He's gone.
He's really gone.
He's left in a shower of glass. Rose can still hear it now, the deathly crackle and thunder of the mirror being ripped apart. She can still hear the diamond-sized pieces tinkling to the floor of that great hall she has never seen, can feel them dribbling onto the lovely patterned marble she imagines everyone to be dancing upon. The sound of them is deafening, like the time she dropped her piggy bank onto the kitchen tile when she was six. She can just now call to mind that particular clash as the porcelain pig splattered and splintered all over the floor, and the cascading noise all of her coins made afterwards as they fell, louder than any church bell she'd heard. She had winced then. Her face had scrunched up into something pug-like at the worst sound she had ever heard in her life. She had cried a moment later too as she bent to gather up the pieces. She had known her mother would come bursting through the door at any moment to scold her for breaking something so important. Jackie could always buy another piggy bank for Rose, of course, but it would never be the same one Pete had first set upon Rose's bookshelf, back when she was still a good month from entering the world.
She winces now too, momentarily. Doesn't cry though. Mustn't let Mickey see how much this breaks her, how much it makes her feel like that piggy bank in her mother's kitchen, how much it makes her feel like the broken glass on a royal ballroom floor. And, oh, to be that glass.
It's not as though he hadn't prepared her for this moment. He had told her this would happen, had seemed almost certain it would. She had seen that bright sparkle in his eyes, the sort of mischievous glint that he sometimes got when he had to do something extraordinarily important in style. And crashing through a mirror into 17th century France from a gateway three thousand years into the future most definitely qualified as the Doctor's brand of style. No, the Doctor had told her, not in so many words, that he would end up trapped in Versailles, fighting off evil automatons, and saving one of the world's most desirable women. A woman who happened to be an important historical figure, the most glamorous French woman this side of Marie Antoinette and Madame du Barry, and the sort of woman who made the Doctor come home reeking of liquor and singing Lerner and Loewe songs. A woman whose beauty and pure charm had so quickly pushed the Doctor's companions from his mind and so quickly stolen his heart. But, most importantly, a woman who was not, and was nothing like, Rose Tyler.
Well, now he had her, and he'd been so quick to abandon Rose and Mickey to come to the aide of a woman he'd met only a few times. Rose still isn't quite sure what to make of this whole situation. The only thing she can feel is that sense of utter defeat, an emotionless period where she cannot bring herself to mourn this man she has grown to love so dearly.
Instead, she can only stand here, ignoring her boyfriend's questions, and feeling completely and utterly frozen. A statue in the middle of a large, very dead spacecraft. Might as well be the decrepit garden of some long-forgotten manor, she feels so alone. She's the Roman sculpture of Psyche or one of those other lost women, cursed by her own action or inaction. Just call her the Weeping Angel. 'Cept she's not crying. Won't be crying. She refuses to weep in front of Mickey, lest he finally understand just how much "better than a boyfriend" the Doctor really is. It's a bit shameful for her to admit to herself just how much like a boyfriend the Doctor has become to her, minus all the kissing and declarations of undying devotion that goes along with a romantic relationship. And he has never seemed to be more like an unfaithful boyfriend than in this moment, when he's gallivanting off to come to the aide of a woman who is Rose's superior in every way. And perhaps this Reinette is a thousand times more wonderful than a simple London shopgirl, but Rose knows she can never be more devoted to this strange Time Lord who calls himself the Doctor.
'M never gonna leave you, she thinks to herself. Never, ever. Not in a million years.
She has nothing to say now. Nothing to say to reassure Mickey that, oh yes, the Doctor will come charging back in at any moment and whisk them away to Jackie Tyler's flat. Nothing to say to let him know that the Doctor won't be coming back. Nothing to say even to the air, to fill the space that is growing ever larger by each moment of silence. She can only gaze into the direction of the broken glass and ponder the promise she has made to herself and the Doctor.
