Both (Part VI)

[wishiknewwho]

Title: Both
Author: wishiknewwho
Rating: PG
Characters: TenII / Rose
Dislcaimer: I don't own Doctor Who and it's probably just as well that I don't because it'd be nothing but hugs and hair ruffling for the foreseeable future.
Spoilers: It's probably best if you've seen Journey's End
Summary: She has never been able to stay away from him for very long.
Author Notes: Here we are at the end. Unfortunately, no smut here either. (Sorry, capemaynuts, I promise to do better next time.)  There's a lot of angst here, but I think the ending is somewhat fitting.  And don't worry, as I've said, I am nowhere near through with this story, and there will be less of the angst in the future.
Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this.  This is my longest story by far, and your support and encouragement has meant so much to me.
And yes, I know that I owe salimali  some TenII fluff.
Now with beta by salimali .  She had a lot of realize/realise to fix in this one.

Waiting is never fun and it can be absolute torture when the man you’re in love with has run off, you’ve no idea where to find him, and he doesn’t want to be found. Rose has spent the past several hours learning this lesson. She has rung his mobile so many times that the number of missed calls is embarrassing, but she is past the point of caring.  She’s beginning to worry.

 

Surely, if he was leaving her for good, he’d have taken his things, the bags he left in the living room, his laptop, his journal at the very least. But he’s been gone all day. No one has seen him, or at least she’s pretty sure they haven’t. She’d given her mum and Pete a tentative call earlier, pretended like everything was fine, but they hadn’t mentioned him.

 

So now, with everything else that’s been going on, she’s now also saddled with the worry that perhaps he’s been hurt, or worse.

 

She keeps telling herself over and over that it’s a good thing that he hasn’t come back for his things yet, that perhaps he’s just taking some time to cool off, to figure things out. If he’d gotten his things, then that would mean that he’s made his decision, and that decision would be the one she doesn’t want.

 

She tries to keep herself busy. She straightens the living room, puts a load of laundry in the machine, even loads the dishwasher (her least favourite thing to do). She makes some dinner. She’s not hungry, hasn’t eaten all day and has no intention to eat, but she reasons that perhaps he’ll come home hungry. She lets the meal sit out for a half hour, plate and cup sitting next to the stove, just waiting for him, but when he still doesn’t show, she boxes it up and puts it in the refrigerator.

 

The silence in the flat is threatening to drive her mad, yet she can’t bring herself to turn on the television or radio. Neither would bring the kind of sound she wants.

 

It’s getting late, past eleven, and she is tired. It’s been a long, miserable day, and she’d love to curl up in bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. She doesn’t do it. Instead, she finds a blanket and stretches out on the sofa. She wants to be there if he comes in, wants him to know that she is not moving on without him, that she’s going to fight for him.

 

She lies there, trying not to watch the clock, trying not to let the tears fall, having success with neither, until she drifts into a fitful sleep.

 

~o~

 

She wakes at the sound of quiet footsteps across the kitchen floor. When she opens her eyes, he is hovering in the doorway, watching her. He doesn’t say anything.

 

“Hey,” she says, her voice rough with sleep. She pushes herself up on her elbows, her eyes blinking to focus in the dim light coming from the foyer.

 

“Hey,” he answers back, his eyes not meeting hers. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

 

She shakes her head. “It’s fine. I wanted to.” She pushes herself the rest of the way up until she is sitting, the blanket falling from her shoulder and puddling in her lap.

 

He reaches to his side, clicks the light off, and they are back in darkness. “I’m going to bed,” he says, his voice sounding hollow and tired.

 

“Wait,” she says, getting to her feet, struggling to get untangled from the blanket that’s wrapped itself around her legs. “Where have you been?”

 

He pauses. She can’t really see him, can only make out his movements in the little bit of light that’s coming in through the windows. “Just out.” He’s moving again, heading toward the bedroom.

 

She feels the tears build up in the back of her throat, making her chest hurt. “Please,” she whispers, wondering if it’s even loud enough for him to hear.

 

It is. He stops and turns back to the living room. “What?” His tone is impatient; he’s never quite sounded like that before with her, like he has no care for what she says, but she knows she deserves it.

 

She falters. It’s not that she thought he’d be receptive to her, but he’d come home, and she thought that maybe he might be willing to work things out. No, she tells herself. She can’t allow herself to think that way, can’t put any of this on him. This is all her. It’s up to her to fix this; he shouldn’t have to do anything, shouldn’t be responsible for any of it. 

