A/N: At the time of my writing this, I had only seen Seasons 1-3, so please do not judge if this does/does not conflict with later occurrences in the show. Also, on a related note, at the time of my writing this, it was about 3 a.m. So please forgive how...shall we say...interesting coughcoughcrappycoughcough...it is. Thank you.
Disclaimer: Believe me, if I owned Doctor Who, I'd spend all day onset in the TARDIS.
Alternate Earth, Rose Tyler's first Christmas since her permanent arrival on this planet.
I wake with a start, sitting bolt upright at the shock of an added weight in my bed, the bed in which I've cried myself to sleep far too many times. Almost unwillingly, I turn around to see what it is. Because if it's a Cyberman, or-God forbid-a Dalek, I'm gonna kill it dead, I swear. But the surprising addition is unconscious, dreaming, with untidy brown hair and a long brown coat.
"Doctor?" I'm barely breathing as I lower myself back down next to him, slowly, oh so slowly. He's not in his jimjams but he looks almost the same as he did on the day of the Sycorax invasion-exactly a year ago, I realize, and I lay down beside him, still not convinced of his reality. At all. I refuse to be tricked. Staring him straight in the unconscious face, I measure him up. Sure, he may look the same, but without him up and talking, for all I know, he could be an Auton or another terrible, beautiful alien creature. Terrible to take his form, beautiful because it has. Still, best to let sleeping Doctor-lookalikes lie, if only for a bit longer, because if it's asleep, surely it can't hurt me, and I can just...look. Oh, God, that hair, it'll never lie flat, especially if he keeps running his hand through it while he's thinking, he's always thinking. Those ears, not nearly as big as they used to be, but they've always been the perfect size.
And suddenly he-it-moves, shifts, just a bit, hardly noticeable really, if I hadn't been watching him so close, and just whispers, just breathes, "Rose." And I know it's him. It's really him. I don't want him to fully wake up because I know, somehow, that he'll just disappear. But if he's here...carefully, oh so carefully, as if he were the delicate still-regenerating version of himself, I press my lips to his. And he tastes the same, of hope and possibility and salvation and Doctor, and something like déjà vu makes me feel like I should be glowing gold right now, eyes glowing into his, but his are closed and suddenly this chaste kiss is not enough and I just feel his open mouth on mine as I breathe in the air from his lungs, one of the greatest and most precious of gifts, I don't want to close my eyes but do on instinct, yet I still see him there, feel him, feel his shock of hair running gently, oh so gently, through my fingers or vice versa or does it matter, the song of power and TARDIS and something I can't quite recall is loud in my ears yet soft, the softest thing, as I pull him to me, and breathe back "Doctor," and suddenly he's gone and I open my eyes to find that I'm mouth-to-stuffing with a pillow, the softest thing, but he felt so real.
Through a thick film of the tears that I have long learnt to cry in silence, I refuse to let go, holding the pillow to me, with my fingers still running through the hair of the Doctor, my Doctor, who will never leave me, not really.