I don't own Doctor Who. If I did, why would I be here writing a 200-word fanfic?

The Doctor could do anything he pleased. He could have anything. He could see anything. Anything that was even semi-possible, he could do it with a minimum of effort. But he didn't have to, because he had the one thing unobtainable by time travel, stretching the fabric of the universe, or pushing some buttons on the TARDIS. It was something he knew not everyone would appreciate, though he felt they should. He thought it was the most wonderful thing in the world, this one thing he had, even if no one else did. He had met people who tried to take it away. He could never forgive them, not even if he wanted to... which, of course, he didn't. Because this one thing, this one little thing, meant everything to him. Having it taken away would also be taking away a part of him. In all his nine hundred years, he had never had something this amazing. It was so hearty and sturdy, yet so delicate and fragile. So ridiculous, but so sensible. It was perfect, although imperfect. It was beautiful. Beautiful as a flower, some may say.

Beautiful as a rose.

His Rose.

BANTERBANTERBANTERBANTER goes the Derpy Whooves. I'm writing this prior to watching Army of Ghosts and Doomsday, because I'm a big baby and don't want to see Rose leave.

I just wrote this up because... I'm not sure why. Because I'm working on another Ten/Rose and I hit a rut on that one, that's why.

Is the center-aligned text annoying? If it is, please let me know.

Review if you want. Or don't. Whatever you feel like.