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Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other.
Rainer Maria Rilke
"Hello! Sorry to barge in on you like this, but are you the owner of this bicycle?"
Residents of North Exomoon 34 have an undeveloped vocal apparatus and a rubbish auditory system, but there's a chance they can read lips.
Not that he isn’t very good at sign language. Quite competent, actually.
Within a very narrow range.
He can communicate hostility and frustration with no risk of misunderstanding. More complex matters, however, might exceed his abilities.
"See, I'd like to make an offer." The Doctor gestures to the vehicle in question, held by the claw-like hands of a little grey man.
"Thing is,” the Doctor pauses, scratching the side of his neck. “The person that I love would really love your bicycle.”
He loves her.
Somehow screaming it at the top of his lungs to every living soul in the Universe is easier. Say, from the summit of a pyramid; over the body of a volcano, on the zenith of a mountain or standing on the ruins of a fallen empire; staring into the throat of a diamond alligator or falling through a thousand floors. It's much harder to say those three words to Rose, staring into her eyes. The most beautiful amber eyes he has ever seen in his entire life.
"Let's make it a fair trade, shall we? You give me this-" The Doctor points at the bicycle, then back at the pockets of his blazer. "In exchange for some of my unique alien tech. I mean it! Choose anything you want, it's yours."
Amethyst irises gawk at his pinstriped chest in utter confusion.
“Right, so!” The Doctor starts fumbling in his pockets. “What do we have here? Iron wave housing recorder! One of the best inventions of the 63rd century," he rushes on, glancing at the ashen scowl. "No? Then how about a neutronium flipper? Flips those neutrons, electrons and protons right as day!"
Coarse lunarian brows fly up.
"But it does!" The Doctor straightens the lapels of his blazer."Trust me, I’m a doctor. What else? Ah, the good old bionic anchor! Although, that would be useless to you, I’m afraid, what with 12 ounces of water trapped in a cubic metre of soil spread across the surface of your lovely planet…"
Twenty minutes and minus one sonic screwdriver later, the haggle is over. The grey alien is finally sold to the idea of giving up his possession.
The Doctor is dragging the bicycle back to the ship. He pushes and pulls in vain, the wheels refuse to turn; it's as though the brakes are jammed. It’s likely the pads have worn a lip in them which is now catching on the rim. Better look there first; trim the lip off and adjust the pad correctly. Could be a stuck cable, too. Or maybe something with the chain. Well, nothing he can't fix, of course. When he finds a spare sonic screwdriver.
One would think a planet as technologically advanced as Exomoon, why should they still use any chains at all? The neighbouring Eleftherians have long ago replaced them with mercury. Such close contact between these two, they could easily share a bit of that knowledge. Speaking of Mercury: flying bikes are all the rage there, Rose would love that.
“We often see the bicycle just as a form of transport,” he’d said to her earlier. “But it’s much more than that, Rose Tyler! It’s a classless item owned by billions of different species across the Universe. A true symbol of unification.”
This leads him to the next issue at hand: getting this symbol into the TARDIS without Rose noticing.
Passersby regard him curiously, smiling at him, something mischievous flicking in their amethyst eyes, and he thinks everyone must know his secret. They can't, of course.
He sees the blue of the wood, but his vision blurs for a millisecond and he stops, paralysed with inexplicable fear, but what it is he's afraid of he cannot say. Or can he?
The feeling is so foreign he doesn't recognise it at first. The urge to hide it, seal it and ship it away is too strong.
Facts. Facts are good. He simply had to go back, he tells himself. All he had seen was a turn of the head and her lingering gaze on the slim lilac frame, branching out all the way to the aubergine wheels; Rose loves lilacs, and he loves Rose. Simple. As simple as helping someone get the straps of a heavy backpack or holding a door open for them. See? The same thing.
Except it's not.
