"You look like a ghost," she says tentatively, worried that she's talking to an apparition - that she's finally gone insane and conjured up a hallucination of the one thing she misses the most. The wind takes the volume out of her words - takes away any lingering strength left in her voice.

The image of the Doctor's brows are tilted, and he's flicking his ancient eyes over her face with recognizable concern. With no humor or warmth in it, he replies softly, "So do you," before he swallows and takes his hand from his pocket, withdrawing the sonic screwdriver. He aims it at the space beside him, and then he solidifies. He returns his gaze to her, and Rose can see clearly that he is there, that he is real, even if the wind that burns her cheeks doesn't seem to affect him. He watches her as if afraid she'll drop any moment. "How long has it been?" he asks, as if the answer will explain how haggard she looks.

Rose has to think about it. She hasn't been counting the days since they were separated, only the miles left to go until she reached this spot - the point that his voice has told her to come to. "It's June," she says, and only then does the answer come to her. "Three months since Canary Wharf." And then, her frown deepening, she asks, "How long has it been for you?"

The Doctor immediately smiles, but Rose doesn't really know why. "Hours," he glances downward, slipping the sonic screwdriver back into his pocket, along with his hand. Then, hesitantly, he looks up and admits, "Maybe days. I haven't slept," he shrugs simply, trying to feign flippancy. "Been busy trying to get this transmission through," he adds.

Rose manages a small smile of her own, her throat beginning to tighten because she knows - she can tell by his voice that this is goodbye. "How …" she starts, then stops to push her wind-blown hair out of her face. "How long have you got?" she asks carefully, not sure whether it's the wind or his helpless expression making her eyes burn.

The Doctor draws a sharp breath and answers, "About two minutes," with a terse frown and a furrow of the brow, all evidence of his ability to smile fading completely. "The TARDIS is in orbit around a supernova right now. In a bit, this sun will burn up and the gap between here and your home universe will contract." He tries not to notice the irony.

Rose sniffs hard, and then gives a sobbing kind of laugh. "Can't think of what to say," she sputters out, tearing her eyes from him and looking out to the horizon, where tumultuous waves are beginning to roll inland. He gives a laugh too, but it's just as strangled - just as forced. Then she looks back to him and meets his stare. She doesn't want to ask it, but she needs the answer. "Am I ever gonna see you again?" her voice breaks.

He smiles thinly, brows tilting sadly. And then he replies, softly, "You can't."

The burning in her eyes intensifies for a moment, and then both her cheeks are wet. She reaches up to wipe her eyes, just as the Doctor takes his hands from his pockets and reaches for her, before he stops himself. He remembers that he's not really there with her - that he can't really reach out and hold her tight, and soothe away her tears, no matter how he may want to.

She all but sobs out her next words, her sleeve still covering one eye. "So this is goodbye?" she chokes out, sniffling. She drops her arm and ignores the new trail of tears that rolls from her eye. Rose watches him with imploring brown eyes, waiting, hoping that he won't give her the answer she's asked him to give her. She doesn't understand the sad, half-triumphant smile that he gives in reply.

The Doctor draws a slow breath. "Does …" he pauses, glancing over Rose's shoulder in the image that the TARDIS has wrapped around him as he speaks to his Rose, " … Mickey still have your mobile phone?" he asks hopefully, and when Rose's brows knit in confusion, he worries for a moment. His hearts sink when she shakes her head, only to rise again when she draws out the pink Nokia from her own pocket. Then he grins. "Dial my number," he instructs her gently.

Rose stares at him for a moment longer. This is the worst moment she's ever experienced, and the Doctor is acting like it's just a regular day. For a moment, her spirits rise. She almost thinks that this is one of those hat-trick circumstances, where the Doctor suddenly finds a way to fix everything and make everything okay again. But his grin doesn't reach his eyes, she notices. Slowly, Rose hits the speed-dial on the phone in her palm.

"It isn't much," he says simply, as he draws a now chirping mobile phone from the pocket of his pinstriped suit trousers, and he gives the phone a weary, disappointed look, before looking back to Rose and smiling warmly. "But it's better than nothing," he flicks his eyes over her face, trying to commit it to memory.

