Turns out that Papua New Guinea does surprise everyone in the shot put. The Doctor insists on keeping the rest of the results from her, but his teasing only manage to feed her fire (although that may be on purpose as well, Rose suspects), and she tries again and again to make him spill them. She places bets he refuses to acknowledge ("I still owe you ten quid and you think betting with me is a wise decision?"), but as the numbers increase, he feels his pride hanging on the balance.
Win or lose, spilling or none, they always crack into laughter when the first place is announced. None of them end up being any richer–not like they care about that.
But, no matter how predictable a goal was or how a last-minute turn impressed the breath out of her, a truth bomb always floods the spaces between any and every thought, and in the quiet moment after the events end and before the next one begins, as the stages change and people rearrange on their seats, as there's nothing but waiting going on, Rose keeps coming back to what filled those cracks. She remembers.
He was a dad once.
He could've used every other word, but he used "dad".
He had kids somewhere, he'd held partly-his tiny Time Lord babies in his arms, he'd watched them grow perhaps – maybe even seen some of them marry.
He didn't say how many, either.
And her first reaction remains, still: Why didn't he tell me before?
Before, when, she asks. I dunno, anytime, she quickly replies, it's the kind of thing you say on the first date, innit? Hey, I've got kids runnin' around, watch out for unstoppable gobs– Or-or big ears, or prominent noses and holier-than-thou attitudes…
But, then… Then she gets it.
And it freezes her to the core; a violent ice that spreads with no mercy from the inside out. Her lungs are too rigid to breathe and her eyelids immovable, unable to do anything but watch the air pass over her, but refusing to bring her back to life.
She misses the furious tackle of an ice skater against another in a deliberate move for the hockey puck's possession. It's only the thunderous slam against the surrounding walls that make her snap out of her head, and next thing she knows half the stadium is getting up to scream at the two players. She's unsure whether they're cheers or boos, and whether she should be doing one of the two – and before she gets to try and guess, the Doctor nudges her arm. Oh, no. He caught her. He's gonna frown and worry and–
Rose hoists herself up and starts screaming along the crowd, foul, foul! Only word she remembers at the time that has anything to do with sports. Bless Mickey for not being a football fan – there sure were no red cards flagging here. The Doctor quickly follows her too, and then he's telling her of that one famous time one ice hockey player did this famous, world-changing thing in this one time. Any other day, she would've paid attention to that story – would've loved it, even.
But it was the war.
They sit back down and enjoy the rest of the game. Move to another stadium and watch another series. And then some. And they have a blast, really. It's just in the in-betweens that Rose trips back into those dark pools and keeps swimming in circles.
It was the war. He was the only one left. He'd said it, for god's sake. Kids, wife, or ex, or whatever – they were all gone.
Of course he didn't want to say anything else. Of course he'd just let it slip and then–
It even hurts her to have taken so long to figure it out.
So… she doesn't say anything. Doesn't make the Doctor talk about it. Doesn't ask him how many children he had, nor with whom, nor how old they got to be. God forbid he also had grandchildren. She floats back up and returns in time for the beginning of the next event. They bet again, they eat hotdogs, they point and wave at aliens incognito on the left side of the stadium. It's all wonderful. Even if every quiet pause brings that ice back to her gut.
The last competition ends and the round of applause is overwhelming. They decide to stay for the closing ceremony (there was a Harry Potter homage in the opening and the Doctor is keen on sticking around to see if there's an encore). Flags wave in a wind that's starting to chill. She shivers a bit and the Doctor takes off his coat for her. He pretends like it's nothing and, even though it's not the first time he lets her borrow it, her cheeks, nose and ears are hotter than her hands.
The athletes cover the entire pitch and the men's marathon winners – customary to be handed at the very end of the Olympics, the Doctor explains – are awarded with their medals, one by one. And it's in that respectful silence that Rose is hit by another bitter realisation. In trying to quiet it away, she'd once more forgotten something important. If just thinking of it makes her feel rotten… How is the Doctor doing after remembering that? Did he really just drop it, too? Or is he replaying it all in his head in a loop with every silence that settles, just like her?
That settles it, then. She can't keep quiet. Not really.
The president of the organizing committee starts his speech and everyone shuts up, even the incognito aliens from the other side and the nuts-and-coke guy are paying attention. It's so quiet that Rose can hear the faint whispers from the very last bottom row. And she breaks it with the rustle of his too-big coat, warmly wrapped on her arms, as she moves to find his hand with hers and holds it. She twines their fingers, brushes his thumb with hers. The Doctor smiles and returns the sentiment, but he doesn't understand it's something else until he feels her eyes fixed into his.
It doesn't come as a surprise to Rose when, after just one blink, his face drops the smile. The hurt is there, in the lack of an expression. Seems she was right; seems he was right about her too.
Rose leans closer, softly, so no one but him hears, so he doesn't hear anything else, and squeezes his hand.
"I'm sorry…"
He wonders if his apologies are ever going to sound as comforting and real as hers.
The Doctor swallows, but doesn't shy away his eyes – Refuses to, she can tell. There's effort in the crease of his brow. Then, he squeezes her hand in return.
Rose smiles, just a bit, and pulls him from the shoulder into a hug. The seats have no arms, so he slides into her and he fits. He lets out a sigh that blows a hairstrand away. They hold each other tight, no more words, no more solicitude.
The speech ends and claps start in its place, to celebrate the victors. They don't hear anything that isn't the beating of the other's heart(s), or the other's breath. They just close their eyes, limits held by their fingers and palms and elbows and necks. In a moment, everyone is on their feet, all around them, all over the stadium, and they still hug, covered by the proud ovation.