rosa_acicularis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosa_acicularis) wrote2008-04-06 01:27 am
rosa_acicularis) wrote2008-04-06 01:27 am
Ficlet: Landing 1/1
Title: Landing
Characters: Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Pete and Jackie Tyler
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Strictly speaking, they don't not not belong to me.
Spoilers: Doomsday
Summary: "The funny thing about beginnings, you see, is that they're practically indistinguishable from endings." Rose Tyler, after the fall. A companion to the pre-series fic Sitting.
Author's Notes: You know what I'd never tried before? A mega-angsty Doomsday fic. I think this just about got it out of my system.
Characters: Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Pete and Jackie Tyler
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: Strictly speaking, they don't not not belong to me.
Spoilers: Doomsday
Summary: "The funny thing about beginnings, you see, is that they're practically indistinguishable from endings." Rose Tyler, after the fall. A companion to the pre-series fic Sitting.
Author's Notes: You know what I'd never tried before? A mega-angsty Doomsday fic. I think this just about got it out of my system.
++
For a moment, a heartbeat of time, he is there.
Then he’s gone, and the wall is just a wall. Rose steps away.
She can hear the panicked rise and fall of her mother’s voice, the low hum of Pete’s answering murmur (her father’s arms around her as she fell, that last glimpse of his face) but their voices are just sound, meaningless noise. They are talking about her, she knows. About what’s happened, and what they’ll do next. She does not look at their faces.
A hand slides into hers, warm and damp with sweat. Mickey. He takes her hand and leads her past Pete, past her mum, and out of the white, airless room. She follows, her shoes squeaking on the smooth floor.
So this is Torchwood, she thinks, and looks to the walls around her and the floor beneath. This place – or a mirror of it – brought the Cybermen into her world. The Daleks. This place is the reason why she is here and he is there. It is long white corridors, locked doors, and an eerily silent lift ride to the lobby. She tries to hate it and finds she cannot.
She can’t feel much of anything at all, really.
Mickey doesn’t let go of her hand, not even when they reach the main entrance and people stare at her makeup-smeared face. They pass through security with nothing more than a nod from one of the guards on duty. “Mr. Smith,” the man says, and Mickey acknowledges him with a dip of his chin.
As they pass through the door onto the London streets, Rose wonders whether she’s ever heard anyone call him that before.
The city is busy with early evening traffic, and people rush past them, hurrying to the shops, to their homes. She is aware of gravity, of the pull of the pavement and the weight of earthbound feet. Mickey pulls her into the crush, leading her through the crowds until they emerge by the waterfront. He walks to a bench, his steps loud against the concrete. He sits and looks out at the river. After a moment, she does the same.
The zeppelins are weightless silver shadows against the reds and blues of the sunset, and she remembers that she once thought them beautiful. They still are. Mickey takes her hand again and together they watch the airships cross the evening sky.
“It’s so warm out,” she hears herself say. “Is it summer?”
He shakes his head, slowly. “March. The breach was mucking about with the climate.” He pauses. “Should get better now.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”
They sit in silence for a long time.
“Don’t you think—” Mickey stops himself, looks down at his shoes.
She swallows around the thickness in her throat. “What?”
“I just…the things I’ve seen him do. Mad things. I just can’t believe he won’t find a way here. Not if you’re stuck.”
Rose looks up to the darkening sky. “Maybe. I don’t know.” The words feel like broken glass on her tongue, but she says them calmly enough. “I don’t think he can. Not this time.”
Mickey’s hand settles on her shoulder. He means to comfort her, but it is as if he is holding her down, pinning her to the bench and the earth beneath. She shrugs him off, and his hand falls to his side. “Rose—”
“I made my choice. That’s what I told him, and I meant it.” Her voice is rough, fierce and unfamiliar. She likes the sound of it, the way it burns in her throat. “I gave up you and Mum and my chance at a normal life, a life with a house and a job and a family. My mum and dad, together. I gave it all up, for him.” She curls her fingers into fists, and her nails dig into her palms. She wants to draw blood. “It was my choice.”
