And Silence Afterwards

Chapter 2

His home isn't really a home, and never has been. Just a place to park himself for the night, like one parks a vehicle. But it hasn't felt like a bad thing until recently.

Rose had used to call their neighborhood, with its dark side alleys and graffitied walls, an atmospheric junkyard. The whole Shoreditch area is pretty much exactly that, and maybe the entire London too—something between the most exciting city in the world and a dump. It's fun to explore it in good company, but not much so when you're alone and struggling.

The first thing the Doctor does when he enters his flat is turn on the heating: he switches it off when he goes out, to save some money, so the place gets chilly in his absence, like an abandoned premise no one cares about. Leaving his coat on for now, he marches into the tiny kitchen, his mind still back at The Valiant, full of residual noise. Reenvisioning tonight's workshop and the following bondage and flogging sessions with several subs. Reassessing tiny details, and what he might have done differently.

Donna says he must be a 'service top', not a Dom—someone who has a sub's pleasure in mind rather than their own, but he shouldn't mention it to anyone because some kinky folks think it makes you less dominant, practically a fraud. She probably knows better, but he doesn't get it. Why is it almost shameful to admit you care what your partners enjoy and to ask for feedback? Should it be embarrassing to perk up at their praise? Apparently, it's a big deal for others, to establish what you are and make everyone else believe in it, but it doesn't matter for him if what he does is called being a Dom, a service top, or something else, as long as it works. As long as no one gets hurt in the way they don't want to.

The Master had once asked him what was the most appealing thing for him in BDSM and he'd said, "Danger and violence remade into something safe and structured and beautiful. Something that makes sense. Something that has rules. Not like in real life."

For a moment, the Master had regarded him silently.

"I knew you were a damn romantic."

"And what about you?"

"Duh, I'm just a deranged pervert, don't you know that? No hidden motives here."

Sometimes the Doctor wishes he had no hidden motives either, took things more lightly.

Absently, he swipes an almost empty jar of marmalade off the worktop, unscrews the lid, dips his fingers into it to taste whether it's still edible—and already sucking the jam off, catches himself, for a second waiting for Rose to clear her throat in disapproval.

And then he remembers she won't.

It hurts the most, when you forget—and then you remember.

He puts the jar back, suddenly almost nauseous, convinced he won't be able to eat anything right now.

Looking back, he can't but admit they'd had a strange arrangement, Rose and him, at least from everyone else's point of view. A man and a woman living together as flatmates? Traveling together, going places together, having all kinds of weird temporary jobs together? Surely, they must be a couple. But they hadn't been.

It had seemed natural, living with Rose like that. They'd fit perfectly. They might have argued, but never staying away from each other for long.

He'd told her things about his life, tiny bits and pieces here and there. Not the sad stuff, at least not all of it: he'd had enough sadness for them both, why make her upset? He'd chosen stories that could pass as amusing and exciting, and she'd liked them.

He'd been in a bad place when he'd met Rose. Rage mixed with helplessness and sorrow—that's what he'd felt. You can't save everyone, they keep saying. He'd tried nevertheless, and when he'd predictably failed, he'd run. But with her, he'd been chaotically happy, almost carefree, like a teen might be. Yes, he'd never stopped running, chasing one adventure after another, but together with her, it hadn't seemed like cowardice and procrastination. Of course he'd known he ought to do something with his life, but it could always be delayed for later, and later, and later, until it had started to seem that what they'd had might last forever.