Disclaimer: Characters contained within do not belong to me.

Author's Notes: Although I'm one of those Americans who's seen up to 5x04, there's no spoilers past episode two..so far. I expect that eventually this will become an AU, but right now it's just the start of something that popped into my head this afternoon. I hope you enjoy it!

BTW, if you're also reading my story about the Tenth Doctor and Queen Elizabeth, I haven't abandoned it. I broke my pinky five weeks ago and have only just started typing again. Updates will happen soon! Thanks for hanging on with me!


All These Things That I've Done
by Kristen Elizabeth


"I get a room?" Amy's disbelieving stare moved back and forth between the Doctor and the spacious suite he'd led her to only minutes after leaving Starship UK. "A room of my own...in your ship?"

"'Course you do. Frequent flyer's privilege." He seemed slightly puzzled by her reluctance to step inside. "Where else do you expect to wash up? Unless you fancy meeting Winston Churchill in your nightgown, smelling like Star Whale sick."

Amy narrowed her eyes at him. "I have news for you, Time Lord. You don't smell so awfully pleasant yourself."

"That's so often true." He rushed on, "You'll find a washroom attached and I'm almost positive that the wardrobe is down the hall to the left." The Doctor thought for second. "Make that the right." He pulled at his chin for another moment. "No, definitely the left."

"And...I can borrow whatever I want from it?"

"Hats, shoes, scarves, police uniforms--whatever catches your eye." He patted the wall of the TARDIS with great reverence. "For as long as you're here, she'll be your home, too. Welcome aboard, Amy Pond." With that, he sauntered off, presumably to take care of his own soiled, smelly clothes.

The sudden realization that, friendly creature or not, she'd let the Star Whale's bile dry on her skin sent Amy rushing for the promised bathroom. It was only after her very long, very hot shower that she began to explore her room.

A bed, a dressing table, a chair, a small lounge--it was basically like a nice hotel suite. Comfortable, but not personal. With towels wrapped around her body and her hair, Amy sat down at the dressing table.

"Don't suppose there'd be a brush in here," she asked herself as she began opening drawers. They weren't empty; there were hair clips and a few pieces of jewelry, a jar of beauty cream, a curling iron and a hand mirror with the initials D.N. etched in the silver. "Maybe there's one in the library with the pool."

In the last drawer, Amy found a familiar red, faux-leather bound booklet. A British passport. She opened it flat on the table.

"Rose Marion Tyler," she read aloud. Curious, she began to flip through the pages. "Who are you and where did you go?"

At one point, the passport's owner had been to France, as evidenced by the blue stamp on the first page. There were no more stamps after that, just hastily scrawled words and dates. 1869. Satellite 5. 1941. Laylora. New Earth. 1879. 1953. Krop Tor. 2012.

There was nothing after that. Amy flipped back to the picture of a beaming bottle-blond bombshell. Suddenly, it dawned on her. "You traveled with him, didn't you?" she asked the photograph. The girl, who couldn't have been any older than she was, just kept smiling.

"So, where are you now, Rose Tyler?"


It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring. -- Carl Sagan


"Rose? Did you notice this?"

Dipping her brush back into the can of paint on the table beside them, Rose blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "Did I notice what?"

When she received no reply, she glanced at her Doctor. He was squinting at the wall, his nose less than an inch away from being covered in Lilac Mist. She cleared her thoat.

Immediately, he swung his attention towards her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." If she'd managed to smother the yawn that snuck up on her just then, she would have gotten away with the lie. "I'm a little tired," she amended her answer. "It's to be expected."

The man who now called himself John reached for her paintbrush. "You know I can finish this on my own."

"Oh, really?" Rose challenged, holding the brush away from him. "I had to remind you to set tarps down on the floor."

"And I still say a purple floor would be brilliant."

She couldn't hide her smile any more than she'd been able to hide her yawn. "Tell me what's so terribly interesting about the wall."

But it wasn't as easy to distract him when they were on the subject of her general health. "Can you imagine what Jackie would say if she knew I was letting you do this?" He pointed a long, lilac- smudged finger at her. "She'd have my head, she would, and she'd sleep well that night."

"Well, that's just one of the many advantages to having our own flat--Mum has no say over what I do or don't do here."

"Ha!" he snorted. "Tell her that. Only let me know first, so I can be out of the country when you do."

Rose sighed as patiently as possible. "So...the wall?"

Once again her Doctor ignored her. Making a sucessful second grab for her brush, he chucked it into the can along with his own. "Why don't we finish this later? It's almost time for dinner."

"John..."

"What'll it be tonight?" He rubbed his hands together. "Beans on toast? Bangers and mash? Fish with custard?"

Rose scowled. "I've never had a craving for that."

"No, but it doesn't sound half bad, does it?"

"Doctor!" He stopped, defeated by the exasperation in her tone. Rose put her hand on the swell of her stomach; their baby kicked just then, as if he or she could feel its mother's touch. "What's with the bloody wall?'

He took his time replying, as if choosing his words with great care because the wrong combination might worry or upset her.

"Well...as far as walls go, it's fairly sturdy..."

"But?" she pressed.

"But..." Reaching out, her half-human Doctor dragged his finger through the wet paint, tracing a jagged line over the spot where their child's crib would soon sit. "There's a crack in it."


To Be Continued