The Time Rotor glowed its usual calm green, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. My work on the TARDIS was far from complete, but at least nothing was rattling or sparking. Even her hum sounded content since I joined the crew.
None of us was talking. We were all processing what happened in our own way. The Doctor bounced on his heels like he always did; he practically hopped between controls just to have something to do.
Rose leaned on the railing, facing away from us, her chin resting on her arms.
I read the console readouts and made mental notes of the next fixes.
"All right," the Doctor broke the silence, grinning at Rose. "I promised one future and one past adventure. Now it's time to go home. Same street, same block. Twelve hours after you left. You won't even have missed breakfast."
Rose turned around. Mentally, she was still in Cardiff. And by the look on her face, I didn't think she heard the undertone in the Doctor's voice—like he might bring her home forever.
"Twelve hours," she repeated, still not quite with us.
I rested my palms lightly on the console and watched the Doctor input the coordinates. I could feel the subtle drag on the time vector parameter—the TARDIS, yet again, quietly nudging the landing curve. She was going to drop us out of the Vortex just a little too late.
I could've corrected her, but I didn't. Missing posters, police reports, and the… domestic turbulence would only be a temporary headache. The Slitheen family, on the other hand, had to be dealt with.
Just thinking this left a bad taste in my mouth. Temporary headache. A year of Jackie thinking her daughter might be dead. Mickey, the last person who saw her living with a mixture self-blame, hatred and guilt. Rose would return to a different life just because this timeline would be more… efficient.
I explained to my inner self this was necessary. I told myself I'd fix the damage after the crisis. But the guilt was still present as heavy as the console itself under my hands. If Rose ever found out that I had chosen this, it would be sorely my fault. Not the Doctor's or the TARDIS'. Well maybe mine and the TARDIS'.
I swallowed down my thoughts and kept my hands off the controls.
"More or less," the Doctor added. "Give or take. Couple hours. Day. Day and a half."
Rose finally zoned in on us and squinted at him.
"Don't do that," she said. "You're doing it again."
"What?" he asked.
"The eye thing. When you're guessing," she said. "What happened just last time."
"I am not guessing," he said, offended. "I'm piloting."
The TARDIS hummed, backing him up.
I laughed under my breath. He could just read the feedback the console gave him. He never did. He was so confident in his piloting skills he wouldn't even double-check whether the systems had it or not. The TARDIS didn't even have to try to hijack the coordinates.
The Doctor threw a lever. The column surged with artron energy, emerald light flashing up and down with the Time Rotor's movement. We dropped into the Vortex, the familiar tug of the Time Stream something I could feel in my bones. Sometimes I wondered if the Doctor felt it too, or if it was just me.
"All right," he said louder. "Powell Estate. 2005. Short hop."
At the last second—after he stopped looking—the date indicator quietly ticked over a single digit.
The engines eased. Way smoother than I remembered from the show. My maintenance really had started to pay off. The TARDIS settled with a satisfied sigh.
"We're here," the Doctor declared. "Told you. Easy."
He bounced to the doors and threw them open.
Light rushed into the console room. Cold, fresh morning air—the kind you got after rain. Voices from the street echoed somewhere beyond the courtyard, and a dog barked at absolutely nothing.
Rose moved too. She stopped in the doorway, took a big breath, and looked out at the familiar buildings like they were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen.
"Oh," she breathed. "Home."
She gave us a big grin and ran out into the courtyard.
I followed, but stopped in the doorway, leaning on the frame.
From here, I could see the whole place. I couldn't help feeling a little of what she was feeling, even if I kept it buried. This was my home too, technically. Same familiar brick, same lights, same patch of grass around the cobblestone.
And also a lot of posters plastered everywhere.
ROSE TYLER
MISSING
One poster in particular, on the stairwell door, flapped gently in the breeze.
Rose stared at it, her laughter dying on her lips.
"...What?" was all she managed.
"Doctor," she said quietly, pointing.
"What?" He followed her finger. "Hmm?—Oh," he said.
We stood there like three idiots, reading the date printed under her photo. I made an effort not to smile.
MISSING SINCE: MARCH 2005.
"It's been twelve months," I said. "Not twelve hours."
Rose turned to me.
"A year?" Her voice cracked. "I've been gone a year?"
