Chapter Text
The end of the world is upon us!
The planet is dying!
Earth is on fire!
Rose read the signs of the protesters around her with a mixture of anger and amusement. Anger, because they were right. She was here, at another bloody protest, shouting outside Parliament yet again to demand that something— anything— change. The Doomsday clock projected on the sheet slung over the fence filled her with dread, as it always did.
Climate change protests usually left her feeling the most helpless, after anti-war protests of course. Righteous anger was well and good when she was among a crowd of like minded protesters, shouting the same shouts, calling out what they all knew to be true with voices that were raised louder together in hopes that anyone would listen. But she would leave and go turn on the news to see another hurricane, another fire, another record heatwave, in the same bloody program that would praise the stock market and record profits. As if the two weren’t directly related.
And yet, amusement.
The organizers of this particular protest were a bit more… creative than some others she’d been to. The student leaders had obtained department store mannequins from somewhere and dressed them up in recognizable costumes of world leaders, celebrities, and executives, little painted signs hanging around their necks with name tags just to drive home their points, and zip tied them to the gates. A particularly strong burst of wind had already stolen several of the wigs, leaving the mannequins bereft and bald on their perches.
She was pulled from her amused reverie by the sound of the protest chants growing louder, interspersed with jeers and boos as a security team crossed the street to Parliament Square towards them. Rose squared her shoulders and raised her sign higher, joining in the shouts and jeers. Shouts went up on both sides, calls for them to disperse echoing across the security bullhorn, unnecessary but predictable posturing from the law enforcement that Rose had come to expect. These kinds of things followed a very predictable pattern when one attended enough of them, which she had.
From large, bridge blocking rallies with real leadership organization to these smaller, student led protests she heard about through the Reddit forums and grapevines, she attended each one she could. She did her best to attend as many as her work schedule allowed, even if it meant only being able to pop in for her breaks or running straight from work to the event. The rush was always worth it. Even a day at work that had her dead on her feet to the point of collapse could be saved and re-energized by a good chant, march, or demonstration. Being part of a collective, feeling like she was doing something worthwhile for a change, it was better than going home to her empty, lonely flat anyway.
She dreaded the upcoming winter, when the gatherings would be less frequent. She would spend far too much time alone, in the miserable loft she felt was more akin to a prison cell than home. The cold air always permeated the walls, the old industrial windows and too tall ceilings seemed to ensure that no amount of warmth could fight it back. The pre-furnished flat was far too sterile and neutrally colored for comfort as well.
Not to mention, the time alone with give her too much time to think.
Rose pushed the dread aside forcefully. It would overtake her soon enough. She wanted to enjoy the moment while it was here.
She much preferred an organized protest, of course. People trained in the protocol of civil disobedience, demonstrations, and activism were the ones that led to real change, but there was something to be said for these smaller, student or otherwise unaffiliated group protests. The energy was more manic, more invigorating. She felt more at risk of being recognized, but at the same time, more like she could slip into the crowd unnoticed due to the unorganized bustle. The more unruly crowd was havoc on her anxiety, but she was also stubbornly determined to overcome that fear. One could not fear crowds in her line of work. She’d come a long way in her self-induced exposure therapy, her fear only spiking now when she was caught in a surge and couldn’t see the edge of the sea of people. So, if she stayed near the back, or near a landmark she could orient herself to, she was perfectly fine these days.
Absolutely no memories of pushing, pulling, grabbing hands, crushing bodies, falling beneath feet… not today.
Student protests used to give her a chance to be in a crowd of people her own age as well, to slip in amongst them like she belonged and pretend, just for a moment. She could still pass off at first glance, maybe as graduate student, if someone looked too close at her face. She certainly had the world weary, overworked look about her. She sometimes wore fake glasses to add to the look, but hadn't bothered today. Some part of her almost wanted to be recognized, spitefully, though she would deny it.
