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Title: I Can't Lose Him Too (6/?)
Series: Daddy's Girl
Characters: Ten2 and his daughter Sarah (OC), AU Donna, AU River, AU Jack, mentions of Rose
Genre: Character Study. Angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU Ruver bashing (yes, I hate her so much that I would create an AU version of her just to bash her, but if you happen to like her it's not that bad.)
Summary: Sarah has an average day at school, but what happens when she gets a phone call.
Author's Note: This is the third in the "Daddy's Girl" Series.
Author's Note 2: It feels like forever since I updated this story. More soon hopefully, but for now, I'm going to bed.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4| Chapter 5|
”Where’s my Rose?” Dad asks in a voice not unlike to that of a child.
His eyes glance up and fall into mine. They peer deeply into my heart and soul, and for the briefest of moments there is a hint of recognition, but all too soon it disappears.
‘Please don’t do this Dad,’ I beg silently. ‘Please, no.’
“Where is Rose?” He asks for her again, trying to add force into his voice, but I can tell he is far too weak to project it any further.
What do I say? I’m sorry, but your wife and love of your life is dead, but hey I’m daughter, and I caused her to die? Something tells me that that wouldn’t got over so well. Dad told me once that people with head injuries often don’t remember things up to a certain point. The trouble is I don’t remember what he said about helping them.
“Da—Doctor, what is the last thing you remember?” I ask, just barely correcting myself.
He rubs his hand over his eyes in a familiar, yet foreign gesture.
“I was with Rose,” he replies after a moment’s thought. “She was at the doctor’s office, getting a scan—she’s pregnant, did I tell you that?”
I shook my head ‘no,’ not trusting myself to respond.
“I didn’t?” Dad’s voice lilts in shock. “Hmm, now I know I’m getting old.” He flashes a half grin before he continues. “Well, she is and
that’s…well…that’s great.”
His voice trails off wearily as he stifles a yawn. A small but sure smile forms on his lips, as he mutters something else under his breath so soft that I almost don’t catch it.
“Molto-bene.”
I smile; he’s still the same somewhere deep down.
“So, who are you then, and you never answered my first question either,” He tells me crossing his arms across his chest.
“I’m Sarah Smith, and Rose is…” I pause. “Rose is…dead.”
Brilliant Sarah, way to be gentle, I chide myself.
“How?” he asks.
His lips turn into a frown and moisture forms around each eye. His expression is teeming with sorrow, almost piteous, but I’m not sure if the pity is directed at himself or me; because, clearly, for him, I’m lying.
“Sixteen years ago,” I told him, reaching for his hand, but he pulls away. “Your wife--my mother--died, after she gave birth to me.”
He shakes his head no, tears threatening to fall over, but being held back.
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” I tell him, reaching for his hand a second time and taking it’s warmth in my grip. “But you have to believe me.”
“She’s gone?” he asks.
I nod.
“And you’re my daughter?” He asks.
“I am your daughter.”
His hand gently trails up from my hand and to my face. It gently caresses my cheek in a way that is comforting. I recall him performing the
same gesture many times after injuries, nightmares, or that terrible day in kindergarten when they were celebrating Mother’s Day and they
told me I couldn’t make a card for Mum.
“Why can’t I remember?”
“There was an accident,” I tell him. “Your brain was hurt badly.”
He nods accepting this and falling silent. It’s a long time before I get the courage to speak up and say something.
“I better go get a nurse,” I tell him; almost unwillingly I pull my face away from his hand. It falls to the bed limply; as, he gives a mute nod and I walk away.
***
I left the hospital at five o’clock, only fifteen minutes after Dad woke. I wanted to stay, but the nurse and Dr. Kelly said it was best that I not “strain” his memories. I suppose it’s for the best.
So, here I am back on my bike, riding back over to Donna and Jack’s house. The cars on the street whiz by me. They all have somewhere to go where they’re needed, but where am I needed? The doctor made it seem like Dad was better off without me there, and I’m probably more of a burden to Donna and Jack than companionship.
I take a deep breath and decide that the only place I really want to be right now is home, curled up in my own bed, and trying to think of a way to get Dad out of this. I turn my bike around and that’s where I head.
***
The box was always kept inside Dad’s bedroom. I don’t think he ever told anyone but me about it, and I don’t think he ever will. The box means more to him than anything in the world or the universes, and that makes it priceless to me as well.
Pushing the wooden door aside, I step into his bedroom, the carpet beneath my feet feeling soft, as my toes grip it slightly. Slipping to the floor, I slide the box out from under his bed and stare at the closed lid for a second. Dad was never against me going through the box (in fact there were some days he encouraged it) and looking at the countless pictures and items that reminded him of Mum, but it still felt wrong going inside them.
Crossing my legs on the floor, I remove the lid slowly and reveal many years of Dad’s most fond memories, and the ones I never could truly be a part of. On top of everything was the scrap book that Dad said that he and Mum made together after they were married, and the one Dad added onto alone after she died.
