I don't own Doctor Who!

A/N: This is an interlude where we hear Rose's side of the story, since I know we've mostly been hearing from just the Doctor. It might be a little cheesy, but I think it's appropriate.

Chapter 4: Rose

For a long time, never mind for the moment just how long, Rose had been feeling particularly happy when she held the Doctor's hand. It was a warm sort of feeling that emanated from her chest where her heart was beating extraordinarily fast, and flushed out into her stomach and her arms and fingers so that they tingled. The entire sensation was quite pleasant, but she hoped he didn't notice, as that would be limitlessly embarrassing.

For all intents and purposes, Rose was quite certain that she had been in love before. She quite liked Mickey. He had made her feel special and loved, but there was something—for now she couldn't really put her finger on it—that was lacking. Perhaps it was the lack of adventure in his eyes, or hiscomplacency with the trajectory of his life. Maybe it was both of these things. But somehow things with Mickey fell apart after she met the Doctor.

When she looked at him, the Doctor, she felt like she was looking at someone she had known for a very long time, even if they had only been travelling together for a year. It was a weird feeling, knowing so much and so little about somebody, and trusting them implicitly with all but one thing.

That was her trouble. She couldn't do it. She couldn't tell him or he might take her home. Back to Mickey, back to Jackie, back to the shop. She didn't want that. She would content herself—because she had to—with the life she had with him now: fellow travelers, best friends, occasionally partners in crime. That solution worked well enough for her mind. Her mind could keep up with that; it was a logical assessment and a reasonable deal. Her heart, though, that part of her that flew like the wings of a hummingbird, that part was dangerously close to slipping. It was angry with her for holding back. It was curious and wanted to know how his lips would feel against her own. It was passionate and completely impractical. And it would have to wait. It would have to be patient. Maybe forever.

Rose wasn't usually one to be silent on these sorts of issues. She was a strong woman with an opinion, and she could get what she wanted.

Somehow, though, she knew that this time she should wait for him to roll first. If she initiated, she might frighten him away. He would think that Rose was too attached, which she was, and that it would be dangerous for her to stay with him. She knew that he worried about her, and that it would probably kill him to send her away, even if he knew it was for the best. And she knew he would to it anyway if he had to, even if it shattered him.

Her mind countered, reminding her that she was just a companion. Why should she be so special to a Time Lord over nine hundred years old? She shouldn't, she thought, because it wasn't possible.

She couldn't trust him with her heart. Because he was under no circumstances, no compulsion, no desire to want it. Even though he already did—have it, that is—and he just didn't know it.

She wondered if she could ever be enough for him. If maybe—just a lowly human, pink and yellow, and slowly withering away—Rose could make him happy. It seemed like she made him smile, a genuine smile that made her feel lovely and warm. Sometimes she thought she saw a glint of real affection behind those smiles. And when he thought she wasn't looking, she thought maybe in some impossible corner of her mind, maybe there might be love there.

She loved him. Irrevocably. Totally. She loved him almost to the point of self-destructiveness. It was not a healthy kind of love: it desperately needed to be reciprocated. She hadn't loved Mickey like this. She may have loved him, yes. In a way that she liked the way he laughed and cared about her, but not in a way that made her feel extraordinary. But loving the Doctor—that made her feel extraordinary—and vulnerable, and hopeless, and the full weight of a futile universe.

So yes. Yes, she had loved before. She knew that. But she had never loved anyone like she loved the Doctor. Sometimes, she thought, it is unrequited love that's strongest.

She wasn't sure if she'd heard that somewhere before, or if her mind was being particularly creative in the sulky mood she was in, but she thought it colored her mood all the same.

Sometimes she just wished he'd say something, anything. Like, "Rose Tyler, I have never been attracted to you. That's complete rubbish. Silly Rose," just so she could know one way or another. Sometimes she got brave enough to sort of assert herself, moments that teetered on the edge between best friendship and something more. Like one morning when she put her hand on the kitchen table for him to hold, if he was so in inclined. It turned out he was. That gave her hope.

Ideally, if he said something, he would say, "Rose Tyler, I love you quite a lot." Maybe he would kiss her. She would, no doubt, be another woman in a line of women he had loved during his long life. Maybe, if he did love her, she was the only human he'd ever loved. Maybe his list of past loves wasn't such a long one, but he was completely irresistible, how couldn't it be? But where were they now? Had he fallen out of love with all of them; had they all died in the destruction of Gallifrey?

That would be tragic, for him. The idea of losing everyone you've ever loved.

And if he ever loved anyone as hard as she loved him, that would be like losing everything, because it would be losing everything. She couldn't imagine such pain for him.

She thought she needed to know.

"But how many times…" she started, feeling her pulse become almost ragged in her throat. "How many times have you…"

"Have I what?" His dark eyes made her shiver. She wanted so much to pull him closer, to kiss him, to tell him everything, to really, really tell him.

"You've been alive a long time. And I know that you've done things and been places that I can't even fathom—met people that I can't even imagine. But…" She tried to steady her voice, bracing herself for rejection, even though her question wasn't really about her at all. "Doctor, how many times have you been in love?"

He looked down at her. She saw him looking at her with a look of fierce conviction, a look that was slightly manic, possessed by fervor in a way that would have scared anyone who didn't know him. She inhaled deeply, her chest raising and lowering slowly as she struggled to maintain her composure.

He smiled.

"Just once."

A/N: This chapter is admittedly a bit of a tease, but I felt like I should get some of Rose's thoughts out there. Hopefully it's not too mopey, I just really wanted to parse out how I thought Rose was feeling when she was with the Doctor. Please, please review!