Beautiful. That one simple word contained more thought, emotions, and descriptions in those nine individual letters than volumes written by poets, described by wisemen or debated by scholars.
His eyes followed the symmetrical lines, caressing the gentle curves accentuated between light and shadows, memorizing every nuance and diversion created in the soft, fragile skin. Without physically touching he imagined the intricate and delicate feel of the smooth surface; his nerves tingled in anticipation at the envisioned contact. Inhaling the sweet fragrance, he allowed the rare scent to infuse his mind, sliding between cherished memories and blanketing him with a peaceful calm.
Closing his eyes he leaned back heavily against the wall, flinging the red rose to the side where it landed atop the jumbled mound of discarded blossoms heaped haphazardly beside him. Rubbing his face in his hands, he fought back a sob. Not good enough, he thought, hearing footsteps stop right outside the door. There was a sharp knock before the door opened and the Doctor found himself looking up into a pair of lucid blue eyes.
Jack's brow furrowed in confusion, taking in the small mound of cast-aside roses piled next to the unmistakably distraught individual sitting at his feet.
"Howdy, Doc." He began hesitantly, uncertain of the other man's state of mind as the Doctor peered back at him through red rimmed eyes.
Shaking his head the Doctor muttered. "Impossible." Shoulders drooped forward as his chin dropped onto his chest despondently.
"What's impossible?"
The Doctor jolted upright as if a charge of electricity had shot through him, Jack took a step back. "THAT!" He shouted, punctuating his words with a wave of his arm over the hoard of rejected flowers. "None of them are perfect!" He spat angrily. "Each of them is flawed, blemished, tainted, malformed, defaced, scarred, faulty in some way." Kicking the pile and scattering flowers across the floor, the Doctor glared down at the chaos, clenching his fists, incensed.
Comprehension slowly dawned as Jack observed the tantrum. Stepping around to the front of the time lord, he casually bent to pick up one of the roses and faced him calmly. Studying the blossom in his hand, he was unable to tell where the imperfection could lie.
"So, you want to find the perfect rose for the perfect girl?" The Doctor angled his head, warily watching Jack out of the corner of his eye. Undaunted, Jack continued.
"What makes her perfect?" He asked nonchalantly and was met with a fierce, eagle eyed stare. Raising his hands in submission, he stepped back pacifyingly. "Just think about this, Doc. Here you are trying to find something perfect," he raised the rose, "yet not one of these meets all the criteria." Jack retrieved another flower. "The way I see it, perfect is more of a perception. It's not obtainable, as it's subject to personal opinions and views." Placing the two buds together, he then added a third, a fourth, continuing to add more as he talked. "The good and the bad, everything combined, makes an individual unique. And unique, "he handed the small bouquet to the Doctor, "is what makes an individual perfect in someone's eyes."
Slowly turning the arrangement around in his hands, the Doctor viewed it from various angles.
"It's perfect."
He stated, awestruck, glancing back over to Jack, who laughed lightly and shook his head. Stepping forward, Jack placed a hand on the other man's shoulder, squeezed it slightly, leaned towards him and whispered in his ear:
"So is she."
Then he walked away, leaving the Doctor to think it through. For an intelligence far beyond most, it always surprised Jack at just how naïve the man could be when it came to matters of the heart. He had the feeling it would probably be a good idea to become scarce. Chuckling, he disappeared down the corridor.
The Doctor was grinning madly, comprehension finally setting in, and he headed down the corridor in the opposite direction. Jack was right, he mused, although it was something he would never admit, at least, never admit out loud.