justprompts: unintended
Character: The Human Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who; spoilers up to the end of season 4
Word Count: 3,249
Notes: thanks to fan2hoobastank for looking this over for me.
Prompt: for justprompts;
You could be my unintended
Choice to live my life extended
You could be the one I'll always love - Muse, "Unintended"
"For my next trick, we'll be flooding that weapons room with water rerouted from the emergency sprinklers. Big building, after all, and all that dormant water just wants somewhere to go, I'm sure! Flood the room, flood the floor, flood the building! And I don't think bombs very much like swimming, Rose, which is hard to imagine. How could anything not like swimming? Unless, well, you're allergic to water, which, come to think of it, a number of species are. Take the Wicked Witch of the West, for example! So I suppose I'd have to limit the enjoyment of swimming it to non-evil-Ozians, and even further to organisms originating from Earth, although doesn't local lore seem to hold that cats don't like getting w--"
"Doctor," Rose cuts in. "Bit of focus, yeah?"
Ah, his mind was wandering again.
The room was stark white -- and it felt familiar to him, though he couldn't quite place its use. Even so, he couldn't shake this feeling that this room ought to be white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. It made things look more advanced, maybe. Sleek. People liked sleek. He used to use a lot of white in the TARDIS. It was serious and showed he couldn't be bothered with trivialities such as color palettes. Because white went with everything, Donna had said to him once, and she had shoved a shirt at him immediately afterwards. White went with everything because it wasn't a color. But white was everything, if one wanted to get into the technicalities of optics, so it would logically follow that it would, indeed, go with everything. And it was a bit overwhelming, that one thing could be both everything and nothing at once. How could it handle being such a unique fixture?
( Doctor? )
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he didn't like it. This table was too cushiony. Not springy. He liked springs. They were useful for so many things -- bouncing, for one. And sometimes Donna had to scold him for getting distracted by hopping while they were running for their lives (hopping was always so useful, too). But bouncing was fun. Especially on beds, and he'd gotten into so much trouble, sometimes, because he would bounce on a bed when he thought he was alone but actually wasn't and really, he didn't mean any harm by it, and he would've replaced the mattress if he had done any real damage, but they never seemed to care about that.
( Doctor! )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. Hum hum hum. It was soft, that humming, but it wasn't soothing. Not like the TARDIS, whose humming was soft and soothing, like a lullaby, like a reassurance that she was keeping him safe. He missed her these days -- had missed her since the moment she was gone; but mostly he missed her quiet song in his head.
No, this noise was quiet, high-pitched, and he thought he heard some sort of whirring noise nearby. He didn't know if he liked the whirring -- but the more he listened to it, the more he nervous he became of it. It sounded dangerous and sinister, like things were spinning around too fast, too fast--
"Oh, very good," he says, clearly impressed, "maybe even a bit brilliant! I haven't seen anything this advanced in a long time, not anything from Earth, anyway. 'Cause this is all remarkably advanced, but you, mate, you've never met me! Over a hundred words a minute!" The Doctor spins his chair around long enough to waggle his fingers at the captive hacker before hurling himself back into his work.
"You're good, I admit," he continues, "but--! I'm afraid I'm so much better. 'Cause, did you know, all I've gotta do is take out all of your little firewalls in one fell swoop and poke them over like dominoes; and I'll be doing that by reprogramming your protocol analyzer and making it overly sensitive to anomalous behavior, which if I'm right (and I usually am), should trigger your intrusion-prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention--"
He gasps.
"Doctor?" There's an edge of worry in Rose's voice when she speaks. "What's happening?"
( Doctor! Please, come on, focus. )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. And now there was some sort of strap pushing down on his forehead, keeping his head in place. He didn't like it, now that it was there, and it was uncomfortable, not because it was too tight but because it was there. He suddenly felt trapped, caged, and he didn't like it and he tried to get up, tried to move, but he couldn't. Something was holding him down. And he was suddenly afraid, suddenly terrified--
"Doctor, they've teleported!"
"Working on it!" He frantically yanks at levers and flips at switches. "Just one more minute, alright? One more minute, c'mon! oh, you bloody-- This flippin' thing is held together with chewing gum and shoelaces!" He kicks hard at the console's base, and grins when the buttons' lights brighten.