Rose holds her mobile in her hand, and her whole chest contracts with another sobbing laugh as she shakes her head at him. She wipes her cheeks again and gives him an appraising look. "Only you," she comments with another broken laugh. Then his smile is suddenly genuine, suddenly self-satisfied. "Think you're so flash," she reaches out to elbow him playfully, but stops abruptly because he's not really there.

"I am 'so flash'," he replies with a tilt of the head and a brief display of the inside of his lower lip. "Some credit is due for developing a pan-dimensional mobile phone link through the void and a crack in time and space. Not to mention doing it without anyone getting me tea when I need it," he points out with a despairing shake of the head.

Rose's mood is significantly lifted by his neat little trick, but this is still goodbye, in a way. She'll never see his face again - never hug him, never hold his hand, never kiss him. "This is brilliant," she allows, her smile faltering as she looks to the mobile in her hand. She looks back to him, "But … but I wish I could …" she swallows and reaches out for him. Her hand goes through his chest and she feels like she's about to be sick.

The Doctor's smile is gone again, and he nods. "I know," he allows, and as she pulls her hand back, he reaches his own out to her. In the space between their images, his hand and hers touch one another. Rose goes still, and they stand like that - their palms crossing impossibly through one another. Her fingers would be splayed between his, if not for that pesky physical barrier between universes. His mouth contorts and he wants to scream his frustration. He should be able to feel her cold, visibly reddened fingers on his, but he can't. "Me too," he says tightly, angrily.

Rose slowly draws her hand back, her expression wan. Then she sports a grin, more for his benefit than anything else. "Ah well, at least I won't have to look at your gravity-defying hair anymore. Good thing too, I was starting to question the laws of physics," she teases, wanting her last memory of his face to be of him smiling - him grinning and laughing.

It's exactly what she gets. The Doctor's brows go up and he grins, feigning injured by her comment. "Oi!" he chastises quickly, chuckling at her, "I'll have you know that the laws of physics and I have a decent working relationship. Sometimes I agree not to break them in return for a bit of latitude when it comes to my hair," he jokes back, and for a moment, one heartbreakingly brief moment, things are completely back to normal again.

The two laugh for a moment longer, until the Doctor speaks again.

"Shame though," he cuts in, still chortling lightly, but completely serious, "I really am going to miss seeing your face." The smile on his face is less humored now and more honest. Rose smiles back at him, sadly. "All pink and yellow and …" he pauses and sighs gently, "Don't think I realized quite how pretty you are 'til now." It's a lie, but it's the most casual way he can get out a compliment without her questioning it.

He suddenly flickers.

Rose's eyes widen, and it's suddenly doomsday all over again. "Doctor," she gasps out, because this is it. This is the last time they'll see one another.

The Doctor's face is awash with panic, too. It feels like they're being ripped apart- no, it feels like he's being ripped apart. His chest is suddenly tight and he wonders if this is how she's been feeling the whole time they've been talking.

"No," he whispers, eyes darting across from Rose to the TARDIS console, but there's nothing he can do. The supernova that has powered the transmission is burning out, and he's out of tricks. "No! Rose!" he shouts, looking back to Rose to see her hands flying up into her hair and pulling at it. She stares at him.

He's not done looking at her yet. He's not done seeing her smile, and he's not done staring into her eyes. He's not ready to never see her again. Rose's image flickers before his eyes, that image of the beach around them. She's watching him with terrified, leaking eyes again. Her lips move, but he hears nothing.

"Rose!" the Doctor hears himself scream out, desperate. He can't stop himself. He reaches out for her, but then she's gone. The beach is gone, and in both hands he holds only the railing in the TARDIS' console room.

A/N: So I'm doing a multi-chapter Doctor Who fanfic. It's my first DW fic, so please go easy on me. You've read the prologue, so you've got the pretense, I think. I love those 'Letters To Rose' fics that I see on the Archive whenever I click my bookmark for it, and that's where I got the idea. I'm actually really excited to write a long-distance relationship - never tried it before.

Note: The title is from the lyrics to Sheena Easton's 'Telefone'.