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The Doctor wakes in a blind panic, his hearts racing in his chest and his hands futilely scrabbling for purchase in the empty air above his bed.
It takes him a very long minute to calm down enough to realize that neither he nor Rose are presently in any danger. When his vision clears a bit and he sees his star chart on the far wall; his pinstriped suit, hanging neatly in his closet – and his beautiful, blonde companion curled up on her side, facing away from him and sleeping peacefully – the Doctor’s breath and hearts finally begin to slow to rates more closely resembling normal.
It was a nightmare, he thinks, trying to calm himself further. Only a nightmare. Just because has the same one almost every night doesn’t make it real.
They’re always back on Canary Wharf in these dreams, clinging for dear life to those levers that sent the Daleks and Cybermen flying off into the Void. Except in his dreams, the Doctor never has the foresight he had when they were actually on Canary Wharf to secure Rose to her lever with a length of long stretchy cord. And so in his nightmares, when Rose’s tenuous grip on the lever slips, there is nothing to keep her anchored to this universe. To keep her anchored to him.
Night after night after night, the Doctor is forced to watch helplessly, in slow, technicolor motion, as Rose gets sucked into the Void – kicking, screaming, crying out for him – over and over again. Lost to him, lost to her family, forever. All because of his damn ego and his infallible idiocy.
They haven’t spent a single night apart since the horrible day he nearly lost her. His nightmares are bad enough when Rose is the first thing he sees upon waking. Without her near him while he sleeps he’s not sure he’d ever sleep again.
It’s still the middle of the night in mid-23rd century London, where they’ve decided to park the TARDIS for a few days of well-deserved rest and relaxation. According to the Doctor’s internal clock they fell asleep approximately four hours and five minutes ago. Plenty of rest for him, but only about half what Rose needs each night.
Normally when he wakes before her he’ll get up and putter around the TARDIS for a bit. If there’s tinkering that needs doing under the console, for example, he’ll try and take care of it then, before she’s awake and ready for her morning tea.
Tonight’s nightmare had been particularly vivid, though. The Doctor didn’t just have to watch Rose scream soundlessly the way he normally does. No; this time his subconscious forced him to hear her as well. He could hear her screaming his name, clear as a bell, begging for him to help her, to save her. And then he listened, helplessly, as the Void whooshed violently closed behind her, sealing itself off forever.
And so tonight, the Doctor decides to stay in bed with Rose a little while longer. To postpone the inevitable moment when he has to leave her side.
She’s beautiful when she sleeps, he thinks as he looks at her. Well. That’s not entirely accurate, really, because in truth, Rose Tyler is always beautiful. She’s beautiful when she’s reading a book. She’s beautiful when she’s rolling her eyes at him for saying something daft. And she’s especially beautiful when she grins at him, her tongue touching the corner of her mouth so teasingly it takes all his self-restraint not to snog that grin right off her face right then and there.
But when Rose Tyler is sleeping there’s something…. else, about her. Her strong outer shell melts away, leaving behind nothing but pure, innocent Rose, a perfectly guileless, perfect vulnerable, perfectly perfect human he would do literally anything and everything in his power to protect.
His hearts swell in his chest at the sight of her now, knowing she trusts him so implicitly that she sleeps with him every night. No matter how often he disturbs her rest by thrashing or crying out in his sleep.
Impulsively, and almost without meaning to do it, the Doctor reaches out and gently touches the small slip of skin on her lower back left exposed by the vest top that must have ridden up at some point in the night. He closes his eyes at the intensity of the sensation, at how utterly soft and gorgeous and amazing her delicate, creamy-white skin feels beneath his fingers.
The Doctor doesn’t have the words (or the courage) to say it out loud. In truth, he doesn’t have words at all for what he feels for her. Not English words anyway. And so as Rose lies sleeping, oblivious and dreaming, beside him, he very gently paints his love for her on her skin with his fingertips, in the looping circular words of his ancient, dead language:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
A moment later, and to his great surprise, Rose rolls over in bed so she’s facing him. Before he has a chance to fully process what’s happening she flings both arms around him and, pulling him close, murmurs a quiet sob into his shoulder.
“I love you too, Doctor,” she murmurs, the words half-broken on her tongue. “Oh God – I love you so much.”
He doesn’t understand how she was able to understand the Gallefreyan words he traced onto her skin. (Surely the TARDIS doesn’t translate that sort of thing too…?) But it doesn’t matter. Because suddenly her mouth is on his mouth, and her tongue is tracing his bottom lip, and the last shreds of his self-control crumble into dust as he thanks any and every deity that might be listening for the gifts of this reality.