The Isle of Wight
Title: The Isle of Wight
Author: housemaid79
Pairing/Characters: Nine, Rose
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for round 1, challenge 3 of whoverse_las
Our Prompt was: “We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell” -- Oscar Wilde
All she wants is tea and toast.
(Wants tea and sympathy…tea and her mum. More than anything, she wants her mum. But honestly…what could she say? “I know I killed daddy…but any chance I could still have a hug?”)
Rose has settled for tea and toast.
Only, the milk’s gone off and the single bit of bread she finds is a roll so ancient the knife won’t begin to cut through it. Would have had more luck cracking it open like a coconut, she thinks.
So she settles for tea, un-milky tea, but in her favorite mug. That’s something. It’s warm in her hands when she stirs in the sugar, and for the first time since 1987, Rose feels a measure of comfort.
She moves to put the sugar bowl up. Watches in slow motion as her sleeve catches at the spoon still in her mug. Stands there frozen as it’s pulled over the edge of the counter, and the lot of it high-dives to the linoleum. Shatters.
And it’s just too much. Anger and heartbreak and guilt and loss.
Rose sinks where she’s standing. Grabs the first thing within reach, and lobs the stale roll-cum-coconut across the room. It bounces off the door frame; narrowly misses the Doctor as he enters the kitchen.
“Sharp-shooter you’ll never be. Not with an aim like that.” He dusts bread-crust shrapnel from his jacket. Looks up when she doesn’t respond. “Rose?”
His gaze finds her on the floor, her back against the stove. There’s a pool of what he thinks is tea, and Rose is half sitting in it - doesn’t seem to notice it leaching, dark, into her jeans. He drops down to eye level, the deep tread of one boot now sticky in the mess. “You alright?”
She nods her “yes” without peeling her eyes from the floor.
He studies her. She’s not crying, no, but her body fairly quakes with the effort.
Like being in shock, and now it’s wearing off.
The Doctor shifts to sit next to her, carefully maneuvering past the sticky tea-puddle.
Silent.
“You died today.” Her voice punctures the air, followed by a frantic wave of her hand. “Eaten by that…that Reaper thing. You lost the TARDIS an’ you died. And…and…it’s all my fault.”
“Carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders are you, Atlas?” Gentle. Softer than she’d expected.
“It was awful…” She whispers - folds in on herself like origami.
“Yeah. Not gonna lie.” He rests his back against the stove. “But if it came down to it, protecting you…there’re worse ways to go.” He lets his gaze drift unfocused for a moment. “Imagine he’d say the same.”
Startled, her eyes meet the Doctor’s for the first time - they are like wells, and he can’t see the bottom.
“I killed him.” Her hollow tone chills him, but he gets it now. “It’s my fault.”
He pulls her onto his lap - disregards the clammy-tea-damp transferring itself from her jeans to his.
“Plenty of it was, yeah. But not the part you’re lettin’ eat you alive.”
“He died because I went back.” Her tone low - she can’t, won’t, be comforted. “He ran out into the street - threw himself in front of a car…’cause of me.”
“He loved you.” So simple.
“I told him it was my fault, and he said he was my dad,” her voice breaks, “that it was his job for it to be his fault, and…”
“And he was dead to begin with, long before you ever went back, in case you’re forgetting.” It sounds cruel…but it’s the truth, he knows, and far kinder than letting her convince herself otherwise.
“Can’t forget. Had to live with him being gone ‘most my whole life.” She picks at a loose thread. Takes a deep breath that exits like a sob against him. “Feelin’ like a murderer though? That’s new.” The wells of her eyes fill as they search his. “How do you live with something like that..?”
The Doctor tucks her up to his chest, presses an imperceptible kiss to the top of her head. “You learn, Rose. You learn.”