I lay the heavy book carefully to the side, keeping the cover tightly shut, as I remembered the red rose from Mum’s wedding bouquet. It was perfect, pressed and preserved, but not attached on the front page. The first time Dad had ever showed me the book after a terrible nightmare, the rose had fallen to the floor, and even at seven, I could not miss the sadness that teemed Dad’s eyes as it fell to the ground.
“It wasn’t meant to touch the ground,” Dad told me years later, when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him.
“Rose’s grow in the ground,” was my naive answer.
His gaze saddened when he told me: “Some whither.”
The memories are so fresh for me, yet gone for Dad, and he lived them. My memories are from countless bedtime stories and breakfast time chatter.
I push the thoughts further from my mind and delve deeper into the box. I stack the old photo-albums and love letters in neat pile next to the box when I finally find what I’m looking for. The one thing that Dad said that connected him and mum forever in a physic level, Mum’s
TARDIS Key. It was in the same box that Mum’s wedding ring was in—the box that Dad had proposed with. I knew that if anything was going to bring his memories back it would be that.
Preparing to put everything back in the box, something at the bottom of the box catches my eyes. It’s a plastic case covered in dust. It looks like Dad hasn’t even touched it in years.
I tentatively reach a hand out towards the flat box and brush away the dust with my fingers. The words it reveals take my breath away.
“For Sarah; From Mum with Love…”
I open the box and reveal an ancient DVD, nothing was on DVD anymore it was all saved on memory chips.
I pop it out of its holder and hold it up to the light examining it for scratches and marks. Seeing none, I click it back into the center holder and go to dig out Dad’s old DVD player from the closet. He always said it would come in handy, but I thought he meant for things like watch old episodes of Curiosity he had recorded for humorous purposes. I never thought the museum piece would actually come in handy.
Sliding out the machine that looked suspiciously like a black box with a cord, I carried it and the DVD over to the den and set it down in front of the TV. The wires weren’t really compatible, but with a few zaps from my sonic it was connected and showing a “working” message on the screen.
I pressed the button to open up the trolley and a square frame with a round circle in the middle slides out. I put the DVD inside and close it shut and soon the image a woman appears on the TV screen.
From her blonde hair to her hazel eyes, and her smile—a smile that could only be countered and complimented by Dad’s—I recognized her as my mother. Her eyes seemed to lock onto mine, but the sense in my brain told me that they were really just peering into a camera.
“Mum,” I whisper almost brokenly, as she began to speak.
Series: Daddy's Girl
Characters: Ten2 and his daughter Sarah (OC), AU Donna, AU River, AU Jack, mentions of Rose
Genre: Character Study. Angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU Ruver bashing (yes, I hate her so much that I would create an AU version of her just to bash her, but if you happen to like her it's not that bad.)
Summary: Sarah has an average day at school, but what happens when she gets a phone call.
Author's Note: This is the third in the "Daddy's Girl" Series.
Author's Note 2: It feels like forever since I updated this story. More soon hopefully, but for now, I'm going to bed.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4| Chapter 5|
”Where’s my Rose?” Dad asks in a voice not unlike to that of a child.
His eyes glance up and fall into mine. They peer deeply into my heart and soul, and for the briefest of moments there is a hint of recognition, but all too soon it disappears.
‘Please don’t do this Dad,’ I beg silently. ‘Please, no.’
“Where is Rose?” He asks for her again, trying to add force into his voice, but I can tell he is far too weak to project it any further.
What do I say? I’m sorry, but your wife and love of your life is dead, but hey I’m daughter, and I caused her to die? Something tells me that that wouldn’t got over so well. Dad told me once that people with head injuries often don’t remember things up to a certain point. The trouble is I don’t remember what he said about helping them.
“Da—Doctor, what is the last thing you remember?” I ask, just barely correcting myself.
He rubs his hand over his eyes in a familiar, yet foreign gesture.
“I was with Rose,” he replies after a moment’s thought. “She was at the doctor’s office, getting a scan—she’s pregnant, did I tell you that?”
I shook my head ‘no,’ not trusting myself to respond.
“I didn’t?” Dad’s voice lilts in shock. “Hmm, now I know I’m getting old.” He flashes a half grin before he continues. “Well, she is and
that’s…well…that’s great.”
His voice trails off wearily as he stifles a yawn. A small but sure smile forms on his lips, as he mutters something else under his breath so soft that I almost don’t catch it.
“Molto-bene.”
I smile; he’s still the same somewhere deep down.
“So, who are you then, and you never answered my first question either,” He tells me crossing his arms across his chest.
“I’m Sarah Smith, and Rose is…” I pause. “Rose is…dead.”
Brilliant Sarah, way to be gentle, I chide myself.
“How?” he asks.
His lips turn into a frown and moisture forms around each eye. His expression is teeming with sorrow, almost piteous, but I’m not sure if the pity is directed at himself or me; because, clearly, for him, I’m lying.
