She was forty-one, and thanks to whatever the Time Vortex had done before she let it go, she looked ten years younger, at least. Jackie was jealous, though thanks to alien technological advances she and her daughter were, much to Rose's horror, occasionally taken for sisters.
She'd left off wearing all that awful mascara some years back, at the recommendation of the man she eventually married. His name had been John, but he was Jack to his friends. Neither Doctor nor Captain, he reminded her nonetheless a little of them both. They were married for six years before he, too, was lost to her. A hazard of working for Torchwood; and this time she had no Time Vortex to will him back to life.
She wasn't sure it ever stopped hurting, but she didn't try again for forever. It didn't exist; twenty years had taught her that.
She was forty-one and finally starting to look it, much to her surprising relief. He'd regenerated a few years older, this time, more along the lines of his Ninth incarnation, and she secretly found the slightly older incarnations more attractive than the young, slightly manic one, though she never did tell him that. After all, there was no telling what he'd be next time; perhaps when she was sixty he'd look twenty three and she'd change her last name to Robinson, and then she'd
be the one fielding either knowing or disapproving looks from the more puritanical populations.
They never actually married; there wasn't much need, and any and all conversations about it tended to end in awkward silences and changes of subject until they both just stopped trying and accepted that they were what they were. Discussions of forever tended to break down when they considered actual logistics. They had a time machine, but if she wanted to give him forever she'd have had to stay behind, where she could go on existing and he could pop in from time to time.
She chose to be selfish, and took forever for herself, instead. Maybe it wasn't a fair trade, but she couldn't help but think he never seemed to mind.
She was forty-one, and most of those years showed only in a certain set of her eyes, too many years of narrowing them or frowning in consternation at being forever unable to quite reach her husband in that place where Immortal Poet Rockstars sometimes went. Those lines were balanced by the ones that formed when she smiled, which was truly just as often. He'd tried her patience, made her cry more times than she ever let on, but she never even had to think to ask herself whether or not it was worth it; she knew without hesitation that it was.
They'd parted ways with the Doctor for a time, because children, she argued, oughtn't be raised aboard a time machine. She still wasn't certain whether she'd like to throttle or kiss that Doctor friend of Byron's who'd tipped him off to the possibility in the first place; the twins had inherited their mother's energy and their father's temper tantrums. The TARDIS wouldn't have survived their terrible twos.
Now they were back, the children old enough not to chew on or take apart anything that beeped or lit up, though there were a few pranks that had the Doctor swear that he was banning domestics and leaving the lot of them on Arkannis Major if they weren't careful.
Sometimes she remembered that they'd outlive her, all of them, that is if the twins met the ending she couldn't quite decide if she'd rather they did. It seemed brutal, but at least he'd have them after she was gone. At least there'd be something of her left forever.
At least forever was a promise they could give. For them, it existed, and she never was sure if that was good or bad.[ooc: uses bits of RP canon, and, to the_corsair's mun, please be telling your pup that the last bit is not a suggestion, just a bit of what if. *g*]