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Rose can tell right away that this restaurant he's chosen is the nicest she's ever set foot in.
It's got crisp white linens, and actual crystal glassware with intricate facets that twinkle and catch in the soft lighting. None of the meals even have listed prices, and the shock of that alone so badly spooked her when she first sat down that she'd very nearly bolted back out of her chair and left the building, the words it's too much ready on her lips.
But she's never been fantastic at running in heels—so she stayed, and she waited, reminding herself the whole time that this isn't just for her.
It's important for him, too. He wouldn't be making such a production of it otherwise.
"Good first impressions," he told her once, "are more art than science, in my experience."
She'd taken that to mean he found them… difficult.
So, the least she can do, she figures, is be there for him now—even if it means sticking it out in this unbearably posh dining room in uncomfortable heels and a little black dress that probably cost less than some bottles on this place's wine list.
Grimly fascinated, she starts flipping through the menu again just for something to do. Much of it is in French, which wouldn't be a problem for the Doctor. On her own, though, Rose is unmoored; she wasn't even sure what sort of wine she ordered until it showed up and turned out to be a fine, rich red.
"Shall I pour you another glass, ma'am?"
The hostess's voice intrudes on the distracted turning of Rose's thoughts, and she straightens a bit in her seat, smiling faintly at the sweet-faced woman standing beside her. She looks about Rose's own age, but very small and neat in her suit and tie as she gestures to the open bottle on the table.
"Oh, thanks, but no. I'm all right. Don't want to get too ahead of my date in that department, y'know?"
The woman's got a tremendous poker face—Rose knows from her own years in retail that it's probably one of the first thing she learned after how to work the till—but even so, she catches the sympathetic, almost conspiratorial twist to the hostess' lips as she replies. "Well, my name is Clara and the table is all yours for the night, so do let me know if there's anything you need."
It's a strangely reassuring thing to say, Rose notices—almost as if Clara finds her situation worthy of sympathy. Even pity.
But then, she's sitting here alone, isn't she? And she has been alone for nearly half an hour, just sipping her unidentifiable red wine and picking her cuticles, opening her purse every now and then to covertly check her mobile as she waits on the Doctor.
Oh, she realises in a sudden blink of clarity. This nice hostess absolutely, without a doubt, thinks I've been stood up.
Her smile wobbles a bit. Oh, god.
She must look pathetic. She must look like she got all dressed up for a date and nobody showed.
Doctor, she thinks miserably, where are you?
Aloud, she says, "Actually, Clara, maybe I will have another glass, thanks. Cheers."
★
The first time it happened was just about two months after they met, before they'd even gone on a proper date.
Back then, he was just this handsome, tough but sort of funny-looking bloke she saw around sometimes—or, all right, often—after her shifts at Henrik's. Everybody knew him as the Doctor, and nobody knew what he did. But he was always up to something—always in a hurry, even late at night—carrying random bits of metal and electronics.
She'd asked him if he was building a bomb once, as he was racing through the shoe department, to see if she could catch him out. He'd just laughed. And complimented her trainers, which was weird, but also sort of nice.
Her curiosity had gotten the better of her one night, though, as he waltzed through with a handful of clear stones that Rose was almost certain were diamonds. Running after him, she'd managed to slip into the lift before the doors closed, in spite of his complaints, and followed him down to the basement where she discovered he was building a telescope, of all things. He'd somehow managed to construct the body of it up on the roof, all without anybody noticing.
He claimed it was to be used not for perving on nearby flat windows, but for studying the stars.
"Are you an astronomer?" she'd asked.
He'd laughed again. "Nope. Just an alien."
It was a real testament to what she'd gone through with Jimmy-bloody-Stone that she stuck with him after that.
Before long, though, they were going everywhere together, practically attached at the hip. He walked her home from work, and she stayed late to play assistant while he tinkered with his telescope. He brought her chips a few times on her lunch break, always from her favourite chippy, even though it was nowhere near her job and she wasn't clear on where he actually lived.
They talked about everything—anything under the sun: her mum, his old friends, her hopes, his travels. Things seemed to flow between them so easily. And all of it made Rose think—or maybe just hope—that possibly they were heading somewhere. Their relationship felt as if it was in the process of becoming more serious, perhaps even something worthy of a label.
In a rush nervous excitement one day, she'd called the number he'd given her "for emergencies and free concert tickets only" and invited him over for dinner so he could meet her mum.
God, she'd been so excited. She'd barely let him get a word in, at first.
"I'm sorry," he'd answered, sounding not at all like the man she knew. "I'm so sorry."
