Ten Fantasies Rose Lost About Love and One Found, a doctor who fanfic

Ten Fantasies Rose Tyler Lost About Love and One She Found
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: BBC's characters. My words.

Author's Note: This is a companion piece of to "Ten Lessons the Doctor Learned From Sex and One He Didn't" of sorts, but they don't share a plot, and can be read fine independently of each other. Some of the style is the same, however. Vague references to the 2006 season, nothing very spoilery. Vague references to classic Who as well, nothing too involved.
Many thanks to Saz for helpful suggestions, Bryan Adams jokes, and just plain listening to my babble. Also thanks to Git for beta job.

Rose Tyler is only twenty, but she liks to think she knows a lot now. She's seen a lot, travelling time and space with a blue police box and an alien who could pass for human, and sometimes doesn, even to her. She feels almost wise sometimes, as if she's cast aside childish illusions and silly fantasies and see clearly now.

She's yet to learn the wise never think themselves so, and that fantasies have a habit of sticking around.

Learn, Rose Tyler.

Fantasy One: Dying is romantic when you do it for love

Rose Tyler, age fifteen, reading Romeo and Juliet for the first time. Another book by a dead white English dude, and mostly forgotten except for the end. Romeo dies for Juliet and Juliet dies for Romeo, and Rose Tyler thinks it the most romantic thing ever. True love, not wanting to live without the other. She meets Jimmy, and he swears he would die for her, and she loves it, until she doesn't, and Jimmy is a liar.

She doesn't forget the fantasy still.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something. Hard to tell traveling time itself. A long way from fifteen, but not so long from Romeo and Juliet. Not so long from death, alien microbes inside her, put in her to kill the Doctor and then her. And the Doctor, looking much too calm and filling her with fear.

She's not sure he knows how to fix it, and that will slowly kill him too. Unless he leaves her to die, and he won't. He's not Jimmy. He's the Doctor, and she hates him a little for it right now.

"No," he says before she can even say anything. "No, Rose."

The floor is cold, the draft from the open mine shaft is tugging at her. She almost wishes it wasn't there, wasn't giving her a choice.

She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want him to die either, and she does know which of the two she would choose, but it's not romantic. It's just despair and anger and fear.

Die for his life now, or wait and die with him.

It's not really a choice at all.

"I wish you had taken me to Lingerne Five instead," she says, her voice sounding pale even to her, "even if it only had beaches and not exciting mines."

"Bad mines. Good beaches," he says, sounding distracted.

"Go there," she says, and stands up. Her legs almost buckle under her, but they do carry her and oh God oh God oh God, she doesn't want to do this. There's so much she wants to do still, so much she hasn't dared and thinks she's just enough courage for now.

"Don't you dare," the Doctor says, eyes wild as he finally looks at her. She smiles at him, because he knows as well as she does that she does dare, just as he would.

"Yes," she says, and looks at him one last time. "I do."

She jumps.

She can hear her name screamed all the way down, and then there's water and cold and pain, pain crashing her into darkness with one last thought.

Dying isn't romantic at all, and Shakespeare probably didn't realise what a fool he was until he died himself.

Fantasy Two: There is a kiss of life

Rose Tyler, age seven. Jackie reads Snow White and the kiss that woke the heroine from a poisoned sleep to be the bride of a prince. Another fairytale, not meant to be true and all the more alluring for it. She listens, even when Jackie trails off from the book and explain that sometimes, the princes die, but that they still love their daughters very, very much.

Rose wonders if no one was around to kiss her father to life.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something. Somewhere between death and life, she feels his hands on her face, feels his mind in hers, feels his breath mingle with hers. She's cold and he's warm, and the contrast is almost painful.

"This will hurt, Rose," he says, and it does, and she screams until she has no breath and he's giving her his.

It's not a kiss, just a brush of lips, quick and slightly clumsy, all hurry and and distraction, his attention on something else entirely. She's not even sure he's aware of what he's doing, mind not quite all there, and desire slipping through.

No prince, just life, and life hurts and she screams against his lips as the cold metal of a needle slip into her skin and bring fire to her blood.

"Sorry," he whispers, and he is and isn't, she knows, because he will force life if he can, because he is the Doctor and tries to bend death to his will as he does time. "Just sleep. It will be better soon."

