Interlude 5: July
The first night back at the Tyler estate, they don't talk much. Around midnight they retire to separate, but neighboring, rooms. Both are exhausted but neither finds sleep easily. At different times of the night they each lean up against the shared wall, trying to feel through to the other side.
He wonders if she could ever love this him; duplicate, TARDIS-less, apparently genocidal. He feels less-than, inadequate, as though he's been ripped in two—which he decides is appropriate because he has. He isn't sure what he is anymore: Time Lord, human, a bit of both. He only knows he needs her. He has no idea what that means for him, what it means for Rose.
She wonders if he would ever be satisfied with her; no longer a plucky nineteen year-old but battle-hardened, stuck on the slow path. She hasn't wrapped her head around his existence yet, but the Doctor was never straightforward. On the other hand, she always was—human, companion, short-lived, pink and yellow. It's been years and she is no longer so fond of pink, carries a sidearm on Torchwood missions. She is older, more tired, less optimistic. She only knows she needs him. She has no idea what this means for her, what it means for the human Doctor in the next room.