A/N: I may change the title of this at some point—it's been untitled since I started it, but I wanted to start posting so much, so this is pretty much the first thing I came up with. Not sure how much I like it.

I know this is kind of late for being a post-Doomsday fic. What can I say? I must write slowly. I have most of this done already, though, so I should hopefully be able to update it fairly quickly. And yes, it's going to be one of those post-Doomsday stories, but this show depressed me more than any TV show has a right to, and I love happy endings, even if they're not logical, and this is my story, so I get to tell it however I want to. ;-P

And that's why I love fanfiction—it may never happen on screen, and I completely accept that, but in my little part of the world, I can write it that way. What an amazing power.

Enough of my philosophical ramblings. Many, many thanks go to vartanluvva, who checked this for Americanisms, even though she doesn't watch Doctor Who. Love ya, and hope you're feeling better soon!

(And I can't seem to get the line break thing to work, so I had to come up with something else. Hope it doesn't look too tacky.)

Feedback: Is LOVE. Please review!

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For months after her father who wasn't her father pulled her into the alternate universe, Rose lived in a haze. She ate when her mother put food in front of her, and slept when her eyes could no longer stay open. And she cried. Every day, enough tears to fill an ocean. She just couldn't stop—she missed the Doctor so much, and the thought of him over there by himself was enough to break her heart in two. Getting the job at Torchwood helped, a little, gave her something to focus on, but still each day she would come home, go to her room, and just stare at the wall, memories flitting through her mind until her mum, or Pete, or Mickey came to get her for dinner. You need to move on, they all said. But how could she move on when part of her heart was still with the Doctor? So she stayed in her numb haze, and waited.

Until the night she heard his voice.

"Rose."

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For a few moments, after the breach closed, the Doctor could only stand there, temple and hand pressed against the now barren white wall, as if he could feel Rose there on the other side. And in that time, he felt…there were no words in any language that could describe his pain and devastation. The destruction of Gallifrey—that was the only comparison.

He turned, hand sliding off the wall, desolate but determined as he strode away. The breach had closed, but it had been messy. There would be a gap, a crack somewhere in the barrier between them. And he would find it. He had to—he had to see Rose, one more time.

For months he searched, criss-crossing the universe, eating and sleeping only enough to keep him alive and moving. He finally found it, a tiny gap not yet closed, and although it wasn't enough to bring her back—he hung his head at the thought—it would allow him to say a final goodbye. Rose deserved that.

The gap would need an enormous amount of power, so he set about searching for a sun, deserted, far enough away from anything else that he could cause it to go supernova without hurting anything or anyone.

And when all the pieces were in place, he started calling her name.

"Rose."

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Rose stared out the window of the jeep as they started the long journey home. She had sobbed and run into her mother's arms right after the Doctor disappeared, but now she was calm, the only sign of her earlier tears the glistening trails on her cheeks. She had always known, even when saying it to the Doctor, that they wouldn't have forever. It just wasn't in the cards for them. And while she had hoped that if they couldn't have forever they could at least have many more years of adventures—well, life was never fair. But she had gotten at least a slight reprieve—the Doctor had been wonderful enough to find a way for them to meet one last time, a final goodbye. To be unable to touch him—to hug him, slip her hand into his, brush wayward strands of hair off his face, rest her head against his shoulder—had been close to torture. But she could still see him, and hear him, and finally pour out her feelings, so much emotion behind three little words—I love you. And while he hadn't been able to say the words back to her—God, her heart still ached from the memory—she knew, without a doubt in her mind, that he had been about to, and that eased the pain. Really, in a way, she had always known how he felt—he had shown her every day, with his words and actions. The way he'd take her hand and smile, practically beaming, as they ran off into yet another adventure. The way he'd hugged her when they reunited after facing the Beast, holding her so tightly, as if he was afraid she'd disappear again.

And it wasn't like she was the first person to ever lose someone, have a friend or family member pass away—because that's what it was like. It was as if the Doctor had died. People moved on every day—picked up the shattered pieces of their lives and tried their best to put them back together. And even if the final result didn't look exactly as it did before—things didn't line up quite the same way, or a few pieces were missing—that didn't mean it was wrong, a life no longer worth living. Just…different, now.

She moved her face to the window, allowing the cool breeze to evaporate the remaining moisture from her cheeks. It was time to stop the constant mourning and step out into the light. Before, a lifetime ago, when the Doctor had thought they'd be separated forever, he'd asked her to do something for him. Just one thing. And while he hadn't said it on the beach, she knew that it was what he'd want, desperately, so much so that she could practically hear the words as she closed her eyes, the voices of his past and current forms twining together to create a beautiful song as they echoed through her mind.

"Have a good life. Do that for me, Rose. Have a fantastic life."

She would.

For him.

