Chapter Text
It had taken a month, but Rose Tyler had finally emerged from what she now referred to as the lost year. Looking back, it now seemed like a painful haze, although that pain was quickly fading.
In the distance, she heard the ferry tooting its horn, a happy reminder that Jimmy Stone had sailed out of her life one month ago. For good this time, she promised herself. “Thanks for nothing. You knob,” she muttered, as was now her habit each time the ferry horn sounded. She no longer fought against hot tears. She had shed too many tears for Jimmy, for lost dreams, and for lost time. I wasted so much time on that wanker! she thought to herself.
Now, she was devoted to making up for that lost time. Rose was again on speaking terms with her mum, and was saving money to get back home to London — for a visit. She liked it here, for now at least. It was quiet and simple and she didn't have to be anyone but herself. Big cosy sweaters instead of the sheer, tight tops that Jimmy had demanded; trainers instead of teetering heels; blonde hair pulled into a messy bun; she'd even stopped wearing her contact lenses in favour of black horn-rimmed glasses; this was her life now. And she was smiling again.
It hadn't taken her but a day after the band had left for Rose to find a job. She now worked at an inn as the front desk clerk, and the job came with a cheerful bedsit, which was both a plus and a minus. Living at your job, she discovered quickly, meant being available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. And while she enjoyed greeting guests, handing them pamphlets about nearby historic sites and pointing them in the direction of the best Indian takeaway or morning coffee shop, she also needed to a place to hide. She had found a secluded spot out of town a ways, in cove next to a rocky cliff.
She sat on the sand with her back against a piece of driftwood. Out to sea, she could just make out a furry brown head with shining dark eyes bobbing in the water. She watched her new animal friend for what seem like hours. He was different from the other seals who frequented the beach, although she couldn't put a finger on what that difference was. He — she assumed it was a he — he bobbed in the same spot, right near the cliff. Once he appeared, he never went back under, never dove for fish, never went up onto the rocks with the other seals. He seemed content to simply ride the tide and watch her with those big, brown eyes.
"You're lucky," she shouted above the wind. "You're lucky, Mr. Seal. Eating clams or fish or whatever it is you eat, and just swimming. Not having to worry about anything — or anyone.” Her voice trailed off. "I'm going mad. I'm talking to a seal."
The seal barked.
Rose smiled. And then she waved. The furry brown head bobbed above the water for another moment, and then disappeared into the cold, grey, Orcadian waters.
oOo
One Month Before
He sat at the bar. The band that was playing was not so bad as pub bands go, but neither were they rock gods. But it wasn't like Kirkwall, the capital of Orkney, was London. No one expected greatness. During the first set, they had played a mix of crowd-pleasing covers and a few original songs as well; however, the original work had seemed to be too moody and dark for the crowd.
Cracking a wry smile, he just shook his head as the lead singer-slash-guitarist poorly executed a split jump on the final note of Viva la Vida. The crowd, however, seemed to be enjoying themselves regardless of his lack of finesse, and they hollered and cheered the frontman's antics.
"What sort of a musician tries to do a David Lee Roth jump at the end of a Coldplay song?" a sultry voice whispered into his ear.
He smiled and slowly turned the stool so they were face to face. He glanced at her red-stained lips, then licked his own, and made a show of biting his tongue before he looked back at her eyes.
"Apparently this fellow," he said. His smooth Scottish brogue wrapped around the words.
She smiled and caressed his thigh. "I can do the splits," she purred. As she slid off of the stool the slit of her short dress exposed thigh-high stockings and toned legs. She snaked her arms up and around his neck, and settled herself between the spread of his legs.
"Can you now?" His words came from a place deep in his throat, thick and hypnotic. He paused for a moment, and then placed his full lips close to her ear. "So. Tell me about your boyfriend. Husband. Significant other — situation." His eyes grew darker as he lowered his voice, rumbling the question.”
She laughed quietly, and fingered the fine hair at the nape of his neck. "Not a problem. I'm absolutely, one hundred percent available." She pulled back, and stroked her red-tipped fingernail along his sideburn. "And I'm offering. No strings attached. No questions asked. Doesn't get easier than that."
