Title: "Never His"
Author: Hopefully you've figured that out by now, but if not, the name's brokenheartedshipper, or Dori.
Characters, Pairings: Ten, Rose, Ten/Rose, Martha, Ten/Martha flirting, Donna, Ten/Donna friendship, Eleven, Amy/Eleven (as per usual), Rory, Amy/Rory
Summary: The Doctor reflects on all of his companions, and remembers a small moment shared with each of them. They are his comforts, his challengers, his equals and his accepters—quite possibly in that order.
Warnings: Love for all companions! If you dislike any of them so much you cannot bear to read anything good about them, then this is not for you.
Rating: T, once again for themes—and possibly swearing, if you know me…
Notes: No specific setting, just Eleven mind-rambling, I suppose.

*/*

If there is one thing to be said for Rose Tyler, it is that she was the only one who wanted him, and only him, from start to finish. The love that she had for the Doctor, so pure and untarnished by conflict or reason, was not something he experienced much. It was one of the things he envied in human life: the ability to love and be loved fully from birth to death, with no complications exceeding a row here or there over the color of the bathroom walls. (It was the Doctor's opinion that poor color choice was hardly what one would be focused on whilst inside a bathroom, but maybe that was just him.) Rose had truly believed that she would be with him forever, and he supposes now she will be in some way...though he is not allowed the same privilege. That was what she'd wanted, and she'd had faith it would happen. Blind faith, really. She trusted him so completely—it wasn't good for her, he supposes, how passionately she had loved him.

He knew even then that loving her back was dangerous—that was the Doctor's greatest curse: knowing that any love he bestows upon his wonderful, extraordinary, magnificent companions is only endangering both parties. He can only hurt people. But when someone hurls such undeterred love and stubborn devotion at you, it's hard not to love them back, at least a little bit. Especially when that someone was Rose. (And he'd loved her more than a little bit.)

She had the greatest smile, Rose did. It lit up her whole face. Those plump, upturned lips, those glowing cheeks. And from a distance, from a certain odd little place inside of him, the Doctor had always had this thing for Rose's eyebrows. They were absolutely perfect. Arched and thick and brown, contradicting her lemon-blonde hair…He loved them. They were like a fashion statement she was perpetually making. That was something he could see Rose doing.

There had been this one moment between trips when Rose had forced the Doctor to sit still for an entire hour—something he was, of course, not very good at—and eat a real, home-cooked dinner. It was Jackie Tyler's only good recipe: three-cheese Macaroni & Cheese with breadcrumbs on top. Rose took after her mother in that she was a terrible cook. Of course, the Tardis kitchen was chock-full of state-of-the-art appliances, whose shiny chrome buttons in abundance only served to confuse Rose further. She laughed at her own incompetence at every turn; eventually she threw her efforts into the trash and cooked up some good old Kraft Mac & Cheese.

"Bon appétit," she announced, setting a plate down in front of the Doctor, who grinned, shaking his head back and forth triumphantly as he said,

"Kraft. My favorite dish." He still likes it, even now, in his new body. That hasn't changed. He doubts it ever will.

*/*

Though Rose had been a comfort and a joy, it was Martha who saved the day most often. She was resourceful, smart, quick-on-her-feet in a way that perhaps Rose could not compete with. Of all the great and terrible things the Doctor has seen and done, it is Martha Jones who is the greatest source of regret to him (well, second greatest). In all the time she was with him, he could only pine for Rose and remember all the times he wished he could've kissed her, could have held her, could've told her that he...well, did it really need saying? Meanwhile, Martha saved his life—everyone's life—countless times, and he treated her terribly. After three trips he still would not call her his companion, even though on impulse he'd invited both Donna and the matron from 1913. The pain he must have caused her in his ignorance...

It was so rare that he gave Martha even the slightest hint that he cared about her. And that was really all she'd wanted. That was all she'd wanted, and he hadn't even given her that. She was always his last priority, though she was marvelous, truly marvelous. And beautiful.

Martha did not smile like Rose did, but she did have this certain look the Doctor had always been fond of (and would have been even more fond of, had he thought to pay more attention). It was actually a smirk. A cocky little grin, a head-tilt, like she knew how extraordinarily she was doing.

Martha only wanted him to see her, to really look at her for once, and he never did. Not once. She gave everything to him, and he did not think twice about her.

Martha didn't cook like Rose did—that wasn't her style. She was far too feminist for that. She'd slapped him once and he was quite sure she'd do it again were he to ask her to do anything involving a kitchen or, god forbid, a sandwich. But she did read. She loved to read. Not only the medical books she needed for her exams and her profession, but literature and biographies and exposés and such.

Sometimes, when they had a quiet moment (not often, it was true, but they did occur), Martha would come across something she particularly liked and—get this—she would always gasp just a little bit, like she couldn't believe her luck.

"What is it?" the Doctor would say. (He found that the quiet moments were the ones he allowed his fascination with Martha Jones to cautiously emerge from where he'd carelessly buried it.)

"Listen to this," she'd say, excited, and she'd read each little fact-nugget like it was even more wondrous than everything he'd ever encountered in the universe. He liked to be reminded that science could still surprise him.

Sometimes he'd ask her to read to him for hours at a time before they went their separate ways for bed. Once, it was Juliet's "Gallop Apace" monologue, only a few days after they'd left the author himself in 1599.

