Fic: You've Got to Hide Your Love Away (11/17)
It's now or never, Rose thinks to herself. And she's right.
It's been two weeks--two long, excruciating weeks--surrounded by the people who love and care about her, and she's had more than enough. She needs to get out of this house and away from their sympathy and concern that's slowly suffocating her.
She needs to live.
In some ways, she feels bad about her decision to move on. It took her longer than this to mourn the Doctor the last time they were separated. She knows now though that she took far too long then. It wasn't good and it wasn't healthy. It was just day-after-day of remembering and missing, crying silently into her pillow and screaming at the unfairness of it all to the stars.
She really doesn't fancy going through that again, doesn't think she could survive it once more. So she does the one thing she can think of that might help, takes the first step on what she is sure will be a long, difficult road to recovery...
She returns to work.
~~~
The Doctor knows his brief respite is coming to an end.
He's been left alone these last few weeks, left to his thoughts in the tiny room that serves as his cell. His mind his only companion, he discovers that, despite his constant boasting, he doesn't really prefer to be on his own after all. He misses having someone to talk to, misses the contact with others he's so used to, so dependent on.
He misses Rose.
In a way, this time is worse--far worse--than before. Because, all those years ago, when he lost her the first time, he was forced-unwillingly--back into his life, a life that does not support actions as self-indulgent as tears and heartbreak. Oh, he doesn't think, even for a minute, that he wasn't devastated by their separation. Because he was. He just didn't have the time, back then, to let it affect him as much as it does now.
Of course, the last time he actually had something to lose; he had Rose. Not this time though. No, the Rose he knows now, he doesn't really know at all. This Rose doesn't even want him around, not anymore.
And that makes it even worse.
~~~
“And do what? Mope around while the rest of you lot are out living?” She screeches, cringing inwardly when she realizes just how much she sounds like her mum. People are beginning to stare openly now, no longer trying to pretend that they're actually working and not watching the scene unfolding just outside their office doors. She came to Torchwood early, dressed to impress, her conviction clutched tightly to her chest. She was certain she could do this, but with all eyes on her, she finds herself starting to believe in his words, believe that maybe it is too soon.
Why can't Pete just understand that she needs this? That, without it, without getting the bloody hell out of the house and occupying her time with work, she'll go mental. There's only so much heartache a girl can take and this girl has had more than her fair share of it.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she tries again. “I think you forget, I've done enough moping already, yeah? I don't wanna do it again.”
“I'm sorry, Rose, but I said no,” he repeats firmly, shaking his head and turning away from her, back toward his office.
It's obvious he thinks this conversation is over and done with, but she doesn't. And she's not about to let him slam the door in her face, shutting her out of life. She'd been ready for his denial, even made sure she had a plan 'b' before coming here.
“Then I'll go someplace else.”
He stops dead in his tracks and slowly turns back to face her. “What did you say?”
“I said,” she intones, standing taller and straighter, “I'll go someplace else.”
He raises an eyebrow, challenging her.
“UNIT will 'ave me. They were begging me to join before. Remember?” She doesn't wait for him to respond, just plunges forward before she loses her nerve. “And America. They have a top secret project I'd be perfect for they said.” Pete doesn't know about that one, she never told him. She starts ticking off the places that she could work at on her fingers. “Germany, Russia, China, Jap--”
“Okay, okay, already,” he interrupts, a look of surrender on his face. “Your mum is gonna kill me for this but...you can come back. On a trial basis only,” he warns her when her face breaks into a smile, the first in what feels like ages.
~~~
Hollow footsteps echo down the hall, heading toward the Doctor. This is the first visitor that he's had since the last time they attempted this. Rising from the lumpy mattress that serves as both bed and chair, he gets to his feet and greets the tall, pale figure that enters his cell. This is the same Wraith that first greeted him on the ship, the one he made the deal over Earth with.
The Doctor decides to call him Stan. He looks like a Stan.
“There will be no interruptions this time from your human allies,” Stan tells him, striding confidently into the room. “And I expect you will remember your word and offer us no resistance?”