The woman shuddered as his warm breath palpated her flushed cheek. However, had she been looking into his eyes instead of nibbling his earlobe, she would have seen only the hint of a smile and eyes not as sparkling and seductive as a minute or two before.
He closed his eyes, and let out a long, bored sigh of indifference. There was no challenge trying to seduce a woman without anyone to seduce her away from. This woman was on a hunt of her own. He, however, wanted to be the hunter.
As the final chord resonated, the performer pulled the corded mike from its cradle on the stand. Pushing the microphone flush against his mouth, he bent forward at the waist, and then dramatically straightened up, flipping his longish curls back.
"This next song we're gonna perform, well, it's personal." He sighed, closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky. "And I'm dedicating it to someone very special. She's been there with me from the start. From the very beginning. But last night, we had a row over her mum. And does that woman of mine got a mouth on her!" Jimmy howled, eliciting a few cat calls. "I'm just funnin' with ya." He winked at someone in the audience. "So this is me, telling you, I’m sorry.” He smiled and pointed into the audience. "This is for you, Kitten."
"Nothing quite as romantic as airing your dirty laundry in a filthy pub," said the woman with a superior grin. She smirked at the musician. "Whattya say we get out of here, hmm?" She pressed herself up against the man, feeling his lean, toned body through the cotton of his orange tee-shirt.
“Every rose has its thorn,” crooned the lead singer accompanied only by his own guitar.
The woman audibly groaned. "Oh you have got to be kidding me. What a total wanker! And that must be Kitten, sitting over there, the poor thing," said the brunette. She looked over the man's shoulder, and then clucked her tongue sympathetically.
He turned and looked over his shoulder. A young blonde woman was sitting alone at a table not too far from the bar. Her hands were wrapped tightly around a tall glass holding a brown beverage punctuated by two pink straws. Her eyes were closed as she drew in a deep breath. Her full, pink lips were pinched together as she were stifling any further emotions from public view. Bypassing the straws, she lifted the glass and drank deeply.
He removed his attention from the sad blonde woman, refocusing on his lager. He took a long, slow draught. The brunette was already forgotten, even though she was still standing between his legs. The man patted her shoulder, and the woman pouted for a moment, but then regained her confidence. She brushed her exposed cleavage against his bare arm. "You're not paying attention to me," she said with a sly grin. "I'm over here, not over there." She pointed in the general direction of the crowd.
He ignored the woman’s brazen attempts to bed him. His thoughts were elsewhere now. Something about the young blonde woman's plight was making him itch to confront the singer.
The singer's words had been honey-sweet, but there was a hardness in his eyes that showed a wholly different intent. He clenched and unclenched a fist under the bar as he watched the young woman withdraw her eyes from the musician, and then turn her head this way and that, as if she were trying to escape her boyfriend's attention.
There had been a time when he would have jumped up on the stage and yanked the cord from the guitarist's amplifier. He would have given him one chance — just one — to apologise properly. But that was when he was younger. So many years ago now. playing the hero had always guaranteed kisses of gratitude, a soft, willing body, and a warm bed for the night. Mentally, he pushed the heroic thoughts aside. He didn't like this uncomfortable, anxious, and worried feeling that he might do something foolish. Conversely, he did not like that he felt a bit of something akin to worry for the woman. He decided it would be best to leave.
"Hey, where you going?" asked the brunette, affronted.
"Sorry, I'm going to have to say no. I have to be up early tomorrow. Thanks for the offer."
The woman frowned. "She's gone, you know. The breakup song girl," the woman said, no longer touching him. She produced a cigarette and lit it. "That blonde was too young for you anyway. Me, on the other hand. Well, your loss, mate." The brunette swung her hips to the other end of the bar.
He placed money on the bar, slipped on his long, brown coat and left the dark pub. As he emerged into the damp, night air, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. She was leaning against the stone façade. He started to walk away, but the quiet sound of sniffing made him hesitate. He turned and looked, able to see her hands shaking as she tried to light a cigarette with a match.