The Doctor opened his mouth, then shut it again. He gave her a faint, embarrassed grin.
"Well," he said weakly, "you haven't aged a day?"
The small chuckle I'd been holding back finally slipped out.
Rose glared at us. If looks alone could kill, we would've regenerated on the spot.
"ROSE!"
A shout came from above us. Jackie Tyler. She sprinted down the staircase, her hair flying, her cardigan only halfway on.
"Mum?" Rose whispered.
Jackie didn't slow down. When she reached Rose, she threw herself at her.
Rose yelped as she was dragged into a hug.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" Jackie sobbed into her shoulder. "Where the hell have you been? You just vanished! A YEAR, ROSE! A WHOLE YEAR!"
"I'm okay, I'm okay," Rose said, arms coming up, hugging her back. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I—"
Jackie shoved her back just far enough to see her face, hands gripping her shoulders.
"You're not fine!" she shouted. "You disappeared, you stupid girl! We thought you were dead!"
Her gaze flicked past Rose, finally noticing the two men standing by a blue police box.
Her expression changed immediately. I was wrong—if these looks could kill…
"You—!" she blurted, pointing at the Doctor.
The Doctor lifted a hand and gave an uncertain wave, trying to smile.
"Hi," he said. "Nice to see you again."
"And you, Steven?" Jackie said, eyes narrowing at me. "Is this the kind of man you were all along? Where have you taken her? What have you done to her?"
I raised both hands, palms out.
"In my defence, I did suggest we double-check the date."
The Doctor shot me a look of betrayal.
"Did you?" he demanded.
"…Internally," I said.
The courtyard door slammed. Mickey stepped out.
He froze when he saw Rose.
"Rose?" he said, the word coming out with the weight of a year's worth of grief. "Rose?"
She laughed through tears that were already forming in her eyes.
"Hi," she said. "You didn't think I'd run off on you, did you?"
He started toward Rose—then saw the Doctor behind her.
The colour drained from his face and came back as anger.
"You," he spat.
When he was within reach, he threw a punch so hard that when it caught the Doctor's jaw, the Doctor had to stumble back a few steps.
"Where did you take her?" Mickey shouted. "They said you'd chopped her up, they came and questioned me, they thought I'd done it—"
"And you!" He turned to me. "You—"
Mickey didn't even know what to say to the man he'd thought was his best friend.
"I didn't chop anyone up," the Doctor said indignantly, holding his chin. "We went to space—and Cardiff—and 1869—"
"No," Jackie snapped. "No, I'm not listening to this. Rose, get upstairs. Now!"
"Mum—"
"Now!"
Rose looked between us.
"I'll be back," she told the Doctor.
He shrugged, leaning against the TARDIS.
"Door's always open," he said.
"Not if I've got anything to do with it," Jackie shouted.
She wrapped an arm around Rose and pulled her toward the stairwell. Mickey followed, still throwing murderous looks back at us.
They disappeared inside.
Silence settled over the courtyard.
The Doctor pushed himself off the TARDIS, rubbing his jaw.
"I'm rubbish at this bit," he muttered.
"Oh, re-entry burns," I said. "They're always messy."
"You weren't the one who got punched." He snorted. "I was never punched by a boyfriend before."
He turned, opened the TARDIS door, then paused.
"Give them an hour," he said. "Let Jackie shout. Let Rose… process. Then we'll check in."
"Well, while you do that, I have a little catch-up to do with my previous life here." I lifted the hem of my jacket. "I'm also overdue for a change."
The Doctor thought for a little, but ultimately didn't make any comments, just nodded and walked back into the TARDIS, closing the doors behind him, while I turned around and left in the opposite direction.
I didn't even try my old apartment. After a year, it would've been cleared out and re-let. If the lock had been changed, I'd just be wasting time.
And I didn't trust what would happen if it hadn't.
Somewhere in there, there'd be evidence of Steven's life: receipts, photos, a toothbrush, a silly keyring—mundane proof that he'd been real. And the problem wasn't that it "wasn't mine". The problem was that my head still couldn't agree on what mine even meant.
I could fix machines. I couldn't fix that.
So I didn't go.
I headed to an ATM instead. If the account still worked, it gave me one clean, practical step forward.
I found one nearby. Card in, code punched, balance. Still live. Nice. I took out enough cash to rebuild a basic kit and headed for a mall and a hardware store.
