The odds were against us, but baby here we are...

[nothingsodivine]

[[Forward-dated to Sunday afternoon. Party post. Open to everyone, even if you don't know the happy couple- this is as much a celebration of two years of survival as it is a wedding.]]

The wedding reception is being held at the Grand Ballroom, familiar to some as the same ballroom the Christmas Ball was held a year ago. It's also been decorated

Comments

[alsotravels]

No, it isn't. What it earns him is a furious, no-holds-barred punch -- not to the face, as one might expect, but rather a fist delivered with maximum force straight into the other Doctor's diaphragm, meant to knock the wind out of him and shut him up for a moment.

"Don't talk to me," the Doctor hisses. "Just think about this -- think very hard: waking up alone, surrounded by the dead, with no idea how it is you survived, and there's no one to come for you. That's what we left him to." It's deliberate, playing up the moments after Gallifrey's destruction, after the war, and his voice doesn't so much crack as it crumbles around the edges, tripping over the memories. Can you still remember this? Does it still hurt? Or have you run so far from it you can't feel anything anymore?

"I had to leave him, in the hopes that just maybe you wouldn't turn out like me. And it looks like you didn't. Instead, you just turned out a--"

The memory hits, hard and immediate.

"Then prove yourself, Doctor. What are you, coward or killer?"

"...Coward, any day."

"...No," the Doctor says, stepping back a pace, pain and recognition in his eyes. He'd defined himself as a coward. He'd run away. And this is what came of it. "I know what you are. Don't talk to me."

He starts to turn away, almost choking on the guilt and betrayal clinging to the back of his throat, when he stops. Turns back, very, very slowly.

"No, I take that back. There's one thing you can talk to me about. Tell me about John Thane."

[thatsortofaman]

The Doctor's still half bent over, wincing and gasping as he tries to get to a point where speech might actually be possible. It gives him an excuse not to look at the man, to pretend he doesn't hear, that he doesn't know just what must be going through his mind right now...

But the mention of John Thane gets him to look up immediately, gaze snapping up to meet the other Doctor's, and he straightens slowly, taking a moment to get his breath back properly. There's a flicker of an expression on his face, gone in an instant, and it's difficult to tell if it was meant to be a smile or a snarl.

"You're going to be happier if I don't talk to you after all." Especially about that, especially after this...

He has got to stop getting cornered in hallways.

[alsotravels]

"All the more reason for me to know," the Doctor says, crossing his arms and settling against a nearby wall.

He's not expecting this to be an easy conversation, especially after everything that's happened, and the things that triggered Dmitri to say anything at all. It's still one that, apparently, they need to have.

[thatsortofaman]

The Doctor growls under his breath and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. He figures it's probably safe - he's already hit him, after all, probably got it out of his system...

"It wasn't two years Jack was missing," he says finally, dropping his hand after a moment and fixing his eyes on the wall across from where he's standing, pointedly not on the other Doctor. "It was seven, and you would think that just maybe, if someone went to all the effort of shoving all those years into a neat little packet in some dark pit in his mind, they might've had a good reason for it, and maybe it might not be the best idea to pull that packet out, put it in control of a walking Fact and set it loose on Chicago..."

He's trying to keep that ragged edge out of his voice, but it's there, seeping up from underneath bitterness and anger. He's comfortable with his anger, even if there's nothing he can do with it, now or... then.

"But apparently someone had a different opinion on the matter."

[alsotravels]

The Doctor listens, and something goes cold inside him, not that he gives any outward indication. He'd known (or suspected) what Jack was when he took the so-called Captain on board, had known the risks, and had been doing well enough at keeping him in hand until... Well, until he died.

What he's listening to is beyond his worst-case scenario, and part of him uncharitably wonders if his future self ran away from this, too. A smaller, darker part of him wonders if he might do the same.

"And?" There are a wealth of questions there, like What did he do? and What did you do? and Is he dead? and, most importantly, Why?

He trusts the other Doctor will pick up on all of the above.

It may or may not mean anything that the barely-smothered aggression in his posture has vanished, for the moment, in response to that ragged edge in his Tenth's voice.

[thatsortofaman]

The Doctor snorts. It's not that he really needs for him to ask more than that - when you used to be a person, it's not really necessary for them to elaborate on their thought processes - he just wishes he'd stop prompting, stop asking, let him go... and maybe this time, he can pretend John Thane never existed and the universe will just let him convince himself of that.

But not yet.

"One of the casualties of the Time War was... a little colony planet called Boeshane. Didn't factor much in any dominant timelines, basically insignificant, but it mattered to John Thane. And then it was gone, and he-"

The Doctor breaks off. He's not explaining this. Not here, not today, he's just not, and he- He was so close to having one unexpectedly good day.

He goes on, after a moment, tone softer, "He found himself in Chicago. Looking for a Time Lord to blame, someone to hold accountable for war crimes, and..."

And here I was.

He glances over, gaze skirting over actually meeting the other Doctor's eyes. Are you happy now? Are we done?

[alsotravels]

The Doctor's not sure if he wants to laugh or to scream. The last child of a vanished planet, his people lost in the Time War. Of course.

Of course that would be the one he picked up because Rose was there to remind him, because he needed a day when everybody lived. The universe isn't done having its fun with him, oh no.

But while that tells him how it began and why, it still doesn't give him everything he needs.

"How did it end?" He won't press for details on the rest, but this much, he needs to know. Not What happened to him? or Are you all right?, which is a pointless question to ask anyone who's been on the receiving end of what the other Doctor's hinting at, or any other question, but this.

Dmitri said Thane was probably nothing dangerous right now. That... might just say something about Jack, and about his own responsibilities.

Responsibilities are all he has left.

[thatsortofaman]

"The- we engineered a delta wave to integrate his consciousness...es. It worked. He disappeared for a while, and then came back asking to be charged with war crimes."

He manages to recite it all flatly, like it's some old fragment of history that's got nothing to do with him. Like it doesn't matter.

"He's in Torchwood's custody now. Supposed to be... rehabilitated or... I wasn't actually at the trial." And he's done as much as he can to know as little as possible about the whole thing. It's not Torchwood's fault, that they're stuck with him, but it's not as if they could actually stop him if he wanted to cause any harm. He couldn't, after all.

[alsotravels]

The Doctor doesn't miss that slip, or the flatness of the other Doctor's tone. It's the same tone he managed, on good days, when he talked about Gallifrey.

"Well, then," he says. "That's all I needed to know."

And with that, he turns to leave again... and again, he stops. "Just remember, I was supposed to turn into you, not the other way 'round."

And then he's heading back toward the reception. Maybe he'll say hello to Rose while he's here.

[thatsortofaman]

The Doctor stares after him for a second, still fighting down that trapped animal feeling, trying to ignore the instinct of bared teeth and raised hackles and how dare he tell him what he should be, when-

Those instincts belonged to that generation in the first place. He swallows hard, jaw clenched.

"What?" he snaps, the only word he can force out through the tightness in his throat. And if he's not the man he meant to be, whose fault is that, exactly?