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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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 not a very strong one. The Doctor's brown eyes darted back to the Eighth's face again and he frowned again. Then, suddenly, he pointed a finger at the other Doctor angrily, shaking it as he did so.
"You've got ginger streaks in your hair! I can see it under the lights! Oh, that's just fine. That's just bloody brilliant."
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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?"
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"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.
"You know what? Keep at it," he spat, turning round on his heel and causing his coat to whirl around him. After taking a few steps away he spun back around, his trainers squeaking on the marble. "You just keep reading and dog-earing pages. Researching. Out of their books. In the meantime I'll just be playing ping-pong, of course! Right side better than locking myself away in one of their bleeding rooms."
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"If it means that we can get these people out of here and back to their own lives," the Doctor continued in a rigidly controlled tone, "then I'll use anything the Hotel gives me! Why are you doing this? Biting my head off, just because I'm doing the best I can, what's the matter with you? We were never this petty, not even in our sixth. What do you suggest, then? A hunger strike? Holding your breath until you turn mauve? You're already having a temper tantrum, so that's off the list." The Doctor turned his head to the side, muttering just loud enough for a Time Lord to hear, "Didn't know I'd go senile in my old age."
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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."
He scoffed and knocked one of the books off the desk and onto the floor, then turned to head for the door again. "You ought to be out there with them. That's the good we can offer." The Tenth Doctor stopped once he was right at the door and looked over his shoulder. "For the romantic I once was, I sure didn't get the important points."
The frustration, anger, shame, and fear were swirling inside of him. His temper was too heavy to lift much longer and he didn't have any logical attacks to offer. He'd needed peace before, and as he stood there with his hand clutching the doorknob, the Doctor's legs felt weak beneath him. His shoulders hunched and his eyes were darkened. He hadn't meant to start this. But it hadn't been a conscious choice - the stinging he felt upon seeing his Eighth face couldn't be silenced.
He felt even more isolated, and as much as he tried to hide the sudden exhaustion and keep his anger fluidly apparent, he couldn't look the other Doctor in the eye. No good would come of this. He should probably leave.
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"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."
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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.
Useless.
His 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.
With the silent oppressive enough to strangle him, the emotions and dread and misery tenfold what it had been before he'd arrived at the library, the Doctor turned back toward the door and slowly twisted the handle. He didn't look back to his former incarnation, just quietly swung the door open and walked over the threshold, letting it firmly shut behind him.
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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.
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