In the past year or so, however, she had found these unorganized and unaffiliated protests lacking. Protests, in Rose’s opinion-- useless as she felt it may be-- should not have a set end time. Protests that politely ended at six on the dot, as stated on the flyer, were easily ignored. A mild inconvenience and annoyance at best. Even now, security was only posturing weakly for the assembled news crew— a single, bored and annoyed looking reporter, and a barely awake cameraman— yawning and gabbing at each other more than paying attention to the crowd.
The crowd was gathered in Parliament Square and there they had stayed, interrupting no business, no traffic, and nothing more than passerby’s radios with their chanting. There were no organizers passing out flyers with information about the movement or chants. They merely did call-and-response shouted over a cheap bullhorn. The assembly had no medic station, no volunteers passing out water, or extra signs. There were no demonstrations or group activities, no songs or speeches. Rose could think of a dozen little things that would have made their presence here more effective, but the unorganized crowd couldn’t even chant in one voice. She gave them credit for having gone all out with the props, but one connection in a theatre department could account for all of them easily, so it still didn’t seem organized so much as it had been convenient and showy.
All in all, Rose was underwhelmed, but she threw herself into the action anyway. The chanting helped to clear her mind of her own worries, focus on the issue at hand, live in the moment arm in arm with the crowd around her. Figuratively, anyway, as this group wasn’t exactly a collective. The majority of the protesters weren’t even wearing masks, an easy way to tell they were obviously more interested in feeling like heroes than being part of something. More than anything, it was a group of highly individualistic savior-complex do-gooders, and youths too inexperienced to know better.
Which, she thought scathingly, she supposed she was not much better. It’s not like she did any of those things personally. Though she was dedicated to the theory and practice of it, she was no organizer herself. That would require having control of her own life and choices and more time to spend not under the thumb of a tyrant than a few unpredictable hours here and there a week. She longed for a collective, a community, to call her own, but she made do with crowds instead. Alone, yet surrounded by people, it was at least familiar to her.
She could never decide if that was that more or less lonely.
The agreed upon time for the protest was drawing nearer, and the already unorganized assembly was getting restless. They’d accomplished nothing, predictably, and loud grumblings could be heard throughout the crowd of “Waste of time,” “Stupid bloody government,” “What’s the point?” She ground her teeth to keep from yelling at them: “Us, you lazy, bloody wankers! We’re the point!”
The next few seconds happened as if in slow motion. One bored security guard nudged another and pointed at the retreating crowd with an obnoxious, arrogant chuckle.
An overzealous student threw a bottle. It was nothing more than a half-empty bottled water, and it landed at least a meter away from any of the security personnel, but all of their eyes locked in on it at once as it came to a stop.
Time froze.
Fuck she hated student protests sometimes. Unorganized, untrained, think they’re invincible students who didn’t realize that just that one act of "aggression" had undone all their work. The one bored reporter that had already been filming them from afar would have the news play the clip of the throw and the bottle hurling through the air to death, editing out the pitiful landing. The batons the security team were already whipping out would be overlooked and over justified, and there would be dozens more of the same regurgitated arguments about the ‘right way’ to protest, rather than any discussion on what they’d been protesting, or the overzealous use of force that would come next from the police.
Was it fair? Absolutely bloody not.
Did that change anything? No again.
Rose lowered her sign, anger at the entire situation bubbling in her gut, threatening to rise to the surface. Just this once, she wanted to join in more fully. She wanted to push to the front, let herself be arrested, let it plaster every news clip, every magazine, let her presence there do something. Maybe the breaking news of her being arrested at the protest would overshadow the first act of aggression being by one of theirs, and maybe it would help. Maybe she could finally say something worthwhile if the cameras on her were unscripted, candid, and Saxon wasn’t breathing down her damn neck the entire time. Making sure she never voiced an opinion too divisive, too forward. Too her own.
Didn’t stray too far out of line or too far away from the carefully curated persona he trapped her in.
Maybe the bad press would be enough to… she shut the thought down. It would never be enough. He owned every damn aspect of her life except her name. How she’d had the foresight at sixteen years old to insist on a stage name hard enough that it was written into that ironclad contract that crafted the prison cell of her life— making it the one thing that worked in her favor that Saxon had to follow as stringently as she had to follow the rest— she’d never know. Even Donna had applauded her for that small victory.