Giving Rose the bicycle will surely reveal his hearts: the way he watches her all the time, taking note of every single change, every tilt of the head, every tiny blink, every tiny line on her face marking her emotions as they appear and disappear…
Is this his tipping point? Maybe. What does he expect from her? Or, more importantly, what will she expect from him? Whatever it is, he can’t give it to her. Giving things a name has always been engraved in human nature. It’s part of the equation even now.
His mind is gnawing its way back home against his will. The difference between him and Rose isn’t just physical. In his book, innocence and ignorance about certain things can increase the pure enjoyment of them sometimes.
If instead of 100 words for snow Eskimo people had none, how would that affect their life? He personally thinks muruaneq or perhaps kanevvluk would have been enough. But the Inuits have a hundred, which means they can't possibly live without them.
The words are born out of necessity .
He doesn't think he needs to tell her, because to him it's redundant. Nothing will change his feelings. But he knows he needs to make her a map to him . And when he does, he won't be hard to find.
Nothing could be more futile, more insane, than creating inner resistance to what already is. Maybe he wants this bicycle to give him away. He's tired of walking on eggshells around Rose. He could, of course. His will power is quite impressive after all.
Everything she has ever told him has become a timeless imprint on his brain, safe and sound within the chambers of his mind, and so from time to time he lets those memories dance, never allowing himself to think about the terrible, heart-wrenching moment when she's gone and all these echoes become the only thing he has.
But somehow the idea of not knowing what it's like to be hers is unbearable to him.
In three swift strides he crosses the road, opens the TARDIS door and steps in with bated breath, wide eyes searching the console room and finding it empty.
He leaves the bicycle propped against the ramp railing and walks the long corridor to her room, each step light, a stark contrast to the heaviness in his chest.
Her bedroom door is ajar, just enough for him to see her reflection in the mirror, so he just stands there watching her as she parts her lips and starts painting them.
His breath catches as Rose traces the curve of the upper lip with her delicate finger, and he wants to follow it with his own, or maybe with his tongue. Oh yes, definitely tongue. His mouth is suddenly dry, because she has now moved to the lower lip, so full that he could cry in sheer agony. She runs her tongue over it, and his longing gaze obediently follows.
Rose has bewitched him. There's no other way to describe that pull in his stomach, low and strong that certainly has a life of its own now, no matter how much he's tried to starve it.
He's fascinated by the way she caresses the velvety skin with her finger, and he wants to taste her lips, bite into them, and an entirely unwelcome part of him suggests something else entirely. It wants to see her mouth in a setting so obscene and so unlike him that he swallows and closes his eyes for a second to push it all away.
The door creaks, betraying his presence, and his leaden feet bring him forward, a bright grin plastered on his face now.
If Rose ever found out what he was thinking about just now, she would curse and banish him, send him to the furthest island, preferably somewhere in Hexilia, and he would gladly accept his harsh fate to live in exile all alone, surrounded by stone walls, plagued by his forbidden thoughts and the memories of her in front of that mirror, for they will surely haunt him until the end of time now.
“May I come in?”
“You already have, Doctor,” she says with a soft smile.
He shrugs. “Oh, you know, human etiquette. Gotta play by the rules.”
“You’re becoming quite proficient.”
She pats the space next to her, before lying down on the bed and scooting to the farther side.
An invitation.
The way he’s impatiently shucking his blazer and toeing off his plimsolls the next moment is almost embarrassing. He rolls up his sleeves, baring his forearms and sinks down on the bed next to her.
Her fingers immediately fly to his exposed arm, stroking his skin lightly.
His wandering eyes dip to her mouth, betraying him.
“Do you always use this stuff before going to sleep?”
“It’s a lip balm. Keeps them soft.”
He frowns, studying the pattern of her lips.
“No point in keeping them soft at night, now is there? You’re not planning to kiss anyone anyway. You’re meant to be asleep.”
Rose regards him curiously. “So you think lip balms are only used for kissing, Doctor?”
He’s strangely thrilled by the route their conversation has taken. He shouldn’t be.
So he just lies there on the bed unable to move, reduced from head to toe to the hopeless rigidity of a felled tree.
