She punched her robot-shaped alarm clock as hard as her numb arm would allow her to, just to stop the unbearable screech coming from it, and buried her head under her pillow with a groan of annoyance. Seventeen days. It had been seventeen days since she had decided to ignore that alarm in the morning and stay in bed for most of her days. Sometimes she would go out to do some grocery shopping, or hang out with her best friend when he insisted she should take some fresh air instead of suffocating in her tiny student room in an atmosphere heavy with a potpourri smell and thick with cigarette smoke. But often, so often, she would simply lie down on her bed, staring at the ceiling with loud rock music blaring through the speakers of her stereo, or sit against the shower wall under a spray of hot water, staring dumbly at that one cracked tile - bottom, third one from the left.

Mickey had insisted she should see a doctor, because she obviously was going through something akin to a depression episode, but she knew better. She was scared of going out, and she had very good reasons that no doctor would ever understand. Seventeen days. It had started seventeen days ago.

She remembered going to that party that had been organized by the student committee of her university to make all the singles on Valentine's Day meet - or so the distasteful poster covered in hearts and cheesy puns advertised, when it was just an opportunity to get drunk with impunity. Mickey had prompted her to go despite her reticence - she had remembered the incident of the graduation party with way too much accuracy and refused to give that experience another try. But the promise of free booze had been convincing enough, and while she had turned down every invitation from some boys and a few girls, she had made the most of the liters of beer and vodka that kept flowing at the bar. It hadn't been pretty. But she had danced, laughed and sung - screamed - and it had been liberating after a whole term spent nose-deep into her astronomy and physics books. It would have been a perfect night, if it hadn't ended in such a disaster.

Her forearm was still sore, and though it was scarring nicely and she always kept it hidden under a thick sleeve, it was still a painful reminder of what she had gone through. The booze hadn't been enough not to see it, especially since she had taken off her jumper when the heat of the dancefloor coupled with her exertions had become too much to bear. At first she had just thought it was a deception from the spotlights, a trick her eyes played on her because of the wild rhythm of the stroboscopes. But then, there had been no mistaking the blue glow shining from the circles drawn on her skin. The memories were a bit fuzzy, but she remembered with acute precision the panic that had swelled in her stomach and drowned her body in a thick cloud of frenzied terror, the alcohol helping her on the way to dementia. It had been the first time since the graduation party that he mark had shown any sign of life, and in that moment of inhibition, she had been miles away from even considering it might light up again, and so taken off-guard that she hadn't been able to deal with it in a rational way.

He arm heated up under her pillow as she thought back to that moment when her nails had lacerated her skin in a desperate attempt to make that light disappear - and that time, Mickey hadn't been there to stop her. The few images she remembered were ones of blood spilling from the self-inflicted gashes on her skin, of her body being sent tumbling from on side to the other by the excited crowd of dancing people, of the dreadful neon light blinding her, even through the thickness of her blood. Someone must have helped her up at some point - not before someone had stepped on her shoulder and another one crushed her hand with their heels, or so the sequels she still bore hinted - and she barely remembered being thrown onto one of the chairs. And then she remembered the laughs. Something about her speaking words no one could understand, slurred words that didn't make any sense, sounds that didn't match any known song or melody. Her drunken state might have played its part in this, she tried to convince herself - though she perfectly knew she had been properly shouting for them to let her go and stop trying to calm her down.

"Listen up, people, Space Girl is singing a Klingon song!" she remembered one of her classmate shout over the music.

"Shut up, Kieran, she's hurt," one of her friends had answered.

And after that, it was all a blur. A faint smell of sweat and heavy perfume, a lingering taste of juice mixed with alcohol, the loud beat of a rock song pounding in her ears and in her chest. The blinking lights of an ambulance, the tight squeeze of a bandage around her arm, the softness of her duvet as she was put to bed. The nausea, the headache of the morning later, the crushing guilt and the incomprehension of the events. And she had decided she wasn't brave enough to face the scorn, the mockery and the questions that would crush what little was left of her dignity if she ever set foot in one of her class again.

Two years she had spent studying every day, every night, with that wishful hope she wouldn't end up like most people who were born and raised on a poor estate. Two years she had spent learning, searching, reading, writing about the stars, the planets, the universe. Two years struggling to make sense of mathematics, physics and astronomy with that piece of paper in mind. That one PhD that would read her name along with a title that would mean a better future. All of that, blown into tiny pieces by a single mark on her arm she believed was some kind of curse that was bound to follow in her steps, stick to her shadow and accompany her through life like the most persevering of predators after a weak and wounded prey.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, the little pink bear she had attached to it falling over the edge onto the arm that was still holding the pillow over her head, as if it tried to tell her she should pick up. She muttered a curse under her breath and threw a quick look at the locked screen - ignoring the twenty-three missed call notifications, twenty-four if she counted that one she wouldn't answer either. Oh, she still loved Mickey dearly, and she always felt a bit guilty to ignore his calls. She simply didn't want to be on the receiving end of his compassion she most definitely didn't deserve, nor did she want to share anything remotely linked to her mark and the madness she thought was slowly taking possession of her brain.