Rose couldn’t give up her anonymity. The thought of it alone frightened her more than any crowd. A snarl rose to her lips, her anger at the protest fed by her anger at her own situation and near blinding her with fury. She took one purposeful step forward, though even as she did so she was unsure what her purpose was.
She was stopped.
A large, warm hand clasped onto hers, tangling their fingers together and jerking her to a halt. The feeling of another person’s skin settling against hers, gently, for the first time in longer than she could remember cut through the anger clouding her mind. It set her nerve endings alight, and her entire being narrowed in on the small point of contact. For the length of one breath, it was the only thing that mattered. The crowd blurred into the periphery of her consciousness. It was as if nothing existed but her, the warmth of another person, and the turn of the earth beneath their feet.
On the next breath, she remembered herself, and why the feeling of the touch of another person was so unfamiliar to her. She shoved away panic and reached back for her anger in order to handle the stranger’s far too intimate touch.
Rose whirled to her side, intent on biting the person’s head off for touching her so familiarly, when her eyes locked onto the most piercing shade of blue she’d ever seen.
The intensity in the eyes that met hers knocked the wind from her lungs. The world around her dulled even further as her focus narrowed in on those eyes, and the face that held them. What she could see of him anyway, above the mask obscuring his lower face, was striking: angular features, a little bit older, a little bit worn— this face had seen it all. Sorrow, joy, grief, and wonder. And it was all reflected back in his intense stare that seemed to touch the depths of her soul.
In the brief seconds his gaze held hers and they stood frozen, staring at each other, Rose had the all-consuming thought, “There you are.”
It felt right. It felt warm.
His eyes crinkled in the corners, the mask rising up a bit in a way that indicated that a smile was hiding below, and she felt a responding one grow on hers. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to see beneath the mask and study the rest of his face. He tugged on her hand, leaned down a bit closer, just enough to be heard over the chanting of the crowd, and whispered one word.
“Run!”
Rose dropped her sign and ran.
The stranger pulled her along for several blocks, weaving in and out of the crowds of people on the streets until the sound of the chanting in Parliament Square faded into the traffic noise of London. Along the run, Rose stole glances at him, taking in the rest of his form. The man was tall, around a head and a half taller than herself, and dressed in dark wash denims, a dark green jumper, and a worn leather jacket. He had close cropped dark hair that looked like it would feel silky smooth beneath her fingers. A blush crept over her cheeks at the thought, and she was grateful for the mask that still covered her lower face, though it was quickly becoming an irritation the longer they ran.
The strange man seemed to agree, and he ripped his own mask off after a block or two to reveal a strong jawline, a gorgeous, prominent, Roman nose, and soft lips quirked up in a grin. He glanced over at her, smile widening when she fumbled with her mask with her free hand in response.
He kept his pace to a light jog to match her shorter legs, but she could tell he was holding back. His lithe form seemed designed for running, and his still even breathing indicated that he did a lot of it. His posture was straight and relaxed, his running almost mechanical. He seemed pleasantly surprised with the way she kept up, her own lungs still moving open and freely in the brisk air. She picked up her pace, prompting him to do the same, and a laugh was torn from them in tandem and left behind on the wind.
Eventually, they slowed to a stop and the stranger tugged her just inside an empty alleyway, far enough off the street to be out of the way of other pedestrians but close enough to the mouth of the alley that she felt no anxiety. Few people showed her that kind of consideration: Her mum, Donna, Mickey, when he bothered to see her. People who understood her past or present situation and why she might be jumpy around them. The kindness of this strange man squeezed at her heart painfully, but in a way that felt good, like stretching a sore muscle.
