Anywhere but here - Brokenverse ficlet
Jun. 17th, 2010 06:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lone_defenderPrompt - Anywhere but Here - Sick Puppies
("...then this must be goodbye.")
She wasn't certain when she'd made it back to the TARDIS. She hadn't paid any mind to it, simply wandering until she found herself at the doors of the beautiful machine, her song cresting and beckoning onward. Oh, but such a sad, mournful song it sang as she stepped inside. Whether mirroring the spinning in her own mind, or because the TARDIS knew they'd lost their Time Lord once more. Perhaps both.
("Ask the TARDIS what she wants. She ought to have a choice in this as well. Does she want you, your Doctor, or both?")
She skimmed her fingers along the console, and a part of her wanted to sink down and curl up against it as she had that first night, so very long ago. When she'd lost her Doctor the first time. When Rose Tyler died. But no, she'd collapsed already ("I need you," he'd said, as he walked away), she had nothing left to lose. The song of the TARDIS faded to silence as she walked on, deeper into the corridors.
It was so silent. So empty.
("You know what makes a happy TARDIS? A full TARDIS.")
Why hadn't she ever noticed how very empty and silent the TARDIS had been since her friends, her companions, had left, gotten on with their lives while she still obsessed? Drove onward desperately trying to find her Doctor and fulfill his job at the same time. And where was she now? Her beloved Doctor returned without any help from her, and gone. On his own way. And she was alone and empty.
She slipped into the room she'd sought such consolation from for so many years. She'd tidied up quite a bit since it'd started to be lived in again. Papers were carefully stacked on desks, the scarves and hats and books had been moved places they weren't likely to be tripped over if one happened to be backing into the room without looking. The sheets were changed from orange to golden. They'd added pillows.
Her hands trembled at her sides. It smelled of him all over again. It smelled of hope turned to ash. Of a lifetime thrown away.
("It was fun, though, wasn't it? While it lasted.")
Did she belong here any longer? She'd taken occupancy of the room out of opportunity and selfishness, but it was his, now. Sooner or later. He couldn't truly give up the TARDIS, could he? They couldn't just share the room when either was out.
("Promise me you'll stay in here, in our room.")
("Always. Always here, Doctor.")
There was a moment where she very nearly shattered again, collapsed into nothing with the remnants of all she'd gathered together of herself again. And then papers fluttered across the room, spilling and spinning through the air as she swept the nearest stack from the desk. Books tumbled across the floor while others slammed into the far wall. Lifetimes of memories so precariously stacked, so preciously preserved for six years were strewn across the floor, tossed across the bed, thrown into the hallway.
She yanked fistfuls of the duvet and sheets from the bed, smothering out any sign that there'd ever been anyone in it. She was as silent as her actions were loud. Tearing silk and precious fabrics from planets she'd never known the name of, and toppling bits of furniture. She ripped open the wardrobes and closets that kept favorite outfits and flung them across the room without care for damaging they or their hangers. Anything that stood, anything carefully placed, mocking a life that would never be, found itself mixed with the chaos.
The TARDIS was as silent in her head as it was around her, lights dimmed almost low enough to disguise the mess that had been their room.
("I need you.")
Her shoulders shook as she stood on the only clear spot in the room. On the upturned mattress she'd promised to stay in. What was once a refuge of sanity amongst the darkness that threatened to drag her back into who she was those first few months after Canary Wharf.
She sunk to her knees as a clear box caught her attention, clearly knocked from one of the bed stands. Six roses, suspended in a time field to preserve them, and a card with a hand-written note pinned to their stems.
One for every year I missed.
Doctor.
For just a moment, she nearly threw it across the room, smashed the glass-like substance and dispelled the field. Just one moment.
Then, she broke her silence and collapsed, curling against the mattress and the box of roses. There were no screams to drag her away, and there was no Jack to burn through the ice.
There was no one at all.
("...I love you")
("...then this must be goodbye.")
She wasn't certain when she'd made it back to the TARDIS. She hadn't paid any mind to it, simply wandering until she found herself at the doors of the beautiful machine, her song cresting and beckoning onward. Oh, but such a sad, mournful song it sang as she stepped inside. Whether mirroring the spinning in her own mind, or because the TARDIS knew they'd lost their Time Lord once more. Perhaps both.
("Ask the TARDIS what she wants. She ought to have a choice in this as well. Does she want you, your Doctor, or both?")
She skimmed her fingers along the console, and a part of her wanted to sink down and curl up against it as she had that first night, so very long ago. When she'd lost her Doctor the first time. When Rose Tyler died. But no, she'd collapsed already ("I need you," he'd said, as he walked away), she had nothing left to lose. The song of the TARDIS faded to silence as she walked on, deeper into the corridors.
It was so silent. So empty.
("You know what makes a happy TARDIS? A full TARDIS.")
Why hadn't she ever noticed how very empty and silent the TARDIS had been since her friends, her companions, had left, gotten on with their lives while she still obsessed? Drove onward desperately trying to find her Doctor and fulfill his job at the same time. And where was she now? Her beloved Doctor returned without any help from her, and gone. On his own way. And she was alone and empty.
She slipped into the room she'd sought such consolation from for so many years. She'd tidied up quite a bit since it'd started to be lived in again. Papers were carefully stacked on desks, the scarves and hats and books had been moved places they weren't likely to be tripped over if one happened to be backing into the room without looking. The sheets were changed from orange to golden. They'd added pillows.
Her hands trembled at her sides. It smelled of him all over again. It smelled of hope turned to ash. Of a lifetime thrown away.
("It was fun, though, wasn't it? While it lasted.")
Did she belong here any longer? She'd taken occupancy of the room out of opportunity and selfishness, but it was his, now. Sooner or later. He couldn't truly give up the TARDIS, could he? They couldn't just share the room when either was out.
("Promise me you'll stay in here, in our room.")
("Always. Always here, Doctor.")
There was a moment where she very nearly shattered again, collapsed into nothing with the remnants of all she'd gathered together of herself again. And then papers fluttered across the room, spilling and spinning through the air as she swept the nearest stack from the desk. Books tumbled across the floor while others slammed into the far wall. Lifetimes of memories so precariously stacked, so preciously preserved for six years were strewn across the floor, tossed across the bed, thrown into the hallway.
She yanked fistfuls of the duvet and sheets from the bed, smothering out any sign that there'd ever been anyone in it. She was as silent as her actions were loud. Tearing silk and precious fabrics from planets she'd never known the name of, and toppling bits of furniture. She ripped open the wardrobes and closets that kept favorite outfits and flung them across the room without care for damaging they or their hangers. Anything that stood, anything carefully placed, mocking a life that would never be, found itself mixed with the chaos.
The TARDIS was as silent in her head as it was around her, lights dimmed almost low enough to disguise the mess that had been their room.
("I need you.")
Her shoulders shook as she stood on the only clear spot in the room. On the upturned mattress she'd promised to stay in. What was once a refuge of sanity amongst the darkness that threatened to drag her back into who she was those first few months after Canary Wharf.
She sunk to her knees as a clear box caught her attention, clearly knocked from one of the bed stands. Six roses, suspended in a time field to preserve them, and a card with a hand-written note pinned to their stems.
One for every year I missed.
Doctor.
For just a moment, she nearly threw it across the room, smashed the glass-like substance and dispelled the field. Just one moment.
Then, she broke her silence and collapsed, curling against the mattress and the box of roses. There were no screams to drag her away, and there was no Jack to burn through the ice.
There was no one at all.
("...I love you")
