Blurring the Starlight
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, or the BBC, and I suppose I never will.
*A/N* If you dark literature is not your cup of tea, I suggest you don't read this. I dedicate this to WholockedAnglophile who gave me the prompt and asked me to write another angsty one for Doctor Who.
I do not know where that last paragraph came from, I just wanted someone to find him and it had to be someone he knows. I know it's not cannon, but it's my head cannon anyway because how could he not know River? And please, don't ask me how he found him. Though actually, I suppose the Doctor could have told him to pick him up there later. Or the TARDIS could have arranged it or… Anyway. Enjoy.
He was drunk. As in seriously, absolutely, completely and utterly plastered. He tried to move his head as little as possible because his brain didn't really catch up with his eyes anymore and everything became an odd whirl of overly bright colors.
It had been years, centuries, since he'd been this smashed. If he had, in fact, ever had this much.
He couldn't remember.
What he did still remember, though, was the reason why he was sitting there, a nearly empty bottle of cheap liquor next to him, trying not to throw up.
The fact he still remembered this caused a growing, pointless anger inside him, because wasn't he torturing himself with the disgusting stuff to forget? Usually, he wouldn't even touch one of these bottles, but tonight - tonight he would have cut off limbs if that had made him forget, at least until the sun had risen.
The bloody memory wouldn't fade, though, not even for a second. The music of the Towers still in his ears, her fingers still on his skin and her smile still in his head, they would not go away and it made him so angry and if he could have moved, he would have started to smash things until his hands were bleeding.
Maybe he'd bleed out.
Maybe this time, he wouldn't have to come back.
Some people were ecstatic at this state, but he really was not a cheerful drunk. He'd given up trying not to cry about half a bottle ago, and by now, his throat felt sore, his eyes were burning and every breath hurt. So it wasn't a miracle really he was starting to fantasize about dying. It would end the pain, after all, wouldn't it? He wouldn't have to breathe anymore.
He wouldn't have to remember anymore.
She'd be ashamed of you, a tiny little voice in the back of his head piped up.
"What do I care?" he whispered, or wanted to whisper, because whatever came out of his mouth was not a language that was known to him. "She'sgoneanyway."
Belatedly, he felt another fit of sobs shaking him, his lungs screaming for air and his eyes desperately trying to muster some more tears. There weren't any left.
The river had run dry.
He raised his head a little (another wave of sickness overcoming him) and tried to glimpse the stars. But even though he knew they were there, his eyes just wouldn't focus on them. The night sky was a grey mess of darkness and starlight, blurred and distorted.
He was used to losing people, and he'd thought he could survive losing River. After all, he'd known how it would end right from the start. He'd seen it coming all these years, and maybe he'd cherished the moments with her more, or maybe the fear any of them could be the last had ruined it. But he'd known, right?
Then why did it hurt so much?
He had been preparing for this exact moment for years, how could it still rip him to pieces?
The realization hit him yet again: he was probably never going to see her again. Never again. Her smile, that smile that had driven him up the wall, that he had cursed and loved and feared, her understanding eyes, her laughter - all gone.
He didn't know how often he'd had this sudden illumination within the last couple of hours.
Yet it hurt just as much every time.
He felt so utterly empty. He'd never realized how much space she'd taken up inside him until she was gone and left it vacant.
And, as usual, now she was gone his only wish was to tell her how much she'd meant to him, how much her memory would always mean. Suddenly he felt like he'd not told her often enough.
The hours flew by and he didn't really know who he was waiting for.
They were gone, their names still with him all too clearly, all those people he had lost. He was alone now and they were gone... and now his wife was, too.
But he just sat there in the cold.
Maybe he'd freeze to death. He didn't care all that much.
But in the end, someone did turn up. Someone gently took that cursed bottle away from him, helped him up and somehow got him back into the TARDIS.
Talking to him in what he seemed to consider a quiet voice while every word he said almost made his head explode. He had a vague memory of throwing up somewhere along the way, missing his saviours shoes by inches.
He was still crying, still uttering meaningless syllables with no idea where they were coming from.
The other man said something about how he was really going to regret this in the morning, mentioned River, which sobered him up a bit. And, of course, triggered more sobbing.
A warm hand patted his shoulder, the familiar voice muttering something like you'll be fine and time's gonna ease the pain.
He'd lived for too long to believe it.
~o~o~o~
In his memory, the man's face was just an unfocused blot, but when he woke up the next day, his aching head fit to burst, he remembered mumbling:
"If you ever see her again, Jack… if you see her, tell her I love her."
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