For albumconcepts: Leaving So Soon?
[Inspired by this fic by
rude_not_ginger ]
“You must think I'm a fool
So prosaic and awkward and all
D'you think you've got me down?
D'you think I've never been out of this town?
Do I seem too eager to please to you now?
You don't know me at all
I can't turn it on, turn it off like you now
I'm not like you”
What does one say to a man he thought was an illusion?
He stood inside a vast space, somewhere beyond the physical world. There were no doors, no windows, no openings of any kind, no way to enter or to exit, simply…space. White space. Vast, empty, white space, and in the center of it all, the Doctor.
The imaginary creation.
“Evening, Mr. Smith,” said the Doctor, quietly. It was anything but a casual introduction. He motioned towards the space in between the two of them, and there rather suddenly existed a small, round table with two chairs on either side. “Have a seat,” he said, sitting down across from him. Smith did not move.
“Is this it?” he asked, “Have I…”
“Died?” asked the Doctor abruptly, “Not quite yet. You’re about to, of course, sort of, but for the moment we’re just shifting.” He leaned back in his chair and suddenly a plate of small yellow cakes appeared in front of him. “Cake?” he asked, “They’re banana.”
“Er…no, thank you,” Smith replied, and reluctantly took the empty seat.
“Our minds are in the process of shifting dominance,” the Doctor said, in between bites of banana flavoured cake, “we have equal control over this space, for the moment, we can have anything we want here. Try it.”
“No thank you,” he replied again.
He had always been taught that when you die, your soul would move to either heaven or hell. He’d believed it, of course, being something he’d always learned, he’d had no reason not to. He’d expected to be met by some sort of shining gate, high above the Earth in paradise where lost and long forgotten relatives would stand waiting for him. It was either that, or had he done something horribly wrong in life, a fiery gate to hell, with demons ready and waiting to torture his soul for all of eternity. Though the latter was a somewhat terrifying thought, both options were enormous. Both glorious and terrible all at the same time. It was what he’d expected and always known, something that simply had to be true, and yet…if it was, why was he instead sitting at a table in the middle of nowhere with only a man eating small, yellow cakes to greet him?
“Are we just waiting, then?” he asked.
“Yep,” said the Doctor, biting into yet another cake, “think of it as like being in Purgatory, except without the tall mountain.”
“Right,” said Smith, watching him lick the stray frosting off the side of his mouth, “you act remarkably calm for someone in Purgatory.”
“I’ve been here a lot,” he replied, “two months, you could say. It’ll be nice to stretch my legs again, you know, my real ones.”
“And me?” asked Smith, hopefully, though he was almost certain of the answer.
“You’ll never get to,” the Doctor said, simply, “You have to stay.”
“I have to die.”
“Yes.” There was a silence, as if both were startled by this long-known revelation. It was difficult to take in, for Smith, though he noted the Doctor returning to contentment after what seemed like moments. He seemed almost…happy at the idea of Smith’s impending death.
He took a deep breath.
“You are not the Doctor,” said Smith, after a moment.
“What makes you say that?”
“I am about to die,” he said, trembling, “you would not… the Doctor would not have nearly this positive a demeanor in this situation. The Doctor is saddened by death, he has seen far too much of it in his life, yet would always say he is sorry.”
“That’s true,” the Doctor replied, simply. “I’m sorry.”
It was, perhaps, the most insincere apology ever spoken, and carried an air of condescension he recognized as being used frequently when addressing very young students. It was a tone he was neither used to, nor fond of being on the receiving end of.
“If you do not mean it,” he said, “then kindly refrain from saying it.” he held his gaze to the Doctor’s, who wavered a bit, but appeared to remain calm.
“Point taken,” said the Doctor, once again leaning back in his chair, “You’re much more outspoken then I thought you’d be. I’d put you down as more of a ‘head-stuck-quietly-in-a-good-book’ sort of man.”
“Do I amuse you?” Smith asked, “is the fact that I am not buried in non-existent reading material somehow funny to you?”
“Not really,” said the Doctor, losing a bit of the confidence he’d clearly held earlier, “It’s just interesting.”
“I am not interesting to you, I am boring to you,” Smith shot back, “I am the man with a life, a love, and a home, with a job to wake up to and a place to settle down. Would you honestly choose to live my life?”
