Thinking Too Hard... (Open, Multiple Threads Welcome)

[incorrigibledoc]

There was a velvet-clad elbow resting on the top of the Library table, precariously close to a cup of tea, long since gone cold.  There was a set of fingernails drumming erratically on the varnished surface, fingernails bitten to the quick, a few tips smeared with red-orange blood.  There was a pair of blue eyes that stared unseeing at the open

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[badaboombah]

He was not accepting a room. Under any circumstances. Ever

[incorrigibledoc]

If the Doctor wanted to be alone with himself, he'd come to the right place.

The Doctor seated at the table pressed the heels of his hands into burning eyes, groaning softly. He was getting nowhere, had gotten nowhere, will be getting nowhere in the forseen future. It was too much, he thought, and he didn't have enough to combat it.

In the past, there had always been something, something to pry or jostle or leverage. Wires to cross, a guard to bribe or incapacitate, an evil overlord to befuddle with quick wits, something. But here there was nothing. No servants to conspire with, no doomsday bomb to disarm, nothing tangible. Only deadlocked doors and empty file cabinets and desert that went on for miles and miles before coming right back here. It was worse than prison. At least there, you had something to kick against. Here there was nothing

[badaboombah]

His eyes flickered toward the movement, his face still one indicating cheerful appreciation of how grand the library itself was.

Almost instantly that expression shattered. It was a wonder pieces of it didn't crack and splinter before visibly falling to the floor.

Something white hot danced across his mind's eye, scorching his thoughts and blinding him momentarily. Screams. Pain. And an orange sky. The sort of memories only war could bring. It was like he could smell the death, see it, on the man mere feet across from him.

The Time Lord just a few steps to his left. The me but not me standing right there in plain sight.

"It's you. It's really you." The words he spoke weren't a human's tongue, but his own language. A dead language he had no place using anymore. The guilt and repulsion swelled in his chest but he set his jaw and just kept staring. The Tenth Doctor's face had hardened into something fierce. Subdued, affected, and strained all at once. "Hello, Eillul."

[incorrigibledoc]

Apparently, it could be. One could be considered coincidence, two was suspicious, but three Doctors was just ridiculous. The Eighth Doctor wondered again if the Time Lords were behind this ghastly experiment, though what they stood to gain from it was beyond him.

"Yes, it's me," he answered in English, frowning briefly at the musical Gallifreyan syllables. It was odd, to be sure; usually the Doctor couldn't be bothered with any of the culture or heritage of his home planet. Perhaps he had gotten nostalgic in his old age. "And welcome to you, if it's possible to be welcome in a place like this. Rassilon's frilly knickers, this is becoming absurd!"

He fell into his seat again, rubbing a hand wearily across his face. "Make yourself at home, Doctor," he said with a sigh. "I expect that we may be in for a long haul. You've had the situation explained, I take it?"

[badaboombah]

Make yourself at home.

The Tenth Doctor's fists tightened at his sides and he realized he was clenching his teeth and not breathing. Careful, he reminded himself. Careful. His other self COULD NOT know of Gallifrey's destruction. Could not under any circumstances be informed of the War or its outcome.

For Rassilon's fucking sake, why was this happening to him?

When a Time Lord regenerated, they were for all intents and purposes a different person in nature while remaining the same identity. It was confusing, but basically it enabled trivial things like clothing tastes to differ as well as monumental things like one's state of mind and personality in general. Such as the dark shame and horror toward the War his Ninth self carried directly after regenerating.

But the Doctor could not allow this particular version of himself or any before him (which included the Fifth) to know he would eventually be the Last of his kind. As well as be personally responsible for the end of his race

[incorrigibledoc]

The animosity was indeed tangible. And confusing. The Eighth Doctor tried to dismiss it, chalk it up to the shock of suddenly arriving and the subsequent discoveries that followed... but it didn't seem complete. There was something else, something that prompted this chilliness from his future incarnation. But the Doctor had no idea what it was, and was becoming too tired to care.

"I've been here for months," he said, picking up a volume and idly turning it in his hands, reluctant to look up at his elder. "At least, it feels like months. Could be longer, or shorter. I don't know. But for all that length of time, I've never gone more than a few days without coming right back here, trying, as you say, to explain it."

And in all that time, that timeless time, I've poured over these same volumes, over and over until I feel as though I could recite their flawed logic by hearts. I don't know what I'll hope to achieve by running this treadmill, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I stop coming and reading. If I give up.He said

[badaboombah]

The Doctor furrowed his brow at his Eighth self, as well as the weak smile he was offered. It was all he could do to keep himself from scoffing.

What words! What useless, tired words he himself used to spin! And for what purpose? Who was there to encourage? Whose spirits were present to lift?

Not his own.

"I've only just arrived," the Tenth Doctor replied dryly. "Haven't tried out the room service yet. Are the beds comfy? Do the loo's come with a sauna?" He shook his head and ripped his fingers through his hair, causing it to mold into fluffy, high spikes again. The frustration was too much. He stood and crossed the distance between himself and the desk at which the Eighth Doctor sat. "I haven't got your precious knowledge anymore than these dusty volumes do," he snapped, picking up one of the heavier books and dropping it back on the desk's surface with a dramatic thud"Although! I have played ping pong. Not exactly the end-all, be-all answer, but it does for something, I think," he smiled, but it was a smile kept to himself and

[incorrigibledoc]

The Doctor's eyes widened in surprise at the diatribe before narrowing suddenly, his mouth pressed into a thin line while his hands tightened on the book in his hands. To hear his efforts scorned and belittled, to have his hopes trampled upon by someone who was supposed to fundamentally understand, by himself... It was bewildering. And frustrating. And angering.

