[somehow she manages to arrive at a time when he isn't there. That's a blessing at least. She leaves a basket for him with his favorite foods and favorite tequila. She also leaves with him the few pictures she has of her... their familia and a small journal detailing their names and a little about them.
Then she cleans up the mud she's tracked her way in and slogs her way back to town.
[He trudges home some time after midnight. There hadn't much to his birthday, which he was thankful for. He didn't need another reminder of how many years he'd missed on Earth. How many years he had without his family...without Imelda or Coco.
It was harder to shake the melancholy away, but he'd managed somehow. Now he was just a little numb.
When he arrives at his little hovel he spots the basket and for a moment he's confused. He was pretty sure no one knew his birthday. Unless someone from Torchwood bothered to look at it on his file. Though he might have just written 'old man' for age.]
Where did you come from?
[He lights the candles and lifts the basket onto the make shift table he'd set up. And with each gift, his heart tightens, remembering a time when these same gifts would have been accompanied with a smile and laughter...and the smell of citrus and vanilla. He swallows heavily, wishing again that skeletons could cry.
Especially as he comes across the small journal and the photos. His chest is tight and there is a lump of sand in his throat as he sits down, tequila and food forgotten for the moment as he curls up with the journal.
He commits every story to memory, ever name etched in his heart. The sun is peaking into his little house, and he is still sitting on the floor, eyes shut and hugging the journal to his softly breathing chest.]
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November 30th
Then she cleans up the mud she's tracked her way in and slogs her way back to town.
She hates Everglade.
So much]
Re: November 30th
It was harder to shake the melancholy away, but he'd managed somehow. Now he was just a little numb.
When he arrives at his little hovel he spots the basket and for a moment he's confused. He was pretty sure no one knew his birthday. Unless someone from Torchwood bothered to look at it on his file.
Though he might have just written 'old man' for age.]Where did you come from?
[He lights the candles and lifts the basket onto the make shift table he'd set up. And with each gift, his heart tightens, remembering a time when these same gifts would have been accompanied with a smile and laughter...and the smell of citrus and vanilla. He swallows heavily, wishing again that skeletons could cry.
Especially as he comes across the small journal and the photos. His chest is tight and there is a lump of sand in his throat as he sits down, tequila and food forgotten for the moment as he curls up with the journal.
He commits every story to memory, ever name etched in his heart. The sun is peaking into his little house, and he is still sitting on the floor, eyes shut and hugging the journal to his softly breathing chest.]