Chapter Text
Mornings are the only time that feel normal any more. Osgood is used to going about their morning routine without their sister in the back of their mind.
The thought comes as she spits toothpaste into the sink, and is immediately – intrusively – followed by a reminder of how not-normal today is in the unforgiving black of her shirt in the bathroom mirror. What does one wear to one’s own memorial service?
A ghost at the funeral, that’s the expression, isn’t it? No – a spectre at the feast, that’s what they’re thinking of. Today won’t be a feast, but ‘spectre’ sounds about right. Osgood feels half-there, is half-there, half-gone.
People say that about grief in general, they know that, but Osgood feels it in a literal sense. All their memories in only one head again, a whole swathe of their mind and consciousness that’s just… gone.
In the mornings, they can pretend all is normal, just for a little while. She places her toothbrush back in the cup and tries to ignore the tell.
****
A few days earlier
Osgood has no idea what time it is, and only a vague sense of what day it must be. To work that out completely, they would have to think through the sequence of events and they can’t bring themself to do that. For now, there is the UNIT medbay – Kate sleeping and a steady beep of machines that bear hope that she will wake up, she must wake up, Osgood can’t be left wholly alone, they can’t, they can’t.
They steady themself with a breath that stutters through sadness rather than asthma, and take hold of Kate’s hand again as an anchor. Osgood has stayed by her side since she was brought back to the Tower. Shindi said something about the Doctor and Clara but Osgood didn’t take in the details.
Various colleagues have joined her in her vigil, bringing food and snippets of news and then disappearing again when duty calls them elsewhere. Osgood eats mechanically, tasting nothing, and there’s been no news they care about since they died.
She heard the plane explode in the crackle of static and dead air on the line that was kept open in the control room at the Tower. They’d all frozen, just for a moment, as they all drew the same conclusion. A senior officer broke the hush as she radioed for confirmation. “No survivors anticipated”, that was the phrase that swept over the room and turned the team to grim determination.
And yet, Osgood still hoped. She hadn’t felt anything, and she would. Wouldn’t she? Surely this would break through the psychic connection, surely? The last memory sync they did was shortly after the plane took off – Osgood was going to analyse Missy’s tech, see if that had any clues for her plan or a solution. Then they closed the connection off again, for focus. And focus was sorely needed – as the mission wore on, Osgood in the Tower found herself blinking at her screen, a touch of distraction from the long day and sustained stress.
Osgood hoped right up until one of the senior officers turned to her with well-meaning sympathy and asked if they could talk in private. The Doctor had called in. No heroic rescue from him and his TARDIS this time. Only one non-Time Lord survivor.
Even now, Osgood’s grief and hope – still, somehow, hope that only half their life is destroyed – battles desperately in her chest. All they can do is wait to see how it settles. Nothing to be analysed, no technology to construct to aid a plan, no plan but to wait and see.
****
The relief Osgood felt on startling awake and seeing Kate alert and there dissipates too quickly. They let UNIT staff guide the pair of them through Kate’s medical checks and leave paperwork, let Kate arrange a lift home for her. It’s as good a plan as any; when Osgood tries to think about what to do next, there’s only blankness. A void ahead of them and a solid wall in their mind that they keep pressing against out of habit.
Josh stands off to one side waiting as Kate wraps her up in a hug, and Osgood feels panic grip her. It takes several minutes of the comforting feel of Kate’s arms around her and their mental reminder that Kate will be safe waiting in the Tower, she’s not going anywhere she won’t come back from, for Osgood to quell the feeling and be ready to leave.
Josh doesn’t expect conversation on the drive. He puts music on, some neutral pop that Osgood would probably recognise if they listened to commercial radio stations, and lets them stare out of the window as he follows the GPS back to Osgood’s flat.
Osgood unlocks their front door, takes off their coat and hands it to Josh to hang up, and looks around their flat. All she can see are all the reminders of her sister – the extra armchair they bought together, two mugs left out from the other evening, two books with bookmarks marking the progress. She screws her eyes closed but can only think of all the other little additions to their flat – the sofabed with its crochet blanket made to ground Osgood through family events, the boardgames, the toothbrush holder.
They can’t be around these reminders. But nor can they get rid of them, the finality of that action they can’t bear, they’re not sure they ever will.
“Shall I put the kettle on?” Josh’s suggestion breaks the silence. Osgood makes a decision. Kate left it to them to decide where she will come and meet them later.
“No. We’re going to go to Kate’s,” Osgood pulls themself together just enough to consider the practicalities, “Let me pack a bag, then we’ll go.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
Osgood looks at Josh, sees stiffness in his posture, military bearing holding him up, and hears hesitancy in his tone. No one knows what to do around death, even when they see so much of it in this job. What do they need right now that Josh can offer?
“Just your company,” she replies. They are alone now, truly and utterly. Alone in a way that they didn’t know was a possibility a year ago. At least Josh hovering by her shoulder and starting a tentative narration of one of his uni mates latest scrapes means that she’s not alone in the traditional sense. The smallest glimmer of light holding the darkness back.