"Ha!" he suddenly cries. "That's more like it, you rickety old heap of junk! One more minute, Rose. Well, more like thirty seconds, now. Just give me a bit, and those Garraxian soldiers will be back on Earth in a jiffy, jiffy, spiffy, niffy, miffy, tiffy, priffy, privy, pretty, prissy--"
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. He couldn't focus on anything, couldn't stop his gaze from darting around the stark white room. There weren't any shadows in here. There was so much light, and it hurt his eyes, bounced off of the colorless and colorful walls; and it was hot, he realized, so hot that perspiration was making his shirt stick to his skin at the collar, around his neck, and it was uncomfortable and damp and he wished someone would turn on a fan.
( Doctor, look at me. )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing, thoughts zipping around at what felt like the speed of light, and it was only then that he realized that his head was throbbing, causing him so much pain that it reverberated through every ounce in him. Every bit of him ached, and he was writhing on that too cushiony table, trying instinctively to curl around the hurt but it was everywhere.
"What's happening to you?" He feels Rose's hand on his shoulder and he flinches away, curling up tighter around his head. He's shaking all over, almost convulsing, and Rose tries again to steady him. His hand is pulled away away from where it's tangled into his hair, and he grips her hand tightly instead, so tightly. "Doctor, you have to tell me what's happening!"
"My head," and his strained voice is barely above a hiss; normally he would've cursed himself for this weakness. "It's too much, it's too much, it's too much, much, much, much, much, much, much--" He gasps, and his mind suddenly unclouds for a brief second -- or maybe everything gets so muddled that it makes sense. "Funny how words lose their meaning," he observes. "Bunch of syllables thrown together for convenience -- say something enough and it starts to make no sense, cents, tense, fence--"
Everything hits again in full force. When he groans it turns into something between a laugh and a sob, and he reaches out for her.
( Come on, I've got you, Doctor. Just focus on me. )
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing, and he couldn't stop thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking. Thoughts instantaneously appeared in his mind, bursting into being and vying for attention, but there was so much going on his head, so much rising to the surface, so much, so much, so much--
"What do we do?"
"Nothing." He stares down at the table, gripping his mug of tea and letting the heated glass bite at his palms. His head aches a bit, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been, wasn't as bad as it was yesterday. The pain killers only work so much. "There's nothing. I thought I would be alright, I was hoping I would be alright, because I'm still basically a Time Lord -- just downgraded. That's probably why it's taken so long. But this is still a Human-Time Lord metacrisis, and there's never been one before for good reason."
"You have to think of something, Doctor. You can't just give up! It's not like you."
He doesn't reply.
"And you want me to just sit back and watch?"
He glares at her, suddenly angry -- but not at her. Never at Rose. No, he's angry at himself, and he hates himself for lying to her. "I'm telling you, there's nothing to be done."
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down, down, down, down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum hum, hum, hum, hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing spacing casing lacing racing. He couldn't stop thinking, and it was burning him, burning, burning, burning through him, and he wanted it to stop, please stop, stop, stop, stop, stop--
( Please, just look at me. You have to fight it, Doctor, you have to focus, just for a little while. )
He felt a hand on his cheek, and he tried so hard to center himself on that simple touch, to use it as an anchor, but it was so difficult. Stray thoughts whizzed around, shifted his focus, knocked away his grip. It was like hanging on to a rope and trying to pull himself to safety in a storm. But after what felt like ages, he had forced the confusion in his mind down to a dull roar.
"R-Rose," he croaked, his voice barely audible. He tried to smile.
"What about Donna, then?"
The Doctor blinks and looks up from his computer monitor, looks up at Rose with her arms crossed over her chest, defiance and determination written all over her; he feels something drop in his stomach, and he knows where this conversation is headed. He still finds himself asking, "What about her?"
"Is she dead?" Her voice is flat and low -- it's the same one she uses when she's trying to detach herself, when she's closing herself off to keep from getting hurt. "No matter what had happened to her, would you have let her die?"
"Of course I wouldn't have." His temper flares, and he wants to kick himself for rising to her bait; but his control isn't what it used to be, and it's harder to focus now, with his head aching and his mind buzzing constantly.
"Then tell me this, Doctor." She unfolds her arms and puts her hands on the Doctor's desk, leaning towards him -- he wonders if this is some sort of intimidation tactic. "Back in that world, back in the TARDIS, would Donna have died because of this?"