She obeys, and dreams of water and cold and drowning, drowning until she wakes gasping, and he's sitting by her bed, hand in hers. He looks tired and angry and happy, and he smiles at her. It's beautiful, as everything is when you didn't think you would see it again.

"Hello," he says, a little cheekily, a little breathlessly.

"I'm alive," she whispers, feeling the pain as a relief.

"Yes."

She licks her lips. "What did you do?"

"You're not dying for me, Rose," he says fiercely, clutching her hand so hard it hurts. "I wouldn't let you then, I'm not letting you now."

"I..."

"You're not," he says again, a command spoken, and then he nuzzles his head against her neck, his breath so warm and ragged. She closes her eyes to it, too tired to return the embrace, but almost enjoying the desperation in it.

"What did you do?" she asks again when he pulls back slightly, his hair sticking right up and making her palms itch with the desire to straighten it.

"Dived after you, saved you from becoming a fish-meal, saved me from becoming a fish-meal with chips, discovered the Lingerne Sixians were so keen to kill me because the underground mines are full of Lingerne Fiveians as slaves, freed the slaves and got them home, got the cure from them and took you home," he says, grinning with no warmth at all. "Easy."

"And I missed all the fun," she says lightheartedly.

"Hardly my fault, that. I tried to wake you, but you were stubbornly unconscious for it all. Just useless," he jokes, but not without anger. She fights the urge to beg forgiveness, knowing he would damn well do the same, and he has no right to be angry with her, no right at all.

Except she would be angry too. She is angry. He almost made her die for him, and even if she knows she would do it willingly, a part of her almost resent him for making her love him that much. Another part just resents the resenting and everything is muddled and confused and adult and she thinks briefly of kissing Pete Tyler's grave, and waiting for hours in cold London sun while nothing happened at all.

"Rose," the Doctor says, brushing a finger across her cheek and looking vulnerable. She wonders if he's picturing a grave too, and how much of his anger is just fear. She wants to remove it, wants to reassure him, wants to feel alive, and his face is so, so close and she leans in.

This is a kiss, she decides. His lips find her upper lip, applying pressure ever so gently until she parts her lips, and his mouth is warm against hers. His skin scratches a little, and she knows her skin will feel raw long after, but right now it's just another sensation, mingling with the feel of his teeth against her tongue, the low hum in the back of his throat, his hand on her neck and her thigh rubbing slightly against his through cloth.

"Rose," he murmurs again, a rather half-hearted protest seriously undermined by what he does next with his tongue. She has a pretty good idea what he'd say, anyway. There is an unspoken pact of sorts between them that shagging is right out, and friendship right in. But as long as it's unspoken, the excuses to break it remain open.

After a few moments, he breaks free, brushing his lips against her lower lip with a breath, and then straightening up. She can't read his face at all, but he's balled one hand into a fist and his Adam's apple moves slightly as he swallows.

"So, fancy a beach trip?" he asks, and she thinks of water and near death and shakes her head. "Oh. Something drier? I can do dry."

"You can do dry," she agrees. "But not the Sahara this time, eh?"

"We had fun!" he protests. "Mind you, not sure the camels would agree."

She laughs, until it hurts a bit, and she winces. His grin fades immediately, and he puts his hand on her forehead. She feels a fleeting something in her mind, and then his face relaxes.

"Need a bit more rest before your cells are all recovered," he says, handing her a glass of something rather orange in colour. "Drink this. Tea and Lingernian milk. Entire planets would go to sleep to happily taste a drop of it."

She takes a sip and nearly spits it out. "This is horrid!"

"To humans, yeah. I didn't say which planets, now did I?"

She makes a face at him, and he makes a face back, and she closes her eyes to it, feeling warm and slightly dizzy. She half expects to hear him walk out, but the sound of his breath remains, and she can feel him adjust the covers around her.

"Oh, Rose," he sighs.

"Oh, Doctor," she mimics back, keeping her eyes closed. She can imagine the glare he's giving her still and it makes her stubborn. "I'm not sorry."

"I am," he says after a heartbeat, burning a kiss against her forehead and reminding her of one other time he refused to let her die. He's still never told her what happened exactly, but sometimes, she dreams at night of Cinderella and a kiss of life and death in the burn.