If he hears the violence in her words, he shows no sign of it. “You’re alive.”
“I’m trapped.”
“You don’t know that.”
“God, Mickey,” she says, almost laughing, and her voice breaks. “Don’t you listen? It’s done. The breach is sealed. He’s gone.” She presses a hand to her mouth, and the sharp bones of her knuckles bruise her lips. Bone against skin, skin against teeth. The pain of it steadies her.
She will not cry again, not over this. She is done with tears.
The moment passes, and her hand drops to her lap. “I’ll never see him again,” she says, and her voice is toneless, almost perfectly even. Saying it out loud makes it real. A solid fact. She is here, he is there, and she will never see him again.
A part of her does not, cannot believe it. Never say never ever, a memory whispers, and hope is a stubborn thing.
But it is only a memory, and maybe it is time for her to forget such things. The earth is solid beneath her feet, and she cannot feel its turning.
Night falls as they watch. They don’t speak.
The streetlamps blink on, later than they would in her London. Still, the light is warm and yellow and familiar, and when Mickey turns and meets her gaze, she does not flinch from the pity and affection she sees in his eyes.
“There’s a place for you here, Rose,” he says. “You could do a lot of good.”
She stares at him. “You can’t mean—”
“It’s different, our Torchwood,” he says before she can give voice to her disgust. “We’re making sure of that. Pete – I mean, your... ” He pauses awkwardly. “Well, he overhauled all of it when he took control, and we need people we can trust. You can handle yourself in a tight spot, you’re clever when you want to be, and you’ll stop us, if you need to. If we go too far.” His expression is grave and sharp and utterly foreign on his gentle features. “What happened today in Canary Wharf will never happen here, Rose. You can see to that.”
She shakes her head, dizzy and sick with the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that. “I don’t even properly exist, Mickey. I don’t belong here. Mum and I—”
He puts one hand over hers, steadying her. “There’s a place for you. If you want it.”
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, pushing her panic down where it cannot touch her. Mickey – her Mickey, the boy with the video games and the sink full of dirty dishes, the normal bloke with morning breath and clever hands – he chose this world over the one he knew, chose to give up everything he had for a world in which he was needed.
This city of zeppelins and metal men was not her choice, and never would have been. She is trapped, powerless, stuck like a fairy tale princess in a doorless tower, and it enrages her. She wants to beat her fists against that long, white wall until she bleeds. She wants to leave her mark, to ruin it, to punch holes through plaster and smear herself across its pristine surface. She wants to go home.
Mickey is watching her silently, patiently, and she decides. She did not choose this world. She did not choose this life. She is trapped and she is powerless, and she will never see him again.
But she absolutely bloody refuses to be useless.
“I’ll think about it,” she says, but he knows her well enough to hear her decision in her voice.
He smiles. “Good. You do that.”
She stands, and though the vertigo persists (when he saw her for the last time she was falling, and she has yet to land) her feet are steady beneath her. “Well, Mr. Smith,” she says, offering Mickey her arm, “where to next?”
He rolls his eyes and stands, linking his arm through hers. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to let that go.”
“Oh, you know me,” she says with something like a smile. “I just can’t help myself.”
They walk along the waterfront, moving from light to shadow to light as they pass streetlamps lit against the dark. In a moment of shadow she looks to the sky, and even through the city’s glow she can see the faint light of stars.
For a moment, a heartbeat of time, he is there.
Then he’s gone, and the wall is just a wall. Rose steps away.
She can hear the panicked rise and fall of her mother’s voice, the low hum of Pete’s answering murmur (her father’s arms around her as she fell, that last glimpse of his face) but their voices are just sound, meaningless noise. They are talking about her, she knows. About what’s happened, and what they’ll do next. She does not look at their faces.
A hand slides into hers, warm and damp with sweat. Mickey. He takes her hand and leads her past Pete, past her mum, and out of the white, airless room. She follows, her shoes squeaking on the smooth floor.
