They spent a quiet evening, Donna retiring early. As Rose went to her room with her to pick up a book – the Doctor was still reading hers and she finally felt in the mood to read something – Donna told her that she didn't think the surprise had been that good an idea after all. When Rose asked her what she was getting at, Donna said: "I'm not sure, but I think he wasn't letting on all of his feelings about that bag."

"I'm not sure I understand," Rose admitted, bewildered, accepting the book Donna was handing her. Bless her for her little travelling library.

What puzzled her even more was the sadness in Donna's eyes when she said: "As I said, I'm not sure. You'll have to ask him yourself."

Rose nodded, still unsure what to make of Donna's delphic speech. True, he had been a little more subdued than she had expected, and she had therefore even been a bit disappointed at his reaction. He had, however, seemed to be glad to have back the sketchpad and notebook, the contents both of which he had not shared with either her or Donna. But that was okay. If his drawings and writings had a cathartic effect on him, were like a diary, then they weren't even her business. He'd probably written the diary in Gallifreyan, which she couldn't even begin to understand anyway. So, what was it that Donna had been on about?

The Doctor was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the private terrace of her room when she came, engrossed in her book. He wasn't turning the pages quite as quickly as she had seen him do before. The light was soft, yet bright enough to read by, and Rose stood there in the French doors just looking at him for a while before she stepped outside. The porphyry slabs were still warm beneath her bare feet.

She dropped her free hand onto his head and threaded her fingers through his hair before she dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. "Hi there," she whispered.

The Doctor just hummed, closing his eyes. His bad leg – minus the splint – was resting on the opposite chair, and she touched it tenderly for him to lift it so she could sit. He settled the leg in her lap. The scars stood out starkly, even against his lightly tanned skin, and she ghosted her fingertips over them.

"They'll fade," the Doctor said, closing the book.

"Just like the others will, given enough time," Rose offered, casting him a meaningful glance. The flame of the insect-repellent candle was reflected as a pair by the lenses of his spectacles.

"Will you help me," he said, "make them fade more quickly?"

Rose smiled, dropping both her hands to rest on his leg; on his strange – no, unfamiliar – warm skin. "How could I not? You were born in battle, I'm a weapon."

"Don't," the Doctor said, withdrawing his leg.

"I'm a destroyer of worlds just like you," Rose went on, undaunted, dropping her hands on his knees. "And I would do it again, as would you." She looked at him intently, raising one hand to touch his cheek. Oh, he was gorgeous in the flickering light of the candle. It captured his essence so beautifully, half his face bathed in gentle orange light, while the other half was cast in darkness, his eyes sparkling, reflecting the light.

"I love you," the Doctor said, turning his head to kiss the base of her palm.

"Quite right, too," Rose replied, tongue between her teeth.

"That's my line," he whispered, leaning towards her.

"Yeah? Come and get it," she said, letting her hand drift to rest on his chest, where she could feel his single heart begin to beat faster.

"I will."

And he did. He closed the distance between them, kissing her gently first, just lips pressing on lips, revelling in their softness, allowing his eyes to close. His fingers danced across her cheek, while the other hand was travelling along her bare forearm. Rose moved towards him, sitting on the very edge of her seat to put her free arm around his neck, to be closer to him, to his still unfamiliar but welcoming warmth. She parted her lips to tickle his with the tip of her tongue, to deepen the kiss, and he yielded with a soft hum, tracing his fingers along her neck, from her ear down to her collarbones, along it, across the thin strap of her dress. He tasted delicious of the strawberries that had been their pudding, and of himself, a taste so unique she had never forgotten it, not in all these years. He let her tongue take the lead for a while before he took over to reciprocate the caresses.

It came as a shock when he suddenly withdrew, a little breathless of course, but chuckling at the same time with joy. Rose straightened, feeling her heartbeat in her lips, wondering if they were as full and red as his.

"We are good kissers, aren't we?" the Doctor said, grinning breathlessly, madly-in-love.

"Brilliant, I'd say."

"The stuff of legends."

"Yeah, right," Rose laughed, sitting up. She patted her thigh for the Doctor to put his bad leg up once again, and after he had done so, they turned their attention to their books. Rose was absentmindedly stroking the Doctor's leg, upsetting the hairs on it only to smooth them out when she drew her hand back. The metronomic regularity of the movement had an oddly soothing effect on her, and before she knew it, she was engrossed in the second chapter. When she turned the page to begin the third one, she looked briefly up to find the Doctor gazing into the now unmoving flame, his thoughts obviously miles away. Sad didn't begin to describe the expression in his face. Forlorn was more like it, mourning.