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The Doctor just stood there, frozen, as the walls of the control room assaulted his already clouding vision. He'd been about to pour out his hearts, utter words that he'd never said to anyone before—his mouth was still open, jaw working, waiting only for the exhalation of air to start the first word—but it was too late now. He'd run out of time. He had a time machine, and he'd run out of time. It all hit him in an instant, pain and devastation searing though his body, a single tear already making its way down his cheek. He bowed his head as a second tear fell, struggling furiously to control his emotions. No crying over companions—this had happened before and it would happen again. Rose was no different. He couldn't let her be different. All he could do was go on, ignore the pain, heap it on top of his already toppling pile. Hands scrubbed over his eyes, erasing the evidence of his loss of control as he tried to swallow down the words that still wanted to get out. He succeeded only in forcing them into a lump deep in his throat; they would go no further. He walked slowly around the console, aimlessly pushing buttons and pulling levers as he went, trying desperately to put Rose, and Norway, out of his mind.

And then suddenly there was a bride on his TARDIS, shrieking incessantly at him. The suddenness of her appearance threw him, but he jumped at the chance for an adventure, anything to distract him from the current state of affairs. Ignoring the lump in his throat, he threw himself into the mystery, until a few days later he was stumbling back onto his ship, the now happy bride safely ensconced with her fiancée. But the Doctor was exhausted—he'd barely slept during the months spent searching for a gap, and that had caused this adventure to take an even heavier toll than usual. He may have always complained about the amount of their lives humans slept away, but he couldn't go forever without it himself. He walked blindly through the corridors of the TARDIS and wearily opened his bedroom door. All he wanted to do was fall onto his bed, close his eyes, and tumble into a dreamless sleep.

It took his clouded mind a few moments, as he walked into the room, to notice the pink surrounding him, and a few more to realize what that meant. When he did his eyes widened and he turned and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Mind clearer now, he examined his surroundings. No, this was definitely where his room should be; he had not taken a wrong turn in his exhaustion. Suspicious now, he slowly opened the next door in the hall and peeked in, shutting it quickly when he again saw pink. He leaned his forehead against the door, pain spreading through him. "Oh, old girl," he whispered to his ship, "don't do this. Not now. Please."

He opened the next door, but it was more of the same. Door after door, down hallways and up stairs he ran, trying to get ahead of his ship and find a room that she had not yet changed to the one filled with that familiar color. But she was too fast for him, and when he finally turned around, deciding to just go back into the console room and sleep there, he saw that there was a wall where the hallway had just been. A look in the opposite direction showed the same. He was surrounded by doors on all sides, and he knew that they would all lead to the same place. The Doctor lowered his head, defeated. There was no way around it—he was going to have to face this tonight. He reached for the handle of the nearest door, closing his eyes as he opened it and silently slipped inside. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, head resting against the solid wood. He stood there for a moment, breathing deeply in and out, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

And then he opened his eyes and took in Rose's room.

The TARDIS had redecorated the room splendidly for her upon her arrival, so long ago. Pale, pale pink walls and a deep rose duvet cover were juxtaposed with sophisticated furniture made of dark woods, symbols of both the wonderful childlike imagination and curiosity she had and the amazingly mature woman she was growing to become. The room was irrepressibly messy, clothes, shoes, makeup, and other belongings strewn around, as if the owner of the space would be back any minute.

But that couldn't have been any further from the truth.

The Doctor slowly walked over to the bed and sat down, reaching out for one of the pillows with a slightly shaking hand. He held it in his lap for a moment and then, almost unconsciously, raised it to his face and breathed in. Shampoo, makeup, perfume, lotion, toothpaste—he could smell all the things that went into the scent he identified as "Rose." The tightness still in his throat increased, then loosened as the words finally came out, completing the sentence he'd started on another world, so many days ago.

"I love you."

He could feel a tear making its way down his cheek again, and then another, and this time he couldn't stop them, pretend that Rose hadn't been different. More and more tears came, until finally the Doctor leaned over, buried his head in Rose's pillow…

And cried.

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The words the Doctor spoke echoed through the ship, reverberating through time and space. The ghost of them eased their way out of the TARDIS, floating on the strength of the Doctor's emotion and helped along by his beloved ship, spinning and threading their way between stars and planets and moons, intent on some unseen destination. They went on and on, slipping easily through the nothingness that logic said should stop them, and weightlessly floated down to Earth, a different Earth, to a different England and a different London, until they were slipping through the window of an impressive manor and hovering over the woman sleeping there. The echoes of his words, no sound, just impressions of feelings, a slight breeze carrying the scent of leather and apple grass and wool and engine grease, the memories of hugs and comfort given and received and hands held and smiles shared and adventures completed and love, pure and simple, twisted its way over the female form below, covering her in a golden glow as it sunk into her body.

And in her sleep, although she wouldn't remember why in the morning, Rose smiled.

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TBC