THE MAN WHO REGRETS, doctor who [book 01] ✓

i. the blue box holds it all

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☆» 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭

☆» 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘥𝘦: 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦

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𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐣𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

     STARING UP AT THE midnight sky, Violet Jones wonders whether Jack is somewhere out amongst the stars, doing what he does best: fuck things up before making them better than they were before. Although, in his defence, it was Violet herself that inadvertently taught the man how and when to do such things.

     It's been four long years since she's seen him and Ianto, and their daughters. She could have found a way to stay connected with them all, but the complete mindfuck it would have created with her past self also having been involved with her family... It would have been that little too much on top of everything else they were dealing with back at the Torchwood 3 Hub.

     Despite not having seen them, it's not as though she hasn't kept track of them as best she possibly could with the rigidity of 21st Century technology. She knows of the gravestone resting comfortably in a cemetery in Wales, standing upright beside one that bears the same name as hers: the graves of Ianto Jones and Violet Jones together until Time decides to decay and monopolise the granite.

     It's almost comical to her, this current version of her has, in a way, outlived the future version that is to die alongside Jack and Ianto inside Thames House. One may say that it's a curse to know how you die, and when you die, but when you're a time traveller it's more like an endless game of tag; playing the long game with Fate — whether it be your personal fate, or that of another.

     After everything she's seen over the past few centuries, being back in her quiet little hometown is somewhat irritating. Unable to travel anywhere thanks to Jack disabling that function of her Vortex Manipulator when he forced her away four years ago, and being unable to fix it properly, she's anchored in a time she no longer cares for; with people she finds to be smothering and sometimes undesirable.

     Before she closes her blind to cut off her imagination of a world far from here, a pulsing blue light catches her attention in the almost pitch black darkness of what feels to be the longest night of her life, a 1960's Public Call Police Box appearing across the street, fading in and out of visibility until it becomes a solid form. Sliding her window open, a grin spreads across her face and she snatches up her jacket and phone before climbing out the window, boot-clad feet striking the concrete below before she turns and slides her window shut.