 

He’s standing there watching her, waiting, but she doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, partially because that’s all she can think of and partially because it’s the most important. She knows the words alone aren’t enough, aren’t nearly what he deserves, but she’s tired, emotional, and it’s all she’s got.

 

He sighs, a long, weary exhalation. “Do you want to know what I did today, Rose?” he asks, moving back into the room.

 

She reaches behind her, feels around on the little end table until she feels the switch of the lamp and turns it on. It’s only been a day, but she feels like she hasn’t seen him in ages, and the need to look at him is overwhelming. He looks tired, pale and thin, and his eyes are sad. She wants to wrap him up in her arms and hold him until everything is fixed.

 

“What did you do?” she asks, putting thoughts of touching him out of her mind.

 

“I went out to find a flat.” His words are low, but in the quiet apartment they echo like a shout.

 

She looks down. She’s been preparing herself for this all day, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. It seems he’s made his decision, and he’s a stubborn man. She can try to change his mind, but it’s likely there won’t be anything she can do.

 

He sits down on the sofa, but on the opposite end, nowhere near enough to suggest he wants to be touched.

 

“I know what I’ve done is unforgivable,” she says, rallying her strength. He might be stubborn and he might be convinced they’re over, but she’s not going to let him go without trying as hard as she can to get him back. “But I want you to know that I realised something through all this. You’re not him.”

 

“Rose,” he says, holding his hand up. She realizes then the error of her words, what he must think.

 

“No, not like that. I mean that I’ve realised that you’re the one I want. He’s a good man, but he’s not you. You give me what I want.” She leans forward, feeling like her words are coming out all wrong, like she can’t find the exact words to convey what she’s feeling, what she’s realised.

 

He doesn’t move. “Don’t you see though, Rose?” She doesn’t like the way he keeps using her name. “I’m glad that you’ve realised that I’m what you want, thrilled actually, but I don’t know if it’s enough.”

 

“How can it not be enough?” she asks.

 

He pushes a hand through his hair. “Because you couldn’t just know that, on your own. You had to go with him, be hurt by him, pushed away by him, before you decided you wanted me. I could want chocolate more than anything in the world, but if you tell me I’m never going to have it and all I can have is caramel, then yeah, I’d take the caramel. But only because I couldn’t have the chocolate.”

 

She wrinkles her brow, not following.

 

He smiles at her, and it’s weak, but it’s still a smile, and she latches on to it, reading all the hope into it that she can. “It’s a horrible analogy, I know,” he says. “But the point of it is true. You only want me because you can’t have him.”

 

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know how to convince him, because from the outside, the situation is exactly how he’s presented it. The other Doctor cannot give her what she wants, and she has decided that she wants the man before her. If this were a situation where they both wanted her, both wanted to give her everything, then she would be able to make a more honest choice, a choice that would leave no doubt in his mind as to who she really wants. But it’s not like that, and all she has now are words.

 

“It’s not like that,” she says, her voice pleading. “I know that’s what it looks like, and I know I’ve made a huge mistake, going with him like I did, but you have to believe me, you’re the one that I want.”

 

“You say that now, Rose,” he says, pulling his eyes away from her to look out the window. “But how do I know that you wouldn’t be with him right now if he’d offered to take you with him?”

 

She looks down, clutching the blanket in her hands. “You don’t know. And there’s nothing I can say to prove it.”

 

The edge of her blanket lies between them on the couch, and he reaches out tentatively, fingering the soft cotton. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Forgive me,” she pleads. “I know I’ve been horrible, but I want to make it up to you. I’ve been thinking a lot today, not just about the past couple of days, but about how it’s been since you got here. I haven’t been fair to you. I haven’t been what you need.” She’s crying now; she can’t help it. She feels awful, and she’s so desperate to keep him with her that she can’t control the tears.

 

“Hey, none of that,” he says, his voice gentle. He reaches out and brushes the tips of her fingers and her heart stops at the contact.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She doesn’t want him to think that she’s trying to influence him. If he’s willing to take her back, she wants things to be different this time, more equal.

 

He just shakes his head, and she reaches out and holds onto his fingers tightly.

 

“I want to be what you need,” she says, looking him in the eye, using everything she has to let him know that she is sincere. “I let you take care of me, but I haven’t done the same for you. I got so wrapped up in what I’d lost that I didn’t see how much you lost. And I didn’t notice everything I had, I didn’t realise that you were actually what I’ve needed. I’ve been selfish.”

