AN: I do not own The Doctor. Sadly.

He's not her type.

He's tall and lanky.

He's cute and goofy and makes her smile. But there's something about him that IS her usual weakness.

His eyes, as beautiful as they are on his prettyperfect face, are wise and old.

They make the scars marring her arms foolish in their depth.

One night-

their last night sipping coffee-

he cups her cheek in his too large hands and kisses her softly.

He tells her, in no uncertain terms, that she is kind and she is beautiful and she is important.

She believes him.

He disappears afterwards in his brilliant blue box-

amidst the stars shining so bright-

and she doesn't ever get to say thank you.

The Doctor saves her.

Directly.

And she doesn't even understand how much she means to him.

She's his type.

Big, brown eyes.

Curling strawberry hair.

She's sweet and sardonically sour and she makes him laugh.

But, unusually, there's a bitter sorrow in her heart that she carries heavily.

Sorrow he understands all too well.

One night-

their last night sipping coffee-

she lets him kiss her, her small hands shaking as they thread in his hair.

She makes him feel, without any guilt or horrorstricken words, that he is a savior.

That he is kind and good and everything he's ever wanted to be.

He leaves afterwards in his brilliant blue box-

amidst the stars shining so bright-

before he can change that.

The beauty saves him.

Directly. And he never understands how much saving her means to the world.