Summary: "It was the kind of night you read about in books. Lit through with stars on a polluted sky, lonely hearts drawn to a warm little pub on a quiet street corner in London. He had only meant to drop by for a second, to visit this little planet one last time before being called away to war. He hadn't meant to stay." Eight/Rose.
A/N: My friend got me hooked on this song. I blame her for this.
Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who!
she said I met him up in Delaware in 1937
though I never caught his name he was a traveling man
December 24th at a quarter till eleven
I'm so glad he got the courage to ask me to dance – capital lights, his favorite christmas story
It was the kind of night you read about in books. Lit through with stars on a polluted sky, lonely hearts drawn to a warm little pub on a quiet street corner in London. He had only meant to drop by for a second, to visit this little planet one last time before being called away to war.
He hadn't meant to stay.
He hadn't meant to be dragged into lighthearted conversation by one of the other patrons, a pretty blonde he never thought to catch the name of. Just shy of eighteen, perhaps younger, with a familiar gleam in her eye, her energy boundless and coiled tight within her. He knew, moments from meeting her, that she would be destined for wonderful things. In another life, she would have made a lovely companion. But those days were over, he supposed — the days of finding those diamonds in the rough, of whisking away all the Vickis and Jamies and Sarah Janes of the world to show them all of space and time.
"Would you like to dance?" she asked, chipper voice breaking him out of his reverie. He started, eyes swinging over to meet her wide, curious ones. The music playing overhead was soft and gentle, soothed his fraying nerves, brought him somewhere peaceful. The whole night felt surreal, like a dream — finding the pub, meeting her, sitting here chatting like they'd known each other all their lives, about everything yet nothing at all, not really.
Looking back, maybe that was what made him say yes.
She beamed at him, all bright honey-hued eyes and curling blonde hair, before grabbing his hand and steering him towards the makeshift dance floor. Their hands gravitated towards the appropriate spots — on her hips, clasped at the base of his neck — and they swayed.
If there was anything he learned, in the past half-hour, about the curious blonde with the gleam in her eye, it was this: she was very observant. If she noticed anything off about him, about the strange leather of his jacket or the alien spark in his eye, about the weight he felt draped around his shoulders, she didn't say anything. She just leaned closer, seeming to realize what he needed.
They were touch telepaths, his people. She couldn't know that, but he could still feel it — her empathy, her confusion, her human warmth reaching weakly out to him on instinct, pathetic compared to other forms of telepathic contact he'd experienced over the last few weeks. Still, the soothing caress of it startled him, sent his mind reeling back, and he nearly scrambled away from her at the sensation.
Nearly.
Instead, he found himself leaning closer, and her mind relaxed against his. It wasn't nearly as close as he was used to, but comforting all the same, like being soothed through a glass wall. She was all brightness and warmth, something all… pink and golden.
"The song's stopped," she murmured after a moment, or perhaps a few moments, and he opened his eyes — when had he closed them? — to look at her. And oh, she was dangerous. All pink lips and soft brown eyes, and something begging him, asking him to show her, to humor a stranger for a little while. He wanted to invite her over, into his world, to say come and see, but the War was still clamoring for attention on the edges of his mind, and he knew he had to go.
He had to keep running, and he couldn't have anyone following him into the fray.
"Thank you," he said, pressing one quick kiss to her knuckles before leaving.
He meant it.
He kept that day hidden, behind his hearts, under lock and key. He thought of it when the nights got too long, when all he could hear when he closed his eyes were the metallic cries of "Exterminate" or the screaming of his people.
He thought of the blonde who'd reached out for him, knowingly or unknowingly, soothed him for a night before going on her merry way. He thought of her now, what she might be doing. Was she happy? Married? Did she have kids, or a job?
Did she ever think of the lonely, blue-eyed man in the pub on that street corner?
He hoped she did.
It wasn't until many years later for him —
(barely one for her)
— that he found her again, twined his fingers through this stranger's in a department store basement. She whipped her head around to look at him, wide-eyed and wondering, and he was nearly struck dumb by the familiar brown eyes sinking into him.
It's you.
And she didn't know, or maybe she did — she'd always been perceptive, always been observant, and a year didn't do anything to dull that fact. They were different, these eyes — a little colder, a little sadder, but on some subconscious level, she must have recognized him.
He swallowed, gripped her hand a little tighter, saw the Auton raise it's hand out of the corner of his eye.
"Run."
A bit fast-paced, but I dunno, I liked it? This song, though. This song gives me too many feelings.