Abruptly standing, the Doctor threw the volume onto the desk, relishing in the satisfactorily loud thud it made on the varnish. "So!" he said scornfully, his chin tilting upwards. "Since you consider yourself enough of an authority to criticize my efforts, I suppose I should leave the escape efforts in your ever-so-capable hands. After all, what are nine or so months of research and experimentation when compared to your skill at ping-pong?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes angry, his voice cold. "And what does my hair have to do with any of this?"

[badaboombah]

"NOTHING! Forget it! Just... figures!" the Doctor retorted nastily, so tightly wound he felt he was going to snap in two. Anything and everything his Eighth self said had to be carefully and cautiously endured, because as rude and goading as he was being it really wasn't the half of what he wanted to say.

"And as for my ping-pong accomplishments comparing to your--" He waved his hands wildly as he tried to find words "--Study hall, maybe you should actually consider the question you're asking me if you really want an answer!"

He actually did understand what the Eighth Doctor was doing. In fact, he'd come to the library to do the exact same thing. And the Doctor even had the beginnings of a theory. None of that was relevant to him at the moment, of course. He was too busy being snippish for reasons he knew he couldn't justify. Ugh, it was just too much. Rose. The TARDIS. Trapped. Jack. And now him. No. Just no, thank you kindly, but no, he didn't feel like sucking it up and just taking it in stride, no no no. No

[incorrigibledoc]

"Of course I'm using their books!" the Doctor snapped back at his tenth incarnation. He was angry, furious even, but under the anger he was confused as well. Why was his other self being so harsh, so insistent? The entire argument was pointless, petty and quickly becoming vicious, almost as if the Tenth bore him some form of grudge. The Eighth Doctor knew this, mostly. But his frustration and inaction had built to a head, so if a target chose to present itself, he would use it

[badaboombah]

"You haven't got a clue what you're talking about! So just shut it! You might as well be throwing the books at the wall for all the good you're doing these people," the Doctor roared. "Don't you dare assume anything about me. I know you, you could NEVER know me, and you haven't the foggiest idea about any of it!"

The Doctor bared his teeth and step closer to the desk, which was fortunately between them. He reached out regardless and gripped the velvet-frockcoated-shoulder, urging the Doctor none-too-gently to face him. "You know it, too. You're not researching, Theta. I know my own face. You're brooding. So don't talk to me about tantrums. Jack's in the same state; both of you so overly aware of this place you can't help yourselves anymore - much less anyone else

[incorrigibledoc]

The Doctor gritted his teeth as he walked around the desk, snatching the book from the floor and gripping it fiercely, the skin around his knuckles blanching white. Whether the Tenth Doctor had intended it or not, he still knew all the buttons to push, and knew what would happen if he pushed them. His barbs about the Doctor's ineffectiveness (push), his desire to help people (push), his lack of concrete knowledge (pushpushpush), all of it compiled together, pressing on his shoulders, churning in his guts.

"Get out," the Doctor growled at his counterpart, refusing to look at the Tenth, trying to keep his temper. "If you're just going to stand there and belittle me, my work, if you aren't going to do something... you're useless. Useless." He wasn't sure if he was talking about his tenth incarnation or himself, and he didn't want to find out. "So if that's all you intend, then do us both a favor and get out."

[badaboombah]

Useless.

It was but an echo of everything he'd been throwing at the Eighth Doctor for the past two minutes... and yet it stung. Stung because underneath everything, even the secret he was keeping, the reason for his repulsion and bitterness, the Doctor knew how horrible his other self felt. Knew that word was the one word capable of destroying them.

And if he went to the core of his anguish right now, it was Rose. He'd lost her. Watched her pull the lever. Watched her do what he couldn't. And then watched her slip away.

UselessHis desire to hurt the other Doctor stalled - that desire existing at all frightened him. He opened his mouth to say something but without ever knowing what it was going to be, snapped it shut again. There might've been a nod of his head, but if there was it was close to unnoticeable

[incorrigibledoc]

It was over, then. That was that. But the book still shook slightly in his grasp as the Doctor took deep, controlled breaths, trying to calm himself. A sickly combination of anger, confusion and doubt rose in the back of his throat as he mentally replayed the way he had been... attacked by his elder incarnation, for there was no other word for it. Attacked by a man that had looked as terrified and frustrated and miserable as the Doctor himself now felt. Why? Why had the Tenth lashed out in that way? What could have prompted him to say such hurtful things, accuse him of blindness and complacency and uselessness...

With a cry of frustration, the Doctor hurled the book at the closed door, taking no satisfaction from hearing it bounce off the wood and fall to the floor. He collapsed back into his seat, chewing on his last remaining fingernail, staring at the stacks of books that surrounded him, a prison of texts and facts. Meaningless. Useless.

For the first time since arriving at the Hotel, the Doctor was afraid.