There is no kiss of life. There's just life, sometimes with kissing, sometimes with death.

She sleeps and dreams.

Fantasy Three: Repressed sexuality just needs the right woman

Rose Tyler, age eighteen, watching Pride and Prejudice on the telly and deciding Mr. Darcy needs to get laid, and so does she. Jackie agrees on the first, and Mickey doesn't get it. Repressed sexuality, tall, handsome and with a fortune, and Rose really doesn't think there's more to get.

She doesn't tell Mickey why she tells him to act haughty sometimes.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something. Shoulder to shoulder with a somewhat tall and handsome bloke-alien, who doesn't have a fortune, but something far better. The TARDIS would outdo Pemberly any day. Which just leaves the repressed sexuality to be accounted for, and she's developing Ideas.

The wind is lazy, and she is feeling it too, watching the greenish sky above and the clouds drifting across it. She loves the adventures right enough, but sometimes she loves the sense that they don't need them as well.

"When you said you were taking me to a place of soft rock..." she says, and tilts her head to look at the sun across his face.

"Mmmm?"

"I imagined a Bryan Adams concert."

He chuckles. "Nah. He's rubbish to get comfortable on."

She laughs a little, not because it's terribly funny, but because he looks terribly Doctorish. "It is dry."

"I'll give me that," he agrees, grinning. The wind moves his hair a little, and she wonders if he likes it better when it does, or if he liked it better before, when his hair was short and not a victim to the wind's whims. Or perhaps he's just embraced it in his stride, so used to changes it's just another adventure.

"What?" he asks, because he does ask now, doesn't just look at her and assumes.

"Just thinking about changes," she replies, turning over on her side. "New new Doctor."

"Old old Rose."

She makes a face. "You make me sound like you're dropping me off to the retirement home next."

"I was thinking just Isle of Man, but if you insist..." He grins at her as she whacks him on the arm. "Mind you, not much difference."

"Could be difference enough to matter," she says, and knows what she's really talking about.

"Maybe," he agrees, and is interrupted in what is clearly intended to be another digression when she flips over and lays one on him. He goes very still, barely breathing as she draws her tongue across his lower lip, feeling the warmth of the sun on it. The sun is warm on her back and neck too, and she knows he'd let her get away with blaming it all on sunstroke or something similar.

She's just not sure she wants him to get away with that, especially when she tugs at his bottom lip and he lifts his head ever so slightly to feel it better and she knows she has him, right then, right there.

He follows her kiss up as she straddles him, gripping his head firmly and feeling his hands wander her back, supporting her. She tilts her head when the kiss becomes his force, his lips, his tongue, his exploration. He's rushed and energetic in his drive, pausing at odd moments to linger at one touch, one corner of her mouth, one unevenness of her teeth. He breathes and she breathes and it feels almost in sync, almost like they're the same, her and him.

"What's this?" he asks against her lips, and if he's faking confusion, he does it very well. But then, he would have to.

"Friends who snog," she says, because it will do for now.

"I thought that was strangers," he breathes.

"Hello, stranger," she says, brushing a kiss against his ear. He sighs, and it sounds like a surrender. She feels the tiniest moment of triumph, and then she just feels as he rests his head on her shoulder and holds her close.

There isn't repressed sexuality in him, she realises, feeling his breath against her skin. There's just sexuality, another facet to him, like compassion or judgemental or human, coming into focus when needed. He's just doesn't need it most of the time, might not need it at all.

She wonders why she suddenly feels like she does.

The right woman might just need the repressed sexuality excuse for what she wants.

Fantasy Four: The perfect sex

Rose Tyler, age thirteen, sniggering with the others as the teacher drones on about the biology of sex. It sounds silly, and looks silly on the educational video, and a little painful too and she can't quite imagine what it's like without giggling and feeling a little warm. She reads a romance novel, and that seems so different to what the teacher rambled on about, all perfection and beauty and flaming swords of passion and ever wonderful and never hurt and she knows which she'd rather believe.

Jimmy teaches her differently, and Mickey does, but fantasies cling on stubbornly and maybe, just maybe, she didn't love them enough.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, and the Doctor is teaching her all over again.