They stood still for just a moment, smiling wildly at each other, neither of them realizing that their hands were still clasped together. Instead, she noted with delight a handsome mole on the side of his face that had been pointed away from her on their impromptu run. Their eyes met again, and again she was struck by the piercing blue color of his irises, and the depth of emotion in them. His were eyes that hid nothing, clear as they were, and she saw again the intensity from before. A mixture of lingering sadness, deeply ingrained and interwoven with anger— no, grief— but also a sense of wonder. As if he’d seen the whole world and the horrors and beauties it held in equal measures, and was unable to let go of either. Before Rose could think of anything to say, her mind racing to find anything that wouldn’t embarrass her anyway, he beat her to it.
“You were gonna march up front,” he accused, pointing a finger at her.
Oh, even his voice was lovely. Gruff, and playful, with a thick, working-class, Manchester accent that made her knees feel the slightest bit unsteady. The actual words he said took a few seconds longer to process as she fought to keep her focus.
“What do you know?” she asked, her question coming off far more flirtatious than she’d intended, even to her own ears. “I only took a single step forward!”
“Well, what’d you do that for?” he chided, playfully. “But, no, I could see it on your face. Well, in your eyes, anyhow. Looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out, you did.”
His eyes flashed with amusement and…interest? She couldn’t tell if she actually saw it there or just wanted to.
Rose sighed, her anger from the moment returning briefly, though the hindsight of being away from the protest helped her maintain her calm. She rubbed her forehead with her free hand, still not noticing how their hands remained tangled together between them.
“Those students,” she complained.
“How do you know they were students?” he interrupted.
She shot him a glare, which did nothing to deter the amused grin on his face. She fought the answering smile that tugged on her lips in seemingly natural response to his.
“Who else could put together a protest that disorganized, but still have that many people? Trained protesters or activists would never aggress against security. Plus, there were no organizational banners, sound equipment, presenters, medics, people giving out water— it was obvious that it was all about chanting and makin’ a scene. I reckon a college campus is one place a flyer might be seen by a lot of people, and that’s enough for gatherin’ a crowd, but not a group.”
The man’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and Rose’s face heated under the open look of appreciation on his face.
Not appreciation, she told herself firmly. Just… impressed by her deductive reasoning.
“I knew I recognized you,” he said, lightheartedly accusing again.
Rose’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t impossible that he recognized her. She’d been recognized out in public before, but it happened so rarely— especially with wearing masks— that each time was utterly panic inducing. She tried so damn hard to keep her personal image distanced from her stage persona, her only avenue for a semblance of normal life. Her eyes darted around the alley, where he had her alone, and finally she realized their hands were still clasped. She jerked hers away quickly and ignored the flash of hurt that crossed his eyes.
And the immediate disappointment and longing that rose up in her chest from the loss of his warmth.
But if he recognized her… the best case scenario she could imagine is him selling the story to some gossip rag and it getting picked up by those celebrity stalking channels. She’d only been able to attend protests with such regularity for so long because she worked so hard to maintain her anonymity, but one whiff of press and people would start looking for her at protests. She’d have to stop, because she would hate for any causes to get ignored because people were more interested in her than the actual protest.
And her one real outlet for freedom would be gone.
Not to mention how Saxon would punish her if the attention was unfavorable. No matter how much she sometimes wished that being recognized at a protest would break her out of the box he'd shoved her in, it wouldn't free her, not truly. And she would still have to contend with his anger.
“You do?” she whispered, dread filling her tone.
He seemed so… kind, so genuine. She’d not been afraid when he’d taken her hand and pulled her along, he’d purposefully not taken her more than a foot inside the alley. He’d been one of the only other people at the protest wearing a mask, which she had initially applauded as him giving a damn, but was it just to hide his face? Both reasons, maybe, as it was for her?
“Yeah!” he continued, cheerfully. “I saw you at the Trafalgar Square protest a few weeks back! You were helpin’ pass out water and masks.”
Rose blinked, the unexpected information processing slowly. She had been at a protest in Trafalgar Square recently where she’d helped pass out water and masks. It had been a volunteer position that she’d signed on for eagerly after the organizers had posted a sign up link on their Reddit forum, which she followed religiously. It had been the only one she knew she could make for certain, with her inconsistent work schedule. Though not an active member of the organizers, she was active enough on the forum that they recognized her username and invited her happily.