Clothes first.
I tried one of the chain places and walked straight back out. Everything was thin, decorative, built to look worn-out without doing any actual work.
I found a more practical section at the back: heavy-duty cargo trousers in dark grey, reinforced knees, decent stitching. Enough pockets to carry a few small tools without turning myself into a walking cupboard. I held them up, checked the fit in the mirror, then took two pairs.
Shirts were easy. Plain fitted T-shirts in solid colours—dark blue, charcoal, a muted red. No logos, no oversized seams, nothing that would snag.
Boots were non-negotiable. I went to an actual shoe shop instead of trusting "industrial" fashion. Sturdy leather, ankle support, thick soles, good grip. They felt heavy at first, then right, like my feet had stopped arguing with me.
With that sorted, I went to the hardware store.
This part at least made sense. Rows of tools, the smell of metal and oil, people quietly debating drill bits. Most of it was crude compared to Gallifreyan kit, but crude doesn't mean useless.
Gloves first: thick leather, reinforced palms, long cuffs. Tough enough to take abuse, flexible enough to work with small parts.
Then belts and carrying.
The shoulder rig was the closest thing I could adapt quickly. I picked a plain black leather one and ignored the holster shape—what mattered was the harness and the straps. With a few extra attachment points, it would hold tools instead of a weapon.
For the waist I took a wide leather belt and a few small modular pouches. Not a full toolbox. One for a compact screwdriver set, one for a flashlight, one left empty. Room to expand later.
I added a simple canvas shoulder bag as well. Somewhere to throw parts, notes, or anything I didn't want banging into my ribs.
Goggles took longer. Most of what I found was either cheap plastic or costume junk. Eventually I found tinted, shatter-resistant lenses in a low-profile frame with a decent strap. Practical. Low attention.
Temporary, like everything else. Once I had the materials, I'd build a sonic equivalent.
Tools stayed minimal for now: a multitool, a precision driver set, a compact digital multimeter, a roll of electrical tape. The rest would come later—after I had access to materials that wouldn't fail the first time they met something abnormal.
At the checkout, nobody looked twice. I paid and walked out with two bags and the quiet relief of having something that was actually mine.
In a public restroom, I washed up and changed.
Old clothes off, folded once out of habit, then dumped. New trousers, boots tight, T-shirt. Belt and pouches adjusted until everything sat where my hands would expect it. Goggles pushed up on my forehead, gloves clipped to the belt.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Better. Not a uniform. Not a costume. Just work gear that wouldn't get in the way.
"Right," I said, mostly to set the line in my head. "Now we go find the Doctor."
I pulled the shoulder rig into place, grabbed the bags, and stepped back out into the city.
About an hour had passed since I'd left him.
I came back into the courtyard. The TARDIS sat exactly where we'd left her.
I knocked once, more out of habit than necessity.
The door cracked open.
The Doctor was on the other side, leaning on the frame like he'd been there the entire hour, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral.
"All right. I've got boots, belts, and enough electrical tape to hold the universe together for at least a day."
He looked at me with a tired smile. "And I've been getting shouted at."
"So you're saying I timed this perfectly," I said. "By the time I got back, you'd have done the whole emotional cleanup and we're ready to move on."
He gave me a thin smile. "I did the cleanup."
"And?"
"And then Jackie started the second round."
I exhaled through my nose. "Right. Of course she did."
The Doctor nodded toward the flat. "Rose is trying. Mickey's still looking at me like he wants to remove my head."
"Normal human bonding," I said. "Did you… say anything useful? Or just grin and hope it sorted itself out?"
He looked genuinely offended. "I'm very good at grinning."
"I noticed."
He stepped aside to let me in. "Give it another few minutes. Then we go back out. You can stand there looking competent and I'll do the talking."
I walked past him. "Fine. But if this turns into a third round, I'm claiming diplomatic immunity and hiding in the wardrobe."
He pointed at me. "See? You're learning."
***
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A/N: It's been a while. As I mentioned previously, I intended to publish this next part together, but to be honest, it's still not finished. I keep finding problems and rewriting, and I think I've fallen into an editing loop. So, I've decided to stick with the final version and publish this 'intro chapter', as it's surely good enough, and I'll publish the rest in a day or two.