Warning: One swear word, in case anyone is picky - I don't think it is enough to merit an M!
The Heart, once broken, is a fragile thing.
Afterwards; 2006, September
The numbers of beach visits have decreased this month – only by a few, but it seems significant.
It isn't because she's moving on quite yet – no, certainly not, she tells herself, and is not sure whether to feel relieved or appalled that this occurred to her. It's because slowly, life has begun to seep in through the cracks that splinter through her. It starts with little things; last week she went out and bought some new hair accessories, and when she wore that first hairclip, her family's eyes nearly boggled out of their heads but they kept silent, happier now. Rose can't help but feel irrationally angry at them for this, and it annoys her because she can't explain why. She puts it down to the fact that now they are giving her more attention than before, and she doesn't like the fact that she had to take the first step. Pondering over this, she realises it's all because she took a step. She feels like she is betraying that unspoken promise of mourning she made that day on the beach. Then she chastises herself for the absurdity of having all of these thoughts over a new hairclip and she stops, resolving to visit the beach at once, a part of her needing to know that it was still there, that it was still real when everything else was changing so quickly, out of her control.
She stays there, sitting in the sand, and watches the shadows that the cliffs cast over the beach. The darkest part of the shadow, just where the rocks meet the sand, is at first glance impossibly black. The darkness remains stoic and unrevealing; no matter how hard she stares at it. In the days before, she might have pointed it out, and then he would have gone up to it with that silly little machine of his, and they would have saved the world from yet another complex scheme. Looking back, she sometimes wonders if he really uncovered events like these, or somehow took them with him wherever he went. It is starting to seem as if everything otherworldly only existed when he was around, and at all other times the world is a mightily ordinary place, the only life in the universe. However, she doesn't like the path this road of thinking takes her along, as it always ends up with her questioning her sanity.
She goes inside and lights a torch at the cliff. All she can see is grey rock, a small tendril of moss growing along a crack. She puts her palm flat on the stone and breathes in, closing her eyes.
A few minutes pass, and her eyes snap open again, still focused on the cliff. It hasn't changed. A sigh escapes her and she trudges back inside the house. No one in the sitting room questions the oversized torch in her hand, or the wet stains on her knees. Everything has sunk back into its usual pattern.
The next day at work, she wears almost all her bright hair accessories at the same time to see if it feels different.
She doesn't come to a conclusion, and it's because she's scared of what the answer will mean.
Afterwards; Approximately three years and two relatively short term companions (such that he will probably forget about within a few months)
He has never resorted to such mundane measures of forgetting things before, but as he sits on the indefinitely unhygienic wooden bench in the crowded bar, he can sympathise with the "drowning of sorrows". The feeling of his head becoming gradually less weighed down with the infinite workings of his mind is a pleasant one, although he has to drink far more than the others there, a result of his advanced metabolism.
He studies the froth in the cup before him, watching the bubbles as they travel around the edges. Soon another is placed before him, and he feels slightly surprised, as he can't quite remember finishing the previous one, but this is lost on him as he successfully loses himself in a whirl of alcohol and empty stares.
"You look down, mate," A voice somewhere to his left says. He looks up to see a vague face swimming in his peripheral vision.
He shrugs non-committedly. He doesn't particularly care what this inconsequential human has to say to him at this point in time.
"We all get it," the voice continues, and the bench next to him creaks as weight is put on it. He growls inwardly. He doesn't want company, not right now, or he wouldn't have come to here of all places.
"Hmm," he says, trying to show the voice that he is not interested in wherever this conversation is leading, but the alcohol has had a numbing effect on his body and he can't tell if his body language is responding the way he wants it to.
"It's girl trouble, isn't it? I recognise so many people in you," the voice says, a small chuckle emerging.
He doesn't answer, concluding that he has contributed enough.
"Fancy a round of cards?" the voice says now, and he is relieved that it had an ulterior motive. Before he can answer, the pair of hands which he assumes belongs to this disembodied voice spreads out a pack on the table. Even in this drunken state, he can tell that the cards are set up – the voice is obviously out to get some money off some poor unsuspecting victim.
"No," he says, struggling to keep his voice level. Another beer is put down in front of him, and he downs it, despite of his previous statement.
"C'mon, mate, I'll let you have ten pounds in advance," the voice says, annoyingly insistent.
His patience finally snaps, and he speaks out. "They're fake cards," he says, the words coming out louder than expected, and he can feel half the inhabitants of the room turning to look at him, though he still stares steadily into his cup.
He notices that a scuffle has now started up, and by the murmurings he can tell it's about to escalate into a full on fight. He knows that he probably had something to do with it, but he doesn't move from his seat. It is only when the blows start gravitating towards him, and he hears the voice shout, "You! You fucking little bugger!" that he abruptly stands up, upending the table, and moves to leave.
"Where d'ya think you're going? You got me into this mess!" the voice says, struggling to avoid the punches others are raining down upon it; no doubt victims of previous escapades using the trick cards.
It is only when the voice manages to throw a beer tankard at his back, a stain spreading over his coat, that he turns around, and launches himself into the middle of the fight with gusto. He lets himself disappear into a mess of knuckles and feet, aware of people around the edges trying to break up the brawl, but the sensation of working out all the pent up anger inside him feels to good and he ends up being thrown out into the street. He doesn't get up from the ground until a passer-by catches his attention.
