Disclaimer: I disclaim, as in I DON'T claim.
A/N: First fic I've written in the Torchwood/Doctor Who fandom. Spoilers through "Something Borrowed."
Wrong. That was what the Doctor had called him. Wrong.
A fixed point in time. A fact.
Wrong.
He had to remind himself of that when he saw her, held her hand and felt the smooth metal of the band on her finger, warm from the heat of her skin. Had to remember that a life with him wouldn't be natural, wouldn't be real. He couldn't offer her what Rhys could: a lifetime together, filled with normal things like cozy nights without aliens or time travel, children and a family, grey hairs and wrinkles and laugh lines made from years of smiling at one another.
No, she would grow old while he remained young, forced to watch the woman he loved whither away and die.
No. He wouldn't do that again.
Wrong.
He reminded himself of that when she answered phone calls from Rhys, and he listened to her voice, brightened and lilting as it formed words like, "I'm coming home soon," and "our wedding," and "I love you."
Wrong.
He reminded himself when one of their many heated arguments lead them to be close together, his hands gripping her shoulders, faces so close he could feel the warmth from her breath playing along his skin.
Wrong.
He forced himself to think of that when, angry that he wanted her to wipe out Rhys' memories, she had threatened to leave Torchwood, leave him. When the idea of her not being there, beside him, of her not even remembering him hurt so much that it was all he could do not to beg, or plead, or pull her close and make her want to stay.
Wrong.
He repeated the word over and over again when he watched her in his office, the camera outside recording perfectly the smile and kiss she gave that would never be meant for him.
Wrong.
But now, as he held her in his arms, swaying softly to the music, his hand cradling her smaller one, the soft swishing of her white dress filling his ears as her legs shifted against his, he forgot to remind himself, it felt so right.