[justprompts] - Insomnia
She likes to watch him sleep, likes catching him in those too-few moments when he stops to rest, to breathe, and leaves the woes of the universe outside her doors to be dealt with another day. He doesn’t rest enough, doesn’t think to take care of himself, always too busy saving the world, saving his companions, saving his enemies, and she worries for him because sometimes it seems as though no one else will.
Oh, his companions do, to a certain extent, surely. When they’re out there, beyond her reach, stuck in the fray and immersed in the whirlwind that is his life, she supposes they worry. They worry how they’ll get out of whatever predicament he’s thrust them into, they worry he knows what he’s doing, they worry he’s sunk them in too far over their heads. But then he comes through for them, brilliant as always, and they toss their worries away the moment they walk through her doors and think nothing of the man who just saved them from the danger he most certainly created himself.
But she worries, even then. What part of himself has he lost, out there where she cannot see, where all that connects her to him is the bond of Time Lord and machine, forged centuries past when he was young and foolish and she more than willing to aid him in his flight from Gallifrey. She worries he is still that boy, stupid and lonely and naïve enough to believe running away solves everything, no matter how often they do it. She worries he’ll stop being that boy, that his time out there, on billions of planets among billions of stars, will change who he is and take him from her. She worries and wonders and contradicts herself every moment because, even now, he confuses her and she’s never quite sure what she wants.
Perhaps it’s the little boy who once played hide-and-seek in her corridors with a friend he’s now sentenced to death three times over. Perhaps it’s the grandfather who stole her to show himself and his granddaughter the universe he never thought he’d see. Or maybe it’s the man who surrounded himself with companions to ward away his own fear of insanity. Maybe it’s the lonely gentleman afraid of his past, or the manipulator trying to make his own future. And perhaps still it’s the curly-haired man before her, unsure of himself and who he is, where he’s been, but always forging ahead, frightening and grand and beautiful all at once.
But when he sleeps, when he’s safe inside the confines of her interior, dozing in a chair he found back in 19th Century Europe, a book laying open on his lap at a different page than the one he left off on, she likes to watch him, because it means, for just that short moment, he is all of those men, his pasts and presents, the summation of everything she’s ever loved about him. When he sleeps, she doesn’t have to worry about who or what he will become. He isn’t in danger, he isn’t on the cusp of being killed or lost or changing who he is. It means he’s comfortable enough, secure enough, that he can let all his own worries go and find a brief respite in silence.
She wonders, sometimes, that his insomnia comes from a fear of that silence, a fear that if he doesn’t move, if he isn’t challenging fate at every moment, he won’t be who he is. She wonders if he shares her own concerns of who he was and who he is and who he has yet to be, hidden behind his waking smile and bright eyes. She wonders, but she never asks, because she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer, and instead contents herself to watch and worry in the hopes that, when he wakes, he never has to.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 654
Oh, his companions do, to a certain extent, surely. When they’re out there, beyond her reach, stuck in the fray and immersed in the whirlwind that is his life, she supposes they worry. They worry how they’ll get out of whatever predicament he’s thrust them into, they worry he knows what he’s doing, they worry he’s sunk them in too far over their heads. But then he comes through for them, brilliant as always, and they toss their worries away the moment they walk through her doors and think nothing of the man who just saved them from the danger he most certainly created himself.
But she worries, even then. What part of himself has he lost, out there where she cannot see, where all that connects her to him is the bond of Time Lord and machine, forged centuries past when he was young and foolish and she more than willing to aid him in his flight from Gallifrey. She worries he is still that boy, stupid and lonely and naïve enough to believe running away solves everything, no matter how often they do it. She worries he’ll stop being that boy, that his time out there, on billions of planets among billions of stars, will change who he is and take him from her. She worries and wonders and contradicts herself every moment because, even now, he confuses her and she’s never quite sure what she wants.
Perhaps it’s the little boy who once played hide-and-seek in her corridors with a friend he’s now sentenced to death three times over. Perhaps it’s the grandfather who stole her to show himself and his granddaughter the universe he never thought he’d see. Or maybe it’s the man who surrounded himself with companions to ward away his own fear of insanity. Maybe it’s the lonely gentleman afraid of his past, or the manipulator trying to make his own future. And perhaps still it’s the curly-haired man before her, unsure of himself and who he is, where he’s been, but always forging ahead, frightening and grand and beautiful all at once.
But when he sleeps, when he’s safe inside the confines of her interior, dozing in a chair he found back in 19th Century Europe, a book laying open on his lap at a different page than the one he left off on, she likes to watch him, because it means, for just that short moment, he is all of those men, his pasts and presents, the summation of everything she’s ever loved about him. When he sleeps, she doesn’t have to worry about who or what he will become. He isn’t in danger, he isn’t on the cusp of being killed or lost or changing who he is. It means he’s comfortable enough, secure enough, that he can let all his own worries go and find a brief respite in silence.
She wonders, sometimes, that his insomnia comes from a fear of that silence, a fear that if he doesn’t move, if he isn’t challenging fate at every moment, he won’t be who he is. She wonders if he shares her own concerns of who he was and who he is and who he has yet to be, hidden behind his waking smile and bright eyes. She wonders, but she never asks, because she isn’t sure she wants to know the answer, and instead contents herself to watch and worry in the hopes that, when he wakes, he never has to.
Muse: The TARDIS
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 654