![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
Between the Cracks (11)
She didn't have to stay at the Powell Estate. There were more memories in that flat than was comfortable, and it was empty when she went home at night. But with Mum living with Dad and her little brother now, it seemed right that someone live in the place they'd had as a family. She really should have moved out, should've found some other place... But she stayed. And, although she never admitted it to anyone, she had another reason for staying, too. It was where he knew she'd been. If he found a way across their worlds before she did, she hoped that he'd come here.
John Smith had taken an apartment close to Torchwood, after leaving. She'd done better with him lately, but there was still a strained distance between them. It was her fault; she knew it was. Every time she looked at him, the same restrained hope lingered in his expression. Lately, it was growing dimmer, and she knew that was her fault, too. She tried to be kind. She tried very hard not to blame him for what her Doctor had done -- tried not to blame him for his leaving her here. Most days, she managed.
Today wasn't one of those days. She raked a hand through her hair as she headed down the street toward her flat. Today, she'd shouted, and first he tried to blunt her temper with humor, and then, as the anger and the frustration and the despair spooled off her tongue, she watched him dim and dim, and then finally go silent. It wasn't his fault. But he could at least try to help her figure out the barriers between their worlds. He never tried. He never said a word when she explained this idea or that idea, never weighed in when she...
She growled and shoved her hands in her jacket, ducking her chin into her scarf. The wind was cold today, and her ears were ringing from it. She could almost imagine now the sound of the TARDIS engines in the howling of the London wind. Ah, if that were only truth and not a trick of her wishful imagination. She'd fallen for that trick far too many times, now, to be moved by it tonight.
John Smith had taken an apartment close to Torchwood, after leaving. She'd done better with him lately, but there was still a strained distance between them. It was her fault; she knew it was. Every time she looked at him, the same restrained hope lingered in his expression. Lately, it was growing dimmer, and she knew that was her fault, too. She tried to be kind. She tried very hard not to blame him for what her Doctor had done -- tried not to blame him for his leaving her here. Most days, she managed.
Today wasn't one of those days. She raked a hand through her hair as she headed down the street toward her flat. Today, she'd shouted, and first he tried to blunt her temper with humor, and then, as the anger and the frustration and the despair spooled off her tongue, she watched him dim and dim, and then finally go silent. It wasn't his fault. But he could at least try to help her figure out the barriers between their worlds. He never tried. He never said a word when she explained this idea or that idea, never weighed in when she...
She growled and shoved her hands in her jacket, ducking her chin into her scarf. The wind was cold today, and her ears were ringing from it. She could almost imagine now the sound of the TARDIS engines in the howling of the London wind. Ah, if that were only truth and not a trick of her wishful imagination. She'd fallen for that trick far too many times, now, to be moved by it tonight.