****
Kate’s house is still haunted – memories of the three of them inhabiting these walls just as much as at their own flat – but it’s the difference between a sharp stab and a dull ache. Osgood supposes they must get used to the latter.
Kate comes down from her shower and lets Josh get off home. Osgood forces themself to look up at him and give a facsimile of a grateful smile that’s as close as they can get. That leaves Kate and Osgood alone together and Osgood is not sure they have the energy to decide what happens next.
Kate, however, does. She claps her hands together decisively, puts the radio on, and pulls some food out of the freezer for them. Osgood sits and watches, and finds the odd sentence they can add to the radio chatter without breaking down entirely.
A meal of leftovers together after a tough mission, this is not a wholly new situation to either woman. And yet.
The portions Kate dishes out are a little bigger than usual. Kate turns to say something to Osgood and there’s an aborted movement, a flash of a thought unsaid. The timer beeps and Osgood itches to send a message through their psychic connection only to be blocked by severed neurons. That’s not the science, they know that, but that’s how it feels – nothing on the end of a path that used to lead somewhere.
It’s almost a relief to go to bed, a break from this facade of normality. Osgood wonders if Kate feels this too, if Kate will hold them close and pretend her sister is elsewhere – on-call at their flat, on a mission abroad, so many mundane reasons for there only being the two of them in her bed.
They pull their pajamas on and drag themself to the bathroom to brush their teeth. They reach out on autopilot for her toothbrush. And they freeze. It seems Kate cannot entirely pretend that all is normal. The thought gives the smallest flicker of comfort, a reminder that they are not alone in their grief. Not entirely.
****
Osgood wakes up alone. There’s morning light seeping round the edges of the curtains, and the floral scent of Kate’s soap and shampoo lingers as if a ghost.
She sits bolt upright in bed and fumbles for their inhaler on the bedside table. That loosens the immediate, critical, tightening of her chest but does nothing to quell the sudden fear that has taken over their thoughts. Alone, alone, alone – the word rattles around their mind, demands to be addressed.
They throw back the covers and all but leap out of bed, heading for the door and calling Kate’s name, not caring if the panic bleeds through. “In the kitchen,” echoes from down the stairs and Osgood breathes a little easier. Still, they hurry down the stairs and to the kitchen – needing to see, needing to be sure.
Kate’s there. Mugs on the counter, drying off her hands with a tea towel, normal and safe and there. Osgood walks straight into her arms for a hug to make sure.
“I wasn’t sure where you were,” they mumble into her neck but the words get lost, inadequate to describe what actually happened anyhow. Their arms around Kate’s waist, her solid and warm against Osgood, and their breathing evens out.
They excuse themself to the bathroom, her bladder insisting now that the panic is over. Surrounded by the cool tiles, the sound of plates and cupboards just about audible from the kitchen, Osgood supposes that they should address their instinctive reaction this morning.
The wall in their mind stares back, as solid and uncompromising as the bathroom tiles. How has less than a year of working through anxious situations with her sister overwritten the thirty-plus years before that?
Can she relearn? Must she? She closes her eyes in heavy tiredness, and tries to put the thought out of their mind. They could stay here all day otherwise. Crawl back into bed, pull the covers up and ignore everything. They are sorely tempted.
But – Kate. That wouldn’t be fair on her.
Osgood opens her eyes and drags herself downstairs.
****
Kate’s organisation is a godsend. So many little jobs around the house, things she’s been saying they’ll get around to someday and absolutely perfect for getting them both out of bed in the morning. Osgood is more than willing to follow her lead and focus on literally anything besides the reason why they both suddenly have this free time.
There’s a fragility to it all. A Christmas ornament slips out of Osgood’s fingers and is caught by a stack of old blankets with only a little superglue needed to re-attach a limb. If it had bounced a little differently, it would have shattered on the floor of the attic. Kate brings up their birthday cinema trip over dinner, wondering what the Doctor’s silence on their phone call means for his timeline, and the memory stings but never talking about it would be worse.
Dirt from the garden and dust from the attic over their clothes, physical exhaustion from exertion that ensures sleep comes readily, and the resulting task satisfyingly complete that fends off total despair. Something will grow from this time, however much Osgood cannot visualise what comes next.
Then comes the memorial service. The Tower looms into view – intimidating in a way Osgood hasn’t found it since they first started working here. They pass through the courtyard and it takes all Osgood’s strength and her hand in Kate’s to walk past the last place she saw her sister.
Kate’s hand in hers is all they remember of that day. An all-consuming sadness that has washed everything else away.
On returning home, Kate leads Osgood into the sitting room and sinks into the sofa with a tired groan. She holds her hand out and Osgood joins her immediately, settling in her lap and feeling Kate’s hands rest on her hips. So much has changed but there’s familiarity here. She brushes her nose against Kate’s and feels the gentle sigh she lets out.
Kate’s lips find hers and she presses into the kiss, lets Kate know they’re still here with a hand on the back of her neck. She presses against Kate’s lips as she presses against the solid wall in their mind, and the tears come as she realises that only one will buckle to what she wants.