A million odd things had happened to the Doctor in nine hundred years. Daleks, the Master, Time Wars, and Rose. He'd regenerated ten times, stolen a TARDIS and destroyed two of the greatest civilizations known to man and alien.And all it took to break him down to the most base of human instincts was one small, pale child in France.Humans were such frail things. Easily broken. Their life span was so short. Yet they kept procreating, creating new life to carry on their DNA, their stories, their memory. Never, in nine hundred years, had he thought of such a legacy of his own. Until he had peered through flames in an antique fireplace aboard a crude ship and had seen wide eyes and a wry mouth staring back at him. She had been so brave seeing his face looking back at her, had spoken so articulately to a stranger whom could have been anyone. Even himself. The moment she had spoken The Doctor had found himself enamored with her. Smart, sweet, strong. Everything he might have wanted in a child if he'd ever planned to have his own. Everything he could want. And he realised in a moment he would give his life to protect her. Yet, in the end, she was the one that had died. They were always the ones to die. Not him.
I uttery adore this take on what he first saw in her. Thank you.
Which just makes everything he did so much more fucked up. ;) Gotta love that.