Godlike the man
Who sits at her side,
Who watches and
Catches the laughter
Which softly tears me to tatters.
Nothing is left of me,
Each time I see her.
Catullus.
They didn't hold hands any more. She would hold Jack's hand now, when they travelled with him, or Mickey's when they made their visits to Earth, to check on her mum or to save the world; usually both.
And every time he saw it, her hand just fitting in to someone else's like it was the most natural thing in the world, he had to turn away. Wanted to kill whoever it was.
She belonged to him, didn't they know? She had done since that night, God knows how long ago, months or weeks or years, that night when they'd both fallen apart inside each other, crying and clinging and claiming, again and again.
She'd nearly died that night, and he'd nearly died with her, because what was left of life for him without her? And when she was safe, and home with him, he'd poured it all into loving her, all the terror and passion and guilt and love that had built up inside him, made the stars fall out of the sky for her.
But the argument the next day was fixed into his mind as vividly as the night that had preceded it. She'd been scared, afraid that things would change too much, that they'd lose their friendship, and maybe she should go home for a few days. And he'd lost control.
And it made him ache to think of what they'd said to one another, viciously using their intimate knowledge of each other as weapons. She'd been with Jack within a fortnight, and in time they had gone back to a form of normality, saving the world together as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She acted as though it had never happened, as if she'd forgotten. Was he so insignificant? The memory of her touch haunted him, her kisses burned into his skin.
No, they didn't hold hands any more. But he held her. And she would know it, in her heart of hearts, and one day she'd realise, and she'd come back and let him live again.