He had been very understanding, even if she knew he didn't quite believe her story. She had told him about the first meeting with the weird boy she remembered. She couldn't be quite sure, but she truly believed he was the one who had gifted her with an odd song on the eve of her tenth birthday. Well, she said a gift . More like the first incantation of the curse that was now bound to her soul and body, and starting to smother her very own life in its fatal grip. Mickey had told her she had been too young at the time to really remember anything, and that it had probably been just the childish fantasy of a little girl too excited about her upcoming birthday party. She had agreed and moved on with her story.

To the time she had seen his deep, sparkling green eyes and his red curls at school on that rainy day. She couldn't be quite sure, but she was fairly certain she had fallen in love with that boy at first sight, despite his common face and bizarre choice of clothes. Well, she said fallen in love . More like he had enchanted her - no, bewitched her, because it had to be some kind of dark magic jinx and not a nice little spell out of a fairytale. Mickey had told her she didn't really know what love was, and that love at first sight was just a myth people liked because it gave them hope. She had found some truth and wisdom in these words, and moved on with her story.

To the time of the graduation party when she had seen him, lost in the massive crowd of student, staring at her while she was pissing herself on the stage. And when she had burnt half the face of that poor Will before what would have been a chaste first kiss. Mickey had told her that there had had to be a few redheads among the sea of people that night and that she couldn't have seen them well with all those spotlights anyway. She had accepted this explanation, though she was still convinced it had been him. Mickey hadn't said anything about what had happened with Will, because nothing rational could justify it. She hadn't either, because every scenario she could come up with could only ever happen in fantasy or sci-fi movies, and she didn't want her best friend to think she was ready to be sent to an asylum just yet.

She hadn't told him about the link between that piece of paper she had picked up at the school after the boy had magically vanished into thin air - no, had managed to run away while she was still rushing down the stairs, she repeated aloud - and the circles that marred her skin. She hadn't told him about the link between the lyrics of the song she had sung when she was just a child and the words she vaguely remembered shouting in the overflowed club seventeen days before - she had been drunk anyway, and anyone could come up with weird-sounding words to pretend they were speaking an alien language, she repeated aloud. She hadn't told him about the link between the heat that spread through her arm, made the cursed circles burn, and those dreams she had every night, in which the red-haired boy always managed to make an apparition - it was just a psychological reaction of some sort and it had nothing to do with a bloody mysterious link, she repeated aloud.

She hadn't told him about those things, because his eyes had been bewildered and sad enough when she had told him about the rest. She didn't want his pity and she most definitely didn't want to lose this precious friendship - which was bound to happen if she insisted on acting like a nutter spilling delusional stories and getting angry when he made close to no effort to believe her. She was alone in this. She'd always be alone.

"Oh for God's sake," she muttered angrily when a series of three sharp knocks made her door rumble. "I'm not in!"

"I'll come in myself if you don't open," Mickey's voice filtered through the door - and even muffled, she could hear the lassitude and exasperation laced through it.

"Christ…"

She kicked back the covers and threw her pink pillow across her tiny room with another loud huff. She dragged her feet to the door as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her worn hoodie and simply flicked the lock open before returning to crash on her bed.

"Damn, do I need to call the firefighters?" Mickey asked, his nose scrunching up at the heavy smell of cigarette floating in the room. "Can you at least open the window? It's a bloody cancerigen sauna in here."

"Is it?" she drawled with that mocking tone even she hated - which didn't prevent her from lightning a half-consumed fag in a petty move of defiance. "At least it's not weed, so there's hope somewhere, I suppose."

"Rose, you do realize you're pushing me far beyond reasonable limits here, right?" he sighed as he went to the window of her kitchenette and opened it as far as it would go in the vain hope of clearing the excessive vapours. "When was the last time you went out? Or even showered, or ate, or drank water?"

"Oi, shut up Micks," she growled, crushing her cigarette atop the small mountain of butts that had accumulated in her ashtray over the week. "I'm not a kid, yeah, I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, obviously," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Just get ready, will you? A chance I got there early or you would have missed it."

"What the Hell are you talking about?"

"The half-term physics exam," he told her as he went to the bathroom to fetch a clean towel from a cupboard. "You might want to throw your life away and ruin all the hard work you've done until now, but I won't let that happen. Now move your ass, get a hot shower, get dressed and we'll stop at Freddie's for a quick meal. You can't survive on Marlboros and that piss lager."