The man had not only been at another one of the same protests, but he’d seen and remembered her? And his recognizing her didn’t have anything to do with Bad Wolf?
He tugged on his earlobe, looking sheepish, as she stood there gaping at him.
“Sorry, is that weird? Didn’t mean to be creepy. Just, got an eidetic memory, me, and it’s hard to turn off.”
If anyone else had said that to her, she would immediately scoff at the humble bragging, but he seemed to be genuinely just expressing a fact and offering an apology for it. This mystery man was piquing her curiosity more and more.
“Is that supposed to sound impressive?” she blurted, the teasing, flirting tone returning to her voice unconsciously.
His wide smile returned instantly, and Rose’s heart skipped a beat. Blimey, but he was handsome. Rugged and unconventionally attractive, but his features were so unique, and his eyes were so thoughtful, and his smile was so sincere. She blushed at the direction her thoughts had once again taken.
“Sort of, yeah,” he admitted with a wink. “I’m the Doctor, by the way.”
“The Doctor? Is that supposed to sound impressive?” She snorted. “Doctor who?”
“Just the Doctor,” he replied evasively. “S’what all me mates call me, anyway. All two of ‘em. Plus, me sister and colleagues. But it’s Noble. James Noble.”
He thrust his hand forward with a cheeky smirk on his face and Rose took it immediately, having missed the feeling of his warm hand in hers. He offered so much of himself so easily, she thought in wonder. In just one sentence she knew his name, that he had a sister, few friends, and a professional enough career to have colleagues and not coworkers. And yet she got the feeling, from the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his features, that he didn’t often share details about his life, let alone with strangers.
Did he feel it too? That sense of knowing?
As she wrapped her hand around his once more, a spark of electricity shot up her spine. His fingers closed around her hand, pressing their palms together, and she delighted in the warm, dry, strong grip. His hand was so large his fingers wrapped all the way around her hand as she stared at them clasped together and an ember of arousal sparked in her lower stomach. She’d always been one to admire a man’s hands, and his were some of the most gorgeous she’d ever seen. Large, with long and thick fingers, calloused by work and slightly dry— she wondered if that meant he washed his hands a lot— and she noticed several thin, silvery, crisscrossed scars across the backs of them.
Sexy.
She looked up, away from their joined hands, and their eyes met again. Once more she was overcome with that sense of knowing him, like her soul was straining towards him and threatening to jump ship from her body to get to his. She could tell this time that he felt it too, or something similar, from the way they both stood frozen in place, gazing into each other’s eyes.
The deafening sound of dozens of sirens rushing past them startled them out of their trances. He stepped to the side, unconsciously, blocking her view of the street. "No," she realized, mouth parting slightly in shock, "Protecting me." He was blocking the view of her from passersby, all the while not releasing her hand, all without even realizing it.
“Rose Tyler,” she said, a bit breathless.
“Nice to meet you, Rose Tyler,” the Doctor responded.
His tongue wrapped around her name like he was savoring the feel of it in his mouth, and the sound of it coming from her lips made her face hot, and no doubt a bright pink.
He angled his body once again, this time to stand next to her, and tangled their fingers together again. His palm sliding against hers felt like sliding into a favorite pair of denims, or your own bed after a long absence: perfectly fitted, familiar, and comfortable.
“Run for your life!” he encouraged with a wide grin.
With a laugh, she let him pull her from the alley and back out onto the street.
They ended up retracing their steps a bit and found themselves walking hand in hand through St. James Park, discussing various protests and demonstrations they had both been to over the years, and found out that they had been a few more of the same ones. Before Rose knew it, they were clinging to each other to keep from falling over laughing as they recounted various mishaps that had occurred.
“A bird shit on him? You’re havin’ me on!” Rose laughed.
“Absolutely not, Rose Tyler! I’m a man of my word. Man o’ many words, me. But I’m tellin’ you, right on his noggin. You should have seen it!” the Doctor vowed, also chuckling.
