Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.
A/N: I CANNOT WRITE FOR MY LIFE! Like, I sit down to write, and just get this overwhelming feel of despair because it does not work. But I've had this idea for a while, and I hope it'll work. I feel like if I can get this done, maybe I'll be less blocked and be able to write again.
He's watching very carefully, suppressing laughter as she pulls a face when she can't pronounce the word right. He's drawn it out on a napkin for her so she can see the symbols, and said it a thousand times, but, bless her, she still stumbles over it a bit. The last part is tricky to say, he admits, but he still can't help but smile at her as her tongue trips over the syllables of her first Gallifreyan word.
She can't believe that such an intricate symbol can be her name. He laughs, points out the little bits and pieces. This one means pink-and-yellow, and this is for empathy, and that one—right there—is human. Thousands and thousands of little things that make her her, make her Rose Marion Tyler, of Powell Estate. She just grins, because the words that he thinks make up her name are all so… fantastic. He's put a lot of thought into it, and she isn't sure how that makes her feel. Good—no, brilliant —but confused.
His idea of priority differs from hers, brushing aside the notion that she learn words one might use in actual conversation (And honestly, Rose, when won't you want to bring up banana daiquiris in normal conversation?) She teases and mocks, but underneath she doesn't mind so much. Besides, there aren't any other Timelords she'll be conversing with, so she's learning the perfect vocabulary to talk to him.
Words turn into sentences, and those turn into stilted paragraphs scribbled on bits of paper and post-its. She reads voraciously, finding books on the subject in the TARDIS library. It becomes a new game; casually slip a word here and there into an everyday conversation with angry hordes of aliens, or while they whisper to each other across beds in foreign worlds. It surprises him every time, and her tongue pokes out at him when she catches that lit-up smile.
At night she hears him cry out, crawls into his bed amongst the tangled sheets and sweat-soaked limbs. His native tongue calms him more than anything else, so she curls up around him and soothes him softly, promising safety and comfort and love. I love you over and over, until he tells her she has the tenses wrong, because she's saying I love you for past, present, future, never-has-been-, never-will-be, could be and so many more. She smirks, and says she has her tenses just fine. She's always loved him and always will. Any world, any dimension, any her (Which, of course, spurs a theological discussion as to whether or not all the hers in different dimensions are with other hims).
It comes as a terrible shock, one lovely day on Sancloon, when he says something clever and rather insulting to the natives only to turn and catch sight of Martha's perplexed expression. He storms off, leaving Martha to deal with the confused Sancloonians who bustle about her and demand to know what he found so incredibly funny.
A world away, Rose swears rapidly in Gallifreyan, and instead of the Doctor's uplifted eyebrows at her rather unorthodox suggestion of what those Weevils could do with the weapons they've been stealing, she meets the puzzled gaze of her coworkers.
Not that it matters, really. It's just as well that no one understands.