“Maybe,” said the Doctor, “You’d be surprised.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Because you can’t,” said Smith, unsure of exactly where all this sudden confidence was coming from, “you could never lead a life like that. You have to pretend. You have to masquerade as some kind of made up character, giving them everything you can’t have, letting them live, and breath, and think, and love, and then tear it away from them when you deem it convenient.”
“I am sorry,” the Doctor attempted to interrupt, “Mr. Smith, I am very, very sorry about this, but -“
“But I have to die,” he said, holding his gaze as the Doctor’s faltered, “I may not be real, I may be of your creation, but that does not make me your child, do not speak to me as if I were.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry,” said the Doctor, quietly, and for the first time since they’d properly met, he sounded sincere.
“Thank you,” Smith replied, equally as quiet, with a certain amount of shock.
Throughout his life, throughout his story, he had never been a man particularly fond of speaking up. He hid behind books and journals, occasionally turning his true thoughts into written words, but for the most part when something bothered him, or when he disagreed, he kept it hidden. He kept it quiet. He was never loud, never commanding; he simply let things go.
Until this moment. Now, on the brink of his own death, he had finally chosen the other path.
“Are you scared?” the Doctor asked.
“Quite,” he admitted. The Doctor nodded, understanding. He did not try to protect him, he noticed, he did not try to be reassuring. He no longer thought of him as simply a storybook to be thrown away, he was now a man. A scared, shy man forced to face his own death completely on his own.
His vision started to blur. The table in front of them disappeared, the chairs vanished, and he was suddenly thrown to the ground. “It’s starting,” he said, slightly panicked.
“The biology’s finished reverting,” said the Doctor, “my mind’s reasserting dominance.”
“I’m dying.”
“Yes.”
The white room continued to grow darker and darker till it was nothing more than a faint glow in the ever-expanding dark. What came next for him? Where was he going? What the dark all that existed of the afterlife? Would his soul rise to be joined by those few real people he’d known and loved, or would he remain here, unmoving and alone in the vast, immeasurable dark?
In the remaining light, he saw the outline of the Doctor fading quickly as everything else.
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, his voice now far, far away, “John Smith. Goodbye.”
He felt himself fall, the light vanished, and in that moment, John Smith faded to black.
Muse: John Smith
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,274
rude_not_ginger ]
“You must think I'm a fool
So prosaic and awkward and all
D'you think you've got me down?
D'you think I've never been out of this town?
Do I seem too eager to please to you now?
You don't know me at all
I can't turn it on, turn it off like you now
I'm not like you”
What does one say to a man he thought was an illusion?
He stood inside a vast space, somewhere beyond the physical world. There were no doors, no windows, no openings of any kind, no way to enter or to exit, simply…space. White space. Vast, empty, white space, and in the center of it all, the Doctor.
The imaginary creation.
“Evening, Mr. Smith,” said the Doctor, quietly. It was anything but a casual introduction. He motioned towards the space in between the two of them, and there rather suddenly existed a small, round table with two chairs on either side. “Have a seat,” he said, sitting down across from him. Smith did not move.
“Is this it?” he asked, “Have I…”
“Died?” asked the Doctor abruptly, “Not quite yet. You’re about to, of course, sort of, but for the moment we’re just shifting.” He leaned back in his chair and suddenly a plate of small yellow cakes appeared in front of him. “Cake?” he asked, “They’re banana.”
“Er…no, thank you,” Smith replied, and reluctantly took the empty seat.
“Our minds are in the process of shifting dominance,” the Doctor said, in between bites of banana flavoured cake, “we have equal control over this space, for the moment, we can have anything we want here. Try it.”
“No thank you,” he replied again.
He had always been taught that when you die, your soul would move to either heaven or hell. He’d believed it, of course, being something he’d always learned, he’d had no reason not to. He’d expected to be met by some sort of shining gate, high above the Earth in paradise where lost and long forgotten relatives would stand waiting for him. It was either that, or had he done something horribly wrong in life, a fiery gate to hell, with demons ready and waiting to torture his soul for all of eternity. Though the latter was a somewhat terrifying thought, both options were enormous. Both glorious and terrible all at the same time. It was what he’d expected and always known, something that simply had to be true, and yet…if it was, why was he instead sitting at a table in the middle of nowhere with only a man eating small, yellow cakes to greet him?
“Are we just waiting, then?” he asked.