"I haven't been to class in two weeks, no point in going to a test I'll fail," she shrugged, reaching for a new pack of cigarettes.

She gasped when Mickey ripped the pack away from her hands, a furious scowl splattered over his features, and he snatched the two lighters from her bedside table before tossing them out the window. He then bent forward to face her and roughly cupped her face so he could stare at her, lest she'd look away to flee his accusing frown.

"This isn't you, Rose!" he almost shouted, unable to feel any guilt when tears filled her whiskey eyes. "Look at you, God dammit! You used to be so pretty, so nice, so full of life. So bloody brilliant. What happened to you, eh? What happened to my best friend? What have you done to her?"

"Mickey…" she tried to apologize, but he wouldn't give her that chance she didn't deserve.

"I won't swallow any more of your shite excuses, Rose," he shook his head forcefully. "I'm done. Now get your ass in the shower and get ready, or I swear to anyone who'll listen that I'll grab you by the knickers and and throw you in it myself. Five minutes. If you're not out I'll barge in, naked or not. Go."

She could only nod, too shocked to protest, and went to her tiny wardrobe to fetch clean clothes, feeling his oppressing gaze over her back as she disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She waited until she had divested herself of her old hoodie, dirty jumper and soiled sweatpants, turned on the tap and made sure he wouldn't hear her over the sound of water before she let the wave of sobs crash over her. The seconds were counting down and she knew he would hold true to his word, so she hopped into the shower and managed to find her bottle of peach-scented shampoo through the heavy tears and steam of the hot water. She fiercely avoided looking at the rosy scars drawing sharp lines on her forearm and the nacre circles etched under her skin. It didn't stop her from cursing profusely at them. It didn't help with the rage flowing in her veins, nor with the desperation sizzling in her stomach.

"That's all because of you," she seethed through her clenched teeth between two sobs. "What are you? What the fuck are you?"

She didn't get an answer, and though it would have terrified her if she did, it only made her tears heavier. She lathered her shampoo through her blond locks with such jerky movements that she uprooted a few hairs and winced when her fingers met an unwilling knot - she actually couldn't remember the last time she'd properly brushed them and her scalp was repaying that debt. She made a quick job of washing the rest of her body all while trying to tame the crying that refused to die down, and when she was done she quickly reached for the clean towel Mickey had prepared next to the sink and dried herself. She donned her clean clothes, and with a soft sigh she realized it felt rather good to be rid of the smell of cigarette and the disagreeable feeling of sticky fingers and filthy skin. Mickey hadn't asked for much more, but, old habits dying hard, she felt compelled to add a layer of black eyeshadow and mascara - it had the advantage of mostly hiding her puffy eyes, which wasn't a bad thing.

"You doing okay in there?" Mickey asked through the door as she put her makeup back in its pouch.

"Yeah, done," she answered, opening the door to see he had made her bed and prepared her backpack. "Mickey…"

"Be very careful about what you're going to say, Rose," he warned with a dark look.

"I just wanted to ask if you could brush my hair," she said softly, handing him her hairbrush and a few rubber bands. "I'd like braids and you're the best at making them."

His eyes immediately softened at the unexpected request and a small smile finally greeted his features.

"'Course I can, princess," he nodded, sitting down on the bed next to her. "Regular braids, or something a bit fancier?"

"I like the fishtail ones," she admitted with a sheepish shrug. "If it's not too much to ask."

"Er, I might be a bit out of practice, but I'll give it my best shot, yeah?"

She closed her eyes as he started to carefully brush her hair, untying the bigger knots with his fingers so she wouldn't feel too much pain, then going with the brush until her damp hair was smooth and evenly split on each side of her head. She had missed this. This had always been the kind of moments she loved to share with him, some intimate connection that sparked to life even if they didn't talk. It was all in the way his hands spoke, when he tugged lightly on a strand, when his fingers whispered against the skin of her neck, when his palm hovered over her head right before he would flatten her hair. She closed her eyes to better appreciate it, playing that game she had devised that consisted in guessing where his hand would land next - a lame game he wasn't even aware she was playing, thus the often questioning raise of his eyebrows whenever she chuckled or tsked. It was so soothing that she would have gladly let him brush her hair before she went to bed so he could lull her to sleep.

"All done," he declared with a proud smile as he snapped the last rubber band around the end of the braid. "Didn't turn out that bad."

"Thank you, Mickey," she offered in return, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as a reward.

"Any time, princess. So, put your coat and your shoes on and let's get going. The exam's in less than two hours and you need to feed the monster that seems to be living in your belly."

"I ate a large pizza yesterday," she pouted while she wrapped herself into her large pea jacket. "And chips. Like, lots of chips. My stomach is fine."