His nose is bumping into hers, and she wishes his fingers wouldn't touch her there, but there, and she gets some of his hair in her mouth when she tries to lick his ear, and she nearly slides off the bed when he tries to shift her position, and she knows she's buttered-fingered when he winces and shifts away from her touch.

But his skin is warm and clings to hers, he whimpers beautifully when her mouth close around flesh, his palm curves around her breast as if the shapes were meant to meet, his weight isn't crushing and can still hold hers, and the hair on his chest tickles in a good way when she leans against him.

He's rushed and breathless, almost slamming into her, and she steadies herself against the force of it, until she bites down on his lower lip and he meets her gaze, looking so alien for a moment that it hurts.

She closes her eyes and then it finally is right, very right, and all the hurts are good and everything good hurts.

Sex isn't just the biology and not quite the perfection of a romance novel, and the space in-between is very wide and undefinable, she comes to realise.

Fantasy Five: Kiss a frog, gain a prince

Rose Tyler, age five, watching the frogs in the park. She wonders how many might be a kiss away from a prince, and why they never seem to be want to be caught. Surely it would be better to be a prince, and marry the beautiful princess, and have babies and ponies and a pink castle rather than the cold, cold dam.

Rose gives up on understanding frogs, and just watches them, thinking of castles.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, watching the Doctor watch her, and feeling warm and sore and shagged, hoping he does too. She doesn't think of castles, but she does think of pink and rosy, and it's the colour of the future.

"What's this really about?" he asks, and she's reminded he doesn't let much go at all.

"Must it be about anything?" she whispers, drawing a thumb across his cheek, wondering how many aliens have to shave.

"With you lot, yeah. You're all confused and go about things in silly ways and then you get all confused about what you're confused about, and others get confused at the confusion about the confusion, and I'm getting confused about where I was going with this."

She laughs, lifting her slightly from the pillow to poke him in the chest. "You're always confused."

"Must've picked it up. Humans are contagious," he says, pausing a little. "Rude again?"

"Used to it," she replies, and watches him kiss her finger somewhat lazily. "My rude alien."

He smiles a little, almost sadly . "Should've know. Humans claim ownership via sex."

"Don't Time Lords?"

He doesn't answer, just kisses her very softly, and she's beginning to wonder if he'll use sex against her too, now that she's opened the possibility. Kiss away the hard questions, touch away the memory of them ever being asked, shag away the sense of something forgotten.

Kiss a frog, and it might be you who changes, Rose considers.

Fantasy Six: And then they lived happily ever after

Rose Tyler, age ten, resting her elbows on her books of fairytales and watching the sunset. In the living room, the TV blasts and Jackie watches another kind of fairytale. Different setting, different medium, different words. Still the same illusion. Get what you want and live happily ever after. This isn't what Jackie wants, and Rose doesn't know what she wants yet.

She's sure it comes with an ever after, though.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, busy trying to make sure there's even an after. Which isn't all easy at the moment, one hand shackled to the Doctor's, and one hand desperately clawing at a slippery rock. He's using his free hand to hold on as well, and she watches the sweat on his face with dread, knocking that if he lets go, she can't really manage the weight of him too. The weight of her own body is enough, and her shoulder is aching.

Below, a fire is ranging, and the heat from it is starting to drift up, and so is the smoke. And above, above is just more rock, and she's so tired from climbing already.

"Ready?" the Doctor asks, and she wants to shake her head at him, but she also wants to live, and that doesn't leave much choice.

"Ready," she agrees, and his finger brushes against hers, a tiny comfort of skin before they climb on, awkwardly and achingly, and almost disastrously more than once. Still, up it goes, coughing and cursing, until she feels the actual ground under her fingers and something cuts into her palm as she gets a grip and hauls herself up.

She collapses on the rocky ground, and feels the Doctor do the same next to her. The air is cold and sweet and she inhales as much as she can, exhaling in deep, shuddering breaths as well. Air is good, air is brilliant. She's never going to forget that again. She's never going into a deep cave with him again, at least not unless he asks very nicely.

"People just can't take their insults these days," the Doctor manages, sounding about how she feels.

"You didn't have to be rude."

