A/N: This one-shot has a different kind of mood than my other ones. I'm not quite sure how it turned out to be, but again, thoughts would be REALLY appreciated. REALLY.

Disclaimer: Who am I kidding here? Don't own Doctor Who.

In the Morning

He thinks this might be the first real time they've argued.

And it feels—

He doesn't want to describe it. Doesn't. Makes it more genuine.

He doesn't know what they're arguing about now. He guesses he never really did. But his hearts are pumping, and the anger still feels oh so real.

Rose is looking at him. Her anger is in her eyes—usually filled with—

No.

And her lips are parted—was she going to say something? He wonders if it would finally break him.

Or maybe she broke him a long time ago. Did he do the same to her?

The silence, for once, sounds deafening to the Doctor. And for once, he can't tell where this is going to go.

He's bloody brilliant, he tells himself. But she manages—

Manages to do what? he asks himself. Make him feel like an idiot?

The silence has gone on entirely too long now. He thinks he should know exactly how many seconds, but he doesn't.

Not this time.

The anger coursing through him is gone now. He thinks hers has vanished too.

Now they're left here, standing. He hates it. Hates it.

They're not supposed to be like this. He knows that perhaps more than anything else, more than anything else in the universe.

He knows a lot, he supposes. A lot more than most people.

Was that supposed to make him feel better? (It didn't.)

And now Rose is gone. He even hates the way that sentence sounds in his head.

She'll stay in her room, and he'll stay in the control room. And in the hours from now until daybreak, they'll stay locked in those positions.

And she'll come out, and he thinks he'll be the first to offer a smile. He knows they'll probably go back to the way things were before.

He decides he hates the word probably too.

Because as much as he knows her, he doesn't know this.

Arguing. Such a strange word for him.

And more than anything, he hates this—

Because he knows how he feels about her, and it isn't hate.

Because they've gone past ever being just two people, and he hopes she knows it too.

He does.

He wants to see her face, even just a glimpse of her blond hair.

(Who is he kidding here?)

He wants to see all of her, and he thinks then this silence might just go away. Not even the stars would be company tonight. He wants her.

And then he thinks that a good thing that she decided to stay here, with him, forever. He wouldn't want it any other way.

And he supposes that in the morning, no matter how sudden it will seem, he'll tell her that.