A/N: I was in a bit of a funk today for some reason, and I couldn't concentrate. This, my friends, is my day's brainchild. I hope you enjoy it.
There she sat, in all her glory, with her nose in a book.
Or, perhaps more literally, on it. There, in the library at 8:32 in the evening, she sat there, hunched over the table, one arm flung forward in front of her on the table, the other curled around the book on which her nose rested. Snoring slightly, her blonde hair fluttered lightly about her face as she breathed rhythmically, in and out, in and out. As that hair danced gaily about her face, his hands itched to touch it, feel it, kiss it. A small, bittersweet smile graced his lips as he stared at those glossy strands of sunshine and reminded him he no longer had the right to touch her; there he sat, adoring her- and her hair- minute elapsing minute, hour surpassing hour. Yet, ironically, time seemed still as the sun set and the night appeared, bringing with it the terrible false glow, an unreal illumination.
The dim light drifting down from the over-bright fluorescent lamps caressed those strands he so wished to touch; that same light cast her face into darkness, to a shade of shadowiness he had never before observed, not even in the late nights he spent watching her sleep. Her eyelids, heavy and hard, seemed like shields to eyes that knew nothing but fatigue; her mouth, once smirking and full of happiness, held grim and humourless; something about her face… it was different. Where was her spirit? Where was her personality? Where was the love- the laughter?
Where was her life?
He had been so intent on her sleeping form he hadn't paid much attention to his surroundings. Tearing his eyes away, he glanced around him.
Everywhere he looked, there were books. The lighting was terrible, overly bright in areas, and too dim in others, with no happy medium. Outside, the moon was welcomed into a speckled blue haze; the trees beside the windows stood, twisting and solid, and as he stared a leaf- gray, withered, lost- was whipped off by a hearty breeze, swept angrily to the cold, lonely ground.
"Rose."
A voice behind him caught his attention. There a man stood, a bag of take-out in his grip and a grin present on his face. Stepping aside, he watched as this other man kneeled next to his greatest source of joy and shook her awake. Blinking, she slowly sat up and stretched, and smiled tiredly- sadly- at him. He leaned up to kiss those grim lips and as he sat back, his grinning face shone with happiness and love; hers portrayed sad eyes and a false smile. Both men saw her eyes; both men knew. Only one grieved.
"Mickey."
His hearts tore in four, and he distantly felt something wet drip slowly down his left cheek. As a sob erupted silently from his throat, the Doctor reminded himself solemnly, I'm just an image. No touch.