Running.
If there was one thing that was consistent about anything, it was running. Always more running. Usually from some hideous creature that wanted to kill/eat/maim/torture/exterminate/experiment on/delete them. Run, rabbit, run.
There was a tendency of running from reality- that this was temporary. That it couldn't be permanent, if only because of who he was. Because of what he was. That no matter how much she wanted, there would always be a barrier of some kind between really knowing him- there was just more running.
Still.
Running. Always.
It was theirs. And, she reflected, with their hands clasped, pulling each other along, well-as long as they were running together-
Did any of the rest of it really matter?
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or Rose. I'm not even British.
Just an idle thought, really. They're always running, aren't they?