hi... so, i'm new to the DW fandom. On season three. Third episode. So please don't judge me over this fanfic. it's just something I thought up over my Rose and Tenth feels and no.
I don't know what I've done, but I don't own. Thank you.
Rose.
by Everyone's a Mortal.
He'd talk about her, sometimes.
When they'd come back to the TARDIS, tired, and have a little too much to drink (well, Martha never did; she was too moral for that), or even in his sleep, he'd slump down onto the floor or onto whatever couch there was, and start mumbling.
At first Martha didn't think that Timelords could get drunk. She thought he was just being weird. But she asked one day, and apparently they could. Apparently they did have similarities to humans.
So when he'd talk about her, that girl that came before Martha, she'd listen. She'd listen to all the stories and thoughts and facts and jokes. But he never went further than that point in history; he never went before that. Never before her.
It was like his life revolved around her.
He'd talk about her, aye, that he would. The Doctor. He would slump down against his humming, living TARDIS and mumble, "ALLONS-Y!" A few hundred times, before starting his tale.
"There were living Santas! It was incredible, Martha, incredible! I mean, tell me, have you ever seen living Santas in London? With tuba guns and attacking trees?"
"Yes, Doctor. Weird sight."
"Oh, but they weren't real Santas. And I-I was regenerating! Couldn't do a thing! Then came a giant spaceship and then Rose...," His voice would become quieter, wistful, even, in his drunken, tired state; "oh, Rose. Rose Tyler. My Rose Tyler. So very brave. Always so alive, always so beautiful and funny. Rose Tyler and her ridiculous ideas. Her beautiful ideas. Did you ever see her ideas? That Rose Tyler."
"No, Doctor. Heard they were wonderful, though."
"I love her." Those were always the last words he'd whisper before falling asleep. But sometimes sleep told more than drunkenness. He'd say things, like how beautiful she was, with her blonde hair and brown eyes. He'd mention some place in Norway called Bad Wolf Bay, and oh, he'd dream about her.
And over time it became clear to Martha; the Doctor was in love. He was in love and probably would always be, and even if he did ever find someone else to love, she knew he'd still love Rose Tyler.
"That Rose Tyler." She'd say to him, some nights.
"Oi, Martha, only I can say that about her."
And when he was sober, she'd ask him, silently teasing, enjoying his blank stare: "What's her name?" Like she'd forgotten.
"Who's?"
"The last girl. The one of which you're so very fond."
He'd hesitate; always did. "Rose. Her name is Rose." And Martha would nod.
It was so tragic, how stuck the two were. How the Doctor would sometimes touch that purple sweater and turn away, walk away into some secret TARDIS room to cry. It was so tragic, the way he always had that last piece of Rose in his pocket, just to give him strength.
He'd talk about her, sometimes.
When they'd come back to the TARDIS, tired, and have a little too much to drink (well, Martha never did; she was too moral for that), or even in his sleep, he'd slump down onto the floor or onto whatever couch there was, and start mumbling.
He'd say her name.
"She had a beautiful name. Beautiful. Her name... her name was Rose."