"Hang on," she'd replied, "I thought you said you were from the North."
"Actually, I said I was an alien. Which is like being from the North, I suppose."
She thought he sounded like he was from Hackney.
So, they fought. Or rather, he tried to explain himself in his awful, bumbling way: telling her how this—whatever this was—wasn't supposed to happen yet, but there were complicating factors. There was so much she didn't understand, apparently. He made all kinds of excuses for why he couldn't come see her anymore, meaningless apologies coming at the speed of light. It was all so stupid, and not the way he was, and the betrayal had felt worse than Jimmy disappearing with all her money had done.
She'd slammed the phone down on the receiver, determined never to speak to the Doctor—whoever the hell he was—again. Ever.
She'd proceeded to wallow with her mum and a pint of salted caramel ice cream for about two hours before an entirely different man—one with sticky-uppy hair and freckles and a look of abject fear—showed up at her door.
★
Rose is halfway through her second glass of wine when her mobile starts buzzing.
Unsure of the protocol in a place this swanky, she dismisses the call but pulls up their text history—most recently, an impenetrable series of emojis he'd sent while he was supposed to be heading up a meeting and, a few hours later, the words We are a go.
Glancing around, she hurriedly types, Where are u??
A second passes.
I look v hot and the nice lady waiter is giving me SYMPATHY DRINKS, she adds. Pls tell me you'll b here soon!!
Instantly, he responds, I'm here.
"Oh, thank god," Rose mutters, then jerks her head up, looking around nervously. Nobody's observed her bad behaviour, she notes with relief. And there's no sign of a kindly Clara hovering on the horizon to accidentally make her feel worse about herself.
Several seconds later, she receives: Specifically, I'm in the powder room, which ought to be called the Palatial Expanse. You could fit the whole mathematics department in here! And they've got these warm, damp towels that smell like eucalyptus. Which, come to think of it, might help with the department's over-cologning issue.
She rolls her eyes. He must be using text-to-speech; it's got just the cadence of him rambling on. But at least this makes sense of the nose-butterfly-skull and crossbones-folded hands emoji sequence from this afternoon.
But that's all beside the point, Rose, the next message says. I tried to call you because, well… I'm late.
She feels something with the weight and consistency of lead drop in her stomach.
Typing in a frenzy—Late? Can that happen?? Doctor are u ok?—she forgets to keep track of her surroundings, and is therefore taken aback by a sudden, "Excuse me, miss," which nearly sends her tumbling out of her seat with a yelp.
Dropping her phone into her lap, Rose claps a hand over her racing heart. "Oh!"
"I'm so sorry," the woman replies. It's not Clara, but a taller person, fuller-figured, with a long sheet of red hair and a smile that leans more toward smirk. "But we noticed you hadn't received your food yet and wanted to make sure you were being taken care of."
"Oh, yeah—yes, everything is fine. Great!" Rose rushes to correct. "I love the wine, Clara's been really great. It's just, I haven't actually ordered yet, because I'm sort of waiting on someone. He's…"
How exactly, she wonders, does one say "hiding out in your loos" without making it sound alarming?
At her trailing reply, the woman's expression softens, and Rose nearly groans aloud. More pity. Fantastic.
"No, it's not like that. I'm not waiting for—I mean, not in that way." Every word she says is just making her situation sound worse; she has to bail on this conversation, she decides. "He'll be here. Soon. Really soon. So, don't worry."
'Don't worry?' She wishes she could fall through the floor and disappear.
"I wasn't," the woman replies, scoffing ever-so-slightly. "Gorgeous thing like you, wearing that dress, getting stood up? That's not how it happens. But while you're waiting, maybe we could get you something to nibble on, just in the meantime—on the house, of course."
"No, I couldn't—"
"Oh, I absolutely insist! I'll just have Chef Lee whip up a little appetizer for you." The woman steamrolls Rose easily, like she's done it a hundred times before—which she undoubtedly has. Something about her suggests she is a force of nature. "Any dietary restrictions? Allergies? Foods you feel really strongly about?"
Shaking her head in bewilderment, Rose doesn't know what to say except, "I… love chips?"
"God, me too," Donna says, a little longingly. "Okay. I'll get that right in with the kitchen."
Rose didn't see chips anywhere on the menu, but she supposes this is just the sort of thing fancy restaurants do. "Thanks, er…"
"Donna. Assistant Manager."
"Right, Donna, okay. Well, thanks again, this is really—"
"Don't mention it." Donna waves her off with a smile. "And like you said, don't worry. Might never happen."
