit and settled his head on her shoulder again.
Tara turned her posture away a moment, as if she didn’t want him to comfort her. But she had to keep close, because this was her John, her Doctor, so after a pause she put her free arm around his back, wine glass still held in her lap. She let out an uneasy breath.
“He shouldn’t have gotten mad,” she said, sounding a bit petulant. “I should have taken better care of him, here. I’ve been selfish. He needs me.” She sniffled, head still turned away from John’s. “All I’ve thought of is me since I was put in here.”
“You’re you,” said John -- the Doctor, and suddenly despite his own sadness and hurt, he was her best friend again -- the perfect measure of human and Time Lord both, and the man who loved her best of anyone because of it. “You should think about you. And you didn’t know until recently. It’s not your job to look after him, he’s a grown man.” What he didn’t say was obvious in the room there, too: besides, he has Rose.
Tara tensed all of a sudden. “He’s my Doctor, John,” she said, sounding a bit hurt at his comforting words. “Just as much as you are. You remember the years, traveling alone. He lost his purpose, we were both the last. He needed me. You needed me.” And I needed you. She tried to push away from him. But I wasn’t enough, in the end. “And then you needed Rose. We all did.”
She stopped at Rose’s name, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Just ignore me, Doctor.”
He took the hint -- sitting up on his own again; moving forward for the pretense of another glass of wine just so he wouldn’t feel quite so spectacular shunned. Well, so he didn’t look like he felt that way, anyhow.
“I remember,” he said, because how couldn’t he? The Time War was not something he was proud of in any regard -- and he remembered now more than ever how detached he was from it in comparison to Nine -- how when he’d changed, became the man with his own face and floppy, silly hair and Chuck Taylors, that he’d felt better. Happier. Less drowned out by all the sadness.
But he was still John, in his own right, and it was hard to differentiate Tara from TARDIS and best friend from constant silent companion, and he was a little hurt about it, really. What, exactly, he wasn’t sure. “Maybe you should go talk with him,” he said, going for selfless and coming off as bitter instead. “He’s still angry.” He already has Rose. You’re all I have here. He has what he needs.
“I will,” she said, as if it were a promise. Tara reached for his hand, as if not touching him at all was unbearable. It was breaking her heart to see him trying to push her away, but she understood. He was hurt, confused, lonely. She didn’t want her Doctor to feel lonely. “But I’m here, right now. With you. And I won’t ever leave you.” She spoke it softly, leaning forward so she could see his face. The brunette was smiling softly as she put her glass down, wrapping his hand between both of hers. “Not. Ever.”
She let out a bit of a laugh, though it sounded like the saddest laugh in the world. “Look at us,” she began, looking down at her lap again. “The only things that remain from the Time War. And we’ve just gotten in a big row. What a strange family we are.”
John squeezed her hand, because she was right -- not touching was unbearable. The two of them were always touching -- from the moment they’d met in this world, they’d been a whirlwind of positive loving energy that never seemed to stop hugging or bumping shoulders just to remind each other that they were both there. Stopping now would be silly. Inconsistent. “I know,” he said, and he did. And he hoped she knew that in his response, he was promising the same. Nearly nine hundred years they’d been together. A stupid row wasn’t going to change that.
And then he giggled a little, and it was clear that the wine had gotten to him somewhat -- and after nearly a bottle of it on his own, that only made sense, didn’t it? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so -- human.”
“But you are human,” she pointed out. Tara knew that John was drunk, and that giggle just made her smile sadly at him. He was hurting so much, and she didn’t know what to do to make it better. So she’d stay with him, her Doctor, her best friend and companion all rolled into one body.
It hurt to know that he was hurting over something that happened in another life. But she resolved not to think of it that way. She had to support him the best she could, here and now in this brave new world. “Rose made you human again,” she said all of a sudden, because she had. He was less Time Lord with her, he’d realized his humanity and caring through her and his other companions. “All I can do is make you more Time Lord.”
She wondered what that meant.
Even he wasn’t really sure. But he didn’t agree. Not exactly. He shook his head to say so, and then sipped his wine again. “No,” he said after a moment, because obviously a head waggle just wasn’t going to do it. “You show me beautiful and perfect things. You take me to places where I can help or be helped.” His TARDIS had taken him to Rose -- and she deserved more than a little credit for that. It was selfless. “You make me me,” and then he smiled, and it was a genuine sort of thing that had very little to do with the liquor. “And that’s brilliant.”
Tara turned her head and met his eyes, smiling as best she could. He always knew what to say to make her feel better. She wished she could do the same. She hadn’t had enough time with real words, with a mouth and ears to learn that skill. She wished she could be more to John and the Doctor than she had been.
Lifting a hand and placing it at the top of his neck, Tara ran her fingers through his hair. His silly hair. The thing that had started this all. It all seemed rather pointless now, didn’t it? “Still not a ginger, but this hair can still start fights, can’t it?”
