By Kate Carter
A/N: My first Doctor Who fic! Written 2 October 2007, while I was at work, bored, with nothing to do (well, nothing I WANTED to do anyway). Sorry if slang's a bit funny, I'm a British-obsessed American trying to write in a British style! Oh, and I'm ignoring the "She was blonde!" portion of "Utopia."
Disclaimer: Seriously. If Doctor Who was mine, we would have never met Martha or Donna. There would be no need.
How do you compete with perfection?
From the moment I met him, I was in competition with her. With Rose. With the memories of a woman who is no longer in this universe. Just the memories. And I lost, every time.
"…it means nothing, honestly nothing."
That's what he said, right before he kissed me. I found it hard to believe at the time. I don't anymore. He doesn't love me, in any sense other than as a good mate. He loves her. Rose.
The first place he took me – to meet Shakespeare – as we laid in bed and he tried to figure out the puzzle of what was going on, I saw "the look" for the first time. "Rose would know," he said wistfully.
The second place he took me was New Earth; a place he'd visited before with her.
There were times when he would get this distant, sorrowful look in his eyes, what I wound up calling "the look." He wouldn't say anything, just stand there, looking into the distance for a moment, before snapping back to his "bright and cheerful" personality.
There were times when he would spin around suddenly, as though he expected to see her. It usually happened whenever I came into the room. There was always a split second there where his face showed his hurt and disappointment, before he covered it with a grin.
I got lost in the TARDIS once and found his room. It was like a tribute to Rose. There were pictures everywhere; I suppose they had taken them whenever they weren't in imminent danger. There were pictures of the two of them tickling each other, the two of them making faces for the camera, Rose giving him a kiss on the cheek. And there was one of her laughing, one that was larger than the rest, and in a frame on the bedside table. There was a hoodie on the bed, neatly folded next to the pillow.
Out of curiosity, I looked at the room immediately across the hall. It was filled with remnants of her. Her hairbrush laid on the table, long blonde hairs still tangled in it. Her bed was made, her clothes hung in the wardrobe, and there were the pictures of her and the Doctor all over, along with an older blonde woman, and a younger black man.
There was also a pile of letters on her bed. One glance was enough to tell me they were all in the Doctor's handwriting, and all addressed to Rose. I opened one page out and glanced it over. "Martha is all right, Rose, but she could never replace you."
No. I can't.
I can't compete with perfection.
(A/N: Wow. I'm wanting to call it complete and utter crap, but hey, it was my first time in the Doctor Who fandom. This is a new thing for me, I've written stories for three separate fandoms in the same year. Wow!)