'M never gonna leave you.
She stands there for an infinite amount of time. It's hard to say, really. It feels like days, months, years, an eternity while her wounded heart still stings as if it had only been seconds. Mickey continues to ask questions as he does when he's nervous, but she doesn't reply. She thinks maybe he has finally understood the picture, finally begun to comprehend that her loyalties lie with the Doctor and not with the remnants of her simple life back in London. It must have sunk in by now, she thinks as she idly glances at her watch. It's been over five hours since he left now, and yet it feels as if time itself has stood still for her to experience this break that must have lasted only a moment, yet has been prolonged to a millennia.
'M never gonna leave you, she repeats in to herself. In this moment, she's not sure if this is a promise or a prison sentence, least of all whether it even matters.
She almost doesn't believe it when she hears the machinery of the ship begin to creak, can feel the twisting within its heart. But here it is, and her feet move of their own accord as she bounds over to the Time Lord, appearing once again as if some kind of apparition. Her arms move to entwine themselves around his body like overgrown vines, and she can feel the corners of her lips twitching into an exuberant smile.
Oh, this is what happy feels like, isn't it? Yes, she considers, this must be it. The shooting of fire through her veins as she holds him close to her, her little singular heart pounding so loudly that it drowns out his words, the way she's never felt quite so alive in all her years. She imagines this must be how Sleeping Beauty felt upon waking. As if she had been dead for so many centuries and is now filled with pure lust for breathing in the oxygen around her, for smelling the dusty flowers in her chamber, for inhaling the sharp, rustic scent of oil and parchment embedded in her hero's skin. She imagines herself to be this princess- in the Disney version, not the real fairy tale. Because while the Doctor is cruel, he is cruel without intention, not the ogre-like prince who claimed Sleeping Beauty as his own and violated her before tearing back off to his own queen. Or perhaps he is more like this than Rose had originally considered. Still, any malevolence inherent in her Doctor- yes, he is her Doctor- is overwhelmed by the innocence that makes him appear to be little more than a curious three-year-old or excited adolescent. As she holds him close, her hero and her captor, she begins to wonder if it really matters whether he's a dear or a brute at heart. She wouldn't love him any less.
He's gone from her arms in moments though, only concerned with bringing the woman through the fireplace now into this cold world of steel. He intends to pull her through the door and let her invade Rose's home. Rose imagines this Madame de Pompadour will march herself into the Tardis as if she owned it. She imagines the woman will remark so charmingly about the contraption, inspect each switch and gear and laugh coquettishly at the wonders of Gallifreyan technology. And the Doctor- Rose's Doctor- will place his hand upon the Tardis controls, lean down to this would-be queen, and give her the greatest smile Rose has never seen, with his Buddy Holly glasses perched just so upon the bridge of his nose. His eyes will be filled with secret laughter, and he'll be the most instantly irresistible man Rose knows he is capable of being. After this woman has firmly weaseled her way into the Tardis and the Doctor's heart- not to mention his bed, something Rose finds herself blushing scarlet at the thought of- it won't be long before Mickey and Rose are back on London soil, and she's working away at the shops again, selling overpriced goods she cannot afford to women who will look at her in the same smug way Reinette does. Her adventures from the ends of the Earth to the dawn of time to the distant future are even now floating away from her like balloons lost in the wind. And now, knowing full well how their story is going to end, Rose cannot hate him or even imagine hating him, much less forgetting.
'M never gonna leave you.
It's not a moment later that the Doctor has gone and come back through the fireplace again, and Rose feels her skin begin to flush. He is alone and he strides toward them, subdued. His eyes are dark again, and he walks straight for the Tardis controls without so much as a glance in their direction. Rose stands there right next to him, as if her legs are being pulled by some magnetic force. Mickey is behind her, right at her heels. As the Doctor fiddles with the controls, Rose stands at his side, waiting. He murmurs something about being too late, Reinette is dead, it's her last trip to Paris now. Rose feels a shameful wave of relief wash over her, and she instantly chastises herself for being so pleased with something that has so obviously hurt her Doctor.