Rose knew instantly that this was exactly what Donna had sensed in him earlier. The worst thing was that she did not know what she could do about it. Waiting for him to open up was tearing her apart, but at the same time she knew that asking him would either make him clam up or dismiss it with a joke. When she felt her eyes begin to fill she closed her book and gently nudged at his leg, which he withdrew absentmindedly.

She fled to the bathroom, choking her tears with her hand clasped firmly over her mouth, and even when she had closed the door behind her she tried hard to muffle the sobs that eventually got the better of her. At a loss of what to do, she turned on the shower and stripped off her clothes and stepped under the tepid jets in an attempt to let them wash away her tears. If nothing else, the rushing of the water would at least drown out her sobs. Soon enough, however, she felt the water work its magic on her, and she relaxed. It had been another long day, a good day except the anticlimactic surprise, and now the quiet desperation grew inside her like the Doctor's climbing plant of pain. She must not allow the tendrils to find purchase. She had the Doctor to look after. And this was his plant. Not hers.

She towelled her hair furiously once outside the shower, worked out knots with her comb, and returned to the room in the nude, unnoticed by the Doctor, who was still sat outside. After she had thrown back the covers, she put on her cream-coloured pyjama bottoms and the matching top with the thin straps. Then she settled down on the bed to read. She did feel better, also because she had washed off the day's grime, and she liked the scent of the soap her mother had given her: sweet, almost like chocolate, with a flowery note; warm and subtle.

Rose started when she felt the book being drawn from her fingers. Instinctively, she strengthened her grip on the book. Her eyes fluttered open in the brightness of her bedside lamp. The Doctor was in bed beside her – she hadn't felt his weight dip the mattress – prising the book from her fingers.

"It's late, Rose, let's go to sleep," he said softly, shadows nestling deep in his cheeks. He kissed her good-night tenderly, and she fell asleep again once she had settled her head on his shoulder, wrapping herself around him, drawn close by his arms.

-:-

He inhaled the scent of Rose's soap deeply, allowing his body to bask in her warmth, in the trust and love that she radiated and that managed to kill the climbing plant. When she was lying next to him, everything seemed just half as bad, and the pain that came with the separation from his TARDIS ceased to exist, because she had once looked into her soul, had carried the Time Vortex within her, unafraid, and confidently, oblivious to the power it gave her, which at once had made her pure and dangerous. The unconditional love she had for him. The eternal life she had encumbered Jack with. She still carried a tiny little spark of that within her, and she was using it just in the right way.

Donna had had the same effect on him, although she had never absorbed the golden essence of Time, she had been part of him, had shared – for a short time – the experience of being one with his TARDIS. Her presence must have woken the Other Donna's consciousness, made him remember and so alleviated the pain.

But he could not go on like this forever. Well, this short forever that being human meant anyway. What if something happened to Rose? Life would become unbearable, literally, now that the TARDIS coral was lost, his source of comfort when he was alone. He had been debating whether to tell her about the coral, and now he was glad he had not. And he had decided that he would not tell her. Never ever. There would be a way to deal with that once that day had come. No need to be even more of a burden to her than he already was.

He kissed her hairline, which was still slightly damp, closing his eyes to memorise her scent once again. He had not noticed her slipping inside and taking a shower, he had not even paid attention to the passage of time, but at one point he had felt the lack of her presence, and not because of the beginning pain, or because she had stopped sending shivers up and down his spine as her fingers raked through the hairs on his leg. Must be some atavistic human sense.

Sleep came easily enough, despite his loss, and he allowed his mind to drift into its realms, to give it and his new human body the rest they needed. If sleep meant lying like this with Rose, then it wasn't such an awful waste of time. Funny thing it was, too, as a Time Lord with as much time on his hands as he wanted, he had been afraid of wasting it by sleeping, and now that he was half-human with a limited lifespan, it seemed anything but a waste of time.

-:-

Rose was rudely awakened as the Doctor jumped out of the bed, breathing heavily, swallowing hard in an attempt to scream, but no sound came. Bleary-eyed at first, it was still dark outside – Rose propped herself up on her elbows to see what he was up to, and she jumped in alarm when his right foot got tangled in the mess that were their sheets and he crashed on the hardwood floor.

