Fic: Trauma: During the Treatment
Title: Trauma: During the Treatment
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: TenII/Rose
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor has returned, and his relationship with Rose seems fine on the surface. Disclaimer: The puppets are still firmly attached to the strings of the BBC.
Author's Notes: Written as a sequel for Trauma: After the Coma. No beta so all mistakes are mine.
Rose walked along the street, breathing in the crisp air of early spring. She stopped at an ordinary block of flats and rang the bell for a specific number. After a pause it crackled and a voice said, "Hello?"
"It's me," Rose replied. "Hurry up."
More scuffling. "I'll be right down. Just having a bit of difficulty with the, uh, never mind."
Rose smiled. This wasn't unusual behaviour. A few minutes later the Doctor came out of the building looking apologetic. "Sorry, it was the com. I was trying to set up some voice recognition so you didn't have to wait outside all the time."
She rolled her eyes. "Could just give me a key," she said.
He paused. "Oh. Right. Could do that."
Rose bumped him as they walked. "Trust you to come up with a difficult solution for a simple problem. And what are you wearing all that for?"
He was dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, with a large grey denim coat over it and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. "It's cold."
"No it's not. You're just a wimp."
"I'm not! You try living south of the equator for the better part of a year and then coming back to a country where it rains half the time. In winter. With wind. You wouldn't be laughing then."
She laughed anyway, and remembered their conversation when he returned three weeks ago.
The reunion was heartfelt, affectionate, and short. They had greeted each other like long parted friends, not like lovers. They embraced each other tightly, like in the old days, and loosened their hold reluctantly. For a moment Rose had been at a loss for words. What did you even say at a time like this? She finally settled on, "How are you?"
He smiled. "Alright."
"I went to Russia," she said.
"I went to Brazil," he said.
"I watched the news," she blurted, "you know, in case there was any sign of...of trouble." She had meant to say "of you" but couldn't quite admit it, not yet.
"Any luck?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"No. You kept a pretty low profile."
He grinned. "I might have been involved in a revolution or two. But nothing major. Nothing that escalated thanks to my impressive diplomacy skills."
She smiled in return. It was becoming easier, less forced. "Yeah, sure. You and that gob have always, and will always, get you into trouble."
He glanced away and had reached up to scratch his neck, an old gesture of embarrassment, when she noticed his arm.
"What happened?" she cried in alarm. His forearm was covered in long, jagged scars trailing from his wrist to his elbow. They were white from age, but the sight of them was painful.
"What? Oh, nothing. It's fine," he said, trying to hide it in genuine embarrassment.
She glared at him. "What happened?"
He tried to shrug it off. "I got into a fight with a barbed wire fence."
Rose reached out and traced the furrows in his skin. "Were you alright?" she asked, trying to calm down.
"Yeah, fine. You should see the other guy," he joked. He ran his own fingers over them. "But," he paused. Rose looked at him to go on. "It wasn't the pain that startled me most. It was the blood." He turned his arm in the light. "It was red."
Rose had left soon after that.
His voice brought her back to the present. "-actually fairly cold in some places. There was one village in South Argentinia where the main source of income was scarf making. That's where I got this." He waved the green fabric in front of her. She delicately reached out to rub it between her fingers.
"It's soft," she said.
"It should be," he replied. "The fibres are chewed by toothless old women for three weeks."
Rose quickly dropped the scarf. "People chew your clothes?"
"Not all of them," he scoffed, "just this. Three weeks, Rose! Can you imagine chewing on fibres for three weeks? And every time one of the women loses another tooth, it's added to this wall like a memorial. There's hundreds on it, increasing with each generation." He stopped talking and stared ahead of him like he was seeing the tooth-wall all over again; his expression was a mix of marvel and nostalgia.
"How did you like it?" Rose asked.
"What?"
"Travelling. Here."
"Oh. No, good. It was interesting. A good way to break in my new trainers."
Rose glanced down at his feet. He wasn't wearing high tops like he used, but high end walking shoes that matched the rest of his messy-chic clothes. Unlike his other clothes, however, their weathered look was genuine rather than manufactured. "Where are we going today?" she asked. He often called her up to show her sights in London that she would have otherwise missed.
"The History of Film!" he said proudly, as if he had invented it himself. "There's an exhibit on a few streets down. Thought it would be interesting to compare the two histories, you know this one and-"
"The other one," Rose ended. The less said about her old world, the better.
The exhibit was in a small converted movie theatre, one of the oldest in London. Guides dressed in old fashioned clothing showed them around, and were informed that in half an hour a showing of Casablanca would be on. People liked to tell the same stories in both universes. Rose and the Doctor stayed and settled in for the movie. It was only after the opening credits did she think that it might not be the most appropriate choice of film, considering their own situation.
He didn't seem to notice though, and kept murmuring things about the time period, the culture depicted, and the film technology available and how it was different.
It struck her as very human, and very domestic. It made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't name.
He was silent as they walked back to his flat, and she knew he had something weighing on his mind. She was scared to ask about it and open strange floodgates. Finally he spoke.
"Rose?"
"Yeah?"
"Before, I used to make all sorts of promises, to all sorts of people. Promises I knew I couldn't keep but I said them anyway to give hope and trust to those who needed it. I promised I would keep you safe. I promised I wouldn't leave you."
"You tried, though. You didn't give up."
"Yes, I did. I gave up on you. And in doing that I broke another promise. But now, I can't make any promises."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't promise you that I won't run again. I can't guarantee I'll stay in one place long enough to make any sort of life. But I if I do run, I'll ask you to come with me."
She watched him, and knew that if he was brave enough to be this honest with her, she had to do the same. "I can't promise I'll always say yes."
Oddly, he smiled. "I'll have to ask twice then."
