Disclaimer: Not mine.

OF DREAMS AND CONSEQUENCES

What are your dreams?

She stared at the words, stark and black on the paper, as though she could change them just by willing to, but it didn't happen. It wasn't psychic paper, and it didn't very much care to match her will or mood. The words and the question that they formed remained the same—familiar and frightening. She'd never had much luck with them.

She remembered the first time that question had been posed to her in primary school. She was eight, and Ms. Higgins had scorned her reply in front of all of her classmates by saying that the question implied achievable goals and ambitions rather than fantastical desires. Even at eight, Rose had rebelled against the kind of thinking that would remove the impossible from dreams, so she had given Mrs. Higgins what for. Of course, she'd been sent to the headmaster and disciplined for the incident, and, in the future when asked to explain, list, or categorize her dreams, she'd dutifully mentioned only that which could be worked towards—exemplary attendance, high marks, and that sort of thing—all the while hating both the questioner and the question in her heart.

It was almost funny to consider what her dreams had been at eight, the majority of which had somehow managed to work out, even the impossible ones. Her father (or a man near-enough her father) was alive and happily married to her mum. She finally had a baby sister with another sibling on the way. She lived in a mansion, owned pretty clothes, and had a line of suitors at the ready should she ever decide that she want one. Her current life would have seemed the most dreamiest of dreams to her eight-year-old self.

She even had a great job, absolutely fantastic, provided that she be able to keep it. But the Head of Torchwood had made psych evaluations mandatory this year after an employee at the Cardiff Office had gone off the deep end in a situation involving a glove. And even though she was in good with the Head himself, she knew there was nothing she could do to get out of it. So she sat at the her workstation long past when she should have gone home for the evening glaring at the question that had never in her life failed to trip her up—What are your dreams?

If only it said instead, "What are your ambitions?"as Mrs. Higgins would have preferred. Rose had ambitions; she had lots of 'em. If that was the question, then she could answer truthfully and without fear. She aspired to be granted full field agent status when she completed her university coursework—only two semesters and she'd be done. She intended to graduate with honors. She planned to get her black belt in karate. She wanted her newly created philanthropic society that enabled and exposed inner-city children to travel to really take off and become a success… These were achievable goals, and steps were already being taken. Things were, as they say, in the works.

But her dreams? She fingered the small key that she wore on a chain around her neck. Her dreams were quite different and nearly all impossible. She dreamt of time travel and of building stable bridges across universes, of eyes so deep and lovely that you could drown in them and of a hand to hold. She dreamt of a love so strong that time and distance couldn't alter it—a love the likes of which legends were built upon. She dreamt of walking down the street one day and feeling the gentle nudge of the TARDIS against her consciousness calling her home…

Nope, she thought grimly. That would make the shrink's head spin full round and keep her chin-deep in counselling sessions for the rest of time—no, best to play it safe, avoid the question and deflect with humor. And, smiling to herself, she wrote: that'd be harsher punishments for parole violators, Stan, and... world (struck through with intergalactic written above) peace.