If It's Not Broken

by thirty2flavors [Reviews - 15]

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  • All Ages
  • Swearing
  • Satire

one: the rejection

The Doctor and Rose stared at the spot where the TARDIS had been, then turned to stare at each other.

Quite abruptly, Rose jerked her hand from his and scowled at the sand. “This sucks,” she said eloquently, folding her arms across her chest. “I build a bloody Dimension Cannon and wind up back where I started with a clone?” Though she did not repeat “this sucks” again, she did kick the sand and pout.

“To be fair, I’m not really a clone,” said the Clone. “And if you think about it, having all the same memories in a slightly human body is actually less of an adjustment than that time I regenerated on you, and I must say you took that swimmingly, so it stands to reason this will be no different. Really it should be easier, all things considered, seeing as I haven’t even really changed mannerisms or —”

“Oh, shut up, Dolly,” snapped Rose. “I’m going to get back to the real Doctor, even if it does mean imploding two universes.”

“Fine,” said the Clone, tugging at his suit jacket and lifting his chin defiantly. “I was planning on running off with Pete’s World Sally Sparrow, anyway.”

--

two: the white picket fence

The Doctor and Rose stared at the spot where the TARDIS had been, then turned to stare at each other.

“So you’re human,” Rose said after a moment.

“Yes,” said the Doctor. “One hundred per cent human!” He considered this, and scratched his head. “Perhaps closer to eighty per cent. Or fifty. Or maybe more like twenty-five. I think it depends on the lunar cycle.”

“Oh,” said Rose, though she was not really listening. She was already considering the benefits of living with a human rather than a Time Lord. “Does this mean we can get a nice country house?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Doctor enthusiastically, grinning now from ear to ear. “Finally, the mundane domestic life I’ve always longed for! Mortgages! Carpets! Street barbecues! I can fulfill my life-long dream of being a bank teller! Rose, it’s a veritable utopia!”

Rose forced herself to put aside her intoxicating thoughts of lawn mowers and puppy dogs in order to ask an all-important question. “I thought you hated that sort of thing?”

The Doctor waved his free hand haphazardly. “Oh, pish posh, I was only pretending in order to hide my deep inner pain.” His expression turned mournful for a moment, as though all the losses of his nine hundred years were suddenly threatening to burst from the chocolate pools that were his eyes. “I had the nicest set of drapes back on Gallifrey.”

Rose frowned sympathetically, and together they turned to head down the beach and towards the thrilling life of tax returns that awaited them.

“And I’ve been thinking,” continued the Doctor. “‘Doctor’ isn’t really a practical human name, but I’ve always quite liked the sound of ‘Franklin’, so if you could start calling me that, it would be greatly appreciated. As for baby names, I’m quite fond of ‘Donna Martha’, ‘Jack Mickey’, and ‘Albus Severus’, what do you think?”

--

three: the madness

The Doctor and Rose stared at the spot where the TARDIS had been, then turned to stare at each other.

“Are you all right?” he asked her after a moment.

Rose considered pointing out that the man she loved had just left her behind with an exact-to-scale replica of himself. Instead, she said, “Yeah, are you?”

“Oh, more or less,” he agreed, nodding. “Though I suppose it might be worth pointing out that I do feel another bout of intense genocidal bloodlust coming on. Killing Daleks just hasn’t got the same feel it once did; genocide's just not genocide if they always come back.” He looked at her curiously. “I don’t suppose you have any particular species or minority groups you’d like me to do away with, have you?”

“Not... particularly,” Rose managed slowly, her brow furrowing. “This genocide thing is here to stay, then, yeah?”

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ loud enough that Rose suddenly found Lollipop stuck in her head. “Must be the Donna in me.”

And then he collapsed dead of metacrisis.

--

four: the angst

The Doctor and Rose stared at the spot where the TARDIS had been, then turned to stare at each other.

“I think there’s something you should know,” Rose said, giving his hand a squeeze.

For a second, the Doctor’s expression was hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiled back at him. Then she said, “I think there may be something wrong with me. I was once shot seven times in the head, but as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.” She paused. “Well, I am now, that is. I had an absolutely killer headache at the time.”

The Doctor stared at her with an awed expression, as though she had just told him she was capable of surviving seven gunshots to the head. Which she had, and she was. “Rose Tyler, are you telling me you’re immortal and I never knew, despite the way I recognized it instantly in Jack?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m doomed to age, wither and die before you, all the while understanding perfectly the intense emotional agony I’ll be putting you through, having spent much of my life since the Time War angsting over a similar possibility?”

“Seems to be that way, yeah.” She shrugged. “Should I have said something earlier?”

The Doctor contemplated this, and then shrugged. “Probably, but nobody’s perfect.” He tugged her hand and started down the beach. “Come on. Perhaps if we buy in bulk we’ll get a discount on antidepressants.”

--

five: the regret

The Doctor and Rose stared at the spot where the TARDIS had been, then turned to stare at each other.

“It’s a shame he left so quickly,” the Doctor said eventually, frowning. “I was quite intrigued by the possibility of repeatedly performing fellatio on my exact duplicate.”

Rose considered her time as a teenager in the Harry Potter fandom, renowned for writing fantastic adult-rated Fred/George fanfiction.

“That is a shame,” she agreed, suddenly feeling very bereft.