okay, I've been writing, like all of today and all of last night I've gotten so much of this story done...only problem is that I feel like not much happens here. So this kind of sets everything up! Enjoy!
Now, in a place not so far away, a lonely man wandered the snowy streets, his hat pulled low over his forehead, his shoulders hunched with misery under his overcoat. It was dark and frigid, leaving the roads clear of other people and clogged with more snow. For the moment, it seemed nature was content to have the only signs of life be the slender shapes in windows that lit the small, bright candles, the thin dark stripes in the snow where the occasional carriage had long since passed, and the plinking of an untuned piano within the noisy, smoky, crowded confines of a tavern.
And frankly, that was how the man (if you would call him that) preferred it.
Any fool who cared to glance at the man could see in his stooped posture that something aggrieved him—no matter if it was emotion or old age. Closer inspection of a normal, common mind may see the youthful brown hue and spritely curl of the hair that showed beneath his hat and conclude that he was, in fact, a young man, but no further than that. But perhaps the rare keen mind could discern that face beneath the shadow of his hat was prematurely drawn, as if burdened with some indecisive grief that had overflowed in his heart and was left to fester in his features, souring them. And this diagnosis was better than any quack doctor in this Victorian Era could prescribe. For this was no imbalance of the humors; it was sorrow and grief and guilt, pulling heavily on his cheeks and eyelids and making this once enigmatic, energetic, ambiguous man so very tired.
"Oh, so did you build this, then?"
The sharp, female voice was a wonderfully invigorating blast, like he'd just inhaled a load of citrus. It stirred him from his stupor like a pinch to a dozing man, and he looked up to see a young woman—presumably a bar maid—standing fearlessly in the alley's inch-deep snow, her hands on her hips, wearing nothing against the cold but a crumpled shawl that was thrown messily over her shoulders. He saw the snowman beside her—a rather disturbing thing, actually, its mouth drawn back in a leering smile with a mouth full of sharp ice-teeth. The man glanced around—it was just the two of them in the alley.
"No, no I didn't," he sighed, already feeling the energy begin to drain back out of him. He kept his eyes away from hers.
"Well," she huffed, annoyed, "then who did?"
His high already spent, he didn't even bother to shrug as he shuffled past the girl's indignant, blazing glare.
"Oy!" He felt a faint prickle of frustration as she jogged after him. "I'm talking to you!"
Now, there was something, just something in her voice that was just so familiar he had to stop. He halted but did not turn, hearing her do the same behind him.
"What's your name?" He asked slowly, his voice flat.
He heard her small, breathless laugh at his seemingly scattered thoughts, but she answered all the same. "Clara Oswald." She almost imperceptibly said the first name more quickly than the surname, as if she didn't like it, or it was shameful.
"That's a great name, Clara." He said, feeling it roll around his mouth when he said it. Oh, he was just so tired. "You should keep it." He hoped but did not really care that she understood what he was implying—telling her not to get too close to anyone, because she would just end up hurt. She was a strong woman—and he'd known quite a few—and he wanted her to stay that way. People had to be strong when he wasn't.
She did not follow him.
This man was the Doctor, and he was so very sad. He had just lost two of his very dear friends—the Ponds, as he so fondly called them—to the worst creatures in the universe. And the poor man blamed himself for the death of the two lovers, one of them having the first face his face had seen, and both of which had allowed an old, gaping wound in his heart to finally start healing. Amelia Pond and Rory Williams had seemed to fill the hole in his heart that had been left when he lost the one he loved most—but now they were gone. Lost to him. So, horribly lost. So the Doctor had cut himself off from the rest of time and space, turning off the phone, putting the TARDIS on rest mode...oh, the old girl was lost without her adventures.
That, he reflected dully, was how he felt now. Lost, like he was wandering in a choking fog. Ah, he knew that ATMOS had yet to be invented, but if he closed his eyes and let himself drift far enough, he could imagine a time before this had happened...
Oh, if only he could go back. Not just to his beloved Ponds, but to her, to...no, he couldn't say her name. It didn't matter, anyway. He couldn't go back to them.
He continued his trudging, heavy steps until he reached the park. It was blissfully empty—he didn't care anyway, but it was nice to not have that nagging feeling that people might probably sorta get suspicious if you walk by and pull a ladder out of the sky.
