Disclaimer:I own nothing. I have to confess, though, I do have CE locked up in my closet until he promises to take me 'round the universe but so far all I can get out of him is "daft nutter." But it's okay, I can be patient. He can only be naked for so long, don't you think?
A/N: Thanks to my sorta-beta, pnthersheart6972. And thanks for all your lovely reviews; you guys are seriously awesome. I'd still write for no reviews, but knowing what I write is appreciated and touches people makes it that much more enjoyable.
That said, you guys are going to kill me.
But I PROMISE, Chapter 3 will be up by the end of tomorrow night at the latest, if not tonight.
He was at turns the most hate-filled man she'd ever known, or the most compassionate. What he was, what he had been, she could see now, was desperate. There'd been a passion, a fire inside him, but it was the kind that burned far too quickly—and consumed everything in it's path. No one could survive being burned that way.
She and the Doctor and Jack had all been affected by that knife's edge, the one that was a cross between safety and insanity and always, always sharpened by the need, the greed, to see, feel, touch more.
Sometimes she still had dreams, terrible running dreams that she could never escape from. Nothing chased her, no one pursued her and still, she was lost. If she'd asked someone, they would've told her she was searching for someone, or something.
But she didn't want to hear that—even if she knew it was true.
She'd learned to be happy in her not-so-special flat, her not-so-special job, in her not-to-special life. She wasn't as close as she used to be with her friends; her swanning off with the Doctor had had a lot to do with that.
And some of it had been her own fault, not being able to reconcile the fantastic, fantastic things she'd seen, things she couldn't tell anyone and couldn't describe to those she could tell.
If not happy, then content at least, in her not-so-special life.
And, after what she'd been through, wasn't contentment the most she could ask for?
Where she used to love change, she now abhorred it. Anything that threatened the status quo was a threat to herself, to her life and she'd stopped talking to people who had caused too much change. Too much change made it hurt.
What "it" was, she wasn't quite sure yet.
And now it ached, painful and throbbing, causing chills to cascade up and down her spine.
The perfect little world inside the perfect little bubble of loneliness, one she had spent years nurturing, crafting, honing was threatened.
To say it put her back up would be an understatement.
To say it caused her sorrow would be putting it mildly.
But it did bring the grief to the surface, the hard, hot ball of tears in her chest and coursing up her throat, threatening to eat her alive.
Eat her like some foreign monster only waiting, torturing her and waiting, to sink its teeth into her soft flesh.
10 years, five months, two weeks, nine days, eight hours, 24 minutes and 37…38…39…seconds…40…
Part of his mind counted down the days as they passed, a constant clock, constantly ticking in his brain, beating against the inside of his skull with the insistence of a morning-after hangover.
He'd been searching for her almost as long as she'd been out of his life, vowing to…well, himself, because who else was there?...that he would find her and bring her home.
Granted, he had no idea where she was and no idea if she would come with him if—when, he corrected himself—when he found her.
He stood on a corner of Piccadilly Circus, looking up at the neon and LCD signs that gleamed in the dreary gloom of the autumn day. He buttoned his jacket against the cold breeze and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
He had no where else to look. It'd been more than 10 years for him, more than five for Rose. Any steps, any paths he knew to follow had long been dried and swept from sight.
He'd gone to her council estate, knocked on her door. An elderly black woman had answered and, despite his protestations about a lack of time, dragged him inside for tea and company.
After awhile, he'd given up looking for routes of escape, resigned. Besides, what was another hour after 10 years?
And, he mused, Estelle made excellent chocolate cake.
And he got information from her, which was even better than the cake. Jackie, a sweet woman, but a bit of a talker, according to Estelle, had moved out almost six months earlier. Somewhere west was all Estelle knew and Jackie hadn't left a forwarding address or number.
It hurt more than he had thought, to come so close and still fail. After 10 years, six months was a blink of an eye, or the beat of a heart.