Already, she adored his laugh. He was reserved with it for the most part, offering soft, quiet chuckles and wide happy grins more than boisterous, open laughter. But when something caught him truly off guard, a bark of laughter would escape from his chest and his head would tip back and show off the handsome line of his throat.
“Oh, you know they paid top dollar to keep that out of the press,” she snickered, imagining a frantic palace staff member running around juggling a dozen phones.
Conversation with the Doctor was a whirlwind. He jumped from topic to topic with a speed and energy she could barely keep up with, yet somehow he managed to weave them together. He seemed to know everything: history, and geography, politics. At some point he went on a several minutes long rant about how under-appreciated ants are, getting genuinely riled up on their behalf. Which only led to him angrily complaining about humans as a species in general, before calming and bumping her with his hip, offering a fond, “Present company excluded, of course,” which prompted another no doubt unattractively bright pink blush to rise to her cheeks.
Rose laughed harder than she could remember laughing in years, listening to his stories and ranting with equally rapt attention, enraptured by the openness on his face and the way he talked with his hands, even with one clasped tightly with hers still.
He let go only once, briefly, as they walked, when a man rode by on a bicycle with a toddler on the back in an adorable little bucket seat. The little girl dropped her stuffed rabbit as they passed by, and the Doctor bent down to scoop it up and jogged after them to hand it back to her before she could even cry out. Rose’s heart fluttered at the goofy grin he gave the child, and again when he strode back up to her and grabbed her hand without hesitation, continuing their conversation as if there had been no interruption.
She chimed in here and there, fully content to just listen, but each time she did he would pause to consider her words as if they were greatly important, tilting his head or raising an eyebrow.
After a time, she started to get a better sense of the man who walked beside her. There was a hardness to him, hidden beneath the exuberance and the playful smiles, but that could be read in the straight line of his back, and the close crop of his hair. It could be seen in the worn leather armor, and in his knowledge of geopolitical events and history, and the anger and grief in his clear eyes. She wasn’t sure how she felt walking and in hand with a soldier, but that sense of knowing him— along with listening to his obvious disdain for the government— relaxed her.
Or maybe it was the way his hand and hers fit together so perfectly.
The touch of his skin against hers still drew her attention, perhaps more than it should’ve, and sent delightful tingles all the way up her arm. Usually, the touch of other people was almost painful, particularly when her touch starvation was as strong as it had been lately, without even her mum around to suffer through hugs with. Brushes of fingers against hers in the café, or arms against each other on the Tube, were like rough, scratchy wool being drug across her skin. Even familiar touch, such as hugging Donna, made her uncomfortable and edgy.
She wasn’t sure what it was about the Doctor’s touch that soothed her. Maybe it was the way his grip was firm but not tight, as if he was also enjoying the contact immensely but would give her the space to break away if she so chose. Maybe it was the way it felt undemanding, and the ease between them. Their fingers laced together with comfort that seemed paradoxical to how much larger than her hand his was. She decided it simply didn’t matter what the reason was and let the heat of his palm soak into hers, and the firmness of his grip keep her tethered to the earth when his thumb began to absently stroke the back of her hand.
They must’ve circled the pond three or four times, completely absorbed in each other’s company before Rose’s phone rang. Her heart clenched at the shrill sound of her ringtone, the only one she had set as a different sound from the default, so she always knew when it was Saxon calling. Unconsciously, she squeezed his hand tighter as her dread mounted, and felt his grip tighten in return. They came to a stop, and she pulled the phone out of her pocket, staring at it as it rang in her hand with dismay.
“Rose? Do you need to get that? I don’t mind,” the Doctor assured her, seeing the look on her face.
“Yeah,” she said despondently. “It’s my boss. He’ll keep ringing if I don’t answer. I just… don’t want to,” she finished lamely.