He can only hold her gaze for a moment longer before he stares back at the monitor. At length, he answers, "No," and he quickly adds, "but you don't understand."
"I won't understand if you don't tell me," she shoots back, and her frustration is almost palpable. "So? Explain it to me."
"Doctor," she whispered, and he could feel her pushing his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead.
It's so difficult, almost impossible, but he managed to speak again. "F-Feels like it's been, been, been, been a-a-ages."
Rose shook her head, and he saw trails of tears standing out against her cheeks. "Just an hour. Me and dad, we were getting everything ready."
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place, but if he moved just a bit, he could see a huge window on the opposite wall, and a room full of equipment.
He tried once more to speak, to ask What's happening? -- but his voice stuck on the first word, repeating the first syllable a half dozen times.
But she understood. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm so sorry."
"But you can't seriously expect me to do nothing."
"You're not understanding."
"I think I'm understanding perfectly. You said you'd survive this if we wiped your memory, right? And Torchwood's got the technology to do it--"
"You're not understanding," he repeats, drawing out the words as though doing so would make them easier to comprehend. "You would have to wipe it all from my mind. All of it. Everything I am, everything I was. Because you can't just erase my memories of you and Donna and these past two generations -- my only have one heart is going to be a huge clue, after all. And the minute I start picking away at the fragments of memories, I'd just be a ticking time bomb again." He pauses for breath, and when he does so, he puts his hand against Rose's cheek. "I'd have to have a completely new life -- one without you."
The Doctor was screaming, twisting and turning on the cushioned table while Rose tried ineffectually to keep him still. A Time Lord consciousness was too much for any human to handle the Doctor had told her, and now he was no exception. Accessing all of that knowledged had been more dangerous than he had expected, he had said, and his Time Lord mind was burning through him, and they both knew, somehow, that there wasn't much time left. After a minute, his pain eased down, and his screams faded into a whimper.
She comes running when she hears a crash, and she finds him in the kitchen, a shattered mug and spilled coffee pooling beside him. These moments were happening with increasing frequency, where he lost control and the flood gates were opened, and he could only just barely regain himself.
He's writhing on the floor now, backed up against the lower cupboards. But this isn't like the other times, Rose quickly realizes -- because instead of his usual muffled groans, he screams in absolute agony, slamming the back of his head against the doors as though his body can barely handle the pain.
This time, Rose is afraid it really can't. And the Doctor doesn't know that she and her father had already quietly prepared themselves for the worst.
Despite the chaos of his mind, he realized what was happening. He struggled, but he didn't have the strength to push Rose away and couldn't stop her from placing the coil around his head.
She cradled his cheek with her hand, and she rested her other hand on his chest, feeling his frantic heartbeat.
"Please," he begged, and it took everything for him to drag the words out. "You can't, can't, ca--"
She swallowed down a sob and shook her head. "We don't have much time. It's for the best, Doctor."
"No! I want to-- I want to--" he broke off with a gasp as pain washed over him again, and he held on to both of Rose's arms as he waited for it to pass.
"You're dying," she answered. His grip on her arms was almost vice-like despite his shaking. She knew he was struggling to speak, but his eyes said everything-- Don't do this. "It's what you would have done, Doctor."
And his breathing became more frenzied as he shook his head, but the hands on her arms began to loosen. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, now. "Please-- I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't-- I d-d-don't-- don't--" His voice was getting softer and his entire body was starting to relax, though he tried to fight against it. He spasmed again, letting out a cry, but he was quick to regain control. "Don't-- please. . ."
She didn't speak -- she couldn't, not then. The lump in her throat wouldn't allow it.
"R-Rose. . . I-- l-lo--"
She pressed a kiss to his lips and pulled back. She whispered, "I know."
Beneath her palm, the Doctor's single heart began to slow.
He holds her hands tightly in his. "Everything I am right now is because of you. The only way to keep me alive is if you take all of that away from me."
The tears swim in her eyes, but she won't let them fall. "I don't want to lose you, Doctor."
"And I don't want to lose you, either."
His eyes slid shut, and his arms dropped to his sides. He was horribly still on the table.
And it was horribly still in that stark white room.
A long moment later, Rose's hushed sobs joined the soft noise of the hum and whir of machinery.
Fandom: Doctor Who; spoilers up to the end of season 4
Word Count: 3,249
Notes: thanks to fan2hoobastank for looking this over for me.
