I'm not totally sure how to explain this! I just sort of found it sitting in my fics folder tonight, and it's apparently a few months old! I think I must have just been having some major Doctor/Rose feels and no way to vent about it...well here you go, I guess! It's a little sad, just as a warning...

The Doctor sometimes dreamed of Rose Tyler.

It was only sometimes, though. After all, the Doctor led a busy life and rarely needed sleep. Most times Amy and Rory went to sleep for a solid eight hours or so, during a designated "night time" that Amy had said occurred after thirteen to seventeen hours of "running around like decapitated chickens". During the eight hours the couple was gone the Doctor would keep himself busy; tinkering around the TARDIS, going for a swim, taking apart the sonic and cleaning it, reading several hundred books, etc.

Once in a while the Doctor would resign himself to the clutches of dreams after dropping bits of the sonic repeatedly whilst trying to clean it, or re-reading the same book four times without noticing. Even he needed to rest sometimes.

He would climb through the many hallways of the TARDIS, stroking her walls in sleepy love, muttering to himself about putting off rest for so long until he reached his bedchamber. His room was the largest bedroom in the TARDIS—and why not! He was the pilot of the ship, the captain to this vessel, surely he was allowed the grandest of bedrooms to rest in. Not that any of the other bedrooms were small—the Doctor was not a negligent host.

He would slide off his jacket and toss it onto an Inca statue he had picked up so very long ago, and had been the resting place of many a piece of clothing, such as a long striped scarf, a jacket with a celery stick in the lapel, a dark leather coat, and more recently a beige trench coat.

The bowtie was next—it got tossed into an old jar where the others were kept for quick access.

Then the suspenders, boots, pants, shirt, and underwear were all dumped into a pile at the foot of the bed. The Doctor would slide naked under the heavy covers of his king-size bed, feeling the weight of the sheets against his skin and sighing.

Approximately ten sleeps ago, Rose had been in this bed.

The Doctor had been the last him then, tall and thin, slight-weakness-in-the-dorsal-tubercle him. He had decided to sleep after spending a stressful ten days stuck on the planet Enilosag, a place that constantly puffed gasoline from massive pores in the planet's crust. He had spent the entire time there trying to fix the TARDIS, converting its trifuliatory intake system into something gasoline tolerant after crash landing there. The people there just wouldn't leave him alone, bringing him food and drink every five minutes, and since he and Rose really couldn't eat or drink anything of theirs it was both frustrating and annoying. Eventually he had fixed the TARDIS enough to high-tail it out of there and refuel at the rift in Cardiff, tossing the gasoline-trifuliatory system into an incinerator almost immediately. Rose had said if she smelled gasoline within the next fifteen years she would throw up.

Then they had laughed, bright, twinkling laughter that made Rose's eyes crinkle up and the Doctor's ribs ache. Rose had declared that she need to sleep and had marched off to her room, and, after thinking for a second, the Doctor had decided to do the same.

The Doctor had been lying in this very bed for about an hour when the door to his room had slowly pushed open, light from the hallway stealing into the room and illuminating the blonde hair that peeked around the door.

The Doctor had sat up in alarm. Not a single one of his companions had ever found his bedroom; he had purposely chosen the room because it was possibly the hardest one to locate in the ship. He'd never even told any of his companions that he had his own bedroom—how did Rose get there?

"Doctor?" She had asked softly, poking her head into the dark room.

The Doctor had been horribly aware that he was naked, and unsure as to what to do, simply replied, "Yes?"

"I…I can't sleep." Rose stepped into the room, and the Doctor could see the curve of her hip as the light from the hall shone through her nightgown. He swallowed dryly.

"Ah…do you want me to get up? We can talk awhile, if you'd like." He said soothingly, his heart racing. She was in his room. His space, his private area that only smelled of him and knickknacks.

Rose stepped forward slowly and closed the door behind her. Darkness once again took over the room and the Doctor could barely see her. "Rose?"

He was beginning to breathe very heavily. Tilting his head, he could hear the soft pad of her bare feet against the soft surface of his bedroom floor, coming closer. He licked his lips. "Rose..?"

And then she was there, at the side of the bed. "Scootch over."

And then the Doctor was complying, sliding across the sheets to the left side of the bed so that Rose could climb under the covers as well. The Doctor heard the soft sound of lacy fabric moving across skin and then the faint muffled sound of it hitting the floor and then the Doctor really was breathing hard. What was going on?

Rose slid under the covers, and the Doctor felt a small dip in the mattress from her body now lying next to his. He rolled to the left, leaving his back toward her. His heart was trying to force its way out of his throat and his cheeks were on fire. And then he felt her hand on his hips.

"Rose—"

"Shhhh."