★
The second time, he tried to prepare her for it.
A few days before it was supposed to happen, he sat her down and took her hands, looking at her with those serious brown eyes, and explained everything to the best of his ability—which really just made it all seem more confusing at first.
"So, you're saying… every six months, you change your face. And your body. And… just everything about you?" Sat inside the TARDIS—because she'd learned that was where he lived, inside a stationary blue box that was so much bigger on the inside—she'd felt very small and very simple. Out of her depth by about a thousand fathoms. "And you can't control it. And you can't stop it."
The Doctor was nodding back at her, hair flopping into his eyes over his specs. "Roughly every six months," he corrected, "but that's basically the gist of it."
"But why?" Rose blushed. "Sorry. Is that offensive to ask?"
"No, no. My people… it's just something we can do—have to do. Not on such a fast timer. That's just me, cos I'm… Well, it's complicated. It's to do with the TARDIS, and being stuck here on Earth, and as it turns out, stress and overworking is a not-insignificant factor."
"I still can't believe it. It's just so—so alien."
"Well," he'd huffed at her, sinking back on the couch so his hands slipped out of hers, "I am an alien, Rose. I never lied about that."
"I know," she assured him, rushing to take his hands back into hers, instantly missing their even, cool pressure. "I know." She wanted to kiss his knuckles, to brand the scent of his skin into her memory, just in case it all went away. So she lifted his hands to her lips and did just that. "Maybe it would be easier to understand if I was there for it."
And while he'd been resistant, he ultimately gave in to her reasoning: if this was going to be happening every six months, she'd surely stumble in on it sometime or other. Better to see it now than get a shock later, right?
Still, even with the warning, actually watching him change three days later—squinting her eyes against the strong golden light that streamed out from every pore of his body, even his eyes, even his hair—was unbelievable. She felt as if she must be going mad: his ordinary clothes, his ordinary glasses, his ordinary trainers all stayed the same, but inside them, the body—the Doctor's body—utterly transformed.
Well. He still had floppy brown hair, but it curled slightly around the edges, and his face had squared off in the change, particularly around the chin area, which was rather petulant. And when he'd blinked at her, in this new body, his eyes were a decidedly different shade of greenish-brown beneath the TARDIS' flickering lights.
He was coated in a thin sheen of sweat from the apparent effort of changing his body, his teeth gritted in remnant pain.
"Well?" he'd finally burst out, voice sounding different, like his old one had gone through a paper shredder. He was almost too hoarse to make out an accent. "Legs! I've still got legs. Good. Arms, hands. Rose," he pronounced proudly, "I've got hands!"
His eyes were pretty, Rose realised almost instantly. And his hands weren't bad at all.
And more importantly, he was still the Doctor.
★
Rose is quite sure she will actually, literally die of mortification if she's still sitting alone at that table when Donna's well-intentioned appetiser arrives, so she makes a sort of dignified, brisk walk for it the moment the woman leaves her eye line.
She doesn't stop to ask where the washrooms are, just fumbles her way in the direction of where she guesses they would be. The restaurant is massive—a maze that's almost more confusing than the TARDIS itself, so it takes her a few minutes of wandering down wrong hallways and dodging concerned looks from various staff members to find what she's looking for.
Then she takes out her mobile and dials.
"Oh, good! I'm glad you called," the Doctor begins the moment he picks up. "It's far too difficult to explain over text message, but remember how I said my, er, change was supposed to happen on Friday—"
"Hello, by the way, hi."
"—and you couldn't come round because you had to cover a shift for Shareen—" and he pauses as she hears the hissing of water from the taps, "—cheers, mate, sorry about the noise—and then I had to do that weekend lecture series, and then we both got busy and kept missing each other?"
"Like it was just this week," she replies impatiently as a man who is not the Doctor but does give her a very confused look exits the washroom. Even craning her neck, she doesn't see his familiar form inside.
"Yes, well, the issue is that it didn't happen on Friday, and I actually had to delay the lectures because I was certain it was going to happen Saturday. But it didn't happen Saturday either. Or Sunday, or Monday, or—"
"Yeah, I get the idea. It hasn't happened yet." Rose shields her mouth and lowers her voice as a distracted-looking employee rushes by with a tray of gleaming silverware. "Why are you just now telling me? You said, and I'm quoting your message here, 'We are a go,' Doctor. 'We are a go.' I have a thong on! This was supposed to be our first date!"
