A Homecoming (Eleven)
Here was one place where everything was exactly the same -- her room in the TARDIS. In the dim light, Rose lay staring at the sweeping ceiling overhead, listening to the quiet hum... quieter now... that meant she was home. In Pete's World, before she'd crossed back over into the universe where the Doctor had been, she would lie awake at night and stare at the plain white ceiling above her, wishing that it was exactly what she was seeing now. Now that she was here, sleeping seemed the worst way to spend her time.
Hope had started its unsteady climb back up into her again. Nothing would be the same, nothing but the TARDIS... and maybe that was enough for now. She straightened the blankets around her for the seventh time and dropped her arms back at her sides again.
Finally. Finally home. The spark started in her chest and radiated out. Finally home. Before she knew it, she was smiling in the dark. She rolled over onto her side, then, and curled her arms around her pillow. Home. And she wasn't, she really wasn't tired at all. Oh, she felt the exhaustion, the wear on her body from the long walk, the lack of sleep, the bad food -- exhausted, sure. But tired... no. Not tired at all.
The next minute, she was slipping into the thin robe laid out on the foot of her bed, tucking her toes into the blue slippers waiting, pushing still-damp hair back behind her ears. The light was dim, maybe because it was night, and maybe because the TARDIS needed to conserve power, but it was still enough to see. She edged her door open, then gently closed it, and tiptoed down the corridor. It was time to get reacquainted with home again.