She scooted forward, pressing herself along his backside, sighing as their skin touched. He could feel her entire body down his, her breasts pressed against his back, her stomach, her legs. She tucked her face into his naked shoulder, her breath warm and fluttering against his skin.

The Doctor released a long breath and groped behind him for her hand. She laced her fingers through his and rested their hands on his hip. Suddenly he felt absolutely exhausted.

"How…did you find this room?"

Rose sighed softly. "I wanted to find you...the TARDIS just showed me the way, I guess." She shifted slightly against him, somehow allowing more skin to be in contact, and she was just so warm. "I just…needed you." She pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed deeply, and within a minute, she was fast asleep.

The Doctor's eyelids were treacherous, and soon enough he too was lost to sleep, her warm body against his as they rested and dreamed.

That had been ten sleeps ago. That had been the last rest he'd had when Rose had been on the TARDIS; it had been followed by three when Martha had been aboard, followed by two with Donna, and then so far, five with Amy and Rory. Rose had been the only one to sleep in his bed.

The Doctor would sometimes allow himself to roll onto the right side and simply breathe. It smelled of flowers and something he knew he felt but rarely allowed himself to resurrect: love.

His previous incarnation had been designed for Rose, as much as he told himself his loved ones had no effect on his regenerations. He knew that had been the case. The Doctor had loved her in his ninth incarnation, naturally; however, after his regeneration into his tenth self, it was as though his love had transformed into something much deeper and afflicting. It was as though he himself was more capable of love and affection, less full of self-loathing and anger. He changed for her.

Without her or anyone else to affect him, he had regenerated into his current self with only one goal: to stop feeling so much pain. His tenth self's last few months of life had been sad, aching, and cripplingly lonely. His companions had all left him, and Rose, Rose, his Rose was gone again. Forever. He regenerated for no one but himself—he regenerated and hoped to escape the pain.

And now he ended up with himself: goofy, childish and a little oblivious towards others' feelings. He turned into someone with emotional defenses that the previous version of him had lacked. Defenses that were not only outwardly, but inwardly as well.

On a typical day, the Doctor did not think of those he had lost for a single moment. He did not think of Rose. He adventured, he planned, he escaped, he laughed, his mind graciously preventing sad thoughts from creeping in.

It was during these moments of rest that they all came shuddering back. His barriers could only go so far—they could not be stopped as he lay in bed, in that place that was only his and Rose's, and they could not be stopped in his dreams.

Tonight, the Doctor fell asleep on the right side of the bed, his heart aching in that familiar echo of lost love.

In his dream he was sitting on a smooth rock at the Bad Wolf Bay, the cool wind tugging at his hair and clothing like sharp fingers. The tide brushed his boots. The TARDIS stood proudly off in the distance, having somehow achieved interdimensional travel without causing the end of the universe. It was a dream- the details did not have to exist if he did not want them to.

The Doctor was waiting for her. He needed her, needed to have her see him as he was now. The Doctor needed her.

Rose walked across the wet shore, her blonde hair tossing about her face in the wind, eyes dark.

The Doctor stood as she neared him, nervously clenching his fingers, and straightened his usual slouched posture. She stopped about a metre away.

"Hello." She said, a dozen emotions playing in turns on her face. Anticipation, disappointment, intrigue, bewilderment, love…

"Hello." He replied. She was still so beautiful to him, even in this new body with his new tastes. Despite all his defenses, his changes, his love for her was still there, beating behind them all.

"So this is the new you." She said, stepping forward and raising a hesitant hand. The Doctor leaned his face into her palm, smiling, cupping his hand onto hers against his cheek.

"Yes, I'm all new. New new Doctor." He said softly, and felt relief when she smiled at the old phrase.

"You're a little…" She gave him a swift one-over, her chocolate eyes flashing with amusement and longing for the past. "dorky."

The Doctor, unable to stop himself, reached up and adjusted his bowtie. "I happen to think I look very cool." But he was grinning.

"I seem to remember a time when you wore a leather jacket…" Rose said, tilting her head.

"Yes, but I also had no hair." The Doctor returned, giving his full head of hair a light toss to prove his point, and Rose had to nod in agreement.

The two stared at each other for a few moments, the girl and the man, before the girl closed the space between them and brought the man in for a tight hug. It was different than before; he was shorter now, he fit a little different along her than he did before. It was different, but it was the same, and it was all he wanted.

And the dream shifted, burst, and the Doctor was staring up at the dark ceiling of his room.

He wondered why his dream had been so short—but then again, dreamspace and the flow of normal time weren't exactly the same. He had probably been asleep for several hours. Sure enough, he felt exceedingly well-rested, and sitting up, he discovered that he seemed to be sitting a little taller, as though the weight of the world had lifted from his normally hunched shoulders-

No.