Prompt: for justprompts;
You could be my unintended
Choice to live my life extended
You could be the one I'll always love - Muse, "Unintended"
"For my next trick, we'll be flooding that weapons room with water rerouted from the emergency sprinklers. Big building, after all, and all that dormant water just wants somewhere to go, I'm sure! Flood the room, flood the floor, flood the building! And I don't think bombs very much like swimming, Rose, which is hard to imagine. How could anything not like swimming? Unless, well, you're allergic to water, which, come to think of it, a number of species are. Take the Wicked Witch of the West, for example! So I suppose I'd have to limit the enjoyment of swimming it to non-evil-Ozians, and even further to organisms originating from Earth, although doesn't local lore seem to hold that cats don't like getting w--"
"Doctor," Rose cuts in. "Bit of focus, yeah?"
Ah, his mind was wandering again.
The room was stark white -- and it felt familiar to him, though he couldn't quite place its use. Even so, he couldn't shake this feeling that this room ought to be white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. It made things look more advanced, maybe. Sleek. People liked sleek. He used to use a lot of white in the TARDIS. It was serious and showed he couldn't be bothered with trivialities such as color palettes. Because white went with everything, Donna had said to him once, and she had shoved a shirt at him immediately afterwards. White went with everything because it wasn't a color. But white was everything, if one wanted to get into the technicalities of optics, so it would logically follow that it would, indeed, go with everything. And it was a bit overwhelming, that one thing could be both everything and nothing at once. How could it handle being such a unique fixture?
( Doctor? )
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he didn't like it. This table was too cushiony. Not springy. He liked springs. They were useful for so many things -- bouncing, for one. And sometimes Donna had to scold him for getting distracted by hopping while they were running for their lives (hopping was always so useful, too). But bouncing was fun. Especially on beds, and he'd gotten into so much trouble, sometimes, because he would bounce on a bed when he thought he was alone but actually wasn't and really, he didn't mean any harm by it, and he would've replaced the mattress if he had done any real damage, but they never seemed to care about that.
( Doctor! )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. Hum hum hum. It was soft, that humming, but it wasn't soothing. Not like the TARDIS, whose humming was soft and soothing, like a lullaby, like a reassurance that she was keeping him safe. He missed her these days -- had missed her since the moment she was gone; but mostly he missed her quiet song in his head.
No, this noise was quiet, high-pitched, and he thought he heard some sort of whirring noise nearby. He didn't know if he liked the whirring -- but the more he listened to it, the more he nervous he became of it. It sounded dangerous and sinister, like things were spinning around too fast, too fast--
"Oh, very good," he says, clearly impressed, "maybe even a bit brilliant! I haven't seen anything this advanced in a long time, not anything from Earth, anyway. 'Cause this is all remarkably advanced, but you, mate, you've never met me! Over a hundred words a minute!" The Doctor spins his chair around long enough to waggle his fingers at the captive hacker before hurling himself back into his work.
"You're good, I admit," he continues, "but--! I'm afraid I'm so much better. 'Cause, did you know, all I've gotta do is take out all of your little firewalls in one fell swoop and poke them over like dominoes; and I'll be doing that by reprogramming your protocol analyzer and making it overly sensitive to anomalous behavior, which if I'm right (and I usually am), should trigger your intrusion-prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention, prevention--"
He gasps.
"Doctor?" There's an edge of worry in Rose's voice when she speaks. "What's happening?"
( Doctor! Please, come on, focus. )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. And now there was some sort of strap pushing down on his forehead, keeping his head in place. He didn't like it, now that it was there, and it was uncomfortable, not because it was too tight but because it was there. He suddenly felt trapped, caged, and he didn't like it and he tried to get up, tried to move, but he couldn't. Something was holding him down. And he was suddenly afraid, suddenly terrified--
"Doctor, they've teleported!"
"Working on it!" He frantically yanks at levers and flips at switches. "Just one more minute, alright? One more minute, c'mon! oh, you bloody-- This flippin' thing is held together with chewing gum and shoelaces!" He kicks hard at the console's base, and grins when the buttons' lights brighten.
