roski drabble

She is all dressed up for one of Pete’s parties at the mansion. He thinks she looks lovely, but she hates it. The makeup smothers her and the curls that bound about her head feel unauthentic and cumbersome.

He comes with her, and he despises it. The gowns, the drinks, the gaudy richness of it all, and, the way he must be introduced by Rose who stumbles awkwardly over the word “friend.”

“And something more?” he knows they whisper.

His smiles are fabricated, and the way his teeth barely show through his thin lips tell her he is hanging them all in his head.

But they suffer through it. They do what they must, Rose for Torchwood, and Loki for her.

And at the end of the day, the ruthless parties are just punchlines at the end of the jokes they make, and the beginning of the chuckling and teasing they provoke, and the seams binding a loneliness that dissolves through the grace of befriending another misplaced soul.

You are my sweetest downfall

He wears the blue button down she pulled from her closet and lets his hair lie in a less tidy manner than she is custom to. She’s not in her work clothes, but just a plain jean jacket and tee, feeling as though she could live her life in the comfort of these clothes and in the spot of yellow light that spills from the open windows and the breeze that weaves between them.

They are sipping tea and eating biscuits and vaguely watching the telly that keeps flashing advertisements of they can’t remember what. It is simple, it is nice, and it is rare.

Rose finds it hard to remember that he is a god when he smiles at her with such strange genuineness. And she also finds it hard not to smile back.

They don’t talk of stars or of missing schemes or broken fates or falling or of how badly they hurt.

Today, they don’t need to.