"Doctor!" she cried, scrambling across his side of the bed to help him, now wide awake. "What's wrong?"

He looked back at her, but in the darkness she couldn't see his face. He was panting, trying to get up and succeeding, making his way to the bathroom, tearing at his clothes as he did so. "Must, must get them off," he muttered, "they're burning, the fire, oh it hurts so much, get off! Off! Help! I'm burning!"

For a moment Rose didn't know if he was awake, raving, or still asleep, dreaming and acting upon the powerful images his Time Lord mind was conjuring up for him. When he finally managed to gather enough breath and strength it was his scream that shook her into action. She hurried towards him, helping him tear off the t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms. His skin was hot and clammy, and he was shaking all over.

"Doctor, what is it? What's wrong? Talk to me!" Rose cried, at a loss of what to do.

"I'm burning, he's burning me up! It hurts so much! Please make it stop!"

Rose grabbed him by the arms and pushed him under the shower, opening the taps as far as it would go. The Doctor gasped as the cool water came pouring down on him, and his agonised cries slowly faded into whimpers. His legs were folding, and Rose had to use all her strength to ease his dead weight down onto the floor lest he fall on the hard tiles. She sat down next to him, thoroughly soaked now, and pushed her hair out of her face. As she wrapped her arm around him, he once again turned towards her for comfort, and she drew him to sit between her legs.

"Make it stop, make it go away," he was crying softly.

"You are not burning, Doctor. There is no fire," Rose said insistently. "We're in the shower, there is no fire. Look at me!" She grabbed his jaw rather roughly and made him look at her. His dark eyes were wide with fear again, but she could feel him calming down. "It's just a dream, Doctor. You have to wake up. Can you do that for me?" She reached up to turn off the tap.

He just stared at her, debating whether to believe her or not. Rose pressed a kiss on his open mouth, but he didn't react. She called his name again, still she seemed unable to penetrate the fog of his dreaming, confused brain. So she slapped him, hard.

He blinked.

"There's no fire?" he asked.

"No, no fire," Rose replied, very relieved. She drew him into her arms once again.

"It was a dream."

"Can you tell me about it?"

He tried to explain to her what had terrified him so, but he was so shocked that time and again he slipped into his native tongue to relate the images of his dream. Rose decided to just let him talk, to go on, to get it out of his system. She caught enough to understand that it had something to do with the Master – whoever that was – and that he had died in the Doctor's arms, and that there had been a fire, obviously, but not meant for the Doctor. This Master had turned against him, defying him, jeering at him for what he had done. Something about Toclafane and the horror he had inflicted upon them. What he had done to those he loved.

Eventually, he stilled.

"I love you, Doctor," was all that Rose could offer. His descriptions, those fragments, had made not much sense to her. The only thing she knew was that this was most likely something that had really happened, and that it was haunting him. "No matter what, I will always love you."

He let go of her so he could look at her, and while the terror in his eyes had not yet entirely disappeared, there was something else now. "I—," he began, but Rose kissed him.

"Let's go back to bed. This is getting a bit uncomfortable."

She helped him up, asking about five times if his leg was all right, and when he replied the sixth time with an exasperated "Rose!" she shut up. It was only then that she realised that he was standing in front of her stark naked. Thinner than he had ever been, if that was even possible, but with the soft hue of a tan the Tuscan sun had given him. It had also, she noticed, brought out the freckles in his face. Rose reached out and touched his chest, to feel his single heartbeat. There was a moment, a brief instant of sparks, and he was about to say something, but then it was gone. She gave him her towel and disappeared to collect his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

"Rose!" the Doctor called softly as she left the bathroom once again to put on some dry things herself. He followed her to give her the towel, damp as it was, it was better than drying herself off with the small one. "Let me do this," he offered, shifting his weight to his good leg, dropping his things on the bed.

Rose just stood, watching him, watching his face as he pulled the wilful wet top off her, helped him by raising her arms above her head. He wrapped the towel around her shoulders and rubbed her down gently, before he moved, carefully, to get rid of her pyjama bottoms, hooking his fingers into the elastic that kept them on her hips. She stepped out of them, supporting herself by putting a hand on his shoulder, and let him run the towel up and down her legs. When he was done, he paused a moment, looked up at her, then dropped a gentle kiss onto her stomach.

Rose helped him to his feet, and for a moment neither spoke. "Thank you," Rose said, and stepped into his embrace.