"You know, smoking is terrible for you," he said, walking slowly towards the blonde girl, hands in his pockets. "The list of chemicals that you inhale in each-"
"Course I know it's bad for me." The woman struck a second match, successfully lighting her cigarette. She brought it to her lips, inhaled deeply, and then frowned. Forcefully, she threw it to the ground, and crushed it under the sole of her shoe. "Been ciggy-free for months. Not gonna start up again," she said under her breath.
He scratched the back of his head. "I know it is none of my business. But, well, I saw what happened in back in the pub. Is that singer a friend of yours?"
"Jimmy? He's my boyfriend. Quite the catch, isn't he?" she said with a sarcastic smile. It faded quickly. "I just had to get outta there."
The woman was wearing a short-sleeved, terry cloth zip-front hoodie. It was far too little clothing to shield her from the cold Orkney night air. He surveyed the woman's bare forearms, recognising yellowing bruises, the telltale signs of an injury that had happened perhaps a week or two before. But there were matching bruises on each of her arms. Not an accident, then, he thought to himself. "Are you all right?" he asked, frowning as he looked at her forearms.
"Yeah. I'm fine. Really." She looked over at him, and broke into a sunny smile.
"Do you want me to call you a taxi? Or I could walk you back to your place? I'd offer to take you back to mine.” He couldn't help himself as his true nature kicked in and he offered her a seductive smile. “But I assume that isn't something you would agree to."
"I'm flattered," she said with a chuckle and an eye roll, "but no, ta."
He lowered his eyebrows. "You sure you're all right?" he asked again, this time without the seduction. He copied her pose, leaning against the wall, his arm against hers.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Really. He's not so bad, Jimmy isn't, not really. Besides, I'm officially with the band." She fiddled with her gold hoop earring.
He frowned for a moment, until the woman started to hum a tune. He listened her voice as they stood, quietly content to enjoy the clear night.
"So much light pollution here in town," he said after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "You can hardly see any stars. Shame. I'm very good at naming constellations. I could tell you the name of any cluster of stars visible to the human eye, and most visible through a telescope. I'm very good. Where I live, the sky is as black as the blackest velvet, and the stars look like diamonds." His eyes sparkled as he watched her face.
"That may be the worst pickup line I have ever heard, mate," she said with a hearty laugh.
"You think that's a pickup line?" he asked, scowling as if hurt.
"You tell me,” she replied.
"Naw. If I had said that your eyes outshone Polaris, now that would have been a terrible pickup line. I was merely noting the horrid sky-watching conditions, and how lucky I am to live someplace where the stars are almost as beautiful as your eyes." He smiled and waggled his eyebrows.
She laughed, smiling so much that those twinkling eyes of hers were nearly hidden behind her eyelids. "So you're not just bloke out on the pull?" she asked with what some would say was a flirtatious grin, though he could tell she was being serious.
He scrunched his face and thought for a moment before he shook his head. He was unsure now. Was he? "Not really. I'm sort of a hermit these days." It was a half truth. He had sought companionship recently, though not as often as he had in the past. He did the mental math, and realised it had been twelve lunar cycles since he had accomplished a seduction.
"Well, Mr. Hermit, I'm Rose Tyler." She held out her hand, waiting for him to shake it.
"Well it is very nice to meet you, Rose Tyler." He shook her hand, then released it. "John Smith."
"So what do you do, John?" Rose shifted her position against the wall.
"I'm a — fisherman."
"Course you are," she drawled, wearing a half smile that was more of a smirk.
"Well, more specifically, I own a fishing boat, and I take people — mainly visitors — out fishing. On the ocean."
She raised an eyebrow.
"No, no, no! Really. I am." He pulled his ear, when he saw the doubt on her face. "Why don't you believe me? This is a fishing community, after all."
"You don't really look like a fisherman. You aren't all grizzled and leathery. Your skin is beautiful and I really said that out loud, didn't I?"
John was quite proud of his physique, and he smiled. "You think I'm foxy?"