 

He tilts his head. “As I’ve said, Rose, I’m glad that you’ve realised this. But that doesn’t change what you had to do to realise all of this. Why couldn’t you figure it out on your own?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says, frustrated, tears threatening to make a reappearance. “I mean, he kept telling me that the two of you were the same, that day on the beach, and I believed him. And he was out there, lonely, and there are two of you and not two of me. I hated the thought of him being alone.”

 

He pulls his hand away from hers, stands up, and goes to the window. “And what’s to keep you away from him, the next time he shows up needing you?”

 

She grips her knees, leans forward. “I’ve ended it with him. I told him today, told him that you are the one I want.”

 

He turns back toward her and even in the dark she can see his eyes flashing. “I want to believe you, Rose, I really do. But I don’t know what to feel.”

 

“I—“ she starts, but he cuts in. 

 

“No, you’ve had your say, and now it’s my turn.” He moves away from the window, and paces the short span of their living room. He watches her for a moment, until she nods, and then he goes on. “I went out this morning with every intention of leaving you, of finding myself a new place, and making an attempt at finding my own life. But every place I looked at, there was something wrong. The carpets were wrong, the kitchen was too small, there were too few windows. At first, I thought it was normal, that anybody looking for a new flat would be picky. But then I realised that I don’t care about those sorts of things. I was just looking for an excuse to put off moving out.”

 

“Then that’s good right?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head, his shoulders tense. “I don’t know, Rose. I don’t know. It’s like I don’t know what to feel. I’m hurt that I wasn’t enough, and I’m so angry at you, for what you did, for letting him back in like that. But then I’m still so in love with you I can’t breathe. The thought of not being with you makes me feel sick. Why did you do this to me? Why couldn’t you just be happy with us?” His hands clench and unclench. His voice is quiet, almost on the verge of tears.

 

She’s quiet now, regret and guilt and a breaking heart. She doesn’t attempt to hold back the tears rolling down her cheeks. She wishes that she could take it all back, but she can’t. And she doesn’t know how to fix it. “I’m so sorry,” she says.

 

“I know,” he says, turning toward her, his eyes large. “I know that you are. But sorry doesn’t make everything better, sorry doesn’t make the feelings go away.”

 

“So what are you going to do now?” she whispers.

 

He collapses down onto the sofa, drops his head into his hands. “I don’t know. I can’t live with you and I can’t live without you. A horrible, clichéd paradox, isn’t it?” He lets out a bitter laugh.

 

She doesn’t say anything. She wants to reach out a hand and touch his shoulder, offer him some small measure of comfort, but she doesn’t. He’s not ready for that.

 

He exhales slowly, then sits up. His hair stands on end, the victim of his worrying fingers. She holds her breath; her fate is in his hands.

 

“I think,” he says, “that I should move into my workshop for a little while.”

 

“Are you leaving me then?” She feels like she might be sick now, her ears ringing and her head dizzy.

 

“No, not right now,” he says. “I think that maybe we should try to get to know each other again. For real this time. I need you to love me, to want me for me, not because I’m a shadow of him. And I need time for this anger to dull.”

 

She nods. It’s not much, what he’s offering, but it’s better than the alternative. And he’s right. She does need to see him for the man he is, not for the man he was. She needs time to become the woman that he needs.

 

“I’m going to make this up to you,” she promises, her voice low, but her words firm. She brushes the tears from her cheeks; she knows that she’s not done crying for the night, but she has to hold herself together. She can’t manipulate him. She needs to make this about him, about what he needs. “If it takes me the rest of our lives, I’ll prove to you that you are the only one I want.”

 

He nods then, but his eyes are wary. He reaches forward, touches her cheek, rubs his thumb across the tears there. His hands are trembling against her skin. She leans into his touch, wishing for more, but she’ll take what she can get. He leans forward and she breathes in his scent, spicy and sweet, as he presses his lips to her forehead. And then he leans back, moving back to his side of their sofa.

 

“I made you some dinner,” she says, hating to disrupt the fragile quiet between them. “If you’re hungry.” It’s not much, she knows that, but she hopes that it’s a little something.

 

He nods, but makes no move to get up.

 

They sit there in silence for an interminable time, she on one end of the sofa, he on the other, staring out the window, waiting for the sun to rise on a future that is going to be a long road, rough and winding, but still glimmering with a little bit of hope.


Mending - Part I