It had been so much easier to hate Rose Tyler when she was merely a concept – an abstract idea with blurred features and a hankIt had been so much easier to hate Rose Tyler when she was merely a concept – an abstract idea with blurred features and a hank of naturally honey blonde hair. Who always said just the right thing, who didn't have to ask the Doctor if he took milk or sugar in his tea, who fit neatly under his chin instead of being that damned inch too tall.
But now there she stood, a vision of imperfection complete with dark roots and dropped 'g's. And suddenly the hostility that had come so naturally to Martha was waning, however tightly she tried to hold onto it.
If only she'd leapt straight into the Doctor's arms and laid a brazen smooth straight onto his waiting lips instead of shifting from one foot to the other, twisting her hands uncertainly, struggling to even meet his eyes. If only she'd been dressed in a tight skirt that displayed dazzling curves and a washboard stomach, instead of a ratty sweater and jeans that gave her a slight muffin-top. If only she'd wept prettily, like the heroines in old movies, instead of sniffling and letting her mascara run down her face in dirty tracks. Then maybe all of this would be a little easier.
If only his voice hadn't sounded so tentative and low and intimate as he spoke her name. If his hands hadn't shook as he touched her face.
If only those three words had been an inevitable part of their reunion rather than a tentative step in a direction he feared to tread.
Why couldn't it be more obvious just by looking at her that to him she was perfect, roots and all? Why did she have to be flesh and blood like Martha herself, young and scared and so very mortal?
Because then she could have defined the key difference between herself and Rose Tyler and herself, and maybe even in time come to understand why he scarcely noticed one, and gave his hearts irretrievably to the other.