Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Rose
A/N: This is actually the way I took it the first time I watched Doomsday, though I'm anxiously waiting for the third season to prove me wrong, shipper that I am.
It was some time before it hit her, the way he'd said things. One thing in particular; one thing for certain, that she hadn't understood but persuaded herself was clear as day. (And when had things every been clear as day, with him? Never before.)
It was when she was pondering (as she did often) the time they'd had together, and wondering if there was a way of contacting Sarah Jane Smith in this universe (perhaps not a good idea? But she wanted to try). And it came back to the memory of what he told her that night. An abrupt denial, or reassurance, or lie, or all three in one.
"That what you're gonna do to
me?" "No. Not to you."
"No. Not to you."
It was the question of being left behind, and as quickly as he'd answered she'd flushed and filed away the feeling of loving and being loved (she thought), filed it away in the back of her brain, to take it out later and examine like old love letters, or leaves pressed between the pages of a book. As she thought about it she recalled the genesis of the question, the sudden doubt in her mind that she would be with him always (and she was right).
He had never mentioned Sarah Jane.
She applied the thought (theorem, scientific examination of the facts, analysis of the situation, an autopsy on the body of their forgotten relationship) to the way things were now, and her assumption (she felt like she knew) that, as he'd faded away on the beach in Norway, he was telling her what she'd told him. That he loved her. And he never got to say it, and she would never know for certain, except for the look in his eyes.
But there is still the memory of Sarah Jane, and there is still the way that he must have been with her, and she couldn't help but see the correlation.
"And I suppose... this is my last chance to say it: Rose Tyler."
That, she considered, was the end of the sentence.
And in the alternate universe (her old
universe, the one she was born in, the one she died in) perhaps he
would never say her name again.
She thought it through, and thought it through again, and then tried to put it out of her mind. (But it wouldn't stay.) There wasn't anything to do for, or about, or because of it; it was impossible to know, here, in this universe of a new life.
So she waited three days for a night without rain, and went out and whispered to the stars, hoping he could hear.
"There is always another chance."