Title: Not Dreams But Memories.
Author: Iby.
Spoilers: A post-ep to Journey's End.
Genre: Romance. I wouldn't call this fluffy, but rather romantic.
Characters and Pairings: The Tenth Doctor, Rose; Rose/Ten.
Rating: PG.13.
Author's Note: Written solely to make myself and (hopefully) others smile. Also? Coming up with a non-spoilery summary to this fic was harder than trying to understand my old Chinese classes. I failed Chinese, by the by.
Summary: He does not dream of a life with her. He remembers a life with her.



. . . .

He can smell the most incredible scents in the air. Mango shampoo from the hair he’s nuzzling and burned bacon wafting down from the kitchen. He can smell the not-so-incredible but still cherished wet-dog that’s just traipsed into the house and the Satsuma that’s sitting in the fruit bowl by the door.

He can feel the most incredible textures underneath his fingertips and against him. Warm skin, soft lips, silky hair, a big round belly pressed up against his stomach and the two hearts inside her body radiating their thuppa thuppa beats against his chest.

He can see the most incredible sights reflected in the mirror hung on the wall of their hallway. A tall thin man in an eccentric suit and a beautiful blonde woman about eight months along. He can see a ridiculous but perfect collection of children’s paintings and a very impressive snog taking place.

He can taste the most incredible flavours in his mouth. The leftover strawberry of her gloss that’s smudged against his bottom lip, her tongue in all its softness and familiarity and arousal. He can taste the not-so-incredible foundation powder that she wears when he peppers kisses across her cheeks. He can even almost but-not quite taste the bacon.

He can hear the most incredible sounds rolling around the house. The snappy dialogue of The West Wing (he’ll not allow EastEnders but Aaron Sorkin is encouraged) coming out of the telly and the spray of water from a shower being taken upstairs. He can hear the delightful giggles of children playing and the yuck, daddy, stop it! that is cried out upon the discovery of their snog.

It’s not all warm skin and snogs and wet dog; not all strawberries and showers and bacon. There are bits and bobs of genius being built on the kitchen table, mission reports for Torchwood being written in the study and schematics for Time Machines being drawn up in the garage. There are discussions amongst the children, their children, on how best to reverse the polarity. There are arguments over who is the best at hullabaloo and jiggery-pokery.

There is a house, ordinary and yet still fantastic, for reasons other than the fact that it is painted bright blue. Oh, the neighbours had stared until their eyes had fallen out, some had even gone to the council over it, but bright blue it remained.

There are lives lived and loved with single hearts united.

. . . .

Through the fog of sleep, the Doctor felt fingers press gently against his temple. He snuffled into wakefulness and though he could see nothing out of the ordinary, certainly not mysterious fingers, he knew that something was different. His brain felt as if it had been exposed to the whirl and twirl of a tornado; his thoughts felt like sheets of paper hastily stuffed into a filing cabinet with no appreciation of order nor alphabet.

Stretching his long legs, stiff from being tucked awkwardly underneath him as he’d slept on the chair in the library, he looked up at the ceiling of the TARDIS and pondered just what had happened to him.

Something was new, something was rattling around inside his old noggin that hadn’t been there before his kip.

There!

A little one with scraped knees was sobbing against his neck. Arms were stretching up towards him, in the universal way of saying pick me up! Rose was holding his hand as they ran and dodged bullets. She was moaning breathlessly underneath him, sliding her hands up and down the line of his spine. She was throwing sweets at him and laughing as they filled Christmas stockings whilst the kids were out.

There was a bright blue house.

The images that flashed through his brain were familiar. The way his hearts responded to them made him feel that he wasn’t looking in on somebody else’s experiences, but rather on his own.

He had been there for those moments. He had wiped away those tears and he had picked up the imploring child. He had held Rose’s hand as they'd run, he had moved so gently over her and in her and he had made her breathless. He had dodged the sweets, he had made her laugh, and he had filled those Christmas stockings. He had painted that house bright blue.

A flash of grey hair disappearing behind a tall shelf of books caught his eye and he sprung up to investigate, but was met only by more books. One lay open on the ground and he stooped to pick it up. It was blank save for a hastily scribbled note in a handwriting that he recognized as his own.

We lived this life, you and I. This life, beside her, beside them. It was fantastic.

The images were not dreams. They were not fantasies.

They were memories, and they were his.


. . . .


Hope this helped, in its own small way!