“Yep,” said the Doctor, biting into yet another cake, “think of it as like being in Purgatory, except without the tall mountain.”
“Right,” said Smith, watching him lick the stray frosting off the side of his mouth, “you act remarkably calm for someone in Purgatory.”
“I’ve been here a lot,” he replied, “two months, you could say. It’ll be nice to stretch my legs again, you know, my real ones.”
“And me?” asked Smith, hopefully, though he was almost certain of the answer.
“You’ll never get to,” the Doctor said, simply, “You have to stay.”
“I have to die.”
“Yes.” There was a silence, as if both were startled by this long-known revelation. It was difficult to take in, for Smith, though he noted the Doctor returning to contentment after what seemed like moments. He seemed almost…happy at the idea of Smith’s impending death.
He took a deep breath.
“You are not the Doctor,” said Smith, after a moment.
“What makes you say that?”
“I am about to die,” he said, trembling, “you would not… the Doctor would not have nearly this positive a demeanor in this situation. The Doctor is saddened by death, he has seen far too much of it in his life, yet would always say he is sorry.”
“That’s true,” the Doctor replied, simply. “I’m sorry.”
It was, perhaps, the most insincere apology ever spoken, and carried an air of condescension he recognized as being used frequently when addressing very young students. It was a tone he was neither used to, nor fond of being on the receiving end of.
“If you do not mean it,” he said, “then kindly refrain from saying it.” he held his gaze to the Doctor’s, who wavered a bit, but appeared to remain calm.
“Point taken,” said the Doctor, once again leaning back in his chair, “You’re much more outspoken then I thought you’d be. I’d put you down as more of a ‘head-stuck-quietly-in-a-good-book’ sort of man.”
“Do I amuse you?” Smith asked, “is the fact that I am not buried in non-existent reading material somehow funny to you?”
“Not really,” said the Doctor, losing a bit of the confidence he’d clearly held earlier, “It’s just interesting.”
“I am not interesting to you, I am boring to you,” Smith shot back, “I am the man with a life, a love, and a home, with a job to wake up to and a place to settle down. Would you honestly choose to live my life?”
“Maybe,” said the Doctor, “You’d be surprised.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Because you can’t,” said Smith, unsure of exactly where all this sudden confidence was coming from, “you could never lead a life like that. You have to pretend. You have to masquerade as some kind of made up character, giving them everything you can’t have, letting them live, and breath, and think, and love, and then tear it away from them when you deem it convenient.”
“I am sorry,” the Doctor attempted to interrupt, “Mr. Smith, I am very, very sorry about this, but -“
“But I have to die,” he said, holding his gaze as the Doctor’s faltered, “I may not be real, I may be of your creation, but that does not make me your child, do not speak to me as if I were.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry,” said the Doctor, quietly, and for the first time since they’d properly met, he sounded sincere.
“Thank you,” Smith replied, equally as quiet, with a certain amount of shock.
Throughout his life, throughout his story, he had never been a man particularly fond of speaking up. He hid behind books and journals, occasionally turning his true thoughts into written words, but for the most part when something bothered him, or when he disagreed, he kept it hidden. He kept it quiet. He was never loud, never commanding; he simply let things go.
Until this moment. Now, on the brink of his own death, he had finally chosen the other path.
“Are you scared?” the Doctor asked.
“Quite,” he admitted. The Doctor nodded, understanding. He did not try to protect him, he noticed, he did not try to be reassuring. He no longer thought of him as simply a storybook to be thrown away, he was now a man. A scared, shy man forced to face his own death completely on his own.
His vision started to blur. The table in front of them disappeared, the chairs vanished, and he was suddenly thrown to the ground. “It’s starting,” he said, slightly panicked.
“The biology’s finished reverting,” said the Doctor, “my mind’s reasserting dominance.”
“I’m dying.”
“Yes.”
The white room continued to grow darker and darker till it was nothing more than a faint glow in the ever-expanding dark. What came next for him? Where was he going? What the dark all that existed of the afterlife? Would his soul rise to be joined by those few real people he’d known and loved, or would he remain here, unmoving and alone in the vast, immeasurable dark?
In the remaining light, he saw the outline of the Doctor fading quickly as everything else.
“Thank you,” said the Doctor, his voice now far, far away, “John Smith. Goodbye.”
He felt himself fall, the light vanished, and in that moment, John Smith faded to black.
Muse: John Smith
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,274