Rose sputtered and false started her sentence a few times. "You don't see too many fishermen as well-dressed as you. Well, except for the orange tee-shirt." She laughed and then blushed. "Okay, I do believe you. Don't really have a reason not to. So.” She cleared her throat. “What's a well-dressed fisherman like you doing in a dump like this? Don't tell me you're here for the music."
"I'm definitely a music fan," he said with a sage nod. "I love to sing, and have been told I have a very… sultry… voice." Again, his seductive nature showed itself.
“I bet you do," she said breathlessly, again flushing pink. "So.” She laughed and fiddled with her earring. "What do you think of Jimmy's angsty, authentic, and real music?"
"Oh, is that how he describes his music?" John asked with a manic grin. "That's an awful lot to live up to."
"Got that right," Rose said, under her breath.
"Well," he said, drawing out the word. "I've heard worse."
"You always this rude?" she asked.
"Was that rude?"
Rose nodded, knowing what he had said about the band was painfully true. She looked down at her shoes. "We're just passing through, doing a small tour of Northern Scotland, the Hebrides and the Orkneys, me and the band."
"The London accent sorta gives you away." He paused. “The London accent sorta gives you away." He paused. "And the fact that you just called this place 'the Orkneys.' The locals would say that your band is touring Orkney."
She smiled and nodded. "Ta. So you live here?"
"Aye. All my life. Born and bred. Well not here in Kirkwall. But from around here. The sea is in my blood."
"What's that like? Living someplace so small and remote?"
"It's pretty quiet most of the time—"
“Shit!" hissed Rose under her breath as she caught sight of her boyfriend emerging from the alley. "Here comes Jimmy."
John frowned and moved to somewhat block Rose from the leather-jacketed man.
"Hey, Jimmy," she said as casually as she could. "How'd the set go? Sorry I left. I had a bit—"
"Why'd you leave, Rose? Huh? You shaming me?" He stepped closer.
"Seems to me that she was trying to explain why she left just now, and you interrupted her," said John, jaw set tightly.
"Who the hell are you, and why are you talking to my woman?"
"No, Jimmy. It's nothing like that. I just came out for a—"
"One, I wasn't speaking with your woman, I was speaking with Rose Tyler. She is the band's manager, isn't she?"
Jimmy frowned.
John pushed out his hand. "John Smith, talent agent. Who are you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
With a confused look on his face, Jimmy accepted the handshake, and grimaced at the strength of the thin man's grip. "Jimmy Stone."
"Right. Mr. Stone, I think I know of someone who would really, really like your sound. It is very unique. Very," John said, feigning seriousness.
Rose watched on, somewhat awed at the man's improvisation skills.
"No shit?! That's brilliant! Go inside, Rose. This is business talk. And get me and Mr. Smith here a couple of pints. The expensive stuff."
“Hold on, I think your manager should stay. It is business talk after all."
"Yeah. I s'pose," Jimmy squinted and guffawed a bit. "Is that an Owl City shirt you're wearing?" Jimmy gawped at the orange teeshirt under John's suit jacket. "Do you represent them?" he asked, excited.
"Him. It's a him. Wish I did. He's brilliant."
"So from your professionalistic standpoint, do you think we have a chance to make a go of it in the big time? London even?" Jimmy asked, crossing his arms and leaning in to listen.
"Of course you do! But first you have to continue your tour of small, intimate places. Like this pub, for example. It will give your band that certain authenticity that only comes from playing in small venues. You need to pay your dues, right? Village halls, retirement parties, weddings, school dances. Maybe do a tour of the Hebrides?" John suggested, looking over at Rose.
“Right, right," said Jimmy as he nodded in understanding. "But ain't that what we're doing now, Rose?"
"Um, yeah. We're here through Monday, and then we are heading—"
"I don't need the itinerary." He turned his attention back to John. "You're right, that's exactly what we need to do to get that authentic sound I'm always talking about. You understand me, don't ya? You understand the art I'm trying to create here. We need to play for real live people," said Jimmy, trying to sound authentic. "Rose, I want ya to start booking us into smaller places."
"I'll get right on that tomorrow, Jimmy," said Rose with a smirk.
