Second of two angsty fics I'm uploading today. Obviously, I don't own Doctor Who or anything to do with it either, I'm just playing. Apologies for the angst.
He wore a brown suit, one with pinstripes, and generally with a tie; one with swirls and patterns. A brown trench coat was more often than not, billowing behind him as he ran in his battered plimsolls. His eyes were like deep dark pools of chocolate, and he liked to perch thick dark frames on his nose, whether he strictly needed them or not, giving him that mad professor type look, especially when his long, thin, fingers ran through his hair, causing his thick brown locks to stand up on end, doing this sometimes in desperation, sometimes agitation, sometimes lust. His nose and cheek bones had freckles scattered over them, and his smile beamed a thousand watts.
That was how Rose Tyler remembered the appearance of her Doctor. That was how she described him when her son, their son, John asked what his daddy looked like. That was what she saw when she dreamt about him, that was what she saw when she thought. That was what she saw when she thought about love.
But that wasn't how she strictly, solely remembered the Doctor.
He was kind. He was loving. He was… eccentric. He was like a two year old on sugar sometimes, and others he was calm and collected, a man who was suddenly feeling his age. He wasn't one to give second chances. He was scared of her mother, or at least her right hand. He was funny. He was indescribable when she told the truth, it was impossible to describe him, and give him the justice he so deserved. Those who knew him understood. He was the Doctor.
But then Rose thought that she was wrong. It wasn't "He was…" it was "He is..." He wasn't dead. Or if he was on her Earth, if he'd regenerated again, if he had died… he'd always be alive in her heart, in her mind, and in her, in their, son. No matter how many years, centuries, millennia, went by, the Doctor, her Doctor… he'd always be alive.
She wore what she liked. Pink hoodies, jeans, skin tight black trousers, with blue cardigans… no matter what she wore she was beautiful. Her blonde hair curling lightly around her face, or alternatively in a pony tail at the back of her head, the ends caressing the back of her neck gently, or in two long plaits at either side of her head that caused her hair to fall in gentle waves when she took it down. Her eyes, big, bright, brown inquisitive orbs that sparkled when she laughed. Her lips, plump and round, soft and smooth, curving into a smile large and bright.
That was how the Doctor remembered the appearance of Rose Tyler. That was how he described her to Jack when they talked about her… when they remembered. That was what he saw in his dreams, that was how he saw her physically in his mind when he thought. That was what he saw when he thought about love.
But that wasn't how he strictly, solely remembered Rose Tyler.
She was beautiful, not only in appearance, but in personality. She was kind. She was bubbly. She was loving. She loved him unconditionally, before she knew what kind of a man he really was. She was… wonderful, and so many other words that simply listing off didn't do her justice. Those who knew her, those who remembered her, they knew he couldn't simply describe her with words. She was Rose.
But he was wrong in his description. She is kind, not was. She wasn't dead, even if on Earth she was. She was oh so alive, living her life day after day. So even if officially on Earth she was dead, in his hearts, and in his mind and soul. No matter how many years, centuries, millennia, went by, Rose Tyler, his Rose… she'd always be alive.
No matter how many years, centuries, millennia, went by, they'd both be alive… alive in each other.
Which was why, two hundred years later, for her at least, when the Doctor, her Doctor got through the void, and found her, she was able to run to him, and hold him close, and let him bury his face in her hair.
Which was why, two hundred years later, for her at least, when he got through the void, and found Rose Tyler, his Rose, she ran to him, and he was able to hold her in his arms, and hold her close, and bury his face in her hair.
Which was why, two hundred years later, when they'd found each other, and held each other close, they were finally both alive, and the feeling of grief and despair in them had gone.
And why, with the touch of their lips to each others, a star was born… and a sun died.