A near overwhelming urge to tell him, well, everything, almost brought her to her knees. Something deep within her, from a place she’d never felt before, screamed with such force it felt physical. Only years of discipline kept her from breaking down right then and there. She had no idea where the rush of it came from, as she’d never even told Donna anything directly, just let her piece it together for herself. There was still much she didn’t know, and she’d been stubbornly pulling information from Rose for years.
The Doctor nodded in solidarity, throwing her a soft grin and jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"How about I go get us some food for the ducks?” he offered.
Butterflies blossomed in her stomach, beating back the sickening feeling with their wings until she felt light again. So far, being around him had felt as easy as breathing, but this small gesture—this unspoken signal that he didn’t want their time together to be over yet— took her attraction for him over the line to a full blown crush.
“That sounds fantastic,” she replied, smiling. “Thank you.”
He gave her one last squeeze on their joined hands and walked away. The lingering warmth and tingle his touch left behind gave her the courage to answer the phone. She drew the hand he had just dropped to her chest to savor the feeling and accepted the call.
“Hullo,” she greeted neutrally.
"Little Wolf!” Harold Saxon’s grating voice snapped. “Where the hell are you?”
Rose sighed. He always wanted to know where she was, no matter how many times she told him off for it. She knew he tracked her keypad access of her flat building somehow, another reason she loathed the soulless place. He’d boasted heavily of the security features of the building the day he’d "gifted" the loft to her, and she’d known instantly the electric keypads and security cameras weren’t for her benefit. She never allowed her mum, Donna, or Mickey over for that reason, which made the loft all the lonelier, but kept their privacy and hers to an extent.
With the added benefit of they never had to see firsthand how sad her life was.
“None of your business, Saxon. I’m not in the studio today.”
She heard his fingers tapping on the desk across the line and shut her eyes to block out the memories of other times she’d heard him tap the same staccato rhythm on that desk. It always preceded a vicious tongue-lashing, a screaming match, slamming drawers and doors and hands down on the desk to make her jump. He hadn’t hit her in years, but he kept her just enough on edge that the fear, the anticipation, never went away. He’d learned early on how to leverage her past with Jimmy to his benefit. He’d stepped seamlessly into the void Jimmy had left, making sure that broken, beaten down part of her never fully got back up. The yelling itself wasn’t always preceded by the tapping— he liked to catch her off guard too much for that— but the tapping never occurred without the yelling.
“One would think, my dear Wolf, that with your contract so close to being up you would be more motivated to put in extra hours. The studio can always decide not to renew your contract.”
Underneath the misery, the small seed of hope hidden in her heart perked up. She knew her contract was coming to an end, but rarely let herself think of it. She had a near superstitious belief that acknowledging her freedom on the horizon would spell her doom. This was the first time Saxon had mentioned it himself, though the end date was only a little over ten months away. She knew his threat about not renewing her contract was empty as well, but as if she fucking cared.
“I’m scheduled six days this week between studio, interviews, and rehearsal,” Rose reminded him, struggling to keep her tone neutral. “If I do too much extra, I’ll blow out my vocal cords.” Before he could interject, she added, “Or hurt myself and be unable to perform, even lip-syncing.”
“Valid argument, little Wolf, except one would think—” God he loved that insufferable phrase. “That would mean you’d be at your flat, resting. The flat that the studio so generously provides for you.”
She ground her teeth, the tapping fingers on the desk still tapping out the four count rhythm of his anger.
She fucking hated that flat, and spent as little time there as possible, even if it did mean running herself into exhaustion. When she had her rare time away from the studio, she refused to stay there and would schlep all the way across London to stay with her mum rather than stay a single second longer in the industrial prison cell Saxon had "provided" for her. At least, until her mum moved out of London a few months ago. With her final tour and the end of the contract coming up, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He worked her like a dog to beat her down, and she knew he was wringing her dry for all he could, building up a backlog of songs he could release for years down the line. Anything she produced during this time would belong to him anyway, and he must’ve had three or four albums worth already, just waiting.
“Did you call just to tell me you know I’m not home? Rather invasive, don’t you think, Harry?”
