Sometimes Rose has dreams where she can move through time like a ship crossing an ocean. She is everywhere, everywhere at once, every time and every place.
She is in a human body, living each day one after the next even if other people's days lose their sequence as she skips through them.
She is both these things.
Rose knows the feeling of a hand in hers, skin slightly cooler than her own and a pulse that feels too quick. She knows the sound of laughter in corridors and the quick-slow succession of humans and aliens and metal dogs. She knows how it feels to contain joy and sorrow and always, always, the echo of two hearts that she has bound to herself.
Sometimes when she is awake she remembers the dreams and catches herself stroking her hand across a wall or a console, fingers running over the machine-that-isn't as though it were an old friend. Just like the Doctor does, and the burning in her cheeks must be like the one she sees on him when she catches him talking to the wiring under the console.
There are moments when she is shaken by the realisation that she doesn't know what he is thinking, and then confusion that she expected to.
Sometimes, asleep, she is amazed by her own body and when she kisses the Doctor (either of them, and sometimes men she has never met and recognises anyway) it is a sensation that shocks her. It becomes something that she has wanted to do for so many more years than she has lived, an action she has seen and wondered about and yearned to imitate.
In the dreams she remembers being blown apart on Frontios (so much pain, so much screaming without even a voice that anyone could hear), she remembers years spent on Earth unable to move and before that (long ago, once upon a time) waiting to die on Gallifrey.
Very little remains when she wakes, just impressions of age and mysteries and an urge she never fights to check on the Doctor. The feelings fade quickly when she wakes, and she can't help hoping that eventually she'll dream and wake up and find him before she's lost the urgent need to touch him. Before she loses the sense of her own body as a novelty and an opportunity to be exploited.
She finds that over time the dreams are eroding her fear of the alien he hides from her. It's becoming something to be loved, something that complements and completes her. This and a memory of bright light and the loss of infinity.
She wants to ask him where the dreams come from, and is afraid that he might be able to give her an answer. And sometimes, when her hand instinctively reaches for the gentle vibration of the walls, she thinks she might already know.