AN: In either December or January, I can't remember anymore, I went to my first poetry slam. There were some interesting poems, to say in the least, and quite a few moving ones. There was one poem with one line in particular that stood out to me and had my writer juices flowing. It went something along the lines of "I held her hand because my mouth could say so many words, but my heart could only say three." And that line inspired this. I didn't catch the poet's name, so I can't give him his due credit, but I thank him for sharing his art.
As per usual, this one-shot fits in the universe of all the rest of my DW one-shots, though can be read alone. It might make more sense if you read the others, or I'm just trying to get you to read the rest of my work. No, really, it might help if you read the others, but you don't have to. This takes place somewhere in Series 5, I would say.
This used to be quite a bit racier, but I toned it down and edited out as much mature content as I could without losing the feeling that I wanted to portray, because this piece isn't about sex. It's about unspoken words.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters are not mine. Thank you to the poet whose line I borrowed. This is mine. I will sick rock badgers on you for stealing.
"I don't know who she is, why she's so important, why she's always there. We're living our lives in reverse. Her lasts are my firsts. And it's all so frustrating. How do you face someone when the first time you met them, you watched them die?" He ranted, running his fingers through his hair, a habit he hadn't lost.
She nodded, always understanding, always comforting. She never questioned these random drop ins, even came to expect them when the Doctor was away. She found comfort in knowing that even though she wasn't physically with him anymore, the Doctor still needed her. It helped her come to terms with the fact that she wouldn't get her forever in the TARDIS.
"She implies things. Hints at my future, her past, but she never tells me outright what we are. Who is she to me? If she realizes that every time we meet, I'm younger and younger, knowing less and less about her, wouldn't she want to tell me so she can have just that much more time?"
Rose turned off the burner as the kettle whistled and poured the steaming hot water into the prepared teapot. "But then it isn't real, is it? She wouldn't know whether or not you mean the things you say or do in the way that she wants or remembers." She took out the milk and sugar and a spoon. "You aren't really doing these things out of your own volition."
The Doctor inhaled deeply the aroma that could only be Rose Tyler making tea. No one could make tea as well as Rose Tyler, except maybe Jackie Tyler, but Rose learned from the best. He pressed his front to her back, reveling in how she instantly leant into him, and wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. "I want to know who she is, because it doesn't make sense."
"Why doesn't it make sense? You're going to fall in love with this enigmatic River Song. From the way you describe her, it sounds like you've finally met your match."
"No, that's impossible. It just isn't possible."
"The impossible is always possible when it comes to you, Doctor."
"Not this time. Not when it comes to this." Not when it comes to bringing you home.
"Why not?" She sipped at the spoon and shook her head. "More sugar."
The Doctor buried his nose in her hair, pulling her just that much closer, but never close enough. "Because it's always been you, and it will always only ever be you."
"Don't limit yourself. These days will run out. I know. I've always known. One day I will never see you again, or else you wouldn't be here. You can't always live in the past, Doctor. You've got to move forward."
"I don't want to." He was being childish, but he didn't care. It wasn't fair. Nothing was ever fair. Lifting one hand, he grasped her chin gently and turned her head so he could kiss her. He kissed her to apologize for all those days he wasted, to thank her for holding his hand, to say those words he couldn't say. He wanted her to know, to never forget, that this was how he really felt, even when his past self seemed so cold, so distant, never letting down that barrier that would let them take that one, final step forward. And she kissed him back, telling him she knew. Of course she knew. But that wasn't enough.
His hands sought out her body, her curves, her Rose-ness. He ran his fingertips over every centimetre that his long arms could reach, ingraining into his memory every contour. He kissed her shoulder, tugging at her shirt to reveal pale skin. Her taste, her scent, he etched it all into his mind. Never to forget. His past self might have held back, but this self, him now with only so many days left, wouldn't hold back from letting her know she was loved, that she was wanted.
He kissed his way up her neck, nipping here, sucking there, whispering her name in her ear. His hands, though, went their separate ways, one sliding beneath her shirt to trace a rib, while the other hiked her tantalizingly short skirt up so that it could more easily access the silken skin hidden beneath.
"Doctor…" Her breathy voice shuddered, knees buckling. "Not in my mum's kitchen."
The tea sat forgotten as Rose's bedroom door shut with a click.
Quite sometime later, when Rose had recovered control over her breathing, she managed to say, "I love you, Doctor."
He gazed down at her for some time with neither crystal blue nor chocolate brown eyes, but these much older, much more tortured green eyes, the same color green as her bedroom door was on the TARDIS. His lips parted, beginning to form the words he so dearly wanted to say, but he changed his mind and clasped her hand tighter in his as he leaned in to kiss her. His mouth could say so many words, but his hearts, oh, his hearts could only say three.