Not Like the Other
He was like a song that she couldn't remember the words to. She knew the tune, knew the name, but the lyrics hung in her mouth and went nowhere.
And then he started to sing along, humming with her that words he didn't know or even pretend to know. He'd snap his fingers (fingers that didn't belong to him), tap his toes (toes she'd stepped on dancing in the TARDIS), and pull her in close for a waltz.
They were a song. They were a dance neither of them knew.
He was like a child sometimes. She'd find him halfway up the refrigerator with his hand pawing for the cookie jar. He always had something in his mouth. The oral fixation was something he'd picked up from the Doctor, one of the many things that reminded her of the long-gone Timelord. He licked the bedpost, claiming he wanted to remember what tonight tasted like. He stuck pens between his teeth, let them dangle there. He smiled, a stick of celery or three stuck in his mouth.
He might very well have thought he was some sort of child sometimes.
He threw tantrums when he didn't get his way. Then again, not so unlike the Doctor--or one of him. He told her, as they lay in the yard and stared up at blazing stars, that he had dreams of lives that weren't his, were never his. He would take her hand to his mouth and let it linger there, not quite touching his lips, letting his breath move past her knuckles, then finally duck in and kiss the back of her hand.
He said that he remembered ancient mountains, a man called the Brigadier, the primordial soup that the universe first crawled from. He remembered days at the academy, every slimy professor he'd ever had. But they weren't his memories, he'd remind her, remind himself. They were borrowed. He wasn't a Timelord.
And she would remind him, as she rolled to stare down into his sad, inquisitive face, that he had her, and that was one memory that was all his. The Doctor didn't have that memory. The Doctor didn't share her bed, her name, her life. Not anymore. That was his.
And he would smile. Something easy, soft and pliable and loving. Something carefree, something the Doctor couldn't afford.
They had their own song. Walking along the corridors of their home, hands linked, swaying to the beat in their heads. Knowing nods, smiles, nudges. The way he laughed and cooed when a child approached him and tugged at his hair, the faces he made. Those were his own, not the Doctor's.
He told her that he loved her. He told her every day. He told her five times a day. He never failed to tell her. That was his. She was his.
And when she kissed him, she almost never thought of the Doctor instead.
AN: Hello, I promise this is the last you'll see of me for this project! This Valentine's Day, I have literally nothing to do, so I've decided to pick my 14 favorite pairings and write some sappy vignettes for them! Not all of them will be from one fandom, so if you're interested, check out my profile! What do we call this guy? 10.5? Handy? I like Handy. Anyway, the Adventures of Handy and Rose could be very interesting, I think they could have a fantastic dynamic. Because the way I see it, he's not the Doctor, and that's what makes it so great. He could be anything he wanted to be. :D Anyway, thanks for reading, leave some love, and stay awesome!!
