Knowing the TARDIS like the palm of her own hand was something she was proud off. She wasn’t the smartest when it came to fixing things and not even in her time –it tore her inside to think like that, since Rose had held on the hope to return to her spot (one she had loved and defended, prove was in the memory of her early days sharing an old love with Sarah Jane and finding themselves arguing like randy highschoolers); but it was nothing but the truth. And until now the realization of Donna taking said place was hitting her. Yet she hid it, and nodded at the red head, not giving much of a thought on of what she really was saying. “Sounds lovely”. Not that she was paying much attention on the moment.
Donna was gone, back in one of the many rooms of her home, and now it belonged to her –the familiarity, the holding hands, the welcoming humming of the old ship. Rose was not meant to remain in the magical box. Her time was over. The pieces of the large and endless puzzle that was this new reality were clicking together as she remained in silence, hands placed on the cold metal of the console, cold steel sinking into her skin. And suddenly she felt like an intruder. In which once had been her home, where she had spent the most amazing days of her life in the company of the man she had loved – she still loved despite the time and the distance and the loneliness that stained her sole human heart.
She could find herself falling to pieces as she waited for Donna to come back, expression blank and she greeted the ginger with a fake smile. Soft movements and she held her cup rather reluctantly, insides completely knotted she knew they couldn’t support even the softest drink. “Ït’s perfectly fine” In a shaky whisper she lifted her gaze, meeting Donna for the first time since all the realizations of replacement had bounded in her head. She had been about to take the mug to her lips when her eyes stared in horror at Donna, sudden and unexpected emotions all laced with unexpected words.
But Rose’s hands were clumsier than Donna’s, and blame it on the youthfulness and inexperience’s of the last time companion, her feelings burst out in tears and in the blink of an eye the blonde’s own tea was spread all over the floor and even on the controls of the console; her gaze followed the wasted liquid and she leaned again the cold metal once again, limbs stiff and paleness taking over her.
“My time’s over” Her voice was failing, betraying her, and pride was thrown to the wind, hope had followed too. “He has you know!” Maybe she was being unfair to her, yet her words didn’t carry any poison, just pain. She refused to swallow her own thoughts. “…And I know, I know he would never kick you out – nor let you go.”
There was no reply.
At first, there was simply a short silence, and then, a quick, curt stroke to the blonde’s bent head of hair.
" … Right back in a jiff. "
And she was, with a set of three kitchen towels, blue striped, red checkered, and another blue with an indecipherable pattern in a broad band about an inch off from the edges, abstract flowers she hazily failed to make sense despite her sudden great attention to mudane detail and not much else.
She cast the cloth on the console. It would not save the electronics, but least rid them of the worst of tea to perhaps escape the brunt of the true Timelord’s anger she’d have to receive for this upon his return home.
If you’re still there then, a little voice said.
" You know, " Her own voice started, foreign and OBE without the command for speech ‘till it stopped phantoming and preceeding her and returned to steady tongue and tone, " … I met this woman. We did. Me, and the Doctor. River. Was her name. River Song. Professor. Archeologist. Didn’t see much of her, though. Not a lot at all. But she liked him. Lots do, I suppose, but … she did. Not … really right sure he did, too, but … don’t think that really matters. What he showed. More … More what she did. And … it just ticked me. I didn’t know why, back then, in the slightest, but I just got really, really pissed with her. Just struck me later, the reason. ‘Cos I might’ve lost him. To that woman. Just some woman, just some nobody, stealing that dumbo that kept taking me places and that I wouldn’t want to leave for the life of me — but then maybe had to. And I wasn’t prepared. Not far that. Not for her. I wasn’t going to lose him to just somebody. ‘Cos the only person I told myself I’d ever leave his side for, should he want her back, or could he get her back, ‘cos I just figured the back was an if but the want never was — the only person I could ever stand letting him go for - “
She finally drew in her hands, towels soaked and palms slightly damp, and stopped talking to the central column of her current house, perhaps half rightly considered the partial pillar of her current life and whole existence, along with the man who moved it, and then turned to face Rose, simply smiling.
She felt worn.
It wasn’t foreign: she’d seen it, in him, and had tried to dispell it, but it was upholding the creaking house with a battered rotting poll with scissored cracks, carved by falling nannies, poison gas, killing twenty thousand and then single - handedly another sole, lone Reverend, of other’s lost daughters and her own gone children, along with the breaks crushed into her when she’d failed to be there on the daytrip of his nightmares.
She loved it. She loved everything aside from all of that, and took it in the stride of the soldier she thought she could maybe one day fully be in the influence of his presence, simply marching on, and the cuts never dimmed or darkened the views of the beautiful, beautiful universe.
Except now the stars were going out without a sickbay near at hand, so it hurt and it stung and it sank —
And she just breathed and spoke.
" … That’s been you. Always. And he hasn’t got a say in what I do, or can’t do. So … here’s me then. Being Martha. Smart Martha. Clever Martha. Wonderful girl she is, much moreso than me … and it is a bit of a honor, saying that. Being Martha. Or treading after her. Getting out. That’s all. "