Title: Fifteen Million Degrees
Author: sepia_words
Rating: G
Length: c.1000
Spoilers: 'Greeks Bearing Gifts'
Summary: Physics, snapshots and ashes.
Disclaimers: If it was mine, Tosh would have more lines.

***

15 millionoc: the temperature of the sun's core

The Plass is quiet at night. Water flows down the tower in a cascade of cold beauty and the lettering on the Millennium Centre glimmers in the dark. There are no footsteps to disturb the silence.

No thoughts, either. No-one's fear or joy, anger or hope. No shopping lists or snatches of songs that other people can't stop humming. It's quiet and a little cold.

Tosh is still sitting under the gaze of the CCTV, staring at the paving and feeling the air chill around her. Weariness has gone bone-deep but it's the thought that Jack might still be watching her, gauging her strength, that finally drives her to her feet. One foot in front of the other; the pendant lies in jagged shards at the foot of the bench.

8.31 minutes: the time taken to reach the sun at the speed of light

Tosh cranks up the air conditioning in the car and relishes the tingle in her fingers as the blood rushes back to them. Her shivering abates a little as the Plass recedes in the rear view mirror.

She realised pretty soon that they'd hate her when they found out - she's wronged them all (although it's up for debate whether anyone in the Hub is ever in the right anymore). But she really knew them for once; she wasn't just geeky, naive Toshiko, tinkering with her computers and wishing she understood people half as well. How could she have given that up?

It wouldn't be so bad, she thinks, if they'd gone from liking her to hating her. If their starting point hadn't been indifference and contempt. Somehow, it hurts more that she didn't really have that much to lose.

Her car is warm and almost silent, just the comforting rumble of the engine to pull her back to earth as she drives through Cardiff suburbs and the street-lights blur in burnt orange outside the windows.

1.4 million km: the diameter of the sun

There are bags of groceries on the kitchen table. She looks inside and finds wine, crisps, a bottle of Jack Daniels. Mary's jacket is thrown carelessly on the table next to them - slipped off as she breezed in all chatter and animation. The leather is smooth under Tosh's fingers. She thinks maybe she should get some sleep. Ignore everything and deal with it in the morning.

There's a packet of cigarettes and an eggcup full of ash next to the bed; Mary's scent practically rises from the sheets. Tosh is too tired to care right now. It's a welcome invasion: the memory of another person to cling to and the simple pleasure that comes from sleeping in a bed where both sides of the sheets are rumpled. Tosh turns her damp cheek into Mary's pillow and smells cigarette smoke, perfume and shampoo. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the bedside lamp. It illuminates Owen's card, and the bulb glows bright and unforgiving like the sun.

27.9g: the surface gravity of the sun

Heartbroken crying is all very well, but it's still only nine thirty. Maybe the morning is too long to wait. Tosh thought this might comfort her - one more night of closeness to another person - but all she can think is invasion and she can still feel a jagged knife at her throat. The eggcup seems as good a place as any to start.

She washes the cigarette ash out in water so hot it nearly scalds her, then hastens the last of the residue down the plughole by upending the bottle of Jack Daniels over it and watching the whiskey whirl the flakes of ash away. She sprays air freshener above the sink; synthetic vanilla doesn't completely mask the rich tang of alcohol but it's better than nothing.

The sheets get stuffed into the washing machine and after a moment Tosh adds the dressing gown Mary wore once or twice, just for good measure. She dumps far too much powder in and sets the machine to a hot wash. Groceries next - crisps in the cupboard, wine in the rack by the door. Mary's jacket goes in a plastic bag by the front door; Oxfam will be grateful tomorrow.

The mundanity of cleaning helps her hands to steady and her brain to move beyond guilt and deception and oh god, the centre of the sun. It grounds her here in her own home, where Mary's traces can be removed entirely with a little time and a few cleaning products. She moves on through the house and, when all trace of Mary has gone, Tosh waters her plants and straightens the pictures of her family.

217km/s: the speed of the sun's orbit around the centre of the galaxy

Snapshots, that's what Jack told her.

She's heard casual cruelties, deception, people who are barely holding themselves together when no one else has even noticed. Snapshots of humanity. Well, she's had enough snapshots to last her a lifetime. This one can go.

She pulls the photo from the fridge quickly and rips it in half. The sound of tearing paper makes something twist in her stomach but she tears again and again, until her face and Owen's are in pieces along with Bute Park and a couple of beer bottles. She half expects the pieces to flutter artistically into the bin, but they fall in a rapid shower and lie sullenly still even when she drops the birthday card on top of them.

0.77%: percentage of the sun's mass made up from oxygen

That list for UNIT has to be compiled at some point, so Tosh sets up her laptop and gets to work. She annotates and lists diligently, sipping instant coffee and listening to the washing machine churn as it spins the sheets.

This house is hers. The photos on the fridge show her university friends on holiday after Finals, all sunburn and dated hairstyles; the ornaments match the tasteful décor; no one's knick-knacks or mementos intrude on her territory. Tosh's face is lit by the glow of the computer screen; her home is anodyne and safe around her.

***