This he did, reaching up without gusto, almost without purpose. He grasped last rung and yanked it down, all with the air of someone who was all but dead on their feet. The climb up the ladder and the tromp up the spiral staircase were a blur; they melted together like...well, things that melt together. Anything with extreme heat, quick as you like! He realized with a sleepy start that he was actually, physically tired...ah, when was the last time he had slept? It was just last week...wasn't it? Or...was that last month?
When his mind cleared, he was within the TARDIS. Her bright blue lights glared harshly like a mother's admonishing 'look' but the Doctor merely groaned, allowing his coat to slide off his shoulders and lay where it fell. He stumbled over to the console, his hat tumbling off his head from his rather rather drunken-looking motions. With one last wave of grief, he just draped himself over the console like a coat, closing his eyes, not caring or paying attention to the buttons and levers that were pressed or twisted by the weight of his chest. Oh, maybe that's all he was in the end, he thought foggily. An old coat, like the one his tenth body had favored so much, but was now useless, forgotten, left behind, and totally, utterly alone—
He didn't even flinch when the TARDIS rattled indignantly, reminding him of her constant presence, and he absentmindedly rubbed his fingers along the smooth surface in a gesture she knew to be apologetic. He felt the presence of the blue boring-er (stabilizer) against the back of his head, and his cheek was pressed against the 'play' button for some piece of music he acquired over his many years. He knew it would play as soon as he lifted his head and released the button...well, all the more motivation to stay still, then.
Yes, that's what he'd do...just remain absolutely...still...
—•—•—
"Rose!"
Jack gasped as she wrenched away from him, sobbing hysterically, curling away from him and whimpering like a defeated animal. For a moment he was stunned—but then, the still-present survival instant whacked him smartly over the head and forced him to crawl towards her hyperventilating form. "Rose—Rose—!" He called to her desperately as she flinched away from him, wailing, refusing to be touched or reasoned with. He knew she was in shock, and if she had come from the rift then they were pays talking it out. "Rose!" He yelled again, forcing himself to grab her flailing chapped wrist roughly, using all his willpower not to submit to her keening cries, and dragged her towards him. "Rose!" He snapped sharply, his painfully loud voice cracking like a whip, and at his command she falls quiet, her wide eyes gawking up at him as she—maybe—realizes who is. Maybe she actually knows him, knows who he is, knows what they'd done together...or perhaps just recalled a whisper of his face from her former memory and only recognized the fact that he was friend, not enemy. Either way, she let out a shuddering gasp and tackled him in a hug, latching on to him with everything she had, her body shaking like a leaf. "That's it..." Crooned Jack soothingly as he carefully removed his jacket, maneuvering around her tight grip, and wrapped her in it as well as he could. "That's it, Rosie. You're okay, you're fine." He wrapped his arms around her, both to keep the jacket on her body and to show his utter relief and amazement. "You're gonna be fine."
Then, ever so carefully, Jack cautiously lifted the bone-thin, too-light girl off the ground, cradling her in his arms as he turned back to Gwen, who was staring with shock. Jack had to remind himself that she'd never seen anyone fresh out of the rift before.
"C'mon," He said shortly, starting to walk as carefully as he could. "We need to get her to the hub."
—•—•—
For the longest time, all she remembered was...
But now. Now. Now, things were different. She was awfully aware of the fear the screamed through her body and burst from her lungs and mouth in loud bursts of physical noise. She felt the hands grabbing at her, pulling at her—
Oh, when she thought of pulling, her mind was assaulted with these chaotic fragments that burned in her head like shards of cauterized glass, reflecting and twisting too much to be clear, but it hurt!—good god, it hurt! She screamed with the agony of it all!
Then, it vanished with some loud roar, some angel's scream, that drowned out the pain and yanked her back into the wonderfully freezing world. And she saw her angel and she acted on instinct, latching onto him and a feeling of safety washed over her so quickly it was almost alarming—but it didn't matter. By now, she was sleeping for the first time in a long time.
yo. People! I hope that was okay! Be sure to tell me what you think. The more I know, the Better! You guys rock!
Happy New Year!
FrostyPhoenix