Wait.

That wasn't it. The Doctor raised a hand and dragged his down his bare chest, feeling the shape of it under his fingers. Increasingly suspicious, the Doctor ran his tongue over his teeth and thrust a hand into his hair, groaning in dismay when he confirmed that he was in fact still dreaming. This was his last regeneration's body.

But why would he dream this? His surroundings looked exactly like the same as usual…but with this past body of his. He was sitting in his bed, naked, the room dark and warm…

The door to his bedroom creaked open, the light from the hallway spilling in, and the Doctor could see blonde hair. He let out an involuntary groan, burying his hand into his wild hair and grabbing the strands miserably.

"Doctor?"

Of course. He was going to relive this night. He didn't want that, though; as much as he cherished the memory, he wanted Rose to accept him as he was now, for the man he had become. This man was no longer him. This was only going to make him hurt later.

"Yes?" He replied, filling in the short conversation as he needed to. He stared greedily at Rose peeking behind the door, wishing that things could be different.

"I…I can't sleep." Rose whispered, stepping around from behind the door and into the room. The Doctor nodded.

"Ah…do you want me to get up? We can talk awhile, if you'd like." He said gently.

When her response was shutting the door behind her, the Doctor's pulse, despite knowing exactly how this sequence would play out, began racing under his skin.

"Rose?"

He heard her coming.

"…Rose?"

She was there.

"Move over."

The Doctor slid across his sheets to his left, heart pounding, anticipating the feel of her skin against his even for a few seconds, when her words filtered through to him. Move over?

"Wait…" He said, eyes widening. That was different. And the fact that he was able to speak something other than what he said in the memory was proof enough. This was no longer the memory he held dear.

The Doctor heard the sound of lace fabric falling to the floor and then Rose was clambering under the covers. Instead of turning away this time, the Doctor faced her, his breathing uneven. He heard her sigh softly in the darkness.

He reached for her and found his long hand cupping the side of her face, the skin soft and warm, and she leaned into his touch. Mesmerized, he ran his thumb over her cheekbones and then down across her bottom lip, her lips parting as he did so. Her breath fanned over his hand and he shuddered.

"Rose…"

His breath caught in his throat when he realized that his voice was no longer his past regeneration's. The Doctor was now himself, his current self, all elbows and smooth skin, and he was about to say so to Rose when she shifted forward and pressed her mouth against his.

The Doctor inhaled sharply though his nose as she pushed and moved her lips, and he quickly responded in kind, sliding his lips along hers with a buried hunger. She let out a pleased hum and the sound vibrated along his skin, and he reached up to twine his fingers in her soft hair. He tugged slightly and she gasped, the opening of her lips perfect permission to take the bottom one between his and nip slightly. She was intoxicating, the Doctor quickly discovered, and he was diving into her mouth, running his tongue under her lip and groaning. When she threaded her fingers into his hair and began caressing his scalp, the Doctor became aware once again that this was not his old body. This was not the Doctor Rose loved.

He pulled away with reluctance and sudden panic, and, breathing deeply, the Doctor spoke.

"Rose…it's not me. It's not your me." His voice was younger, the pitch different, and it cracked on the last word.

She sighed with disbelief, reaching up and taking his face between her hands. The Doctor's eyes fluttered shut and she ran her fingers across his features; his closed eyelids, his straight nose, high cheekbones, prominent chin…

"Doctor…you're always mine. Don't you see that? You're you, no matter what body you're in."

Those words. The ones the Doctor most craved to hear, to have her say. Something inside him snapped and he let out broken groan, reaching for her and bringing her mouth to his once again.

He knew it was a dream. He knew that this meant exactly nothing. But still he cradled her to his body, mapped her skin with his hands, detailing every part of her to his memory. He acted on his love for her, the hidden, repressed, agonizing love. She sighed and gasped and cried out as he took what he wished, and with every stroke and every caress the Doctor fell apart more and more. Eventually his sighs of bitter pleasure dissolved into slow, dry, tearful gasps, and Rose held his head to her chest, pressing his ear against her heart and running her small fingers through his hair. The Doctor felt the edges of his dream begin to disband, and with a final sigh, he said to her:

"Rose…I'm sorry."

She pressed her cheek onto the top of his head, and he closed his wet eyes as the dream took him away.

"It's okay, Doctor. You'll be okay."

The Doctor awoke with a shudder, his face wet and his skin shivering. He lay in bed for a few minutes, breathing deeply, the wet trails of tears on his cheeks drying. He listened and heard the TARDIS spinning. He listened and heard his companions. He listened and heard the universe.

He stood up. Underwear, pants, socks, boots, shirt, suspenders, jacket. Bowtie. A deep breath. He moved forward.