He knew he was ruining everything they'd worked so hard to build. If his past selves-his self of two years ago who had fought so hard to get Rose to realize that he was and always would be her Doctor, or his Time Lord self in the other dimension who'd loved her enough to give her up-had seen the way he treated her during those months he knew he'd probably create some kind of paradox. Because his other selves would have killed him with their bare hands. Frankly, he was amazed that Pete hadn't done more than yell at him a few times. He couldn't help himself, though.

The problem wasn't Rose. It was him. Rather, it was the memory of children he'd lost, the fear of what the future held for this child, and the sure knowledge that he could not go through that kind of torture again.

So he took his fear out on her.

Then, one afternoon, he'd been in the loo just washing his hands when he got a good look at himself in the mirror. Back when the Time War was still a fresh wound, and when he was so very angry with the universe, Rose Tyler had saved him. She'd made him laugh again, had made him understand compassion and love again, and she'd made him want to be a better man. And what had he given her in return? He'd broken her heart. At least twice.

In that minute he hated himself.

She didn't deserve this. It wasn't her fault. She didn't even know, not really, why this news had changed everything between them. He wasn't being fair to her, and she deserved so much more than fairness.

So he'd made her a cup of tea, had gone to her office, and had tried to show her with his lips that he still loved her. That he couldn't live without her. That he was going to change. Promising to change was easier than effecting it, though.

It was easier when she wasn't there. The sonogram photos-the first time he had seen them he felt that his heart would burst. There it was-their child-all grainy and blurry and looking like a Fretratrian (when would humanity invent a decent scanner? was what he wanted to know), and perfect. Absolutely perfect. He suspected she'd caught him looking at them at least once, but he couldn't bring himself to so much as glance in their direction when he knew she was watching. He had taken one for himself, though, unbeknownst to her. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket every morning, right next to his heart.

He painted the room, he assembled the crib, and at night he stroked her stomach and felt their child move. It wasn't enough, and he knew it, but it was all he could give. He hoped someday she'd be able to forgive him for not being everything she needed.

Then, early one morning, the time for forgiveness came.