"Did you know that your lips have more than a million different nerve endings, making them one of the most sensitive parts of your body? And a hundred times more sensitive than your fingertips! This is one of the reasons that babies and toddlers put everything in their mouths; all of those nerve endings give them far more information than any other sense."
"Doctor-"
"Then there's the Vermilion border!"
"Vermilion border?"
"Yes!” he beams. “The outline where your lips meet the surrounding skin."
"Oh."
"And the muscles, Rose, the muscles are fascinating. It’s the orbicularis oris contracting that gives you the ability to play the trumpet, whistle or-" he clears his throat,"-kiss. You wouldn’t be able to pucker up without it! Scientists used to think it was a single sphincter muscle inside the lips but we now know it’s a complex of four muscles…"
“I think about you sometimes.” she says out of the blue and he looks at her as if he sees her for the first time.
“Only sometimes?”
Rose chuckles humorlessly, fixing her downcast gaze on the buttons of his oxford.
“I think about you and it makes me sad.”
He frowns, bemused. “Why?”
“Because you're perfect.”
“Rose, I am not perfect.”
“You are, to me. I want to lock you up and never let go." She lets out a sigh and presses her ear to his chest. "I wanna fall asleep deep in your brain, as gently as a little mouse curled up in a ball. You won’t even know I’m there.”
"You're already there." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "You've always been. You're all I think about, Rose."
He holds her shoulders, lips ghosting over her hair. Her head is still tucked somewhere under his chin.
“You're unreachable. Even though you're right here.” Rose says and her voice is shaking. She pulls away, and he feels physical pain. The soft flutter of her fingers on his exposed skin where the top button of his shirt is undone makes him shudder.
“See, this is your body. I’m not imagining it.”
He stops breathing when she gently raises his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles.
“Even the sweet smell of your skin, it’s real.”
There’s so much tenderness in her touch, and it amazes him, how one minute she’s a warrior with an eternally vigilant, blazing flame, with her powerful, flickering glow shining so bright and in some fantastic way making everything seem bigger and stronger than it is, but then all of that melts away and she’s so soft. So soft when it’s just the two of them. He can’t ignore the tender heart in her chest and the splendour of its beating anymore.
Rose is tracing his cheek now and something inside him burns.
“Even your freckles look like constellations,”she mutters, before closing her eyes.
And as she sleeps peacefully, he keeps first watch over her, holding her close to his chest. The darkness is pushing down on his head, clouding his vision. He slips into some kind of semi-consciousness, thinking that he needs to go, he can’t stay. He despises these dark hours. His mind wades into them, drowning in the quicksand. Staying here with Rose is too much of a risk, but his limbs feel heavy, and before he knows it, the whole vision turns to darkness.
****
He opens his eyes and sees nothing, surrendering solely to the feeling of her hands in his damp hair, the soft sound of her voice, as she cradles him, humming softly.
“Doctor,” The coolness of her skin feels like cold water in the scalding desert sand where every grain is ablaze. “Doctor, I'm here. It was just a bad dream.”
"It wasn't,” he rasps, trying to lift up his head and failing. “It wasn’t a bad dream.”
"Tell me."
He closes his eyes in defeat.
"Please." Her voice is a mere whisper now.
Nothing could be more futile, more insane, than creating inner resistance to what already is.
"I took a long look at the Opal Sea, and as I stood there on the cliff, I lost my breath and all the feeling on my fingertips. And I wanted to jump right in, to the centre of your chest and stay there."
There's such indescribable heaviness inside him, like his insides had been replaced with stardust and some strange longing that he sometimes takes for exhaustion. He knows it's not exhaustion because in this case he wouldn't have to endure all those sleepless nights; even in the dreamless slumber he feels like parts of him are still awake, like they're placed in glass jars and he cannot connect to anything anymore.