So this is Torchwood, she thinks, and looks to the walls around her and the floor beneath. This place – or a mirror of it – brought the Cybermen into her world. The Daleks. This place is the reason why she is here and he is there. It is long white corridors, locked doors, and an eerily silent lift ride to the lobby. She tries to hate it and finds she cannot.
She can’t feel much of anything at all, really.
Mickey doesn’t let go of her hand, not even when they reach the main entrance and people stare at her makeup-smeared face. They pass through security with nothing more than a nod from one of the guards on duty. “Mr. Smith,” the man says, and Mickey acknowledges him with a dip of his chin.
As they pass through the door onto the London streets, Rose wonders whether she’s ever heard anyone call him that before.
The city is busy with early evening traffic, and people rush past them, hurrying to the shops, to their homes. She is aware of gravity, of the pull of the pavement and the weight of earthbound feet. Mickey pulls her into the crush, leading her through the crowds until they emerge by the waterfront. He walks to a bench, his steps loud against the concrete. He sits and looks out at the river. After a moment, she does the same.
The zeppelins are weightless silver shadows against the reds and blues of the sunset, and she remembers that she once thought them beautiful. They still are. Mickey takes her hand again and together they watch the airships cross the evening sky.
“It’s so warm out,” she hears herself say. “Is it summer?”
He shakes his head, slowly. “March. The breach was mucking about with the climate.” He pauses. “Should get better now.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”
They sit in silence for a long time.
“Don’t you think—” Mickey stops himself, looks down at his shoes.
She swallows around the thickness in her throat. “What?”
“I just…the things I’ve seen him do. Mad things. I just can’t believe he won’t find a way here. Not if you’re stuck.”
Rose looks up to the darkening sky. “Maybe. I don’t know.” The words feel like broken glass on her tongue, but she says them calmly enough. “I don’t think he can. Not this time.”
Mickey’s hand settles on her shoulder. He means to comfort her, but it is as if he is holding her down, pinning her to the bench and the earth beneath. She shrugs him off, and his hand falls to his side. “Rose—”
“I made my choice. That’s what I told him, and I meant it.” Her voice is rough, fierce and unfamiliar. She likes the sound of it, the way it burns in her throat. “I gave up you and Mum and my chance at a normal life, a life with a house and a job and a family. My mum and dad, together. I gave it all up, for him.” She curls her fingers into fists, and her nails dig into her palms. She wants to draw blood. “It was my choice.”
If he hears the violence in her words, he shows no sign of it. “You’re alive.”
“I’m trapped.”
“You don’t know that.”
“God, Mickey,” she says, almost laughing, and her voice breaks. “Don’t you listen? It’s done. The breach is sealed. He’s gone.” She presses a hand to her mouth, and the sharp bones of her knuckles bruise her lips. Bone against skin, skin against teeth. The pain of it steadies her.
She will not cry again, not over this. She is done with tears.
The moment passes, and her hand drops to her lap. “I’ll never see him again,” she says, and her voice is toneless, almost perfectly even. Saying it out loud makes it real. A solid fact. She is here, he is there, and she will never see him again.
A part of her does not, cannot believe it. Never say never ever, a memory whispers, and hope is a stubborn thing.
But it is only a memory, and maybe it is time for her to forget such things. The earth is solid beneath her feet, and she cannot feel its turning.
Night falls as they watch. They don’t speak.
The streetlamps blink on, later than they would in her London. Still, the light is warm and yellow and familiar, and when Mickey turns and meets her gaze, she does not flinch from the pity and affection she sees in his eyes.
“There’s a place for you here, Rose,” he says. “You could do a lot of good.”
She stares at him. “You can’t mean—”
“It’s different, our Torchwood,” he says before she can give voice to her disgust. “We’re making sure of that. Pete – I mean, your... ” He pauses awkwardly. “Well, he overhauled all of it when he took control, and we need people we can trust. You can handle yourself in a tight spot, you’re clever when you want to be, and you’ll stop us, if you need to. If we go too far.” His expression is grave and sharp and utterly foreign on his gentle features. “What happened today in Canary Wharf will never happen here, Rose. You can see to that.”