The Doctor can feel the impatience rolling off of Stan in waves, knows that the Wraith wants nothing more right now than to come away from this session with something he can use. He needs something--anything--he can give his Queen that will convince her he made the right decision in choosing the Doctor over Earth.
Standing in front of his warden, the Doctor waits, broken and submissive. There is no plan, no hope, no way out. He knows this now, knows there is absolutely nothing he can do to escape, to return to the life he once knew.
He may have given up, but he is not about to give in.
Before Stan can reach out to his mind, the Doctor partitions off his memories, placing those he wants to keep to himself in a small, locked box made of the strongest materials in the universe. He doesn't hide it--knows it will be found no matter what dark corner of his mind he puts it in--he simply leaves it out in the open.
These memories--the few truly happy ones he has of a life otherwise spent destroying lives and losing those he loves--they can't have. He knows they aren't going to take too kindly to his rebellion, but he doesn't care. They won't be allowed to spoil them, won't be allowed to touch the perfection of them with their sick, twisted minds. Because, if he's going to spend the rest of his long life as a slave to this bloodthirsty race, he'll do so with these memories left intact.
Either he's more prepared for it this time, or Stan is trying to be nice (something he isn't even sure the Wraith is capable of). But, within seconds, the Doctor's ruse is spotted and the firm insistence turns into a forceful shove.
He ignores it, bracing himself for the backlash that's sure to come.
“Let us in!” he hears the hissing in his mind.
He doesn't bother to answer, just places more locks around what is now his most prized possession.
“Insolent fool,” an irate Stan screams, and the Doctor knows, even with his eyes firmly shut, that the Wraith is moving across the cell towards him. “You will not stop us from taking what it is we desire!”
He's slammed against the wall behind him and a hard, unmoving object is pressed against his chest, preventing him from any thought of fighting back. He knows what comes next, but he doesn't care. He'll gladly suffer this and anything else they can throw at him to keep these memories safe.
Stan doesn't hold back, quickly draining year-after-year of the Doctor's life. In the blink of an eye, it's gone, all that time he's yet to live. Gone forever, with no hope of ever getting them back. But it doesn't matter; he doesn't try to fight it. Holding tight to the small box in the center of his mind--embracing it like he never did the love offered to him so many times before, from so many companions--he finally finds peace.
There are things he's done wrong in his time, lives he's destroyed without even raising a finger, but he'll never be able to fix them, not now anyway. It's a truth he'll just have to learn to live with, for as long as is left to him...
Which, he thinks just before the darkness claims him, may not be as long as he once thought...
~~~
As the Time Lord falls to the mattress beneath him, the Wraith smiles a sickeningly twisted smile that makes even the drones look away nervously. He doesn't notice their fear however, nor does he notice when they take a step away from him. What he has just learned is too big, too important to waste even one more second on them and their pitiful emotions.
Staring at the prisoner at his feet, Stan chuckles to himself.
“I have found it, my Queen, and it is greater and brighter than we ever could have hoped for. And to think, the fool did not even try to hide this from us. Locking away all those precious, useless memories, and this, this he leaves out in the open.”
~~~
A week later Rose comes to the realization that her plan isn't working.
Sure, it felt better at first to simply get out and do something with her life. But, no matter what she did, the darkness always remained, lurking at the edges of her soul.
And, if anything, being at Torchwood only seems to make it worse.
Sitting behind the large desk in her office, she stares out the window sadly. There are too many memories here, too many things that remind her of the Doctor and how she lost him…both this time and the last.
London has become something of a sore spot for her and she can’t help but feel she’d be better off someplace else, someplace far away from here. Unfortunately, the one place she’d rather be is unreachable now. The one person she'd rather be with is gone. Without his hand in hers, she has no desire--no motivation--to reach for something more.
And it's all her fault.
Despite what she said to Jack all those weeks ago, she knows that the blame lies with her and not him. Yes, he could've stopped the Doctor from sacrificing himself to the Wraith, but if she hadn't treated him so poorly in the first place, if she hadn't held him at arms length, perhaps he wouldn't have considered throwing his life away so recklessly in the first place. She did this to the Doctor, she hurt him with her selfish words and childish, inconsiderate actions. And now he's gone, possibly dead, and she's here living a half-life that she doesn't want.
