Now we will interrupt your irregularly scheduled lovely warm fluffy glow with some post-Doomsday angst. We do not apologise for the inconvenience.

Disclaimer: I own my sudden inability to type... but not much else.


The first night, she thinks, will be the hardest.

She lies there, broken but unharmed, staring at the cold whiteness of the ceiling. Cold, white. She wants to levitate, press herself against it, feel him on the other side, float through the ceiling until it became the floor and see him there, beautiful and broken and bleeding and brilliant. If she squints, she can see his face in the pattern of the shadows cast from the lamp.

It's on, she realises. That's probably why she can't sleep.

She gets up and walks over to the light-switch. She flicks it downwards and the lamp obediently dies. She walks back over to the bed, dodging nonexistent piles of clothing covered in the dirt of a thousand worlds, and lies back down.

She can still see his face in the pattern of the shadows. The moonlight streams through the window, striking the carpet of the floor; a little of the cold radiance reflects off of the surface somehow and hits the lamp, tracing out achingly familiar lines. Clean lines, sharp angles, lean shadows. A slightly amused twist of thin lips, an arch of the left eyebrow, a faint crinkling around the eyes. Beautiful.

She feels like she's burning and she kicks the covers off. The nighttime air floods in to brush her skin and she feels goose pimples begin to form, and she feels his touch in the coolness. If she just imagines, the reflected moonlight is really his face, the breeze is his caress, and she's come home.

And yet she knows it's not real. He's never touched her like that, not just for the sake of the contact. He touched her when there was running to do, when the running had finished, when either of them needed comfort; never just because she was there and he wanted to feel her near him.

She blinks calmly up at the ceiling. The tears don't come, the pain doesn't come. It's become too intense to feel, so she doesn't any more; trying to feel the hurt is like trying to hear a dog whistle. It's too much, too high, for a little human creature to understand. Maybe too much for a Time Lord to understand. Either it was too much or he was a terribly good actor. Maybe it was a bit of both.

"Hello," she tells him.

He doesn't answer.

It's quiet. Too quiet. There's no singing in her mind, no quiet thrum of living machinery. She tries breathing loudly, but it's not the same. She taps the mattress in a four-beat rhythm and looks up at his face in the ceiling and feels the cool wind brush gently over her and she doesn't sleep.

The second night, she thinks, will be easier.

She's certainly exhausted. She collapses limply and looks up at the ceiling and his face is still there. It mocks her, wounds her. She reaches out for him; he looks so close, but she can't touch him. He's nothing but light refracted through glass, her imagination rearranging the pattern into his features. Her hand drops to her side again.

The conversation downstairs continues, a steady mumble which isn't close enough to soothe her. Mickey says something and both Jackie and Pete laugh, and it hurts.

She runs her fingers through her hair and the digits catch in the tangles. She bites her lip, bites back tears. She won't cry. She won't. She can't. She's Rose Tyler and she won't cry.

She closes her eyes and feels a painful dampness seep out through the tightly shut lids, but she won't allow herself to give into the temptation to cry herself out. Her lower lip trembles as it's caught between her teeth, but she doesn't make a sound. A single trickle of moisture escapes her left eye to splash on the pillow, a whimper escapes her throat, and suddenly her entire body is shaking with the effort of holding herself together.

The effort kills itself and she sobs herself to sleep.

The third night, she doesn't think will be anything.

She got used to the pattern. What choice did she have? Night brought only sleeplessness or nightmares, or nightmares followed by sleeplessness, or sleeplessness followed by nightmares. It won't get any easier, it won't get any harder. She stares blankly at his face in the ceiling. She hurts, and she wonders if this means she's getting better.

A mirthless laugh escapes slightly parted lips. If this means she's getting better, then she never wants to heal.

Never say never ever.

She shoots upright, panting slightly. It's stupid and she'll hate herself for it in the morning, but right now it makes perfect sense. Every time the Doctor says something is impossible, it happens. Every time she says something will never ever come to pass, it instantly does.

So she tries out her theory.

"I'll never see him again," she said quietly. "Never ever."

She repeats those words over and over like they'll work if she just says them one more time. For an hour or so the only sound in the house is her single voice chanting out the phrase, childlike in her belief. It'll happen. He'll come, if she just believes he won't. That's how the multiverse works.

She finally wears herself out and falls asleep, still mumbling the words, and he doesn't come. Maybe the multiverse is too injured to work, she thinks as consciousness fades.

The fourth night is the hardest.


Boredboredboredboredbored. -wanders off to work on something else-