Summary: No matter when, She sings her love to them.
Characters: The Ninth Doctor, Rose, the TARDIS
Author's Notes: Every so often, I like to write a love letter to my dimensionally transcendent girlcrush - which is when She usually reminds me to whom She sings Her own love. As always, I own nothing here; they are all the BBC's, and RTD's; thank you both for letting me love them.
The TARDIS sings and sang, will sing, will have sung.
After the shouting, Rose ran down a corridor with her eyes treacherously wet, trusting the TARDIS to lead her to her room. Once inside, she was safe to let tears blind her but she was convinced somehow that he would hear her scream with rage and hurt even behind closed doors. She was damned if she'd let him, so she threw herself to the bed and jammed her face into a pillow before she let herself go, screaming and sobbing until it wore her out and she slept.
She never stopped, never will, has never stopped, will never have stopped.
He walked the corridors in a fury, down stairs, around corners and into places he hadn't visited in years. The anger quickened his pace, but it also ate at his stomach and made his head pound. He didn't care, wouldn't go back to see how she was. He was the Doctor, and he wasn't at the beck and call of any human. He strode for hours until the pain in his head grew strong enough to quell the storm. By then, his vision was blurred and his long legs had begun to betray him. The TARDIS brought him to his room and he threw the door open, made his way unsteadily to a rarely-used bed. He forced himself back into calm, but by the time he could finally control the pain, he was helpless against sleep.
She sings to them, sang to them, will sing to them, has sung to them. Will always sing to them.
In the morning, or whatever passed for morning within the TARDIS, they emerged from their separate rooms and made their separate ways toward each other. They spent the whole day, or whatever passed for day, without speaking to each other - Rose with a book she pointedly read whenever she saw his head turn from the teapot, the console, the floor to her; he with a cup of tea, a spanner in hand, an eye for anywhere but her when he thought she was looking at him.
Somewhere in the back of their minds She sang, still sings, will sing.
That night Rose slept more easily. The Doctor didn't sleep, wouldn't do it twice in a row, but he sat for hours in the library, watching the hearth in what he thought was silence, as flames sparked and danced with shadows.
The next morning, or what the TARDIS willed to be morning, they made their way to each other. The silence between them was comfortable now; he made her tea in the kitchen and she smiled when she accepted the cup. She handed him the spanner when he needed it during his daily bout of ceremonial tinkering and he squeezed her hand in thanks as she did so.
The song wound through her dreams, will be there when he dreams, was there before they dreamed.
"Didn't mean to-"
"I'm a fool-"
They found each other. He enveloped her, brought her head to his chest. She wrapped her arms around his waist and let him know she wouldn't let go. She shed tears of relief that were absorbed by his jumper, and he breathed a shaky and silent thanks into the scent of her hair.
They spent a long time together that night, or what the TARDIS allowed to be night; Rose sitting on the library sofa with her bare feet on an ottoman and the Doctor with his head in her lap, legs stretched out comfortably across the rest of the sofa. Neither of them noticed when they fell asleep.
In her own dimensionally transcendent heart, in the past, the now, the future, the TARDIS sings them home.