Title: "Just Can't Say It"

Author: Wish Wielder

Fandom: Doctor Who

Pairing / Character Focus: Ten / Rose

Challenge: Fanfic 100

Theme / Prompt: #81 (How?)

Word Count: 2,383

Rating: K Plus / PG

Summary: There are some things the Doctor just can't say, and he probably never will, either.

Notes: Post-Doomsday. Songfic – but to fit the story the first half of the second verse was excluded. And the final chorus was taken out to keep from being overly repetitive.

Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" and all respective properties are © the BBC. The song "How To Say Goodbye" is performed by Michael W. Smith. Megan D. (Wish Wielder) does not, has never, nor will ever own "Doctor Who" or the song "How To Say Goodbye".

"Just Can't Say It"

He had been warned.

He had been warned by the Beast that she would leave him, but had ignored it. He had told her to ignore it, that the devil was just using their basic fears against them. When it died and they lived, he had told her it had lied. She believed him, and they moved on. They forgot.

They kept bumbling through their fast-paced, reckless life, and they had stood on a prehistoric planet watching an orange sky as she promised him forever. He knew better, but he had believed her – just because he wanted to. He threw logic and reason out the window and grabbed onto her hand, smiling as he let himself slip into ignorant bliss. They would be together forever, and they'd be happy.

He hadn't believed it as much when he had slipped the universe-hopping device over her neck and sent her away. He was okay with giving up their happiness, if it meant she would live. He was okay with it.

But she had come back, and she had flat-out denied that submission. She stared at him with those eyes of hers, telling him that she would never leave him. Never. And he had believed her again, just because he wanted to.

He couldn't believe it now, now that he was walking towards the blank wall at the far end of the room. He wanted to rush the wall, to scream and cry and pound on it.

"Bring her back! Bring her back!"

He wanted to rage against the Universe. He wanted to kill whoever was up there deciding the path of life. He wanted to kill himself for being trapped there without her. No, not for being trapped without her – for losing her.

He wanted to kill himself for wasting his time with her.

But all he did was walk towards the wall, stoic and somber as a condemned prisoner on his final walk to the chair. He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He didn't even cry.

He just placed his cheek against the wall, a hand lifting to press his palm beside his head. He grit his teeth, forcing back tears he refused to shed as he stared at the side wall, not really seeing it as he groped about for a glimmer of feeling from the other side. It was faint and fleeting, but it was there. And it was enough to make him blink before forcing himself away. If he didn't he'd never leave.

He didn't know how he had ended up here, at the top floor of Torchwood Tower alone. He didn't know how he had lost his forever. He didn't know how he could accept it, or how time would keep moving on without Rose Tyler.

But really, he just didn't know how he would keep moving on without her.

Tell me when the time we had slipped away

Tomorrow turned to yesterday

And I don't know how

"Her name was Rose."

It was a simple statement, an honest answer to an innocent question. After what she had gone through that day, he had thought Donna deserved a little honesty. So when she asked, he had told her. And then he had slipped back into the TARDIS, sending her off into the vortex and as far away from Earth and Christmas as he could get.

Sending her as far away from the reminders as he could get – as far away from the tears as he could get.

He had shed one – one solitary tear after his time had run out on that beach. He hadn't had time to shed any others. He didn't know if he wanted to, though ignoring them seemed almost like an insult to her memory. She had cried for him. Right in front of him, where he could see every salty track race down her face. She had cried for him and for them and everything they could never be. Why couldn't he do the same for her?

He hadn't even cried after the war. The TARDIS had sensed her absence, her non-existence, the moment he had stepped back onto the ship. She had known – but how couldn't she? The two were linked through the vortex – they had stared into each other and had joined in a way that should have been impossible. His old ship had probably realized the loss the moment she vanished from the universe.

And thus it had offered the hope. There was a gap left, small and growing smaller. It wasn't much, but he had refused to give up hope. She had taught him that.

In the end, he knew the truth of it. The hole was too small, and the universe was still closing, healing itself. It was the last gap, and soon it would vanish. He couldn't pull her through, and he couldn't go to her – not without destroying everything. But it was just big enough for a projection. He could at least say goodbye.

It had ripped him, clawing at the old wounds of loss she had so carefully healed. Did she even know she had saved him? But he still wouldn't cry. How could he go to her, even insubstantially, a blubbering wreck? That wasn't how she should remember him. He had to be strong, just like she had always been for him.

One tear, after the gap closed. Just one. In a way, it was all he could afford. He hadn't even wept for the loss of his planet. So much death, and how often had he cried for it?

Over nine hundred years of suppression, and it took the bride from hell to make him release it. Over nine hundred years, and all it took was a shopgirl from East London to break him enough to bawl openly.

Part of him hated himself for it. He never mourned a single Gallifreyan like he mourned her. And she was just a human.

Tell me what can stop this river of tears

It's been building up for years

For this moment now

There was one great difference between Martha Jones and Rose. Well, there were many, but one stuck out above all others. One that made them so painfully not the same it almost hurt to have the almost-doctor around. And it was so very, very simple.

Martha never needed him.

She was resourceful and handy to keep around and craving adventure, but she didn't really need him. She could take care of herself; she was brazen and brassy and very competent. She didn't need to learn how to jump, how to be the Martha she should be. She already was.

Rose had.

At first, at least. Rose had always been able to stand on her own, to jump without fear, though she didn't always know how. She could fend for herself, but he had shown her how to put the knowledge into action. Even when he didn't realize it, he had helped her. She had the wings. He just gave her the nudge.

She had needed it, though. Stuck with Mickey, she never would have become the Rose she should have been – the Rose that had been taken from him.