"Yes, I did," he says shortly. "They were trying to blow up a whole planet."

"You could've stopped them without the insults," she points out.

"Less fun."

She laughs, because that isn't funny at all, and she hurts. He looks over at her, and then he laughs too, but she's not sure it's for the same reason. She's too tired to care, and just looks at him when he reaches into his suit and takes out the sonic screwdriver. He fumbles a little before he manages to get the angle right and the shackles spring open.

"Why didn't you do that right away, before we had to climb?" she mutters.

"I liked them?" he suggests, giving her a wink. "Can't have you falling, Rose Tyler."

"You would just have fallen with me that way," she replies, and he just looks at her, lifting her injured palm and pressing it against his own.

"Come on," he says softly, helping her to her feet. They walk back, and he talks of irrelevant stuff, making her laugh, and she invents a few insults for next time, making him laugh, and when she feels she has breath enough, she snogs the breath out of him, and that's her life now, and she thinks it's what she wanted.

It doesn't come with a happily ever after. There's just after, and even that can run out.

Fantasy Seven: True love waits

Rose Tyler, age six, listening to her mother curse out Carl, that cheating, worthless, small-dicked bastard, who wouldn't know a good shag if it smacked him in the balls. Rose makes note of all the words, and thinks about trying them out loud one day she really feels brave. Jackie finally notices her listening, and the words change.

"Don't just listen to a man because he says things you want to hear, sweetheart," Jackie says. "True love waits."

Waits for what, Rose wonders.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, listening to the Doctor sweet-talk the TARDIS, and mentioning a name she's already heard once before, when she dressed up for a summer planet in a hat she found in the wardrobe room. One name, and she'd never worn the hat again. She didn't ask then, but she feels she has more right to now.

"Who's Romana?" she asks.

He stops, going still, as if all the energy in him has frozen and he's just waiting.

"Did you love her?" she goes on, knowing she's already pushing it.

"Yes," he says, harshly, darkly, and she feels a little cold.

"Did she die?"

"Yes."

She looks at the floor, but she feels his gaze on her, burning with something she's not sure what is.

"More you'd like to know? Shall I tell you about Tegan? Jo? Grace? Leela? Everyone? Do you want a list and start comparing?"

"No," she mutters, and hears his footsteps approach, feels his fingers on her chin tilt her head up to see his face. The anger there seems distant, as if not truly at her.

"Don't ask, Rose," he says, and leaves her no breath to answer, kissing her hard. Not quite a punishment, not quite a caress, and she can feel the restraint in him until she brushes her tongue against his, and then that is gone too.

She doesn't ask again, but she does wonder.

Love might not wait at all, be it true or not, she thinks.

Fantasy Eight: Changes for love are always good

Rose Tyler, age eleven, listening to grandma, and not quite listening to grandma, because the things in her head are much more interesting still, and she's heard grandma's words many times before. Always the same, always about grandpa.

"He changed his ways for me," grandma says, voice proud. "That's when I knew I loved him."

Rose isn't sure she'd ever want to change when it's so exciting being what she is.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, listening to the Doctor because sometimes, he just won't stop, and it's entertaining to decide what way to shut him up. The TARDIS hums in flight, the destination is still unknown, and the trouble is yet to be found. She doesn't mind. Sometimes, all the excitement is in the wait.

"And your lot, they just ignored it. Couldn't believe the president of the planet just declared himself an alien, and all the conspiracy nuts declared it a smokescreen to hide the vice president being alien, even if they'd claimed the president was the one just the week before. Of course, they both were, and not too keen on leaving. I had to toss them right out..."

"You sound like mum," she says, because that's one way.

He pauses in his pacing about. "Your mum talks about tossing aliens right out?"

"She used to talk about tossing you right out," she replies, and he looks vaguely hurt. "Not now. Now she thinks you should come and stay more often."

"I like her!" he declares impusively. "Let's pop by and eat her nut loaf. I could do with a bit of fattening up."

"Why do you like her, though?" she asks seriously, and he just looks confused. "You didn't before."

"New new tastebuds?" he suggests, then shrugs a little. "She was there when I regenerated."

"So was I," she points out, and remembers. Anger, despair, defiance, relief, so much relief it stayed with her even until now.

