Rose, Rose, Rose. He could sing her name, write it onto the walls of history, carve it in some language on some ancient stones in mesopotamia or with the Aztecs. He could run all day with that name- with that person- and he did. All they did was run and it was wonderful.
Her blonde hair was wonderful, her cheeks were so pink and rosy. Her browns eyes were big with awe, amazement and excitement- even as they faced death. She blocked out the screams with her laugh and the images with her smile. She made him see the world brighter, even when all hope seemed lost because she- she was Rose. She was so human and wonderful, she put a whole new meaning on that red flower. Red for compassion, red for love, red for hope, red for her. Her cheeks when she blushed and her lips when she bit them, and even her little tongue that poked out of her mouth when she did that smile. She was Rose, she was perfect.
But now he was sending her away.
Brilliant he told her, called her a genius as he ran on the TARDIS with fake enthusiasm. Pulling levers as if to fly them back to some other time in the same place, pushing buttons in hope to impress her one last time as he studied that beautiful face she had. He lied to her, last thing he told her was a lie, but it kept her safe. So he supposed that was worth it.
He could hear her screaming his name, to let her out of that old blue box that traveled the universe. He hated that box now, hated everything now. And he really hated the Daleks more than ever. They had taken his home, his people, and now they made him send away Rose. His Rose.
Faced with a decision. Earth or the Daleks. Which one? A coward or a killer? A coward anyday, always a coward. Didn't even have enough courage to die along with his people, let them die on their own. Always running, never stopping because he couldn't look back. Not now, not ever- not that he really thought ever was going to extend past the next ten minutes but still.
The Doctor heard that whooshing before he turned to see what he knew was there. What he expected. How had she done it? How? His wonderfully brilliant Rose always running into trouble came back to her Doctor to save him, to help him because that who she was. She was glowing and beautiful and-
Dying. Rose was dying.
The whole time vortex running through her little human brain, if she was a time lord it'd make her a goddess. But she wasn't, she was human, and every action she took that day was human. She destroyed the daleks to save him, she brought Jack back to life because she couldn't stand losing him. Even taking it out of her wouldn't repay her for what she had done, saving her own life couldn't repay it.
He felt every cell in his body dying all at once, pain running through him as he tried to retain it all in his hand. It was all so fantastic really, absolutely fantastic. And he didn't mind dying if that means her song kept singing it's tune for a good sixty years. She was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And you know what Rose? So was I.