He laughed at that, his expression a little bit like a child who’d gotten caught making plans to do something very naughty. It was a bit stupid, what had started this all. Hair. (Fabulous hair, but still.) “It’s for the best,” he said, closing his eyes to enjoy the head petting -- it was honestly one of his favorite things, even if few people knew that. “If plain brown started this, imagine what ginger might have done.” Wars would have started; worlds would bow to his every whim were he a cocky ginger type. It really would have been amazing.
Tara didn’t want to imagine it. She just nodded at his voiced thought, then looked away for a moment. “You should talk to her,” she said all of a sudden. She was a bit all over the place today. One moment she was human, the next she was considering all options like she was meant to. “She needs you. Both of you.” She added the last part as an afterthought. It was all so confusing with him in all these different bodies.
Thinking herself a mostly selfless human being, and the silent TARDIS had always been selfless, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple. It would break her heart, but she knew it had to be done. She would break her heart a thousand times to make the Doctor happy. “Quite right, too,” she breathed, mimicking some of his final dream words to Rose.
The Doctor didn’t know those words yet, though. Later, when he finally dreamed this scene, he would recognize them from Tara’s mouth. He would still be sad, maybe more than now, but he would be prepared. And that was something, wasn’t it?
He didn’t respond, though her advice was sound. Talking to Rose Tyler was something he always wanted to do, but he wasn’t stupid enough to get in the way of what already was. She had a Doctor already, and three was, as they said, company.
Instead, he tilted his head up as she kissed his temple -- meeting lips to hers.
She was a bit surprised at first, supposing that the wine had gone to his head a bit, but she didn’t push him away. Tara responded to the kiss, feeling that it meant much more than the innocent ones they’d previously exchanged. There were passions discovered in the past few hours that neither of them could deny -- both by their hand and uncontrolled. She let herself be taken under for a moment, giving his hand a squeeze and keeping her hand on the back of his neck.
And wasn’t this nice? It had been a long time coming, he was sure -- although he didn’t think on it hard or often, the both of them had been going down this route since the day they’d met. But he hadn’t expected it today, hadn’t planned for it.
But there it was, and there they were; hand in hand and lips pressed together more firmly than before -- here, there were no giggles on Tara’s usually smiling lips. His own kisses were needy, both giving and taking.
Tara let it go on for a few minutes, being altogether selfish by letting him do this. With tongues and lips moving together urgently, she was surprised she felt a bit wrong about it. Wasn’t this taking advantage of him? He had been drinking, he was sad and he was thinking of Rose.
Suddenly, both her hands appeared on John’s shoulders and she pushed him away. She was breathing heavier than usual as she opened her eyes, pools of brown full of conflicting emotions -- love, sadness, fear, need. She wasn’t smiling, as she thought she might in all of their intimate moments. She was frowning. “John, Doctor,” she addressed him by both his names. “I want to be anything, whoever, whatever you need me to be.” She paused, pulling her bottom lip through her teeth. “But I can’t be her.” Tara didn’t have to say her name. He’d know.
He did know. And her words were a little bit like a slap in the face. He didn’t know if it was because that was what he’d been hoping for, or if it was because it was something Tara assumed he’d been hoping for, or what. But she was right, of course.
“Of course. I know,” he said, and his voice felt oddly far away. “I didn’t -- mean it like that.” He’d kissed her before; many times. With giggles and secretly in time travel that she didn’t even know about yet -- and never once had he wished Tara was someone she wasn’t. And yet maybe right now they were both just too close to the moment. He couldn’t help but pull away a little too -- and it probably looked worse - like a rejection that it so wasn’t, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I know,” that he didn’t mean it like that. Neither of them had been thinking of much but themselves for so long. It was time that Tara started thinking of the others she had ignored far too long here. “John--” but she stopped, shaking her head and closing her eyes. No, she couldn’t tell him that now. Tara couldn’t confuse him anymore.
So, disconnecting after moving away from each other, she stood and looked down at her John. Her decision was made. “I should go,” she said. Because she was being selfish, and she couldn’t let herself be that way with him anymore. “We’ve both got a lot to think about.”
“Oh,” said John, and it was not the best response that he could have come up with. Still, as much as he wanted to protest, she probably had a point. Everything was a bit too raw -- and although she had not said what she wanted to, he was by no means a stupid or unobservant man. If she said it now, it would be too much for the both of them to process on top of everything else. She was right.
Tara, it seemed, was always right. She took him where he needed to be, but not always where he wanted to be.
“We do,” he agreed finally, even as he set his wine glass down on the coffee table.
She paused before heading to the door. She told him to “Call me if you need anything,” and then leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head. How could she do anything but love this man? With a final sigh, she pushed away and headed straight for the door. She had to get out of there, get home and process it all.
Surprised, she had received a private message from Rose on the network. Perhaps she wouldn’t spend the night alone after all. Ever the shoulder, ever the faithful, silent, selfless companion. She would be the one they could lean on, always.