That whole first year, theirs was an unusual brand of pillow talk. It was neither post-coital platitudes nor the doe-eyed sharing of hopes and dreams.
It was whispered confessions in the dark.
I wanted to kiss you in that dungeon in Cardiff.
I wanted you to.
She knew my name. She wouldn't say why, or how, but she knew it.
So he'll have someone else then? Eventually?
I don't know. Maybe. I couldn't fathom it at the time.
It was ask-and-answer, anything goes.
Pressed back to front, no meeting of eyes, it was easier to pose the questions neither had previously dared. Questions that, even then, were hard to ask in the light of day, but were more easily explored within the safety of an embrace in the dark.
She learned of his home, of the world that had burned. He learned what she had endured to return to him.
It was homage paid to those they'd lost.
He did amazing things here. Both of us became so much more than we'd ever imagined, in the end.
I don't know why she didn't regenerate. I wish she could have. Donna was right. Of course she was.
It was not necessarily verbal.
Lips pressed to napes and knuckles were reverent reminders that whatever had come before had ultimately brought them to this place. Sometimes there were tears. Often he would absently trace circles and arcs on her bare shoulders, his fingers speaking silently in his native tongue when English failed to suffice.
It was the Doctor. And Rose Tyler. Not yet in the TARDIS, but even so, just as it was meant to be.
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