midnight: after it ends, before it begins - chapter one
He has to forcibly remind himself, telling the local police what happened on the bus in a flat tone (no one else will), that this was not his fault. It's in his nature to take the blame, to hold it to his chest and carry it with him, to never speak of it to another mortal yet to know of it's existence - but this time... death follows him everywhere he goes. And this time it's harder to persuade himself that he didn't have anything to do with this instance, with these deaths; Sky and the woman whose name turns out to be Mary but won't be needing it anymore. This isn't his too take and it would be pompous, self-sacrificing and full-headed of himself to claim it as his burden. He says out loud that it was an accident, allowing the police to question him at will, but inside, pounding against the inner fabric of his suit, he's already taken the fall.
The blame might not be his to carry but he certainly will regardless. Someone needs to, to not forget these names, these two that didn't deserve to die the way they did and he's recently lost faith that any of the other passengers will consider this an importance. Sometimes humanity turns his stomach in a way that makes it almost impossible to stand, makes it had to wake up and be able to face them again, this planet that refuses to die. The same reason he loves it, he finds himself hating it for: their damned insistence in believing the Darwin theory, "the strong survive". And this left the weak to... what? Become chattel in the wind, forgotten and smashed under the feet of the self-important on their rise up the social ladder.
He's reminded of Cassandra, for just a moment, and with her face comes Rose's, unbidden and always unwanted. It hurts too much, to know that she's lost to him. It's too impossibly hard to deal with, so he shuts it down and puts it away, placing it in a pocket of his jacket and closing the button over the fold. A grin, a cheerful wink, and no one's the wiser. Except perhaps Donna, who knows him better than he knows himself, at times. Not always, but sometimes, when it matters. And he needs her now, his best friend, to hold him, or tell him that it wasn't his fault.
Most people who want his time want something; Donna honestly enjoys him, as a person, as an individual, and her value is incalculable. He can't imagine life without her and yes, sometimes this startles him, making him pause in his tracks because of course he can't have her forever. Lonely God, him. It's a self-inflicted title but that doesn't make it any less true. Everyone leaves in the end, whether it's forced or voluntary, even... he won't think of him again, won't breathe his name into reality, because no. Because there is nothing good in that memory and he's already tired, too tired, to think of Koschei. And just like that and there it is, his name, dangling in suspended theory inside his mind.
He misses him, and it swells up in his chest, consuming the patterns of both his hearts and anxiety, such anxiety, and the police let him go - finally, which is good because he feels physically sick. 'Just regenerate', it was all he'd wanted. And... Donna. He needs to find Donna, to let her hold him like he so rarely lets people do. It was easier to hold them. It was easier to fix problems then face his own aching, insufferable, intolerable faults.
And when he does find Donna, no words are exchanged, nothing needed because there's never been another companion quite like Donna Noble. For a man with some nine hundred years racked up she's special in a way he's never been quite able to set his finger on. One arm, then two, and then he tugs her as close as he can, the scent of whatever shampoo she's chosen that morning imprinted on his lips. For one shimmering moment he can forget; forget Sky and Mary and death and lean into the support that she offers him. It's this lack of concentration, this momentary (it's always momentary) bliss that allows him to not immediately notice when her body goes lax in his arms.
The fact that it takes him just a bit longer, his own body keeping both their weight up, to notice before he's pulling her away, panic racing through his blood stream and he's screaming, shouting because the once animated face he's shared time and space with is blank - this fact, is what makes him fall to the ground, nausea circling upwards in his throat like a drainage system gone a muck. Because there's no words he can say, nothing but gargled, incoherent pain, to make this better because she's not coming back to him and damn it but it isn't supposed to end like this!
He looks up, tears clinging to his eyes, just resting because he hasn't had time yet to really, honestly allow his body to express the feelings turning his throat a brilliant, red raw. "That's," he doesn't let go of her though, clutching the woman, his companion, to his chest, falling backwards in an effort to scramble away, dragging her with him because he can't leave her behind, "That's impossible."
The blame might not be his to carry but he certainly will regardless. Someone needs to, to not forget these names, these two that didn't deserve to die the way they did and he's recently lost faith that any of the other passengers will consider this an importance. Sometimes humanity turns his stomach in a way that makes it almost impossible to stand, makes it had to wake up and be able to face them again, this planet that refuses to die. The same reason he loves it, he finds himself hating it for: their damned insistence in believing the Darwin theory, "the strong survive". And this left the weak to... what? Become chattel in the wind, forgotten and smashed under the feet of the self-important on their rise up the social ladder.
He's reminded of Cassandra, for just a moment, and with her face comes Rose's, unbidden and always unwanted. It hurts too much, to know that she's lost to him. It's too impossibly hard to deal with, so he shuts it down and puts it away, placing it in a pocket of his jacket and closing the button over the fold. A grin, a cheerful wink, and no one's the wiser. Except perhaps Donna, who knows him better than he knows himself, at times. Not always, but sometimes, when it matters. And he needs her now, his best friend, to hold him, or tell him that it wasn't his fault.
Most people who want his time want something; Donna honestly enjoys him, as a person, as an individual, and her value is incalculable. He can't imagine life without her and yes, sometimes this startles him, making him pause in his tracks because of course he can't have her forever. Lonely God, him. It's a self-inflicted title but that doesn't make it any less true. Everyone leaves in the end, whether it's forced or voluntary, even... he won't think of him again, won't breathe his name into reality, because no. Because there is nothing good in that memory and he's already tired, too tired, to think of Koschei. And just like that and there it is, his name, dangling in suspended theory inside his mind.
He misses him, and it swells up in his chest, consuming the patterns of both his hearts and anxiety, such anxiety, and the police let him go - finally, which is good because he feels physically sick. 'Just regenerate', it was all he'd wanted. And... Donna. He needs to find Donna, to let her hold him like he so rarely lets people do. It was easier to hold them. It was easier to fix problems then face his own aching, insufferable, intolerable faults.
And when he does find Donna, no words are exchanged, nothing needed because there's never been another companion quite like Donna Noble. For a man with some nine hundred years racked up she's special in a way he's never been quite able to set his finger on. One arm, then two, and then he tugs her as close as he can, the scent of whatever shampoo she's chosen that morning imprinted on his lips. For one shimmering moment he can forget; forget Sky and Mary and death and lean into the support that she offers him. It's this lack of concentration, this momentary (it's always momentary) bliss that allows him to not immediately notice when her body goes lax in his arms.
The fact that it takes him just a bit longer, his own body keeping both their weight up, to notice before he's pulling her away, panic racing through his blood stream and he's screaming, shouting because the once animated face he's shared time and space with is blank - this fact, is what makes him fall to the ground, nausea circling upwards in his throat like a drainage system gone a muck. Because there's no words he can say, nothing but gargled, incoherent pain, to make this better because she's not coming back to him and damn it but it isn't supposed to end like this!
He looks up, tears clinging to his eyes, just resting because he hasn't had time yet to really, honestly allow his body to express the feelings turning his throat a brilliant, red raw. "That's," he doesn't let go of her though, clutching the woman, his companion, to his chest, falling backwards in an effort to scramble away, dragging her with him because he can't leave her behind, "That's impossible."