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: TenII/Rose
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor has returned, and his relationship with Rose seems fine on the surface. Disclaimer: The puppets are still firmly attached to the strings of the BBC.
Author's Notes: Written as a sequel for Trauma: After the Coma. No beta so all mistakes are mine.
Rose walked along the street, breathing in the crisp air of early spring. She stopped at an ordinary block of flats and rang the bell for a specific number. After a pause it crackled and a voice said, "Hello?"
"It's me," Rose replied. "Hurry up."
More scuffling. "I'll be right down. Just having a bit of difficulty with the, uh, never mind."
Rose smiled. This wasn't unusual behaviour. A few minutes later the Doctor came out of the building looking apologetic. "Sorry, it was the com. I was trying to set up some voice recognition so you didn't have to wait outside all the time."
She rolled her eyes. "Could just give me a key," she said.
He paused. "Oh. Right. Could do that."
Rose bumped him as they walked. "Trust you to come up with a difficult solution for a simple problem. And what are you wearing all that for?"
He was dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, with a large grey denim coat over it and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. "It's cold."
"No it's not. You're just a wimp."
"I'm not! You try living south of the equator for the better part of a year and then coming back to a country where it rains half the time. In winter. With wind. You wouldn't be laughing then."
She laughed anyway, and remembered their conversation when he returned three weeks ago.
The reunion was heartfelt, affectionate, and short. They had greeted each other like long parted friends, not like lovers. They embraced each other tightly, like in the old days, and loosened their hold reluctantly. For a moment Rose had been at a loss for words. What did you even say at a time like this? She finally settled on, "How are you?"
He smiled. "Alright."
"I went to Russia," she said.
"I went to Brazil," he said.
"I watched the news," she blurted, "you know, in case there was any sign of...of trouble." She had meant to say "of you" but couldn't quite admit it, not yet.
"Any luck?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"No. You kept a pretty low profile."
He grinned. "I might have been involved in a revolution or two. But nothing major. Nothing that escalated thanks to my impressive diplomacy skills."
She smiled in return. It was becoming easier, less forced. "Yeah, sure. You and that gob have always, and will always, get you into trouble."
He glanced away and had reached up to scratch his neck, an old gesture of embarrassment, when she noticed his arm.
"What happened?" she cried in alarm. His forearm was covered in long, jagged scars trailing from his wrist to his elbow. They were white from age, but the sight of them was painful.
"What? Oh, nothing. It's fine," he said, trying to hide it in genuine embarrassment.
She glared at him. "What happened?"
He tried to shrug it off. "I got into a fight with a barbed wire fence."
Rose reached out and traced the furrows in his skin. "Were you alright?" she asked, trying to calm down.
"Yeah, fine. You should see the other guy," he joked. He ran his own fingers over them. "But," he paused. Rose looked at him to go on. "It wasn't the pain that startled me most. It was the blood." He turned his arm in the light. "It was red."
Rose had left soon after that.
His voice brought her back to the present. "-actually fairly cold in some places. There was one village in South Argentinia where the main source of income was scarf making. That's where I got this." He waved the green fabric in front of her. She delicately reached out to rub it between her fingers.
"It's soft," she said.
"It should be," he replied. "The fibres are chewed by toothless old women for three weeks."
Rose quickly dropped the scarf. "People chew your clothes?"
"Not all of them," he scoffed, "just this. Three weeks, Rose! Can you imagine chewing on fibres for three weeks? And every time one of the women loses another tooth, it's added to this wall like a memorial. There's hundreds on it, increasing with each generation." He stopped talking and stared ahead of him like he was seeing the tooth-wall all over again; his expression was a mix of marvel and nostalgia.
"How did you like it?" Rose asked.
"What?"
"Travelling. Here."
"Oh. No, good. It was interesting. A good way to break in my new trainers."
Rose glanced down at his feet. He wasn't wearing high tops like he used, but high end walking shoes that matched the rest of his messy-chic clothes. Unlike his other clothes, however, their weathered look was genuine rather than manufactured. "Where are we going today?" she asked. He often called her up to show her sights in London that she would have otherwise missed.
"The History of Film!" he said proudly, as if he had invented it himself. "There's an exhibit on a few streets down. Thought it would be interesting to compare the two histories, you know this one and-"
"The other one," Rose ended. The less said about her old world, the better.
The exhibit was in a small converted movie theatre, one of the oldest in London. Guides dressed in old fashioned clothing showed them around, and were informed that in half an hour a showing of Casablanca would be on. People liked to tell the same stories in both universes. Rose and the Doctor stayed and settled in for the movie. It was only after the opening credits did she think that it might not be the most appropriate choice of film, considering their own situation.
He didn't seem to notice though, and kept murmuring things about the time period, the culture depicted, and the film technology available and how it was different.
It struck her as very human, and very domestic. It made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't name.
He was silent as they walked back to his flat, and she knew he had something weighing on his mind. She was scared to ask about it and open strange floodgates. Finally he spoke.
"Rose?"
"Yeah?"
"Before, I used to make all sorts of promises, to all sorts of people. Promises I knew I couldn't keep but I said them anyway to give hope and trust to those who needed it. I promised I would keep you safe. I promised I wouldn't leave you."
"You tried, though. You didn't give up."
"Yes, I did. I gave up on you. And in doing that I broke another promise. But now, I can't make any promises."
"What do you mean?"
"I can't promise you that I won't run again. I can't guarantee I'll stay in one place long enough to make any sort of life. But I if I do run, I'll ask you to come with me."
She watched him, and knew that if he was brave enough to be this honest with her, she had to do the same. "I can't promise I'll always say yes."
Oddly, he smiled. "I'll have to ask twice then."