Martha spoke the words with a fervor and a passion so incredibly unexpected. It was as though she was an actress on a stage, wringing her hands through her hair, clasping her breast and looking towards the heavens…

"O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes

And may not wear them."

When she was finished, the Doctor stared at her with startled, wide eyes.

"And what the bloody hell was that?"

"It was my monologue, now don't you tease!" Martha ordered with a reproachful look and a smug smile.

"No teasing here, none at all," the Doctor replied in a high, amused tone, waving his hand defensively as he blew steam from the top of his mug.

"I played Juliet in my high school production. Always loved the "Gallop Apace" speech. It's so..."

"Sexy," the Doctor finished, glancing at Martha innocently over the top of his mug, held up to his smirking lips.

"Glad you thought so," she responded, and she did not blush even one little bit.

*/*

Now if Martha would've slapped him had he suggested he cook, Donna would have decked him for sure, and thrown in a good kick or two for good measure. Of all his companions, it was Donna who'd managed to put him in his place. Perhaps it was the way she took nothing seriously, or how she would not allow him to get soppy or melodramatic or self-loathing. "Get over yourself," was her basic message to him, and when he was around her, he did. He came the closest to happiness that he could manage because of Donna and her "get over yourself." She had been his best friend, the very best friend he would ever have. (Another ginger would later vie for the title, but complications of all sorts kept that girl from being truly a best friend.)

The thing about Donna was that he liked her; he really, truly liked her. He liked how argumentative she was. He liked her sarcasm, her foul mouth. It made him feel almost human, like a blunt reminder of reality. He genuinely liked being around Donna, and without the falling-in-love part like there had been with Rose or the sexual tension like with Martha, he was free to be Donna's friend, really, truly her friend. And he loved every blasted, bickering second of it.

It was like living forty years into a marriage, when all the sexual desire and romanticism is gone and all you've got is a map of each other's personalities and a big old box full of memories. They seemed to know each other so well, right from the start. The only way to explain it would be to say that they got each other.

"Donna, I'm working on reorganizing the molecular structure of these Fibular Triports, would you go up to the console and fetch me my screwdriver?"

Donna did not so much as look at him. She was reading a celebrity magazine. Leave it to Donna to still care what was up with Brangelina seven hundred years after they'd died.

"Get it yourself, why don't you," she suggested.

"I can't!" the Doctor exclaimed frantically. "The Fibular Triports are colliding with the Greyshan briggumarolls and soon they'll—" A great spurt of sparks erupted from the structure in front of the Doctor. Good thing he was wearing his goggles.

Donna was unfazed. She stood up, and as the Doctor miserably surveyed the fused mess of wire and bolts before him, he heard her footsteps stomping up towards the console, then back down, screwdriver in hand.

She walked over to him, held it out, but just as the Doctor reached for it she pulled it out of his grasp.

I just knew it, the Doctor thought. I could tell from that bloody look on her face.

"Now Doctor," she said, "I am not your…ball boy."

"'Ball boy?' What d'you mean 'ball boy'?"

"Oh, you know—in American baseball, they go and fetch the balls after the hitter's, you know…hit them...? It's—it's no matter. What I'm saying is, I'm not going to be the dumb old dog bringing you the newspaper."

"Oh, not another one of you insisting you're not the tin dog!"

"Tin dog? I never said anything 'bout a tin dog, you dumb spaceman! Just—" Donna placed her hands on her hips and let out an exasperated huff. "If you want my help fixing the Tardis, you ask for it for real. It's not as complicated as you make it out to be, I reckon. You're not that impressive, you blithering idiot."

"Oi!" the Doctor shouted. But Donna only gave him a reproachful look. As usual, she'd put him in his place. He could not impress her, therefore he was her friend. "Oh, all right," he caved. "Come here and I'll show you what to do."

*/*

When the Doctor thought of Amelia Pond, the first word that came to mind was "bittersweet." He couldn't quite place way, but he figured he knew the reason and just didn't fancy thinking about it. Though of course they were good friends, and would be for as long as he could squeeze it out of her, he could not deny the feeling that there was something more to them, something more to the Doctor and Amy, Amy and the Doctor. They had snogged once, you know, though he'd only permitted himself to kiss her back for a second or two (which still was a second or two too long).

She was the girl who waited for him. And now he was doomed to wait for her, for much longer than twelve years. For the rest of his life, probably.

Was this what it felt like? he wondered. Waiting for something you know is far past hopeless? Feeling this pain, this sensation of holding something in your arms and knowing it can never be yours? All of it only makes the Doctor grieve for what he has done to her even more. The guilt—it overwhelms him sometimes. Floods him with regret and longing and despair till he is drowning in it. He feels his world fade around him and his lungs close, till the guilt takes him over from the inside out.

*/*

What the Doctor does not know is that he is not the only one to feel what it is to hold something—someone—in his arms and know it can never be his.

Rory. Rory feels it too. But not just when he holds her.

When he kisses her, he feels it. For just a split second at the dawn of every kiss, it feels like she will pull away.

When he hugs her, nestling his chin into the crevice of her long neck and curved shoulder and closing his eyes to savor the moment, he can just feel that her eyes are open beside him, empty for a moment.

When he is the closest to her that is possible to be, he feels it then. A distance, an impossible distance. But it's there. A silent thought can be oh so clear. You'd be surprised how many times he knows she isn't with him at all.

THE END

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