I'm tired and I wanted to write something melancholic and set in the rain and so this happened. I don't know why it's so short. I also don't know why it's so plotless. I'm sorry.
I didn't attach a specific timeline to the drabble-thing, so that's up for interpretation, although I'll admit I was writing it with the idea of it being between the Battle of Canary Wharf and Bad Wolf Bay (the first time, you know, with supernovas and two minutes and never finished sentences.)
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any rights to any recognizable content. Pretty sure the characters and storyline rights belong to BBC.
It started as a drizzle. Not unlike, she supposed, rainstorms were generally inclined to do. When she felt a drop hit her head for the first time, she paused; and then, gradually, she found the energy to raise her gaze to the sky. When the next drop fell nearly a minute later, it landed splat on the bridge of her nose, and she went a bit cross-eyed in surprise.
Rose found herself wondering where the first drop that these clouds dropped landed. Could it have been the one on her head? Yes, that would have been very special. More likely, she mused, it landed in a cornfield somewhere, alone and sad and unnoticed by anyone. And wasn't that a shame? The first and arguably most precious raindrop that this storm produced, left to go unnoticed and unappreciated simply because it landed in the wrong place at the right time.
How sad it would feel, if it had feelings.
She thought she knew how it felt in that moment.
As the rain picked up, she closed both her eyes to protect them. She let it wash away the thoughts creeping in of pinstripes and wrong places and time, choosing to focus on the sensation of water hitting her face instead. She let the sensations remind her that she was alive, that she was still needed, and that she still had a place in the universe even if this universe wasn't the right one. Even if it wasn't the right one at all.
As if she'd offended the sky, almost all at once the gentle rain turned into a roaring downpour. It pounded down on her face, soaking through every single layer of her clothes, and zapping enough heat from her body that she quickly began to tremble with a violent vengeance. She was wet and freezing and aware, in the only part of her mind that was still rational, it would probably be in her best interest to seek shelter and a fluffy blanket before she caught a cold. And yet she stayed perfectly still, surrendered to the mercies of the downpour.
She found she rather liked it that way.
Her lips stretched. Just slightly. Maybe, maybe, just enough to call it an almost-smile. Then she parted them, remembering a game she and her friends would play sometimes in winter and thinking that, really, raindrops and snowflakes weren't all that different.
Part of her wondered why the water running down her face was tinted with salt when, staring up at the sky, all she could feel was numb.
And another, more insistent, part of her wondered if the sky of whatever planet he'd most recently chosen to visit was crying for them, too.