(Untitled)

[who_never_would]

A familiar sound echoes through the nearby area - the sound of TARDIS, though a few new frequencies decorate the melody of her engines. The old, blue police box fades into view. As soon as it's entirely solidified, the door opens, and a young man steps out, closing the door behind him gently. He stands there for a few seconds, one hand on the wood

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[who_never_would]

The Doctor's black eyes dart to the hand on his shoulder. If his other is listening, there's the faint echo of drums, yes, those drums, but just for a second, for a tiny, shimmering flash. The memory of them, and the hungry, insatiable need for the pounding to return to his skull. There are loose ends all over the place - this Doctor's mind is like a frayed tapestry, rather than a complete picture. The initial image is distorted into near incomprehensibility. Only the colours and the vague shapes are the same.

The Doctor looks up from the hand to the the eyes of his other, apprehension on his face. His posture is held in the manner of a hunted thing. A man who would rather run than be forced to look at what he used to be. He does not run, but the desire is clear.

"Really," he asks, calmed, far from being at ease. "Can you really? This is my fault, I understand that. I could have stopped it. Any time, anywhere, I could have stopped it, gone back to traveling. Gone back to finding people and trying to show them a better way of living. I could have, and then again, I couldn't. I'd see Rose, walking off with our metacrisis. Donna, not even recognizing our face."

Pain flickers into the apprehension. The Doctor's eyes flick to one side.

"...And the last time she ran out of the TARDIS... that one last time, ohh, because she'd done it before, I was used to it by then, she'd screamed at me, called me inhuman, called me cruel. I didn't wait for her."