52 Days of Disaster - Day 44
Doctor Who
Reposted from a best_enemies prompt-day.
He waited.
He waited for years and years and the years turned into decades, and still he waited. He waited for the other, his beautiful friend to arrive, to stop all these messes.
He heard about Pol Pot, and if he had been human would have prayed that the other wasn't among the dead. Killed every nurse, every doctor, he could find, and that was terrifying. But he knew, deep down in his hearts, that none of them were him.
He defected. Not that this was a fair statement; to defect, one must first belong to that particular country. Met the Chairman himself, and got on quite well with him. Over some quite good red wine, they discussed many things, and then Mao mentioned the fox, he who heals the sick; his blood ran cold but he asked anyway. Morbid curiosity, but he had to know if he was right.
He was, and it hurt to think that the other, who surely knew Earth's history well, would choose to associate with another man, a human man, who had ordered the deaths of so many, and yet would not speak to him in tones beyond disgust.
Still.
He waited for him, and it wasn't obsession, it wasn't. Because obsession implied so many other things. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it was.
When he arrived, he was different. His clothes, his attitudes, his everything - but that was regeneration, nothing more. He'd changed too, but somehow that felt more than simple regeneration.
He had waited, and the other had arrived.
In the end, he knew deep down that the monks' chanting could not completely contain the parasite. For what could be more powerful than what he was feeling. He tried to stop it, managed to aim the gun at the friend, but the words he spoke were not his.
The hold disappeared when he left in the real TARDIS, and he breathed again, but it wasn't the end yet.
They were after him now, even if they didn't know what he looked like, and they were all in danger now. All the patience in all the galaxy had been for nothing.
Reposted from a best_enemies prompt-day.
He waited.
He waited for years and years and the years turned into decades, and still he waited. He waited for the other, his beautiful friend to arrive, to stop all these messes.
He heard about Pol Pot, and if he had been human would have prayed that the other wasn't among the dead. Killed every nurse, every doctor, he could find, and that was terrifying. But he knew, deep down in his hearts, that none of them were him.
He defected. Not that this was a fair statement; to defect, one must first belong to that particular country. Met the Chairman himself, and got on quite well with him. Over some quite good red wine, they discussed many things, and then Mao mentioned the fox, he who heals the sick; his blood ran cold but he asked anyway. Morbid curiosity, but he had to know if he was right.
He was, and it hurt to think that the other, who surely knew Earth's history well, would choose to associate with another man, a human man, who had ordered the deaths of so many, and yet would not speak to him in tones beyond disgust.
Still.
He waited for him, and it wasn't obsession, it wasn't. Because obsession implied so many other things. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it was.
When he arrived, he was different. His clothes, his attitudes, his everything - but that was regeneration, nothing more. He'd changed too, but somehow that felt more than simple regeneration.
He had waited, and the other had arrived.
In the end, he knew deep down that the monks' chanting could not completely contain the parasite. For what could be more powerful than what he was feeling. He tried to stop it, managed to aim the gun at the friend, but the words he spoke were not his.
The hold disappeared when he left in the real TARDIS, and he breathed again, but it wasn't the end yet.
They were after him now, even if they didn't know what he looked like, and they were all in danger now. All the patience in all the galaxy had been for nothing.