"What about Rose?" He'd asked. "Her daughter."
"Oh, lovely girl." He fought to not roll his eyes. Everyone was lovely to Estelle. "Quiet, though. Night and day, her and Jackie. I've never seen anyone so young so quiet. My experience is that all young girls are—"
"Quiet? Are you sure it was Rose?"
"Well, that's the name she used. Lovely girl, just lovely."
So, after another pot of tea between the two of them and another slice of that sinful cake, he finally managed to escape.
He'd walked past the recreation ground, hunching his shoulders against the cold. At one point, his steps had faltered and he'd felt a hard wrenching deep in his chest. He looked around, but didn't see anything.
He'd walked aimlessly around London for hours and only managed to make himself cold and hungry when he saw her. He took off after her, watching her long, wavy blonde hair bob through the crowd ahead of him.
He took off at a run, skirting around slower moving pedestrians, not allowing himself to take his eyes from her. He was so close, so very close after so, so long.
His shoulder sang as he bumped into one passerby particularly hard, but he didn't do anything but yell a "sorry" over his shoulder.
He got closer and then he could see her, the path clear, right in front of him.
"Rose!" He called. She didn't respond, but then it was noisy, crowded. She couldn't hear him, right? Finally, finally he reached her and grabbed her elbow, spinning her around.
Her features were small, pert. Her lips were a shell pink, her green eyes accented by the bright violet…wait. Green?
He felt his stomach, his world sink.
So close and still he lost again.
"Come off it! What's the idea?" The girl yanked her arm from his grasp, taking a step back, even as her boyfriend stepped forward.
He held his hands up, stepped back. "Sorry. Sorry. I thought you were someone I knew." He turned back around, hurrying away from them and the small crowd that had formed.
As soon as he could, he ducked into an alley way and leaned against the brick wall. He leaned his hands on his knees and took deep breaths to clear his dizzy head.
Was it always going to be like this, for the rest of his life? So close, always so close, but so terribly, irrevocably wrong? Would he just grasp at threads and remnants until he was beaten and finally gave up?
Hands and head steadier, he pushed away from the wall and headed back onto the busy street. The crowds were a blur now and he didn't think he could find her if he was in a street full of Roses.
He rounded a blind corner and skirted around a man standing stock still on the sidewalk, talking on his mobile. He glanced back at the man, opening his mouth to say something when he came up short.
He slammed bodily into someone who let out an ear-piecing shriek and stumbled back. He grabbed her, tugged her out of the way as the drink she'd let fly began to tumble back down.
He looked down at her, the glossy, dark chocolate hair, the too-slender body. She was clutching to him, the lapel of his jacket in her death grip as she trembled.
"You all right?"
He gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze and took a step back. Apparently it was his day to assault innocent women.
She took her own step back and looked up at him. The blood drained from her already pale face, her wide mouth opened in a gape. She moved it once or twice, but apparently she couldn't find the volume.
"Hey…you okay?" Maybe he'd scared her. He had hit her pretty hard. Knocked the wind from her or something. He studied her face. Her brows were the same colour as her hair, the dark slashes making her paleness more obvious. She had a firm jaw line, sharp cheekbones and her lips were thinned in fear or anger or…something, he didn't know. Still…
He let out a little laugh, lifted a hand to the top of his head. "You almost look like a friend of mine…someone I used to know a long time ago…but you—"
"I—"
And he heard it. Memories came slamming back into him. The lips, the nose, the prominent cheekbones. The ever-present dark roots and brows, ones he'd teased her about a time or two. He couldn't hear his own thoughts over the roar of blood in his ears, felt like if he took too deep a breath he would collapse at her feet. He grabbed her upper arms, met her eyes.
Her eyes. Her eyes.
"Rose?"
R/R, please. Chapter 3 up soon, promise!
And a big, chewy, frosting-covered TARDIS-shaped cookie to all of you who guessed right...you'll see. :)