A/N: Nothing you recognize belongs to me! This was bloose09's prompt over on the doctor_rose_fix's fall fix-a-thon on livejournal. Enjoy! :D

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-from "somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond" by e.e. cummings

The Doctor stands with his back to Rose and his hands shoved into his pockets. He's contemplating the view of the night sky from the roof of the estate, counting the stars—the few that he can see, anyway, past the light and smog of London. The silence that rests between them is comfortable, rough edges worn smooth like ocean glass. She speaks loudest when she doesn't say anything at all. And that's why he isn't looking at her—because her eyes speak a language that's beyond his grasp. Because the thought of losing her paralyzes him. Because he is nine hundred years old and alien and she told him to launch a missile at her. Because he locked her in with a Dalek and if it hadn't been warped by the sheer strength of her compassion her last act would have been to absolve him of his guilt. She put her life in his hands, without hesitation or reserve, and when things went pear-shaped she was ready to die if it meant the Earth was safe.

That terrifies him, because it's a decision that he has to make. And if Rose's life is in the balance, he's not sure he can. She believes that he will, he knows she does, and if he won't he knows that she will. She told him to launch a missile at her when she'd known him for barely a week—a week, and she'd trusted him with her life. Life is just a quirk of matter, a voice in his head whispers, does she trust you with her heart? A small, warm hand brushes against his and then she's weaving his fingers through her own. His thumb strokes the base of hers, drifts up to rest and her wrist. He counts the beats of her absurdly fragile, single heart. She watches him, like she always does. Even when that pretty little fool tried to draw her away with a sparkle like pyrite she'd kept her eyes on him.

The silence stretches on, time marked by the inhale and exhale of breath—his and hers. Theirs. Until he breaks it. He hands her pieces of himself—the name of his planet (Gallifrey), the color of the sky (topaz), the sound of the wind through a million silver leaves (raindrops on crystal). She holds them close to her heart and offers him what she always has—herself.

He traces the curve of her cheek with his free hand and she watches him with eyes he could drown in. Her tongue darts out, moistens her lips and his part in response. Her heart beats faster and their breaths fall out of sync. His hand slides around to cup the back of her head and her eyes slide shut as he presses his lips against hers. She tastes like adrenaline and tea and strawberry lipgloss. The Doctor catalogues this moment with every sense he has available and Rose lets him, for a time, but then she runs the tip of her tongue over his lip and he deepens the kiss.

They speak loudest without words. He cradles her like she is every precious thing in the universe, and she holds his hearts in her hands.