"You stomach is a grease sack, it's a wonder you're not as large as your bed by now," he rectified, following her through the door before she locked it. "Come on, now. We're going to eat some real food for once, eh?"

"Yes, Sir…"

Half an hour later, she put down her plastic fork with a contented sigh, thinking that chicken salad was without a doubt the best she'd ever had. Mickey had excused himself a few minutes earlier, pretending he needed to go to the loo before they'd get on their way to the nearby university, and she had believed it. But then she watched in awe - and just a teeny bit of embarrassment - as he walked towards her with a goofy smile and a candle stuck askew in a large piece of chocolate cake. He set it down before her and planted a kiss on her temple as he tucked a silver spoon between en fingers.

"Didn't think I'd have forgotten about your birthday, princess?" he playfully teased, seemingly pleased by the surprise written all over her face.

"Mickey I…" she started, though the sudden rush of emotion made it hard to master her trembling voice. "I didn't… To be honest, I kinda forgot it was my birthday today."

"And that's what I'm here for," he grinned, giving her ribs a gentle poke. "Even got you a present. Not much, mind, but I thought… Well, see for yourself."

He reached inside his pocket and set a small package wrapped in a bright red paper sprinkled with tiny silver stars. She had no idea what was inside, but the simple fact that he had remembered her birthday and bought her something even after everything she had put him through was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She tore the paper with her quivering fingers and found a deep blue velvet box engraved with golden letters that read a brand name she had never seen before. She felt his anxious eyes on her as she untied the small bow tie on the side of the box and her breath hitched low in her throat when she saw it.

"Mickey, this is beautiful," she whispered, freeing the item from the clasps to get a better look at it.

It was an elegant black fountain pen, slim and slightly curved, that was crowned with a shiny golden nib. But what struck her the most was the cap, on the top of which a tiny silver Saturn was welded, a fine work that was so accurate in its scaled proportion she had to inwardly salute whoever had carved it into the precious material.

"I want you to use it for all your upcoming exams," Mickey stated, smiling at the way she reverently turned it into her hands and finally realized her name was chiseled into the gold clip. "I want you to look at that planet and remember why you're doing this. This is your future, Rose. And I won't let you give up. I've seen you work too damn hard for this. So promise me you won't ever even consider giving up again. You'll be a brilliant astrophysicist and you're going to make me proud that I'm your best friend. Okay?"

"I don't know what to say," she chuckled through a sob, clasping her fingers around his.

"Just promise me you'll get better and you'll give that PhD your best shot. You can do it, Rose, I really mean it. I believe in you more than in anyone else."

"I...Yeah, I promise," she nodded before she drew him into a tight and comforting hug. "I love you, Mickey."

"I love you too, princess. Just... Don't tell Martha I've said that."

She laughed heartily at his comical grimace and stuffed a good piece of chocolate cake into her mouth. Oh yes, she loved Mickey. She would never, ever, risk losing his friendship again.

He wasn't entirely satisfied with his choice of clothes, but then again, he wasn't entirely satisfied with his body and his face either, so it made the disheartened resolve easier to swallow. He smoothed the few creases of his pinstriped jacket with the flat of his palms, tightened the knot of his deep brown tie sewn with blue flowers, pondered for a moment if he ought to trade those old chucks for polished shoes, decided he deserved to wear comfortable shoes after more than four centuries spent with hard-soled sandals, tugged on his brown spikes of hair - the only thing he actually quite liked about this body despite the woeful memory of his ginger curls.

Overall, he thought he could fit into her world. Remained to see if he could also fit into her life.

His guts twisted anxiously when he went to the Tardis door and his double heartbeat skyrocketed in his chest. The small pendant he was still wearing under his light blue Oxford shirt burnt in the small dip between his clavicles, and his soulmark lit to life as soon as the door opened on a small patch of green grass and a square of blue sky dotted with a few clouds. One breath of that cold air heavy with too much carbon and he could already smell her from the distance. One step outside and it was as if he could already feel the touch of her warm fingers against his cheek. One look towards that big building dominating the garden and his mind screamed and wailed when it felt her overwhelming presence, just over there, a minute away.

He choked on a sob and let his body fall back against the blue door of his ship, unable to trust his wobbling legs to hold his weight. More than four hundred years after feeling her for the first time. Two centuries after seeing her for the first time. The time had come. He was about to meet his soulmate. And, against his most tenacious beliefs, he wasn't feeling as good as he had imagined. No. There was no joy, there was fear. There was no excitement, there was worry. There was no satisfaction, there was dread. Too many questions, too many doubts, not enough certitudes.

He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and stop breathing when his stomach heaved and churned. He didn't know why, but the fantasy that had guided his steps to this point was turning into a nightmare.