She shakes her head, dizzy and sick with the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that. “I don’t even properly exist, Mickey. I don’t belong here. Mum and I—”
He puts one hand over hers, steadying her. “There’s a place for you. If you want it.”
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, pushing her panic down where it cannot touch her. Mickey – her Mickey, the boy with the video games and the sink full of dirty dishes, the normal bloke with morning breath and clever hands – he chose this world over the one he knew, chose to give up everything he had for a world in which he was needed.
This city of zeppelins and metal men was not her choice, and never would have been. She is trapped, powerless, stuck like a fairy tale princess in a doorless tower, and it enrages her. She wants to beat her fists against that long, white wall until she bleeds. She wants to leave her mark, to ruin it, to punch holes through plaster and smear herself across its pristine surface. She wants to go home.
Mickey is watching her silently, patiently, and she decides. She did not choose this world. She did not choose this life. She is trapped and she is powerless, and she will never see him again.
But she absolutely bloody refuses to be useless.
“I’ll think about it,” she says, but he knows her well enough to hear her decision in her voice.
He smiles. “Good. You do that.”
She stands, and though the vertigo persists (when he saw her for the last time she was falling, and she has yet to land) her feet are steady beneath her. “Well, Mr. Smith,” she says, offering Mickey her arm, “where to next?”
He rolls his eyes and stands, linking his arm through hers. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t be able to let that go.”
“Oh, you know me,” she says with something like a smile. “I just can’t help myself.”
They walk along the waterfront, moving from light to shadow to light as they pass streetlamps lit against the dark. In a moment of shadow she looks to the sky, and even through the city’s glow she can see the faint light of stars.
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I think this just about got it out of my system.
Can we ever get it out of our systems?
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No, probably not. At least, not until they break our hearts in some new, shiny way. ;)
Thanks for reading!
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That's the Rose Tyler we know and love.
Incidentally, I object somewhat to the notion that anything you write ought to be purged from one's system. ;) It's not like it's cancer-inducing like Mary-Sue fic or something.
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I have a friend who's fannish but not particularly into Who. When she learned that I wrote Who fic - or, more specifically, that I wrote Rose fic - she was horrified: "That's like a whole new level of Mary Sueism, writing a canon character with your name. You disgust me." After I pointed out that that's pretty much where the similarities end, she was like, "Yeah. Except for her mom. And that face she makes when she thinks she's being cute. Oh, and the older man thing."
Yeah, I'm not going to let her watch the show with me anymore.
Anyway, I'm so glad you liked it! Thanks for reading.
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(And beautiful fic, btw!)
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Rose: Hiya! Did ya miss me?
The Doctor: *is thoroughly snogged*
Rose: Ooh, that's much better. Now I can finally stop taking all that Dramamine.
Thanks so much for reading!
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Seriously, though, this was lovely. I can see Mickey (Mr. Smith) doing this. In my personal fanon, if her mother or Pete had tried to touch her, she'd have lashed out because rationally or not, she blamed them for her separation from the Doctor. Mickey, though, can still get through to her.
Love, love, love how Rose refuses to be useless. That's one thing she never has been.
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Sorry 'bout that. My bad. ;)
In my personal fanon, if her mother or Pete had tried to touch her, she'd have lashed out because rationally or not, she blamed them for her separation from the Doctor. Mickey, though, can still get through to her.
This is very much in line with what I was thinking. I went back to their interactions when she was sent home in Parting of the Ways, and he really did cut through her panic and help her focus on getting back, even though part of him wanted her to stay.
Also, your icon is gorgeous. ;)
Thanks so much for reading!
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*BIG hopeful hug!*
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Beautiful. I love this. Mickey is wonderful, and I really think you get in touch with Rose's emotions and thoughts brilliantly.
Wonderful stuff!
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This was heartbreaking except for how beautifully true it was!
I must friend you if I have not already (and why not!?)