Incentive fic: "Dexter, Sinister" (for anon_aspasia)
Title: "Dexter, Sinister"
Author: dameruth
Characters: Nine, Ten, Rose
Series: None/standalone
Rating: G/All Ages
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Doctor changes, and so do his hands. Written for anon_aspasia, who requested a triple-drabble to the prompt: "One on Nine's hands, one on Ten's hands, and one that brings the two previous pieces together (metaphorically, that is)." This fic didn't end up dividing itself so neatly into three segments as all that, but it's around 440 words (140 more than necessary) and I hope it pleases, anyway. :)
His hands change, even though they're always his hands.
Sometimes they're good with musical instruments, conjurer's tricks or martial arts. Sometimes they aren't. Some lives, a touch of his fingers can paralyze an enemy, create a bridge between his mind and another's, or sense the age of objects from the subtle vibrations of Time.
It's an odd thing, never knowing what your hands will do until they do it.
--
It's come down to this, again: his hands on the lever that will spread death and destruction, destroying friend, foe and innocent alike. He's done it before and he knows the cost if he fails. But he's not the same man and his hands have changed, too. They cannot kill, not on this scale, and neither can he.
They're coward's hands, but that's fine; he can live -- and die -- with that.
At peace, finally knowing himself, he spreads his arms wide, closes his eyes, and makes the coward's choice.
--
He sometimes wonders if there isn't a kind of reason (or at least a rhyme) behind regeneration; often his new self seems designed to conquer whatever situation ended his preceding life. Lamarck might have been right, at least about Time Lords.
He balls his new hands into fists in his coat pockets as he stares up into snow that isn't snow falling softly to the surface of the Earth, and he knows: it's not just a fighting hand he has now, it's a killing hand. Weapons feel comfortable in it, whether sword or satsuma, and oh, he's good with them.
No more cowardice, not this life, not if he follows the gifts his new hands give him.
He swallows against revulsion. No, he thinks. I will not be . . . this. I refuse. I will not touch a weapon again if I can help it. I am a Lord of Time, not a pawn of fate.
Just then, Rose breaks into his thoughts and slips her hand into his (after a moment's hesitation, but he knows it's just because she saw it growing unexpectedly from a severed stump, not because she senses its true, terrible potential); their fingers intertwine, palms clasped together.
When his killing hand is holding someone else's, it can't hold a weapon. It can be just an ordinary (hairy, manly) hand. The knowledge is liberating and he rides the warm swell of relief gratefully, the tightness between his hearts easing. He can do this, with a little help. He can be what he wants to be, not what he is.
His hands may change but he calls the shots -- because they're his hands.
Author: dameruth
Characters: Nine, Ten, Rose
Series: None/standalone
Rating: G/All Ages
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Doctor changes, and so do his hands. Written for anon_aspasia, who requested a triple-drabble to the prompt: "One on Nine's hands, one on Ten's hands, and one that brings the two previous pieces together (metaphorically, that is)." This fic didn't end up dividing itself so neatly into three segments as all that, but it's around 440 words (140 more than necessary) and I hope it pleases, anyway. :)
His hands change, even though they're always his hands.
Sometimes they're good with musical instruments, conjurer's tricks or martial arts. Sometimes they aren't. Some lives, a touch of his fingers can paralyze an enemy, create a bridge between his mind and another's, or sense the age of objects from the subtle vibrations of Time.
It's an odd thing, never knowing what your hands will do until they do it.
--
It's come down to this, again: his hands on the lever that will spread death and destruction, destroying friend, foe and innocent alike. He's done it before and he knows the cost if he fails. But he's not the same man and his hands have changed, too. They cannot kill, not on this scale, and neither can he.
They're coward's hands, but that's fine; he can live -- and die -- with that.
At peace, finally knowing himself, he spreads his arms wide, closes his eyes, and makes the coward's choice.
--
He sometimes wonders if there isn't a kind of reason (or at least a rhyme) behind regeneration; often his new self seems designed to conquer whatever situation ended his preceding life. Lamarck might have been right, at least about Time Lords.
He balls his new hands into fists in his coat pockets as he stares up into snow that isn't snow falling softly to the surface of the Earth, and he knows: it's not just a fighting hand he has now, it's a killing hand. Weapons feel comfortable in it, whether sword or satsuma, and oh, he's good with them.
No more cowardice, not this life, not if he follows the gifts his new hands give him.
He swallows against revulsion. No, he thinks. I will not be . . . this. I refuse. I will not touch a weapon again if I can help it. I am a Lord of Time, not a pawn of fate.
Just then, Rose breaks into his thoughts and slips her hand into his (after a moment's hesitation, but he knows it's just because she saw it growing unexpectedly from a severed stump, not because she senses its true, terrible potential); their fingers intertwine, palms clasped together.
When his killing hand is holding someone else's, it can't hold a weapon. It can be just an ordinary (hairy, manly) hand. The knowledge is liberating and he rides the warm swell of relief gratefully, the tightness between his hearts easing. He can do this, with a little help. He can be what he wants to be, not what he is.
His hands may change but he calls the shots -- because they're his hands.