THIS IS MORE OR LESS AN "EXPERIMENTAL" PIECE ABOUT TWO CHARACTERS WHO EXIST IN THE SAME WORLD, BUT WHO DO NOT INTERACT MUCH. I DON'T KNOW IF ANYONE WILL EVEN CARE ABOUT THIS SCENARIO, SO ANY FEEDBACK IS WELCOME.

TAKES PLACE JUST AFTER "LAST OF THE TIME LORDS."

TWENTY-TWO

Twenty-two. To most people, it was nothing special. No new privileges, no rites of passage. Too young for milestone parties, too old for grandma's birthday money. Maybe just a few friends and a cake with twenty-two candles.

And Rose. When he'd turned twenty two, Rose had been there, and she'd been fully his. They had spent the day playing miniature golf, eating chicken wings at the pub and watching sport on the telly, even though it bored her stupid. Back then, she'd loved him, and only him. She was innocent, you could say.

But today, on her twenty-second birthday, she looked world-weary. She'd looked that way for a year now, and he recognised that she needed sorely a reprieve. And, he thought, she deserved a proper night out with her boyfriend.

And so, Mickey had planned ahead for this birthday, for once. He had made reservations at a posh Italian restaurant which was more than he could really afford. He'd bought a new jacket for the occasion, cleaned up his flat and ordered flowers delivered to her office that day. He had actually paid attention the past few months when she talked about the things she'd like to have, and he'd settled on a biography of Charles Dickens which she'd been fingering at local bookstores. He had never known her to enjoy historical biographies, but it didn't matter – many things about her had changed recently, he supposed this was just par for the course. He had even done that dreaded thing he said he would never do: buy scented candles. He wanted his bedroom to be as welcoming and heavenly as possible tonight.

And Rose. She looked meticulously beautified tonight; gorgeous as ever. He hadn't told her where they were going, but he'd warned her: a dress, high heels, makeup, hair, the whole nine yards. And she had delivered. But she couldn't hide what was in her eyes – the same thing that had lingered there for thirteen months. Grief. Loss. Memories. Sometimes he thought she looked blank, like a lobotomised patient. Other times he knew better. So many things were going on in her mind, she just didn't know where to begin to express anything, and so everything stayed shut away.

"Do you like it?" he asked, as she opened her gift.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "Yeah, I do. I didn't think you'd noticed me looking at it."

"Well," he confessed sheepishly. "I've sort of been watching you."

"Payin' attention, have you?" she asked, laughing for the first time in days.

But then, just as quickly as it had come on, the laugh faded away, and the book sat in her lap, and she stared at it. The old look came back into her eyes, and her lips pursed to stifle a sigh.

He tried to suppress a rising anger. He'd learned to live with the ghosts in Rose's mind, but tonight was supposed to be special. Just once, could she not pretend she was a normal girl out to dinner with her normal boyfriend, instead the long-lost, lovelorn companion of a time-traveling alien from a parallel universe? Just once, could she not focus on the here and now, instead of remembering other times, other planets and other universes? So what if she had seen the death of the earth? Tonight was a night for celebrating birth.

But, as if schizophrenia were contagious, his dismay subsided along with her brief happiness. He knew that this train of thought was selfish. Tonight was supposed to be her night, and here he was, running an internal soliloquy about how she couldn't focus on him. He knew very well that the one-year anniversary of what she called "the day that I died" was quickly approaching, and what that day had meant to her. He decided to swallow his jealousy and any feelings of resentment, and give her the opportunity to talk about it.

"Where did he take you?" he asked.

"What?" she asked, being involuntarily snapped out of some stupor.

"The Doctor," he said, swallowing hard, trying desperately to keep his voice even. "Where did he take you for your birthday?"

She stared at him stunned for a long moment, her lower lip hanging down as though it held all of the face's weight. Her eyes almost betrayed an anger. Finally, she answered, "I... I can't remember."

He knew that couldn't be true. He knew the Doctor and he knew Rose. He knew that bloody Time Lord had done something spectacular for her, and he knew she'd remember. "Come on, love, tell me!"

"Mickey, I don't remember, all right? Now just drop it," she insisted with more gusto than he thought strictly necessary. For a horrible moment he wondered if they had...

But he dismissed that thought. He'd asked her outright a year ago, assuring her that he would love her no matter what, whether she had ever had a sexual relationship with the Doctor. She had sworn on her life that she had not. He had been surprised by her answer, given how much he knew they'd loved each other, but he believed her. Now, however, apparently he'd tapped into something private and hidden, and she didn't want to share.

All right then. This would be an awfully quiet dinner. She didn't want to talk about the Doctor, and she never wanted to talk about anything else – so be it. They would eat their ziti in silence. And their Tiramisú, as it turned out. And they would walk home along the embankment, holding hands but without discussion, and they would make love in the dark, noiselessly, passionlessly.

By the time he heard her drop listlessly off to sleep beside him, he was fuming again. He felt cursed. He couldn't help how he felt: he loved her. But she was hung up on a man who had the universe, literally, at his fingertips. In no lifetime, on no planet nor in any dimension could Mickey Smith ever hope to measure up. He did his best for her, and it was never enough. But he could hardly judge her for her feelings about the Doctor when he hadn't been able to let go himself. Why the hell couldn't he let go? Why had God or Shivna or Fate or whoever afflicted him with a consuming love for a woman who couldn't ever return that feeling?

Not for the first time, he thought of leaving. He thought of going to Australia or America or someplace where he could start anew. Put a good chunk of distance between himself and Rose, and force himself to get over her. He'd never see her or her family again, and he'd certainly wash his hands of the Doctor.

And then the phone rang out in the dark.

He groped for it on the nightstand. "Hello?"

"Mickey, you're needed."

"What is it?" Rose asked, having been awakened unceremoniously from a light slumber.

"It's just work, baby, go back to sleep," he told her.

She obeyed.

"What do you need?" Mickey asked into the receiver.

"Just put your clothes on and come down here. We have a job for you."