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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[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.

"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."

[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."

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.

[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.

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.

[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.