But somehow, somewhere along the twisting road, she had embraced it. She became her own Martha Jones, but better – she had become Rose Tyler. Defender of the Earth.

He remembered the exact moment he had realized it, too – moments, if you counted both bodies. Nine had seen it in the swirling eyes of the Bad Wolf. Ten had seen it in the nervous girl speaking before an army of Sycoraxian invaders.

And he had continued to realize it the longer she was with him. Facing down a werewolf, Cybermen, Satan-possessed Ood – a TV salesman from 1953. Even if it put her in danger, she was willing to stand.

He had promised Jackie once that he'd protect her. In the end, though, she hadn't really needed him for it. Not anymore. Maybe that's what made knowing he couldn't anymore easier.

Here I stand, arms open wide

I've held you close

Kept you safe 'til you could fly

Some days were harder than others – that's just how it went. Meeting Shakespeare had been hard – so had been returning to New New York without her. (He never had told Martha the real reason they went to the slums was because he could no longer handle the smell of apple grass.)

Today was another. Sitting in the TARDIS, his feet propped on the console as he leaned back in the captain's chair, he couldn't help but think that. Martha was visiting home, doing a load of wash. Without another voice to echo off the coralesque walls…

Would he ever see a day where he didn't miss her? Where a quiet moment of solitude wouldn't take his mind back to her?

Martha was getting frustrated – he knew this. She was tired of being compared – and of not measuring up. She had yelled at him before leaving, making a sharp jab at "the Infamous Rose" before storming out.

"Just say goodbye already – it's what normal people do!"

But he wasn't normal. He didn't know how to say goodbye to her, and even if he did…he wasn't quite sure he wanted to. Not yet.

He wanted Martha to understand, but he knew she never would. How could she? She had never stared into hell, watching the one she loved fall towards death. She had never even known Rose, so how could she understand his grief? How could she even try?

Most days were good. Most days it was easy enough to throw on a fake smile and pretend the universe was great. Most days he could laugh and run, lying to himself as he reached for Martha's hand. Most days he almost believed he could forget.

But today? Just wasn't one of 'em.

Tell me where the road ahead is gonna bend

And how to harness up the wind

And how to say goodbye

It was unfair to say it, but the TARDIS seemed empty without Martha. Emptier, at least. She always seemed empty after the war, but Martha had helped to lessen that. Hearing another voice, having someone to bounce questions off of and ramble to…having someone throw their clothes about the console room. Well…Martha had never been that bad – maybe a coat or two, but nowhere near as bad as Rose. Rose had used it like a second closet. She still had a jacket or two hanging on the railings of the upper level.

Now that it was just him and the TARDIS again…her quiet hums just weren't the same. He could sense it – tell that she was still in mourning. Really, so was he. They both missed her, but he didn't want to anymore. He didn't want to feel the gaping whole next to him where she should still be, or feel the sting of tears every time he saw one of those jackets he couldn't bear to move or even touch hanging on the railings. He didn't want to feel the ache in his hearts every time it got quiet enough to let his mind wander back to her. He didn't want to need her like he did.

He didn't want to be trapped a universe away from her. He didn't want to know there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't want her gone.

His legs had moved him of their own volition, carrying him up the steps until he was at the top landing, staring at the pink jacket that had fallen to the floor in one of the bumpier landings. He bent down, kneeling beside it as a hand hesitantly moved out to grasp it. He brought it to him, his whole body shaking as he pressed the fabric to his face, closing his eyes as that space next to him became just a bit more pronounced. He breathed in the familiar scent, still strong even after so much time had passed, and his chest twinged at the stab. Even so, he couldn't put the jacket down. Not now.

He looked around at the empty TARDIS and sighed before turning back to the jacket.

"Just you and me now, old girl," he said quietly to his ship. She hummed softly, and he closed his eyes as he felt her reach out to him, her consciousness wrapping around him in a gesture of comfort. He looked down at the shirt and smiled at it, as if it was Rose. As if she was still beside him and could hear every word he was saying.

"I should put your things away, shouldn't I? But you might still need them…" he trailed off, his eyes closing at the familiar prick of tears. He laughed slightly, rubbing at his eyes as he shook his head. "I'm talking madness – why would you need them now? But…I can't say it, Rose. I couldn't say what I wanted to, on the beach, and I can't say what I need to now. I can't tell you…"

He stopped, gulping against the burning lump. He shook his head, the word not even able to breach his mind. He wouldn't let it. He had told her it was impossible, but he wouldn't admit it to himself. Not yet.

"I won't stop looking, Rose," he said. "You've made me a wreck again, and…I won't stop. Not 'til you're back here and able to fix it. 'Til then, I just can't say it. I can't. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry."

The TARDIS hummed again, and he wondered who he was apologizing to – her, himself, or maybe even the ship? She was just as involved in this as either of them. He stood, heading down the steps with the jacket still in his hands. He put it back on the hook near the door, smiling slightly at it before going back to the controls and setting a new course.

He wouldn't say goodbye to her – not yet. Partly because he couldn't, partly because he didn't want to. Partly because he knew, the moment he did…well, his dancing hadn't caused the universe to implode. Maybe that could.

Tell me how to fill the space you left behind

And how to laugh instead of cry

And how to say goodbye

A.n.: Been working on this one for a few days before I left for TLC; mum got Stand for free at FCS for something (I think for pre-buying At the Altar (eighteen more days – totally psyched! -is a major Casting Crowns fan-), but I'm not sure), and I totally fell in love with this song. Smitty's got a good voice for sad songs. Myep.