“Sixteen years ago,” I told him, reaching for his hand, but he pulls away. “Your wife--my mother--died, after she gave birth to me.”
He shakes his head no, tears threatening to fall over, but being held back.
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” I tell him, reaching for his hand a second time and taking it’s warmth in my grip. “But you have to believe me.”
“She’s gone?” he asks.
I nod.
“And you’re my daughter?” He asks.
“I am your daughter.”
His hand gently trails up from my hand and to my face. It gently caresses my cheek in a way that is comforting. I recall him performing the
same gesture many times after injuries, nightmares, or that terrible day in kindergarten when they were celebrating Mother’s Day and they
told me I couldn’t make a card for Mum.
“Why can’t I remember?”
“There was an accident,” I tell him. “Your brain was hurt badly.”
He nods accepting this and falling silent. It’s a long time before I get the courage to speak up and say something.
“I better go get a nurse,” I tell him; almost unwillingly I pull my face away from his hand. It falls to the bed limply; as, he gives a mute nod and I walk away.
***
I left the hospital at five o’clock, only fifteen minutes after Dad woke. I wanted to stay, but the nurse and Dr. Kelly said it was best that I not “strain” his memories. I suppose it’s for the best.
So, here I am back on my bike, riding back over to Donna and Jack’s house. The cars on the street whiz by me. They all have somewhere to go where they’re needed, but where am I needed? The doctor made it seem like Dad was better off without me there, and I’m probably more of a burden to Donna and Jack than companionship.
I take a deep breath and decide that the only place I really want to be right now is home, curled up in my own bed, and trying to think of a way to get Dad out of this. I turn my bike around and that’s where I head.
***
The box was always kept inside Dad’s bedroom. I don’t think he ever told anyone but me about it, and I don’t think he ever will. The box means more to him than anything in the world or the universes, and that makes it priceless to me as well.
Pushing the wooden door aside, I step into his bedroom, the carpet beneath my feet feeling soft, as my toes grip it slightly. Slipping to the floor, I slide the box out from under his bed and stare at the closed lid for a second. Dad was never against me going through the box (in fact there were some days he encouraged it) and looking at the countless pictures and items that reminded him of Mum, but it still felt wrong going inside them.
Crossing my legs on the floor, I remove the lid slowly and reveal many years of Dad’s most fond memories, and the ones I never could truly be a part of. On top of everything was the scrap book that Dad said that he and Mum made together after they were married, and the one Dad added onto alone after she died.
I lay the heavy book carefully to the side, keeping the cover tightly shut, as I remembered the red rose from Mum’s wedding bouquet. It was perfect, pressed and preserved, but not attached on the front page. The first time Dad had ever showed me the book after a terrible nightmare, the rose had fallen to the floor, and even at seven, I could not miss the sadness that teemed Dad’s eyes as it fell to the ground.
“It wasn’t meant to touch the ground,” Dad told me years later, when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him.
“Rose’s grow in the ground,” was my naive answer.
His gaze saddened when he told me: “Some whither.”
The memories are so fresh for me, yet gone for Dad, and he lived them. My memories are from countless bedtime stories and breakfast time chatter.
I push the thoughts further from my mind and delve deeper into the box. I stack the old photo-albums and love letters in neat pile next to the box when I finally find what I’m looking for. The one thing that Dad said that connected him and mum forever in a physic level, Mum’s
TARDIS Key. It was in the same box that Mum’s wedding ring was in—the box that Dad had proposed with. I knew that if anything was going to bring his memories back it would be that.
Preparing to put everything back in the box, something at the bottom of the box catches my eyes. It’s a plastic case covered in dust. It looks like Dad hasn’t even touched it in years.
I tentatively reach a hand out towards the flat box and brush away the dust with my fingers. The words it reveals take my breath away.
“For Sarah; From Mum with Love…”
I open the box and reveal an ancient DVD, nothing was on DVD anymore it was all saved on memory chips.
I pop it out of its holder and hold it up to the light examining it for scratches and marks. Seeing none, I click it back into the center holder and go to dig out Dad’s old DVD player from the closet. He always said it would come in handy, but I thought he meant for things like watch old episodes of Curiosity he had recorded for humorous purposes. I never thought the museum piece would actually come in handy.
Sliding out the machine that looked suspiciously like a black box with a cord, I carried it and the DVD over to the den and set it down in front of the TV. The wires weren’t really compatible, but with a few zaps from my sonic it was connected and showing a “working” message on the screen.
I pressed the button to open up the trolley and a square frame with a round circle in the middle slides out. I put the DVD inside and close it shut and soon the image a woman appears on the TV screen.
From her blonde hair to her hazel eyes, and her smile—a smile that could only be countered and complimented by Dad’s—I recognized her as my mother. Her eyes seemed to lock onto mine, but the sense in my brain told me that they were really just peering into a camera.
“Mum,” I whisper almost brokenly, as she began to speak.