"There’s a mountain range at my feet. I look up and I see you, standing on the zenith, radiating all this light and heat, and I burn. I try to climb the side of it all caught in the rocks. It's getting harder and harder to reach you, but I persevere, because I know that if I don't, you will be lost to me forever."
There's a certain kind of twisted sweetness in the pain of self destruction, in doing things the opposite way.
"There’s all those people surrounding you, Rose, they want you. Even when you’re angry, they still want you. Even when you’re quiet, they’re still there, crawling all over you like ants on a sugar cube. The only thing that matters is whether you want them, too.”
He falls silent. The air is thick with all the unspoken words. He's tired of them.
“I want you. Even when you’re angry, even when you’re quiet. I want the salt on your lips to become the salt on my lips. Your hands on my insides, your palms over both of my hearts. How can I keep my soul in me, so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise it high enough, past you, to other things?"
There's so much love in him it's suffocating, smothering him, shutting him down until he feels numb, unable to express it. He'd never liked to be touched before he met her, because touch means binding, an exposure of things that are meant to stay unspoken, but he wants to be caressed by her and her only, because her skin on his brings him peace.
“Undress me, Rose,” he whispers at last.
Her palm rests on his forehead.
“You’re burning up, Doctor. Let me grab some ice from the kitchen. Wait here.”
He opens his eyes abruptly and sits up, grabbing her by the hand.
“No. It's not a fever.” The grip of his white fingers on her wrist is unrelenting. "I want you to undress me."
Rose stares into his dark eyes, chocolate brown swallowed by the blackness, and something inside her breaks.
She heard him while he was dreaming, she recognised the familiar words that have been drifting through her own mind, though the dull ache that they inflict is still there, in her chest.
They're teetering on the edge, she knows that everything depends on her now. As if sensing her doubt the Doctor takes her by the arms and pulls closer.
"I want to unfold. I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie, and I want my grasp of things to be true before you, my love."
Rose just gapes at him, eyes wide.
"Rilke." He pulls her down by the neck, capturing her lips.
All he can smell is her. All he can hear is their breathing and rushing hands grazing hair, jewellery, and clothes. All he can feel is the unbearable, scalding heat of her mouth, as she's kissing him back. He trails his tongue on the inside of her upper lip, feeling her push her legs together.
"Don't… don't fight it," he says hoarsely, hands on her hips.
"You can talk," Rose quips breathlessly between his frantic kisses, along her cheek, down to her chin and all over her throat.
His fingers are magnets, drawn to the tiny buttons of her light blue plaid pyjama shirt, and he's almost ripping it open. He feels her shift, and all of a sudden she mirrors him, unbuttoning his oxford, their shaking fingers moving in unison.
He breaks away to admire her skin, holy and glowing in the faint lamp light, the swell of her breasts, hardened nipples obscured by thin cotton.
Rose is holding his gaze with a playful smile, and he thinks his own lips are unable to answer her now, paralysed by her proximity, perplexed by the realisation that this is real. His jovial façade has crumbled, replaced by unadulterated want.
Time stills as he unveils her heart inch by inch, and his breath hitches.
If only Rose was not so fragile as she is precious and beautiful.
In her arms he understands all at once that his life has been building him up to her, to this. For once he doesn't want to raise up the sunken feelings and memories of his enormous past.
He had been alone for so long, the heaven of the life he once had bent to hell of the Time war. There could be no other explanation other than that heaven herself, the tender warrior, sent for him now, when she saw him trying his best to stay sane, tangled in terrors that had kept him from living.
Or maybe heaven never really existed at all and it was Rose who had found him and saved his life.
He wishes he had done everything with her, from the very first years of his eternal existence; he wishes he had known her when he was younger.
And in his waking life where he can’t wrench himself and his unspeakable memories from his mind, in her arms he can break free, free into the wilderness of her love, her incandescent forgiveness and compassion.
The horror of her inevitable absence has him trembling beside himself, but then relief floods his brain like a biblical rain as he feels her lips on his collarbone, her arms cradling him.