"Ha!" he suddenly cries. "That's more like it, you rickety old heap of junk! One more minute, Rose. Well, more like thirty seconds, now. Just give me a bit, and those Garraxian soldiers will be back on Earth in a jiffy, jiffy, spiffy, niffy, miffy, tiffy, priffy, privy, pretty, prissy--"
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. He couldn't focus on anything, couldn't stop his gaze from darting around the stark white room. There weren't any shadows in here. There was so much light, and it hurt his eyes, bounced off of the colorless and colorful walls; and it was hot, he realized, so hot that perspiration was making his shirt stick to his skin at the collar, around his neck, and it was uncomfortable and damp and he wished someone would turn on a fan.
( Doctor, look at me. )
Ah, his mind was wandering again, wasn't it.
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing, thoughts zipping around at what felt like the speed of light, and it was only then that he realized that his head was throbbing, causing him so much pain that it reverberated through every ounce in him. Every bit of him ached, and he was writhing on that too cushiony table, trying instinctively to curl around the hurt but it was everywhere.
"What's happening to you?" He feels Rose's hand on his shoulder and he flinches away, curling up tighter around his head. He's shaking all over, almost convulsing, and Rose tries again to steady him. His hand is pulled away away from where it's tangled into his hair, and he grips her hand tightly instead, so tightly. "Doctor, you have to tell me what's happening!"
"My head," and his strained voice is barely above a hiss; normally he would've cursed himself for this weakness. "It's too much, it's too much, it's too much, much, much, much, much, much, much--" He gasps, and his mind suddenly unclouds for a brief second -- or maybe everything gets so muddled that it makes sense. "Funny how words lose their meaning," he observes. "Bunch of syllables thrown together for convenience -- say something enough and it starts to make no sense, cents, tense, fence--"
Everything hits again in full force. When he groans it turns into something between a laugh and a sob, and he reaches out for her.
( Come on, I've got you, Doctor. Just focus on me. )
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing, and he couldn't stop thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking. Thoughts instantaneously appeared in his mind, bursting into being and vying for attention, but there was so much going on his head, so much rising to the surface, so much, so much, so much--
"What do we do?"
"Nothing." He stares down at the table, gripping his mug of tea and letting the heated glass bite at his palms. His head aches a bit, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been, wasn't as bad as it was yesterday. The pain killers only work so much. "There's nothing. I thought I would be alright, I was hoping I would be alright, because I'm still basically a Time Lord -- just downgraded. That's probably why it's taken so long. But this is still a Human-Time Lord metacrisis, and there's never been one before for good reason."
"You have to think of something, Doctor. You can't just give up! It's not like you."
He doesn't reply.
"And you want me to just sit back and watch?"
He glares at her, suddenly angry -- but not at her. Never at Rose. No, he's angry at himself, and he hates himself for lying to her. "I'm telling you, there's nothing to be done."
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down, down, down, down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum hum, hum, hum, hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place. His body felt so tired, so exhausted, but his mind was racing spacing casing lacing racing. He couldn't stop thinking, and it was burning him, burning, burning, burning through him, and he wanted it to stop, please stop, stop, stop, stop, stop--
( Please, just look at me. You have to fight it, Doctor, you have to focus, just for a little while. )
He felt a hand on his cheek, and he tried so hard to center himself on that simple touch, to use it as an anchor, but it was so difficult. Stray thoughts whizzed around, shifted his focus, knocked away his grip. It was like hanging on to a rope and trying to pull himself to safety in a storm. But after what felt like ages, he had forced the confusion in his mind down to a dull roar.
"R-Rose," he croaked, his voice barely audible. He tried to smile.
"What about Donna, then?"
The Doctor blinks and looks up from his computer monitor, looks up at Rose with her arms crossed over her chest, defiance and determination written all over her; he feels something drop in his stomach, and he knows where this conversation is headed. He still finds himself asking, "What about her?"
"Is she dead?" Her voice is flat and low -- it's the same one she uses when she's trying to detach herself, when she's closing herself off to keep from getting hurt. "No matter what had happened to her, would you have let her die?"
"Of course I wouldn't have." His temper flares, and he wants to kick himself for rising to her bait; but his control isn't what it used to be, and it's harder to focus now, with his head aching and his mind buzzing constantly.
"Then tell me this, Doctor." She unfolds her arms and puts her hands on the Doctor's desk, leaning towards him -- he wonders if this is some sort of intimidation tactic. "Back in that world, back in the TARDIS, would Donna have died because of this?"
He can only hold her gaze for a moment longer before he stares back at the monitor. At length, he answers, "No," and he quickly adds, "but you don't understand."