"Because, like I said, you were busy!" he cries out, his voice doing that raspy, pitchy thing it does in moments of high stress. And then, a second later, he adds, "You had that hen do, and—and… And besides, what if I'm old this time, Rose? Hm?"
And there it is. The real issue at hand.
The conflict they've been going in circles about since the moment she accidentally discovered his real age—which is somewhere in the nine hundreds, by his reckoning. She sighs, and flops back against the wall for a bit of moral as well as back support. She's only been walking for five minutes and already her heels are pinching, and the pain is not helping her get in the mood for round one hundred of this conversation.
"Not this again."
"Seriously, have you thought about that? You say you really want me to meet your mum this time. Well, what if I'm really old and have white hair? I've been old before, you know, a good deal too old to be out with you. And I've just got… a bad sort of feeling this time, like I'm not going to be able to control it."
Control it? Well, that's certainly new information. The kind Rose hardly knows what to do with.
Had he… selected this face, then, for her? Thinking she'd like it? The thought brings an involuntary lift to her lips; it's almost too adorable.
"What if I'm old and I've got no hair at all? Have you stopped to consider that, Rose Tyler? What would you want with an old, bald, alien boyfriend?"
Rose groans.
The truth is, she hasn't really considered anything when it comes to the Doctor's future regenerations. She knows it's probably not very mature of her—he'd probably frown at her with all his frowniest frown lines if he knew how little thought she's given to worrying about their future. But the fact of it is, things have been so good and lovely and… really, really good, that she hasn't been inclined to borrow trouble.
She's just been too happy.
"All right, then. You'll be bald and old and my boyfriend," she tells him, quite bravely. "I've considered it, and it's fine. Can you come out of the loo now?"
There's a pause.
"Are you outside? I thought you were at a table." She can make out the distinct shuffling sound of someone nearing the washroom door, and a jostle like an elbow hitting it, but the door doesn't open. "They assured me you were at a table, enjoying your Merlot—someone should be headed your way with an appetiser soon, too. The lobster medallions here are to die for, Rose. I mean, really—"
This second shock is somehow more fatiguing than the first. "Hang on. Have you had someone spying on me while you hide in the loo?"
"Well, I wouldn't call it 'spying,' because I can't actually see anything. It's more like… one of the very kind members of staff who happens to owe me a favour has been reporting back on your enjoyment of the evening. Through the door, of course. Clara's nice, isn't she? I introduced her to her boyfriend. Terribly dull man, but love still finds a way."
"Doctor, stop," Rose snaps, holding up a hand even though he can't see it. "Stop talking for a minute. God, this is ridiculous—I'm coming in there."
There's another, even louder sound at the door. "No. No, don't."
"What are you gonna do, keep yourself barricaded in a public toilet until you regenerate?" Her volume rises, frustration freeing her of any self-consciousness. "You have no idea how long it'll be! Besides, you said it's dangerous to regenerate off the TARDIS—said there could be consequences for your immediate surroundings. What about Clara, hm? She's been a better date than you tonight! And what'll her dull boyfriend think if you get her job blown up?"
"I'm not going to blow up the building, Rose. There just might be a little… you know…" She does not know, in fact. She's only seen him regenerate the once, and it was relatively non-destructive. "Singeing," he finishes awkwardly.
"Yeah, that's it," she declares.
Striding forward, she pushes with all her might against the door, trying to twist the knob at the same time. But he must be holding the handle from the inside, because it barely jiggles. All she gets is the protesting cry of her name through the wood and in the speaker by her ear. But she's ready, steeled for a confrontation.
"Doctor, you're making a big fuss over nothing! We can schedule another first date next week, or the week after that, or whenever you change, okay? I don't mind waiting." When there's no immediate reply, her grip goes slack, and her head tips forward to rest against the door as she admits something she's wanted to say for the last six months. "Don't you get it? I'll still be here, and I'll want to be with you, whenever it happens." With her eyes squeezed shut, she can almost imagine herself looking him in the eye. "Whoever you change into, I'll still… I'll still want you. I promise."
She's never meant something so intently before, never yearned so much to be believed. And maybe it's not possible for him to understand—he is, after all, still an alien, and their time together has been hardly a fraction of his lifespan. But to her, since they've met…
It's like her life only just started.
It's too painful for words, that he might want to end it all over something as ridiculous as hair, or a few wrinkles.
"Doctor," she murmurs, keeping her voice gentle, "let me in."
She receives no answer.
"…Doctor?"
This time, when she twists the knob, it moves freely—but there's still a weight holding the door closed. Worry surges up in her chest, and she rattles the doorknob more forcefully, even though her rational mind knows that won't make a difference if something's wedged it shut.
