LIVES BEHIND US

Κράτα με, κράτα με να μην γυρίσω
Διώξε με, κάνε με να σε μισήσω
Στην πόρτα σου έρχομαι και θα λυγίσω
Κάνε να μην σε αγαπήσω

She's said so, you see.

There's that unyielding streak of sheer obstinacy in her still, and these are the times when she needs it the most. When the night is cold and the skies grow dark, when the world goes quiet and there's no one watching—it is then (and only ever then) that she looks up with eyes stinging with unshed tears and sends a promise out into the cosmos.

Romanadvoratrelundar will not cry. Not for him.

She learned long ago that caring hurts. Humans, of course, have another word for it, but she always did think their range of vocabulary lacked the essence of the universe. The essence of a feeling that transcends time and space, that scorches out all sense and reason and burns like stardust across the galaxies.

And it's stupid, really, because Gallifrey is dying and all she can think about is one lonely man, one wonderful man travelling the stars with a stolen TARDIS and a grin that can light up the firmament.

He wishes he could say that there's an excuse for what he is about to do.

He wishes he could apologise without feeling the need to break down and cry, wishes that he could be part of the massacre instead of having to stand by and watch himself destroy his home—wishes that the universe were a fairer place, and that she knew.

But he knows, in the same way that he knows everything, that wishes are frosted breaths on broken glass, pieces of a soul that can never again be complete. So the Doctor grits his teeth and the controls spring into life, all the brighter for the dreariness of the room. He breathes in, and it's as if something inside him shudders, and cracks.

"Romana."

She doesn't think there has ever been a sound more loved or more hated—nothing apart from the deep timbre of his voice crackling over the intercom. Every thought, and dream, and memory—every glance, and hurt, and touch—flares into absolute disarray and she doesn't know where she finds the will to answer.

"Doctor?"

He can almost see her now, their words suspended in time, always and forever. Fragments of his long-dead soul, glimpses of a tomorrow that, however near, will always be a universe away.

"You know, whatever happens—"

"Where are you? Doctor, what are you going to do?"

He never should have underestimated her intelligence.

"It's just...it's not important, not right now. Romana—"

"Stop lying to me."

And he can only stand, a million light years away, as her voice cracks and splinters—she, who has never shed a single tear for the world to see.

"Don't cry," he whispers, his throat constricting. "Don't you cry."

And it's all he can do not to fly straight back to her.

"I'm not."

"I know."

"Last night—"

"Don't say it. Anything but that, Romana."

Silence. Then—

"Do you know what an earthling would say now?"

"Yes."

"It's not enough."

"I know."

She pauses before speaking again.

"Don't you forget me."

And she breaks the connection, along with all those tiny things that meant so much and nothing really, because she's said so, she's promised, that the man with the flaming eyes will never see her cry.