"Obviously, you'll have to change your name to James if you want to be taken seriously," John said sternly. "And honestly, The Jimmy Stone Experience is a rubbish name for a band. Come up with something new. Something… real.” He paused and leaned in. "Something… authentic?" John smiled knowingly. "How about — Oh! It's right in front of my nose." His voice went low. "Shorten it. Stone." He looked over at Rose, and winked.
Jimmy thought for a moment, and then he nodded. "Stone. I like that. That's good! Rose, make sure you book us under the new name."
She nodded with a sigh.
"Oh, would you look at the time," John said suddenly. "I'm going to be late for my appointment to listen to a folk band that call themselves Forest of Cheem. I hear one of them plays a mean wooden flute. Or was it a recorder? Ever heard of them?"
"Nuh uh."
"Well then. I'll be in touch, Jimmy. We'll do espresso. It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Tyler." John turned to face Rose. "I certainly hope that we'll see each other again." He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles, keeping his eyes trained on hers.
"Yeah, that’d—” She cleared her throat and nodded. "That'd be great. Bye, Mr. Smith." Rose smiled at him.
John released Rose's hand and saluted the man, touching two fingers to his forehead. He spun on his worn white Converse heel, shoved his hands into his brown pinstriped trouser pockets, and strode away, whistling the same tune he had heard Rose humming when they first met. Before he was half of a city block away, he turned and looked over his shoulder once. He saw Rose standing in the doorway of the pub.
As subtly as she could, she waved, and then disappeared inside.
oOo
He wondered what had changed. Why was he alone in the sea? The last of the selkie-folk. He couldn't prove it, but he knew they were gone. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a brother, sister, uncle, aunt or cousin bobbing in the waves, staring at the shore, searching for a mate. It had been decades since he'd heard the dulcet tones of another selkie calling out for a human.
Had the selkie-folk made some sort of a group decision to become human without telling him? Had they all left the sea? Had their skins been stolen? Or had they been given up willingly?
Selkie-women had, for the most part, longed to live on shore. There had been exceptions of course, but as a rule females chose to lead human lives, have children. Once their children were grown, some would reclaim their skins and return to the sea. But most stayed with their husbands, surrendered their skins lovingly. That meant marrying, having children, growing old, and dying. just like humans.
Selkie-men, on the other hand, had little desire to tie themselves to the shore or to only one woman. They wanted to sample the delights that human females offered, and they were masters of seduction. But they didn't want any woman, they lived for the hunt. The chase. The seduction. They wanted to steal a woman away from her man. Selkie-men wanted the satisfaction of knowing they were the winner, the champion. He had only known a handful of males who had surrendered their skin to a woman, thereby sealing their fate as a human — to grow old alongside their chosen mate.
Last night, for the first time ever, he had felt a smidgen of a hint of a tiny tickle in the general area of his heart that maybe he wanted that too. To settle down, keep his legs, live one life with one woman. There was a way about her, perhaps it was the light in her golden-brown eyes. Something had sparked a teeny desire to be domestic. He tamped down the thoughts. He was the last of his kind! Who would carry on the ways of the selkie-folk if he surrendered his coat? If he became human? No. It could never be. He was the last one.
He launched himself out of the water and onto a flat spot on the rocks at the base of the towering cliff. Using his flippers, he pulled himself into the tiny cave, which had been carved by eons of waves crashing into the rock wall. He tipped his nose upward, and stared at the moon. His glossy, chestnut brown, furry skin slid away, revealing his naked, human form. With a grin, John Smith leapt to his feet, picked up his skin and stuffed it into a crack in the rock wall. He stretched his hands heavenward, reaching towards the silvery moon hanging in the night sky. He felt the rivulets of water dripping down his white, freckled skin. The rock was cold and hard beneath the soles of his feet. He shivered against the ever-present salt-scented wind as it dried the sea water off his body.
With an animal-like shake of his head, he sent droplets of water in a million directions. His brown hair — the same colour as his coat — stuck out wildly. John pushed his long, delicate fingers through his hair, tousling it this way and that, arranging it into a modern style he knew human women of this era favoured greatly — if their tugs at his locks during moments of ecstasy were any indication.