"Doctor, talk to me," she hisses. "What's going on?"
"Rose," he answers. She knows it's him, but it doesn't sound like him—or like he's got much in the way of working vocal cords at all. The sound is raspy and thin and she wishes she was strong enough to beat down this blasted door. "It's… all right. It's—ah," the sound of air wheezing out, "it's started."
And it has, she can see that it has: beneath the doorway, gold is seeping out, warped and irregular like the reflection of light through water.
"Oh my god. Now? Here?"
"You're… telling me," he groans. "Nine hundred years and I've ne-never regenerated… in a loo before. Not where I would've chosen, even if it is… the s-size of, ah—Buckingham Palace."
"Well, first time for everything." Rose hopes she sounds cheerful, but it's hard with her cheek practically mashed against the door. She must succeed a little; the Doctor laughs. "God, you've got the worst timing in the world. Does it hurt?"
"Invariably," he answers. "Rose, before I go…" For a moment, he doesn't sound as if he'll be able to go on. But he's stubborn as anything, so he pushes out, "Thank you, f-for what… you said. I will always remember—"
"Oh, stop it." She squeezes her eyes shut, surprised to find them stinging with sudden tears. "I meant it, you dolt. I don't care who you are, I'll still lo—"
But the confession crumbles in her mouth as she sees a renewed burst of light. The Doctor makes a muffled sound, and then there's a thud, further into the washroom. There's no part of her that stops to consider what might be happening in there, the danger all that regenerative energy might pose without the TARDIS to absorb it; Rose shoves the door open and practically falls inside.
And there he is, sitting on the floor against the sinks, as if he'd stumbled over there and collapsed and then couldn't quite figure out how to get up again. The Doctor, in his nicest suit.
Well, he must be the Doctor, anyway. He's looking at her like the Doctor looks, albeit a little more rumpled and irritable and grey-haired than usual.
"You shouldn't have come in here," he says, and he's Scottish—so Scottish Rose almost starts laughing. Talk about being from the North. He looks up at her with pale eyes, like an echo of a winter sky, and she knows he's surprised at the sound of his own voice. "My kidneys are all wrong—an awful colour. And it could still be dangerous for humans."
"Your kidneys?"
"The regeneration energy!" he cries. "Keep up, darling! Anyway, shouldn't you be out there eating lobster medallions?"
Rose goes to her knees in front of the strange new man.
"Not a chance," she tells him, and she takes his lined face in her hands, trying to make him understand. "Not without you."
He doesn't seem to know entirely what to do; his expression is frozen into a look of baffled panic.
As she searches his eyes, she says, "Saw yourself in the mirror, did you?"
He nods.
"Didn't hit your head on the way down or anything?"
With a dismissive shake of his head, he reaches for her cheek—at least, she thinks, this means he's just losing it in a normal, not-brain-injury-related way—and it's clumsy but perfect, how her lips meet his, like old friends. Familiar, but not exactly the same as she remembers.
She only pulls away when his fingers catch on a curl and tug it slightly, as if to get her attention.
"Rose," he says. "My hair."
"I know, you've got a whole head of it."
"I can't meet your mother with this hair," he insists. "I look like a bad magician in a movie. Nobody can see me like this."
"Your hair, your kidneys… God, you're vain," she says with a laugh. But she kisses him again, because she can't help it. She's constitutionally unable, it seems, to find the Doctor unkissable. "Look, I can't go out there without you, cos it's our first date. Remember, Doctor? You wanted to make a good impression."
His new lips are far softer than they look, and she shivers at the idea of being the first thing to touch them. Her lip gloss gives them a faint sheen.
"'Sides, I ordered us chips."
"Chips," he repeats, gaze clearing. "Place's got a Michelin star, and you ordered chips!"
"And I bet they'll be really good chips." She shrugs. "Plus, I thought it would be nice, you know, to recreate our first first date, sort of. Except you're definitely paying, this time."
He blinks at her. "Hold still," he commands. "I'm going to try something."
So Rose holds still. He moves so, so slow, like she's a wild animal, his face nearing hers again. And when he kisses her, he does it with his eyes still open. It probably ought to feel weirder than it does—and she does feel observed in a more-than-usual way.
But the whole exercise leaves her curiously warm, with her fingers curling softly into the shoulders of his wool suit.
"You've really got a thong on?" he asks.
And she bursts into laughter, feeling as if she could kneel here on this hard tile floor forever.
"Yeah," she says. "I guess that's love, isn't it?"