"Why d'you think I got this accent?" he replies, almost dancing up to her. "I'd hardly pick it out of vanity. Would've gone for something more grand. More impressive, to go with the rest of it."

"You're so full of it," she giggles, and finds her arms full of Time Lord, stepping into her personal space with matter-of-course and energy. He swings her around a little, the steps unfamiliar to her, or perhaps he's just inventing it as he goes.

"What do you think of Oxford?" he asks, his carefully articulated words making her laugh. "Welsh? Scottish? 'Allo, 'Allo? Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once..."

"No," she laughs. "Definitely not. You changed your accent because of me, though? Seriously?"

"Yeah!"

"Anything else changed because of me?"

"Dunno. Do you have a secret fetish for sideburns?"

She runs her fingers down them, pretending to think carefully. "Think so. You would be crushed if I said no, wouldn't you?"

"Yep," he agrees. "Say, this almost makes you like my moth-"

"Don't finish that sentence unless you never want us to shag again," she interrupts, and something flashes across his face so briefly she almost thinks she imagines it? Temptation?

But he's grinning now, swinning her around again, around and around until she's dizzy and he stills her suddenly, brushing the hair from her face and kissing her. She lets her head fall as he moves on to her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin, and drawing his tongue across her collarbone. Even as he lifts her up and places her on the TARDIS console (she hopes they won't end up crashing into an angry mammoth), she can't help but remember losing him once. She has him back, changed, but she didn't ask him to, didn't will him to, even if she maybe wanted some changes, just a few, because they were safe to think about when they seemed impossible.

"Stay," she whispers, clucthing his hair slightly now that he has hair for it. She's not quite sure what she's asking him to stay - stay the same, stay with her, stay alive, stay here and shag her senseless, or maybe all of them.

"Yes," he whispers, pressing a kiss against her eyelids, and she thinks of fires and wolves and sending her away, and lies that aren't lies in words, but intentions. He'll stay. He won't let her. In some ways, he's exactly the same.

In some ways, he's certainly not, and she keeps her eyes open as he studies her exposed navel with a serious expression, freckles green in the light of the TARDIS. She wants to see, and she does, looks as he traces her navel with his tongue, looks as he rips her top off and discards his own jacket, looks as he traces the length of her legs, looking as he smiles a little and mouths her name.

Changing because of you, and changing for you, are two different things, she learns, and both can be terrifying.

Fantasy Nine: A healthy relationship doesn't have fights

Rose Tyler, age twelve, sitting on the stairs of the estate, watching the broken pieces of a porcelain lamp, wondering if it's possible to glue back together. She didn't see it tossed, but she already knows where it came from. Frank and Jenny, Frank who is nice when he doesn't smell of alcohol, and Jenny who is nice when she isn't mean. It's the fifth lamp this month, and Rose thinks maybe that's bad.

Her mum and dad never fought, mum has assured her. They were a Healthy Relationship, and dad was wonderful, and Rose wishes he was there, because he would know how to glue lamps back together.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, fighting a desire to toss lamps, hatstands and doors at a smiling Doctor, who's looking so clueless he has to have a clue after all.

"It's not a little late!" she flings at him. "Two hours is a lot."

"Depends on your definitions of time..." he starts, and she really, really can't stand another one of his long babbles right now.

"You're supposed to be a Time Lord! Can't you lord time a little better? I've had cheap wrist watches better than you!"

"You sound like Tegan," he says cheekily, and she wishes she had never heard of, asked about or met another companion, because at least then he could've considered it a secret to keep. And she can't even bring up Mickey in retaliation, because the Doctor doesn't dislike him that much anymore.

"Wanker!" she tosses at him.

"Nag!"

"Alien!"

"Human!"

"At least I'm on time."

"Actually, you're not," he says calmly. "You're an hour early, and I'm an hour late."

She stares at him, and can feel the corner of her mouth turn upwards traitorously, and so are his, and he's laughing, and she's laughing, and he leans against her, smelling slightly of blood. Her laugh dies.

"Yeah," he says to her unspoken question, and she kisses him, the only comfort she has to offer, knowing it's not good enough. He has given it to her too, and she knows, oh, she knows. She wishes she didn't, and yet it's another bond between them, and she takes his hand and leads him into the TARDIS.