Even through the phone line, the slamming of his hand on his desk made her flinch. Why did she keep provoking him? She knew he hated when she called him that. Ten more months and she’d be rid of him, she just had to survive until then. Saxon could and would make her life in the meantime a living hell, as he’d been doing the past nine years. She knew it could get worse though, she’d had many stretches of time where he been particularly awful and petty because of her refusal to back down.
But, however he might try to keep that broken, beaten down part of her from getting fully back up, neither he nor Jimmy had ever fully pushed it all the way down either. And though he made her pay in spades for every second she fought back, she’d never quite mastered taking it all lying down. Even if her little rebellions were unnoticeable, even if victory only meant turning one form of punishment into another, no matter how much it hurt, rolling over and accepting it was worse. Always. She’d done enough of both to know.
Tour dates with near impossible turn arounds, filming music videos that made her stomach churn, a million interviews bombarding her with questions about the persona Saxon had crafted for her. Every gossip rag and media outlet plastered with her face, the newest puppet Saxon shoved at her to cause a scene, headlines slandering her at every turn. Long nights and late recording sessions that went on long after even the janitorial staff was gone. Keeping her caged in that ivory tower of a flat. Each piece of her life he controlled was designed to make her feel helpless and isolated, but her small victories were times like this. Escaping into the protests, managing to maintain a friendship with Donna, however inconsistent, and using the personal he had crafted for her to taunt him.
“You know, those royalty checks end as soon as this contract does,” he said, voice eerily calm. “Unless you do want to re-sign.”
“I told you, I’m still thinking about that,” Rose lied. “I just… I want to spend more time with my mum, less time in London.”
Another small concession, letting him think she might re-sign the contract with just minor alterations, calmed his heavy breathing. The tapping on the desk stopped and she heard him lean back in his leather chair.
“We’ll see what contract negotiations brings in a few months, my dear little Wolf,” he said lazily. “I want you in the studio. Now. I’ve just bought a new song for you, and I want a demo, immediately.”
Another shackle of her contract. He chose her music. She’d managed to pass of a couple of her own songs over the years, but none of the ones she was truly proud of. None of the ones that spoke to her heart. And the music he chose for her was usually just one more thing to hate. Senseless, meaningless, pop drivel. Good enough for a radio hit, good enough to a night at the club, but nothing that made people think.
Bad Wolf was a joke, and dwindling sales numbers in the last few years that attested to that were the only way she’d passed off any of her songs at all. People were sick of meaningless, bubblegum pop. They wanted songs with actual lyrics, artists that stood for something. And her songs had done well, but not well enough for Saxon to loosen the reins even a little bit more. Rose was thankful every damn day that Bad Wolf was only mildly popular, and only in Great Britain. If she’d become a real sensation, she’d never escape him, and she knew that was still what he was pushing for, constantly.
“I’ll be there in the morning,” she said, steeling her voice as much as she could.
She opened her eyes and was almost surprised to see the park around her instead of the soulless white walls of her flat or the studio that haunted her. Green grass, blue-green water, and the lovely, grey London sky met her, and a deep breath of the fresh park air helped sharpen her resolve. As did looking up and seeing the Doctor walking back to her, slowly, a cup of duck food pellets in each hand and a crowd of ducks trailing behind him. His tall frame walked with a grace she wouldn’t have thought possible, carefully maneuvering around the ducks with ease.
She saw his lips moving, his head turning side to side, and she realized with amusement that he was talking to the ducks. Emphatically, as if he thought they might answer, or perhaps as if he didn’t care if they did or not. Who was this man, with his sad eyes and scarred hands, who spoke gently to the birds and angrily about the world? Who looked up at her now and met her staring eyes with a smile that warmed her like sunshine? That warmth didn’t yet soak all the way through to her bones, but she thought that it might, if given half a chance to.
Saxon’s voice faded into the background as she grinned back at him.
“I’m busy, Harry. I said I’ll be there in the morning,” she said over the top of his yelling.
And then, Rose did something she had never had the courage to do in the last nine years Harold Saxon had owned her life.
She hung up on him.