"I won't understand if you don't tell me," she shoots back, and her frustration is almost palpable. "So? Explain it to me."
"Doctor," she whispered, and he could feel her pushing his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead.
It's so difficult, almost impossible, but he managed to speak again. "F-Feels like it's been, been, been, been a-a-ages."
Rose shook her head, and he saw trails of tears standing out against her cheeks. "Just an hour. Me and dad, we were getting everything ready."
The room was stark white -- they were always stark white, these sorts of rooms, and he didn't know why. He was lying down on something soft, some sort of cushioned table. His head was resting on something cushioned, as well, sort of cradled there. He could hear the hum of machinery nearby. There was a strap across his forehead, keeping his head in place, but if he moved just a bit, he could see a huge window on the opposite wall, and a room full of equipment.
He tried once more to speak, to ask What's happening? -- but his voice stuck on the first word, repeating the first syllable a half dozen times.
But she understood. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm so sorry."
"But you can't seriously expect me to do nothing."
"You're not understanding."
"I think I'm understanding perfectly. You said you'd survive this if we wiped your memory, right? And Torchwood's got the technology to do it--"
"You're not understanding," he repeats, drawing out the words as though doing so would make them easier to comprehend. "You would have to wipe it all from my mind. All of it. Everything I am, everything I was. Because you can't just erase my memories of you and Donna and these past two generations -- my only have one heart is going to be a huge clue, after all. And the minute I start picking away at the fragments of memories, I'd just be a ticking time bomb again." He pauses for breath, and when he does so, he puts his hand against Rose's cheek. "I'd have to have a completely new life -- one without you."
The Doctor was screaming, twisting and turning on the cushioned table while Rose tried ineffectually to keep him still. A Time Lord consciousness was too much for any human to handle the Doctor had told her, and now he was no exception. Accessing all of that knowledged had been more dangerous than he had expected, he had said, and his Time Lord mind was burning through him, and they both knew, somehow, that there wasn't much time left. After a minute, his pain eased down, and his screams faded into a whimper.
She comes running when she hears a crash, and she finds him in the kitchen, a shattered mug and spilled coffee pooling beside him. These moments were happening with increasing frequency, where he lost control and the flood gates were opened, and he could only just barely regain himself.
He's writhing on the floor now, backed up against the lower cupboards. But this isn't like the other times, Rose quickly realizes -- because instead of his usual muffled groans, he screams in absolute agony, slamming the back of his head against the doors as though his body can barely handle the pain.
This time, Rose is afraid it really can't. And the Doctor doesn't know that she and her father had already quietly prepared themselves for the worst.
Despite the chaos of his mind, he realized what was happening. He struggled, but he didn't have the strength to push Rose away and couldn't stop her from placing the coil around his head.
She cradled his cheek with her hand, and she rested her other hand on his chest, feeling his frantic heartbeat.
"Please," he begged, and it took everything for him to drag the words out. "You can't, can't, ca--"
She swallowed down a sob and shook her head. "We don't have much time. It's for the best, Doctor."
"No! I want to-- I want to--" he broke off with a gasp as pain washed over him again, and he held on to both of Rose's arms as he waited for it to pass.
"You're dying," she answered. His grip on her arms was almost vice-like despite his shaking. She knew he was struggling to speak, but his eyes said everything-- Don't do this. "It's what you would have done, Doctor."
And his breathing became more frenzied as he shook his head, but the hands on her arms began to loosen. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, now. "Please-- I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't-- I d-d-don't-- don't--" His voice was getting softer and his entire body was starting to relax, though he tried to fight against it. He spasmed again, letting out a cry, but he was quick to regain control. "Don't-- please. . ."
She didn't speak -- she couldn't, not then. The lump in her throat wouldn't allow it.
"R-Rose. . . I-- l-lo--"
She pressed a kiss to his lips and pulled back. She whispered, "I know."
Beneath her palm, the Doctor's single heart began to slow.
He holds her hands tightly in his. "Everything I am right now is because of you. The only way to keep me alive is if you take all of that away from me."
The tears swim in her eyes, but she won't let them fall. "I don't want to lose you, Doctor."
"And I don't want to lose you, either."
His eyes slid shut, and his arms dropped to his sides. He was horribly still on the table.
And it was horribly still in that stark white room.
A long moment later, Rose's hushed sobs joined the soft noise of the hum and whir of machinery.