"Are you alright?" she ventures.
He turns to her and gives her one of the saddest smiles she thinks she has ever seen. It's one devoid of hope and feeling altogether. The sort of grin Rose might have given Mickey an hour before if she weren't so terribly devastated by her own loss and apathy.
"I'm always alright," he answers in a tone he probably considers to be bright. The way his hair droops into his face is heartbreaking, Rose thinks. Its shadows play over the rest of his face, hiding his eyes for a moment, and making his lips appear bold against his pale skin and freckles. She could almost swear his lower lip is quivering.
And she wants so desperately to reach her hands out to him, to touch this strange little Lord, and whisper to him the words that have been dancing unspoken on the tip of her tongue for longer than she can remember.
Mickey quietly tugs at her arm though, muttering something about exploring the rest of the Tardis. She lets herself be lead away from the Doctor, instead of throwing herself at him and letting him rest his tired head upon her shoulder as she wants him to. She follows Mickey down the cold and very bare corridors, until they reach the room he's designated as his own, as if he plans to keep on travelling with the two of them for some extended period of time. He lies down on the tiny bed and places his hands behind his head. Rose sits down next to him and just stares into the wall.
"That's just horrible, yeah?" he asks her, not really looking for her approval. "I can't imagine it. Bein' separated from the one you love forever."
She feels one of his hands on her back now, running up and down her spine. He's wanting her to turn to him now, to rejoice in the simple fact that they two are together.
"Well, s'not like the Tardis can't go back to dear old France," she offers instead. She pulls her legs onto the bed and looks over at him. Dear Mickey, she thinks. He's so daft, even now, as he pulls her close to him and breathes in the cherry scent of her shampoo. Thinks she's here for him, that she's just so glad he's with them, that she doesn't wish she could just be alone with her Doctor again. And for whatever reason, she finds herself willing to comply with his silliness and leans down to kiss him quite gingerly. He kisses back in that coldly familiar way he always does, and she opens her lips to let him do it harder. Even though there is nothing between them now, she thinks this might be a better option than attempting to console a Time Lord who, once again, appears to have lost everything. Mickey's large, soft hands pressed against her form provide more solace than she might find alone in her own room or sitting next to the Doctor as he ponders the pain of love. It is contact that she knows she will not receive from the one she really loves as he removes her shirt, and more contact than she is willing to hope for from her Doctor. It is cool and proverbial as he clutches her body to his, and that's all she can ask for, statue that she is.
It is not until he's fallen asleep that Rose allows herself to sigh. The lights are dim, she can feel the gentle hum of the Tardis at work, and she lies on her side, eyes wide open. The world is so infinitely quiet now that she swears she would be able to hear the clatter of a sonic screwdriver on the opposite side of the ship. Or the familiar sound of the Doctor's trainers as he walks down the hall. They echo, oh so loudly, and her heart, it beats like a drum in her ear. He must be able to hear it as he stops in front of the door. It's slightly open, and she knows he must be gazing in at her now, thinking she's sleeping just so peacefully beside her dear, dear boyfriend. She doesn't dare glance up at the doorframe, doesn't want to risk meeting his eyes with a guilt she knows she shouldn't have. Mickey's her boyfriend, and the Doctor, he's better than a boyfriend, but he must expect that she's still going to do those weird things, like sleeping with a man she doesn't love. He's really a stupid alien git, she thinks, if he doesn't understand that a part of her hates herself at this moment. She hears his sharp intake of breath before he continues down the hallway. The sound of his footsteps bounce off the walls for a few minutes before disappearing into the void, and she sighs again before getting up to go to her own bed.
"'M never gonna leave you," she whispers, and it's to her credit as an actress that Mickey stirs in his sleep and smiles.