His surveyed his stash of human clothing. What should he wear tonight? The brown pinstriped suit? The blue? Tight denim jeans and a pullover? He settled on a form-fitting black tee-shirt and jeans. Regardless of his outfit of choice, two things were constant: the long brown coat that nearly touched the ground and the white Chuck Taylor shoes.
Once dressed, he double-checked that his precious skin was safely hidden from human sight. Of course it was. What were the chances of a human abseiling down this particular a cliff face? Finding his perfectly camouflaged home out of the sea? Hadn't been discovered yet. Not once in over a millennia.
With the inhuman strength of his toned, lean muscles, John scrambled up the rock face of the cliff, just as he had done thousands of times. The thrill of what was to come fuelled his speed, and in no time, he hauled himself onto the bluff. He looked out over the sea, his watery home, and smiled.
John had spent most of the night, and then all day thinking about her. Last night he had been concerned for her well-being. He still was, if he were being honest. But then he had pushed the concern aside, and focused instead on his baser desires. Quickly, concern had given way to lust. He'd spent hours imagining her luscious lips kissing him, his fingers gliding over the curves, dips and valleys of her creamy white skin. John breathed in the sea air, released it with a grin, and strode towards town.
He hadn't wanted a particular woman this badly in a long time. She was the perfect target: discontented but constant. She was like a ripe piece of fruit, barely clinging to the branch. Juicy, sweet, soft — but still yielding, and just a wee bit out of reach. Only one proverbial leap, and the proverbial fruit on the proverbial tree would be in his hand, and he would bring it to his lips, and then he would take a bite, letting the juice drip down his chin.
He imagined her waiting for him — the blonde with the soulful brown eyes and an almost-broken heart sitting at a table in that dingy pub, forcing herself to listen to that tosser of a boyfriend singing frightfully bad songs. He knew exactly how it would go. She needed a friend, someone non-threatening. A best mate. He'd tell her jokes, flirt, but not too much. She'd laugh and touch his arm. She'd flirt back, but not too much either.
He'd ask her to dance, just as mates of course. He'd pick a fast song, jump around a bit, be silly even, get her laughing, loosen her up, lower her inhibitions. And then, the slow song he'd requested anonymously would begin to play. He'd pull her into his arms, not too closely though, not at first. Quietly, he'd sing the lyrics into her ear. She'd close her eyes and sigh, resting her head on his shoulder. And then — then — after he'd steered them into a dark corner, away from prying eyes, he'd explain just how wrong Jimmy Stone was for her. How she deserved so much more. She deserved the stars and the moon and the whole universe. And he'd offer it to her. How could she say no to that?
John opened the door of the pub and the sound of Snow Patrol hit him. There was no band, just the jukebox. He scanned the half-filled room for her blonde head, but Rose Tyler wasn't there.
“Where's the band? You know, the rubbish one with the idiot who sounded like a dog howling at a siren?" he asked, striding to the bar.
”Up and quit on us this morning," answered the bar keep. "Sorry. Jukebox tonight, mate.”
oOo
Rose shook, furious at Jimmy, but also at herself. How could she have been so blind for so long? Why hadn't she walked out on him ages ago? More important, why had she turned her back on her own mum? Refused to listen to her warnings? Everything that her mother had warned her would happen, had.
She clenched and released her hands a few times, heaving her breath in and out. The palm of her right hand still stung from the slap she had just laid on Jimmy. He must have been shocked by her actions, because he was still silent, holding his hand to his face.
The last thing she wanted right now was for Jimmy to think she was weak. So what if Jimmy had just called her the foulest name from his filthy vocabulary? It wasn't the first time. But this time was going to be different. She was not going to take it. Not anymore. She was finished with him.
"You just slapped me!" Jimmy shrieked, finally responding to Rose. He balled one fist, and reached out with the other to grab her by the arm.
”Don't you dare even think about touching me, Jimmy Stone," said Rose, low and strong as she dodged out of his reach. "Or I swear, I will go to the cops this time. And I have plenty of bruises to show them!"
