Ahhh! I'm sorry for all the fluff but with angst! I'm mean, I know :c

(I'm hoping the last chapter didn't scare anyone off? I was just wondering...what with the lack of reviews...)

Nothing here really furthers the plot as such...

"Anythin' I else can get ya, love?"

Rose turned her head slightly to the ruddy-faced barman, slouched over the counter looking at her questioningly.

"No...you're alrigh'" She ran her fingers round the rim of her glass, three-quarters full with orange and soda. The barman raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and sauntered off to the taps.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since her fateful decision.

No one had made a fuss. Jackie hadn't been exactly sober when Rose crept in the flat, shoulders slumped, and she'd put it down to, well, Jackie not being sober. But come the next morning her words were pretty much that of her last visit. Like she knew it would happen. And Rose would be lying if she hadn't admitted to herself that it could have happened.

And just like that she was back to her run-of-the-mill life. If it wasn't boring and endless before...well...

She'd been helping Mum a lot with her clients, and an errant thought struck her. Within the day she was involved in small community college course, mental health and caring and all that. If she couldn't help herself then she might at well help others. And that was another thing travelling had nurtured; not that she was selfish beforehand but it put a new spin of perspective on things.

And she felt useful.

Rose took a sip of her drink, suddenly quite thirsty. The citrus was tangy and refreshing, and the sharp bubbles were like excitement down her spine. It reminded her of the sweet nectar of a drink she and the Doctor had sample on Laylah. After saving the planet from its own unknown demise they'd celebrated with the natives. The drinks came in coloured not-quite-glass and were unlike anything on Earth. After all that running they were both gasping for water, and Rose was dubious of the drink because it was so saccharine. However, it was melodious and wonderful, quenching her thirst with but a few drops. She was almost disappointed she couldn't finish it off, because she was no longer thirsty.

The Doctor however, had quickly polished his off in one long swig -practically open-throated. He finished with a smack of his lips, breathing out a loud, contented sigh and sensing a wave of fragrant air fanning over her. Then she giggled, for his hair was mussed and slightly damp, suit dishevelled and to complete the look, a pearl of the liquid had escaped past his lips. It rolled down them, over and down that pouty lower lip that was fuller than his upper one.

And she just couldn't help herself. The next thing she'd scraped her stool over to him, hand almost grasping out to his tie...and then she licked it off.

And kissed him.

Rose suddenly felt rather ill, and pushed her still half-full glass away. The memory of their lips sliding past each other and the fruit tang with an almost syrupy quality to it was too much.

The Doctor, meanwhile, lay half-asleep, lazing in his bed.

Ever since...that, he'd spent more time in this room. He didn't know what to do with himself. But it wasn't like he hadn't tried. With a spin of dials he was at a Firebug convention where he had settled a dispute between a family of Pyrovilles. Two taps of the mallet sent him hurtling to Vesoer in its primordial days. He saw the creation of its five suns and shivered at their power. And then he used the randomiser.

Edwardian England. Sheff, where he befriended Tousev, a monk. New Earth again, where he sat on a lone field, the apple grass withering.

Ancient Rome.

London.

After that he'd shouted at the TARDIS and had stormed in a violent rage, jerking her into action. He found just where he was looking for; a smokey watering-hole aptly named The Black Hole. There he downed the equivalent of a strong whiskey, the drink icy and frothing. He went and put forth another order, leading the crocodiliian bar-tender to grunt a comment about the night still being young. And then it wasn't until half-way through his second glass that he froze. His fingers curled around the short stem and he stared into the concoction as though it might yield answers.

Is this what he was now? A mighty Time Lord reduced to nothing over a mere human girl, nearly drinking his brains out over her leaving him?

Crack.

Gazes were drawn to his fist which clenched the glass so tightly he had begun a split in the side. A blue-skinned, white-haired woman smoking languidly on a hookah blew out elegant rings and looked his way.

"Lost a bet, Mishallah?"

The Doctor's mouth quirked at the rather dirty endearment. He turned his line of sight to her, and then back to the musty windows, seeing nothing.

"Perhaps."

"So you're going to spend all night drinking your sorrows?" Another puff. "You're not the first man I've seen to do so..."

He quirked his eyebrow this time. "Maybe I'm not just any man." The woman was a Sil'ra and a mild telepath. And in his self-pitying state he let tendrils of his battered and bruised aura extend -just slightly- before letting them recede. He didn't like letting go of his identity, generally. But...self-pity.

The woman paused in mid-breath and then exhaled sharply. "But..."

He stood up, placed his glass- then thought better and downed it anyway- and lifted his chin.

"Time Lord?"

"I used to be."

The Sil'ra watched as he left, coat billowing, and sighed. She barely knew him, and yet from that one touch, she knew everything. His pain, his loss...his love. Love as she'd never experienced or even heard of. It burned so brightly that it hurt.

As was the life of a lonely Time Lord.