Poor comfort is comfort still, anger is easier than fear, and everyone fights, she knows, oh, she knows. Everyone fights, even when it's healthy and love and growing old together.

Then again, maybe this isn't healthy at all. But it is what it is, and he sighs when she sinks against him and skin comforts skin and everything else is silent.

Fantasy Ten: Your loved one belongs to you

Rose Tyler, age four, pretending to sleep while Jackie doesn't, wondering just when she leaves at night. She always does, lullabies sung or stories told, or covers tucked, and there's always something to do, it seems, and little Rose needs more sleep than big Jackie.

Rose still wishes her mum would stay, because it's her mum, and that's all she can see now.

Rose Tyler, age twenty and something, pretending to sleep while the Doctor doesn't sleep, wondering just when he leaves her at night. He always does, she knows, because he doesn't sleep the same way humans do, and there's always something to be done. But somehow, it matters when he leaves.

He moves slightly against her back, and she holds her breath, but he only moves his hand from her hip to neck, brushing away hair. She wishes she could see his face when he looks at her and knows she isn't looking at him. Maybe it would help her feel surer. Maybe it wouldn't help at all.

He looks young, and is ancient, and there's so much she doesn't know, so many people he's shared himself with before, and it makes her feel as if her grip on him can slip and leave her grasping air. It all seemed so simple when he first took her hand, and she loved him, and she didn't need to do anything about it, not then. And then he died.

The needs have changed. And she's being silly and counting minutes he stays with her, as if there's some wisdom to be found there.

"I know you're awake, Rose," he says, and kisses her naked back. "You exhale in a different pitch when you're sleeping."

"You're too smart for your own good," she mutters, wondering if he's just making that up or if he's conducted careful studies into it. "When do you sleep?"

"When it's silent," he says softly, and she remembers dreams where time is never silent, never ending, always burning, always howling.

"London is never silent," she whispers, because that's the closest she comes to understanding.

"London is never silent," he agrees and tucks his head against hers. "Not even New London, home of the zero gravity subway. Brilliant design. The engineer was a bit too fond of his New Thwaits Bitter, so I doodled on his drawings a bit. Won an award, you know."

"You would," she laughs. He laughs with her, and she closes her eyes to the delightful sound, wishing it would stay.

It won't. She'll fall asleep and he'll leave, because she doesn't own him, because she can't, even if Mickey let her believe it was possible for a while. But that was Mickey, and she was young and filled with fantasies and she's learned now, she truly has.

Rose still wishes the Doctor would stay, because it's her Doctor, and that's all she can see now.

Fantasy Eleven: All you need is love

Rose Tyler, age twenty-one by now, surely, and a birthday party of sorts, sitting on the floating TARDIS and dipping her feet in the water, watching the Doctor do the same, and Beatles' All you need is love blasting from some waterproof sound system of the TARDIS.

"I didn't picture you as a ØBeatlemaniac," she says, and tries to picture it in both incarnations she's known him in, and fails rather badly.

"Oh, they're delightful," he replies, kicking some water at her. "Took them to a few sights. I tell you, they were impressed by Lucy and her diamond-sky trick."

She pokes her tongue at him, and he wriggles his at hers, looking very pleased at what it can do. So is she, come to think of it.

"Feel any different?" he asks.

"Older? Another year to my age."

"You have nothing to feel old about," he says, and sounds old. "That sun, that is old. In five hundred years, it will expand, and boil this sea and there will be nothing here. Just rocks and dust."

"I don't take dips that long," she protests and he grins at her, like a kid with a toy, age not mattering.

"Dip in, Rose Tyler."

"Don't you dare," she warns.

"Yes," he says, taking her hand. "I do."

And he pushes her off the TARDIS, and she drags him with, and they're both soaked and laughing, tossing water at each other, laughing, laughing, laughing, until he stills her and kisses her and the sun is blazing at her face and his lips taste of salt. The Beatles song has faded, but it doesn't matter, because she remembers the words, and she hums them in her mind until they stay.

All you need is love, Rose fantasies.

All you need is time, the Doctor knows, and all fantasies dies, along with everything else. Life never stops teaching that.

Learn, Rose Tyler.

FIN