Jimmy withdrew his hand, but hunched over slightly so they were nose to nose. Rose backed up another step, straightened her shoulders and glared up at him.
"Remember that pretty boy from last night? The music agent?" he asked with a sneer.
Rose tipped her chin defiantly. "Course I do." She swallowed hard. "You never had the guts to call him, did ya?"
He squinted at her and hissed before speaking "Guess what? The number rings up a Chinese takeaway!" Jimmy yelled, waving the scrap of paper in Rose's face.
Rose held her breath, blocking the stench of too many pints too early in the day, and distanced herself from the man. "Well that isn't my fault, now is it? You believed him, didn't ya?" she responded, her tone, biting. "Besides. It wouldn't be the first time a bloke lied, now would it?" She mustered more courage, and lowered her voice even further. "You've been lying to me for months now, Jimmy. And I am tired of it.”
“Lying? What? Who says I'm lying?" he asked nervously, running his hand through his tousled brown curls.
"How about I give you a list of names of every girl you've slept with between London and here? And the drugs, Jimmy! You told me you were done with those a year ago!"
"A man's got needs, woman. You don't understand what it's like to be me! I'm an artist! I need inspiration!"
"So that girl you were shagging in the back of the van. Was she inspiring?" Rose asked, angrily.
"What?!" he said, squinting at her. "That — I wasn't — we weren’t — that…” He breathed in and out a few times. "That doesn't count. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. I thought it was you, that's what!" he said, defensively.
"Right,” Rose drawled. “‘Cos her curly ginger hair reminded me so much of my blonde hair.”
“You know what? Yeah, she was a great lay!"
Rose bit her tongue, knowing that her next words were crucial. Jimmy was easily pushed over the edge, especially now that he was no longer clean. "You're right, Jimmy. We're wrong for each other," she said carefully. "You want fame and to make music and that's not my dream. You'll do better without me."
He huffed, sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Go on then, get out! See if I care, you stupid bitch! You were only good for one thing anyway, and you ain't even that good. And there are plenty of girls begging me to do them. Go on, run off like a little girl! Go crying back to your mummy! She's a stupid, ugly cow, and so are you!"
Before she could change her mind, Rose ended it with Jimmy Stone. For good.
oOo
One Month Later
She sat on the sand with her back against a piece of driftwood. Out to sea, she could just make out a furry brown head with shining dark eyes bobbing in the water. She had watched her new animal friend for what seem like hours. He was different from the other seals who frequented the beach, although she couldn't put a finger on what that difference was. He — she assumed it was a he — he bobbed in the same spot, near the cliff. Once he appeared, he never went back under, never dove for fish, never went up onto the rocks with the other seals. He seemed content to simply ride the tide.
"You're lucky," she shouted above the wind. "You're lucky Mr. Seal. Eating clams or fish or whatever it is you eat, and just swimming. Not having to worry about anything. Or anyone.” Her voice trailed off. "I'm going mad. I'm talking to a seal."
The seal barked. Rose smiled. And then she waved. The furry brown head bobbed above the water for another moment, and then disappeared into the cold, grey, Orcadian waters.
Rose took a sip of her tea and focused on the sound of the waves against the shore. She didn't keep track of how much time was passing. The only thing Rose felt was complete and utter relaxation and contentment. She could swear she heard a man singing. Probably a dream. It was too beautiful to be real.
From behind, the sound of footsteps pulled her from her reverie. She turned and looked over her shoulder, cupping her eyes against the noonday light.
Behind her was a naked man. A gloriously naked man. And he was beautiful. From his wind-whipped hair, to his wiggling toes, and everything in between, he was perfect. And Rose Tyler choked on a laugh when she realised that his sensitive parts were tenuously covered by a copy of the local newspaper wrapped around his hips, though the taunting wind threatened to snatch it away at any moment.
He flushed under her scrutiny, and finally cleared his throat. "I seem to have lost my clothing. Could you help me?" he asked. His hair flapped in the wind as he danced on his tiptoes, attempting to keep warm.
"John Smith?" asked Rose between gasps of laughter that threatened to bring tears to her eyes, it was so full of mirth.