Ficlet: Smile
I had to take a break from work, so I distrated myself with this little ficlet/drabble (wendymr I can't remember what's what!) based off the trailer for the second half of the series of DW. 319 words, un-beta'd, appropriate for all. Oh, and Spoilerific if you haven't seen this series or specifically the new trailer.
The smile is slow in coming, because despite his tendency to dash off without waiting to see the consequences of all that’s been done, he does think about them. At least when he has time. Now he has time. Too much time. Ironic, that.
In some ways, it would have been better as a shock. Not that it wasn’t and isn’t a shock, but now, before it happens, there’s time to contemplate. He shed his tears, he cursed Time and the universe and everything that he could think of, and he said his goodbye. Unfinished, perhaps, yet still a goodbye.
And the pain that had been a roar had dulled to a tolerable muted throb. The ache of wanting what could never be; what was impossible. But now he’s faced with the fact that Mistress Impossible is fickle. She bathed him in certainty and now laughs as he flails about blindly.
Part of him doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want the wounds opened, doesn’t want the expectations their goodbye will likely dredge up and doesn’t want to know if her life hasn’t been fantastic and brilliant and wonderful. It’s not fair. To hell with worrying about being selfish. He doesn’t want to say goodbye a second time, and he'll have to. That much is certain.
And then Donna pierces his heavy silence. “Rose is coming back. No matter what else is happening, isn’t that good?”
For a moment he pauses, the heaviness of what the future will bring, the pain of impending separation, the storms that swirl ahead all racing through his mind. And then a whisper of memory brings her scent to mind, the way her hand felt in his, and the smile of a girl who’d given him comfort when he’d lost all hope.
And the smile that is slow in coming is something he can no longer repress. It stretches his grim expression into an almost boyish expression of happy anticipation. “Yeah.”
The smile is slow in coming, because despite his tendency to dash off without waiting to see the consequences of all that’s been done, he does think about them. At least when he has time. Now he has time. Too much time. Ironic, that.
In some ways, it would have been better as a shock. Not that it wasn’t and isn’t a shock, but now, before it happens, there’s time to contemplate. He shed his tears, he cursed Time and the universe and everything that he could think of, and he said his goodbye. Unfinished, perhaps, yet still a goodbye.
And the pain that had been a roar had dulled to a tolerable muted throb. The ache of wanting what could never be; what was impossible. But now he’s faced with the fact that Mistress Impossible is fickle. She bathed him in certainty and now laughs as he flails about blindly.
Part of him doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want the wounds opened, doesn’t want the expectations their goodbye will likely dredge up and doesn’t want to know if her life hasn’t been fantastic and brilliant and wonderful. It’s not fair. To hell with worrying about being selfish. He doesn’t want to say goodbye a second time, and he'll have to. That much is certain.
And then Donna pierces his heavy silence. “Rose is coming back. No matter what else is happening, isn’t that good?”
For a moment he pauses, the heaviness of what the future will bring, the pain of impending separation, the storms that swirl ahead all racing through his mind. And then a whisper of memory brings her scent to mind, the way her hand felt in his, and the smile of a girl who’d given him comfort when he’d lost all hope.
And the smile that is slow in coming is something he can no longer repress. It stretches his grim expression into an almost boyish expression of happy anticipation. “Yeah.”