I haven't written a thing in 3 years so of course I wrote Rose/Doctor angst, because that is what all mentally stable eighteen year olds in the middle of exams do. WUTOVIT. Be gentle guys, my soul is raw from writing 400 words of crap instead of racking up my NaNoWriMo wordcount.
Her shoulder blade looks like the hills on Raxycodon 6, he thinks. It rises and rolls and falls in a sweet arch, landing on the curve of her back.
The curve of her back, he thinks, looks like the dip in the wine glass she held on their last trip to Earth on Christmas. He spends a good five minutes wondering if it tastes the same before he lets his lips fall on the hollow. Not wine. Vanilla. Vanilla, and crimson, and Rose, and hope.
She shifts in her sleep, roused by his musings. Hair falling across her face, lashes pressed against her cheek and comfort pressed against her soul, she looks like a goddess, he thinks. Not one he's seen before. Even the stars have never seen this.
She doesn't wake, simply rolls to her side until they're chest to chest, her heart against his. Her heartbeat feels like a lullaby, he thinks. Like a song that she wrote just for him. Like silence when she's not there.
He wraps an arm around her, traces patterns and words on her bare skin. Words and sounds and phrases that burn into her skin like fire, and still she doesn't wake.
He doesn't think of loss, or the time before he knew what it was like to miss her. He doesn't think of pain and suffering and entire worlds cowering before him. Entire planets trembling in his presence, and he only think of the blonde who took his hand the moment he said "run". Run like he'd run his whole life. It's mesmerising, he thinks, that he'd stand still for her.
She sighs, and it sounds like forgiveness, he thinks. Like the end of a sentence, like he's just coming home.
She stirs then, pink and yellow in his world of faded greys, and when she smiles, it looks like forever, he thinks.
"Hello", he says, and it sounds more like "where have you been all my life?"
She kisses him, and it tastes like promises, and apple grass on a windy day.
It's not until later that he realises blonde hair will always sound like her voice and anyone with the capacity to love and forgive and hope will carry her name.
He keeps a photo in his room. It falls from the table by chance, victim of a particularly moody day on the TARDIS' part and an unwillingness to turn off the handbrake on his. The glass breaks. He doesn't fix it.
The space she left behind looks like hell, he thinks.