She is walking quickly, trying to keep her face hidden with a flimsy scarf, but he recognises her as Shareen, a friend of Rose's that he has never met in person, but remembers spying on her from the TARDIS back in his ninth regeneration when Rose went to visit her. He remembers feeling slightly guilty afterwards, but justifying it as just checking Rose was safe.
Shareen sparks his interest and he lifts himself from the ground, silently starting to follow her. Soon he realises he is not the only one doing this, as another figure has been only a few steps behind her for quite a while now. Once glance at the figure's face tells him that it doesn't have god intentions in mind. He quickly catches up with it, and before it has time to react, knocks it unconscious with a quiet jab to the central nervous system. It would be found the next morning by some police officer, and no doubt put in prison – this wouldn't be the first time it has tried to offend the law.
Shareen turns around as she hears the body drop to the ground, but he is already gone, and she starts running as she sees the figure lying there – she doesn't want to have to be there when someone comes and finds it.
Afterwards; 2006, October
It is properly Autumn now, and the trees that line the roads leading to the beach are shedding their leaves quickly, branches becoming bare as the bright colours bleed on the ground, piles building on the roadsides.
She still works in the supermarket, but she has been promoted to manager now. A small part of her is not satisfied, and every day the idea of finding Torchwood and working there like Pete becomes more solid. She wouldn't have to move away from the beach – in this universe Norway is a part of the British Empire, which somehow failed to dissolve properly – and Torchwood was moved a few miles along the coast, all Pete's doing as he didn't want to force her to move back to the old headquarters in London. She is still afraid of mentioning this to her family, as it would be a clear sign of her moving on, and if it didn't work and she sunk back into her almost catatonic state she couldn't bear the looks of disappointment that would accumulate around her.
Thoughts continue assaulting her head until she suddenly feels very dizzy and is trapped, trapped between the painful memories of the past and the terrifying prospect of the future, and she feels so very young, wondering for the first time if he saw her the way she is now. Did he ever think she was childish? She had been so terribly innocent then. Her present state is inching either forward or backward, as the careful equilibrium she has been living in is unbalancing. She isn't sure which direction is better, but she's sure that one will happen, and however much it pains her to think this, inwardly she is almost definite it will be forward. The human mind forgets, he had always reminded her, when they had met someone with a particularly terrible loss.
The cliff face is still the same as that day, weeks ago, when she had dragged out her torch in the middle of the day; identical even to the day when she got into the whole mess. All at once her heart aches again, and she slumps down where she is, on the floor of her bedroom and lets herself cry of her own will for the first time since they parted.
When she has cried that part of herself out, she is surprised to find that she feels better.
Afterwards; Approximately six years, no new companions
He spends the next few years in an embarrassing blur of alcohol and intergalactic bars, building up a reputation Jack would have been proud of. He knows that what he is doing is not respectful to her memory at all, but he doesn't know what else he can do. There is a huge gap in his hearts, and he is desperately trying to fill them with the only thing that takes his mind off her halfway effectively.
He has just stumbled out of yet another house after finding himself waking up in an stranger's bed, which is familiar. He wanders around the planet for a few hours, trying to get over the pounding pain in his head for long enough to remember where he parked the TARDIS – he has found that one unfortunate side effect from his so called "sorrow drowning" is the fact that it momentarily diminishes his connection with his ship. Mostly this is a good thing, but he can distinctly remember taking part in various illegal activities last night, and he is quite sure that the officials saw his face. He wants nothing more than to get off of this planet immediately. When his head still hasn't stopped pounding an hour later, he admits defeat and sits down on the nearest bench available, waiting for the pain to stop.
"Are you looking for that blue box of yours?" someone asks.
He looks up, and recognises this one from however many nights back, a slight red tinge flooding his face as he remembers how he left without a word, early in the morning. "How did-"
He is cut off by a hefty slap to the cheek, leaving his head ringing. He concludes he probably deserves that. "I followed you afterwards – you looked like you were about to pass out," the person says, and upon closer inspection he realises it is a female – he doesn't usually stay long enough to remember details like this – with a very angry expression, red hair flaming.
"I'm sorry," he says tonelessly, not meaning it – why should he be held accountable for the things he does when he was under the influence? Even as he thinks this he knows she wouldn't have approved, but then again if she knew about the rampage he has been on these past few years she would have left him anyway. Still, he tries again, struggling to put more meaning into his words. "I am sorry,"
The redhead snorts. "Sure you are. Now anyway, about that box of yours – I saw it behind the rubbish bins in the Clifford Estate,"
The name strikes a bell in his head, and he is surprised – it's been a while since he was on earth. He gets up to leave, when a tight grip on his arm stops him.
"What do you say?" the woman says, her voice dangerously irritated.
He looks at her blankly for a few moments before realising. "Thanks," he says, gruffly.
"Good," the woman purses her lips. "And that's thanks Donna to you!" she calls after him.
It is only when he is already light years away that he realises that her timeline would cross with his again. He doesn't go back to find her though – he knows that Time would organise this on its own. He doesn't especially want to get attached to anyone again anyway, even if it is only as a friend, since right now the concept of a solid person next to him seemed alien, and he had seen a very abrupt stop in her part of their timeline – no doubt it would have something to do with him.
A/N Donna appears as a cameo!
A special thanks to ValaEnVash, and all the others who reviewed without logging in. :)
Next update will hopefully be soon again, but it will probably take longer than this time when I had both chapters already written.
I hope you all liked this part – please review again and tell me what you thought – whether you liked it or not, it's all cool with me. Any prompts or ideas are welcome.