His ribcage is a staircase and her fingers are climbing it, all the way up to his areolas and she’s kissing them gently.
These strange sounds are their hurried breaths, and in that moment he thinks he finally understands that the pain is worth it; it is all worth it as long as he feels the wet glide of her tongue on his flushed skin.
These words are prayers with unintelligible meanings that they utter in the air, to each other and to no one in particular, from lips to lips, in between desperate kisses and starved tongues.
They’re undressed from the waist up, and somehow it’s too much for now, the torturous glide of her breasts against his chest, a low moan, the erased lines of their bodies: somehow it’s too much already, because he knows that if they go on, he might go mad, his hearts might stop.
He lowers her on the pillow, gently, caressing her shoulders, and she's pulling him down with her. He's trailing wet kisses all over her collarbone, their heavy breaths just barely audible to him over his pounding hearts. He's holding onto her waist for dear life, kissing her hardened nipples, her ribs, moving lower inch by inch, down to her navel. He feels her gasp, his name a long, drawn out sigh, and he shudders, his grip on her sides getting harder.
He should stop. Now.
Rose has always had a way of knowing when to come to his rescue, so when she strokes his shoulder, willing him to crane his neck and look at her flushed face, he sees it in her expression; she understands.
"Come here," she whispers, and he presses his ear against her chest. Seconds pass, and then he can feel her fingertips skim over his hair, a whisper of a touch.
She doesn’t protest as he lifts the blanket and covers them, pulling her back into a tight embrace.
****
In the morning he sets their next coordinates.
"Eleftheria! With the famous Opal Sea!" He says brightly, snapping his fingers in excitement. "Just listen to this, Rose: up and down the vast expanse, everywhere over its shining surface, with summer suns and rosy atmospheres, there spreads the violet light, the pearly colour of the Oriental stone…"
Rose gives him a cheeky smile. "You're something of a poet yourself, Doctor,"
"I'll have you know, I am a man of many talents. Did you know that opal was said to grant invisibility if wrapped in a fresh bay leaf and held in the hand? It was the patron gemstone for thieves during the mediaeval period!"
"Doctor, if we end up in the Middle Ages…"
“Absolutely not! Barmy, those people. Back then animals could be tried and convicted for crimes, and if found guilty, sentenced to death. Can you imagine that? Not to mention cat burning and divorce by combat…" He winces. "Horrendous. Although, you don't give them enough credit, Rose Tyler! Not everything that happened during the Dark Ages had to do with torture and death. There were also moments of levity, like all those bizarre notes and raunchy drawings that mediaeval monks left in the margins of manuscripts while painstakingly copying out all those boring texts by hand. They did have a sense of humour. By the way, I thought at some point last night you said you wanted to lock me up. There's a chain you can use."
He wiggles his eyebrows. "Wanna see?”
Rose chuckles and it makes his hearts soar.
“You stole that bicycle, didn’t you?”
“I kind of did, yeah.” he replies breathlessly, following her gaze as it settles on the said symbol of unity, hastily slumped against the railing.
“We’ll have to return it, Doctor.”
“Nope! The owner said it was a gift for the most beautiful golden-haired girl he had ever seen.”
“I don’t believe you,” she laughs. “You told me they had an undeveloped vocal apparatus and a rubbish auditory system.”
P.S.
Rose is reading over his shoulder, dipping her fingers off a small motor boat on the Opal Sea:
I am too alone in the world, and not alone enough
to make every minute holy.
I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough
just to lie before you like a thing,
shrewd and secretive.
I want to be a mirror for your whole body,
and I never want to be blind, or to be too old
to hold up your heavy and swaying picture.
I want to unfold.
I don’t want to stay folded anywhere,
because where I am folded, there I am a lie.
And I want my grasp of things to be true before you.
“Doctor, when you were reciting it to me the other night, you said: I want my grasp of things to be true before you, my love.”
He blinks . “Er, yes?”
“Well, it doesn’t say my love in the original.”
His grin is disarming.