She had wanted to live again. Wanted to feel something other than this desolate loneliness that follows her everywhere, no matter what. And she does try. She tries to make the best of what she has but as the hours fade into days, and the days into weeks, she finds that all she’s really doing is going through the motions.
Wake, shower, dress, eat, work, eat, and sleep. These are the things that make up her life. But two of them she isn't even sure she can count, because she rarely sleeps and barely eats. She's wasting away to nothing and sporting dark circles under her eyes. She's not even sure she recognizes herself anymore.
Turning from her reflection in the window, she opens the bottom desk drawer and stares at the object inside. She had picked it up a few days ago on her way home from work, swearing that she'd never use it, that it was a just in case. It's a road she'd never thought she'd go down, but now...
Now she knows that, if something doesn't change soon, if she doesn't find some amount of peace in this life, she's going to snap.
~~~
He wakes some time later feeling...well, feeling drained. The thought elicits a snort and an upturning of his lips. “If you can't laugh at yourself...” “When life hands you lemons...” And all that.
If he were a little more sane right now, he might think himself a bit insane.
How large a chunk of his life they drained, he's not sure. It was certainly bigger then a deck of cards but probably smaller then a breadbox. And that, he finds amusing too. Chuckling to himself, he slowly rises up onto an elbow.
At least they had the decency to put him on the mattress when they were done. Amazingly he feels no worse for the wear, only sore, like he's been sleeping for an inordinately long period of time. Which he knows he hasn't because...well, Time Lord and all that.
Dragging himself into a standing position he does a quick mental checklist, while stretching his body. Nothing seems to be out of place, or damaged but he can't get over the feeling that he should feel different somehow. Everything appears to be fine though and he's not about to complain.
He stumbles into the small bathroom provided for him and splashes water on his face. The coldness helps to wake him up and clear his head a little. Then with a quick swipe of his shirtsleeve he attempts to clean up the grimy mirror and gives his appearance a quick once over.
He looks...older. Not a lot, and probably not enough for anyone else to notice but there is definitely a difference between now and the last time he glanced into the filthy mirror. Running his damp fingers through his hair, making it stand on end, he turns away from his image, wondering why he even bothers. It's not like it matters if he looks like himself or not, there's no one around to notice his changing appearance but Stan.
Three large glasses of water and one awfully long piss later, he returns to his main living quarters and checks for the tray of food typically left just inside the doorway. He's feeling a bit shaky and his stomach is nipping at his backbone but, unfortunately, all he finds is his previous meal, moldy now and smelling slightly rotten.
That's odd. They always remove the tray within a few hours of the meal. This one's been here...he sniffs it, pokes at the green, slightly furry bits of meat and vegetables left on the plate. But that can't be!
Straightening in alarm, he reaches out with his mind, grasps at the tendrils of the time stream. He can't have! But the proof is in the pudding, so to speak, and the pudding (or what constitutes as such for the Wraith) has been sitting, at room temperature, for at least a week. Which means...
But that can't be! He's a Time Lord--one quick catnap every few days and he's good to go--why would he have slept for a little over seven and a half days? With growing concern he strides over to the outer wall of his cell, banging on it with his fist while trying to make some sense of what little he can see through the cloudy, smeared material that reminds him of glass but isn't.
“Hey! Toe lint breath!” he yells, straining to catch a glimpse of the guard always posted nearby. “I know you're out there. Come on, Time Lord buffet here. You know you want some.”
He waits one minute, another, and then one more just to be safe. Still there's no response, not even a whisper. The Doctor's always been capable of remaining calm during very tense situations, but he can feel his alarm slowly spiraling into a sort of out-of-control, overwhelming fear.
And the fear only gets worse when he realizes the constant chatter in the back of his mind--the chatter that he's been battling since first stepping foot on this ship--is now silent. Reaching out, expanding his range, he searches for something, anything that would indicate that he's not utterly and completely alone.
But, no matter how desperately he searches, no matter how far out he drives his thoughts, he finds nothing.
Chapter Twelve...