Doctor Who fic: Moving On (1/1)
Title: Moving On (1/1)
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, with appearances from past incarnations of the Doctor
Timeline: Set post-"The End of Time Part 2"; mild spoilers
Summary: The Doctor finds himself in the company of his previous incarnations as they wait for the new Doctor to emerge from the regeneration
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the BBC
A/N: Many thanks to my beta meremoon. You rock! Posting to celebrate the premiere of season five on Saturday. Here's to another year of adventures in time and space!
The afterlife - the Time Lord version of it at any rate - turned out to be a pub.
The Doctor materialized a step over the threshold, like he was a spirit and no longer flesh and blood. And, in a way, he was a ghost, an echo of a man.
He wasn’t alone.
There were exactly nine other men in the pub. All of their faces were familiar to him. After all, he had, at one point in time, been all of them.
His former incarnations sat amongst the tables and booths scattered around the pub. At one table, his first and seventh selves played a game of chess, only rather than standard chess pieces like rooks and pawns, they used miniaturized people. In one corner, his fourth self lounged peacefully, with his feet propped up on the table and his chair leaned back against the wall, his colourful scarf thrown over his eyes to block out the lights. Near the back of the pub, his third and fifth selves were engaged in a game of darts. The scoreboard had them both tied. A piece of paper pinned next to the dart board kept track of previous games and the name “the Doctor” was written out nine times, with varying tallies under each. In another corner, his second, sixth, eighth, and ninth selves sat around a table playing a game of hearts. His most recent incarnation seemed to be losing the current round, judging by the scowl on his face and the pile of discarded cards in front of him.
Behind the bar stood an android. The Doctor quirked an eyebrow as he recognized the barman, or rather, the bar robot. The last time he had seen this particular invention, it had begged him to end its life.
“Hello, Doctor,” greeted Kamelion, stiffly nodding its head in his direction. The robot wore an apron and was cleaning a mug with a damp cloth.
The nine men all stopped what they were doing and looked up, finally noticing that they had a new addition.
“Took you long enough to get here,” said his ninth self.
“Where is ‘here’?” asked the Doctor, looking around the pub with a critical eye. The walls were covered with dozens of framed pictures. Glancing at one by the door, he saw it was a picture of himself in his first incarnation, standing at the TARDIS console with Susan, Ian, and Barbara. The picture was faded, the colours slowly being leeched away, but the image was still discernible.
“‘Here’, my boy?” His first incarnation tut softly, unable to believe the Doctor was actually asking the question. He made a move on the chess board. “This is our subconscious.”
The Doctor continued to take in the pub, his eyes roving over every detail. He started to see that all of the framed pictures featured him in his different personas with his various travelling companions. The pictures were fuller in colour as they went on. Various memorabilia also hung on the walls and among them he spotted the walking stick given to his first self by Kublai Kahn and the recorder kept by his second self. A hat stand by the door bore an Inverness coat favoured by his third persona, a felt hat worn by his fourth incarnation, the Panama hat sported by his fifth incarnation, and two umbrellas, one multi-coloured like his sixth incarnation and one with a question mark handle, undoubtedly the one carried by his seventh incarnation. Rather surprisingly, the Doctor noticed his own brown coat hung from the hat stand, but he had neither been wearing it when he entered nor did he have any memory of hanging it there.
A television mounted on brackets above the bar caught his eye. The screen showed only static, the white noise pouring from the speakers just above a whisper. In a room full of geniuses who could work mechanical wonders, it went largely unnoticed.
“This is where we spend the rest of eternity?” asked the Doctor. “In a ye olde English pub?”
“Not all of eternity, I’d imagine,” said his second persona. “Just until we reach our final regeneration.” He laid down his final card, his hands now empty, and he glanced around at his subsequent selves in triumph.
“I suppose it’s better than fading away completely,” added his fifth incarnation with a sigh. He let a dart fly and it struck near the centre of the board.
“You would say that,” muttered his sixth incarnation, pushing aside his pile of cards disdainfully. “Eternal optimist.”
“Don’t incite them,” advised his fourth self. He pushed aside his scarf to regard the Doctor and with a lazy grin, he held out a white paper bag. “Jelly baby?”
The Doctor ignored the offer and chose instead to wander over to the bar. He sat down heavily on one of the stools and slumped his shoulders, as if someone had turned up the gravity in the room. The static from the television above him sounded like the crashing of waves on a beach; if it was meant to be soothing, it wasn’t. He wasn’t used to being surrounded by his past selves. The only time it ever happened was when there was an emergency, and now he was left feeling like he should be running around, trying to fight back against a formidable foe. But there was no emergency and no one to fight.
The Doctor felt useless.
He had regenerated nine times before this, but he never wondered what happened to his earlier personalities; where they went after the new identity took over. The memories remained, of course, but the quirks and habits unique to each seemed to disappear. Now he knew each of his former selves just lingered in some forgotten part of their shared mind.
“Don’t you get bored?” asked the Doctor, looking around at his former selves. His gaze lingered on his ninth incarnation who had been here the least amount of time. “How can you just sit there?”
“Unfortunately, there’s not a lot we can do about it,” replied his eighth incarnation. With nimble hands, he shuffled the deck of cards. “There’s always a lull between regenerations. Our new self seems to be taking his time emerging.” He nodded his head at the television above the Doctor.
“He’s not taking nearly as much time as you took, old chap,” said his third persona. His dart went wide, striking the outer circle.
“Have you ever been shot in the chest?” countered his seventh incarnation. He pushed back the brim of his ever-present straw hat as he contemplated his next move on the chess board. “The outcome is far more traumatic than radiation exposure.” He rolled the “r” on radiation, amplifying the slight Scots accent he spoke with.
“Being forced to regenerate before my time was up was certainly no walk in the park either.”
“Oh, here we go,” his sixth incarnation said to his second incarnation, rolling his eyes.
“You smacked your head on the TARDIS console,” said his fifth self. “How is that more dignified?”
“Are you going to tell the story of how you sacrificed your life to save Peri’s?” asked his fourth incarnation, lowering his chair to the floor. Despite the look of rapt attention on his face, he wore a smile of mockery.
“For the three hundred and eighth time,” his third self added.
His first incarnation moaned wearily while his seventh persona claimed one of his pieces. “Why does this devolve into a competition every time our latest self arrives?”
The Doctor ignored all of the chatter as he turned his sights on the television. If it was their one link to the outside world, he was determined to fix it. The set was just out of his reach, as tall as he was. As he stepped up onto his stool, he idly wondered if their new incarnation would be taller or shorter.
The stool wobbled precariously, but two pairs of strong hands steadied him and his impromptu step ladder before he could tumble to the floor. He looked down and found his eighth and ninth selves assisting him. Both had chosen to avoid entering the bickering that had erupted amongst his younger selves. One might have thought it was age that set them apart. His eighth and ninth incarnations were, after all, the oldest incarnations in the room, aside from the Doctor himself. But the Doctor knew it was more than that. The three of them shared a connection that their other selves would never understand. They had fought in the Time War and suffered through its consequences. In a way, he was glad his younger selves would never have to go through that experience.
“I just wanted to say we know you did the right thing in the end,” said his eighth incarnation. Compared to his ninth incarnation and himself, the Doctor thought he looked so old-fashioned, in his Edwardian clothes. A man out of his element; that was who he had been while fighting the Time War.
The Doctor busied himself with removing the rear panel of the television and fiddling with the connections. Banishing his people back to the Time Lock had solved everything, but he chose not to admit that a minute part of him would have welcomed the return of Gallifrey. Seeing all of his companions again, even from a distance, had made him acutely aware how lonely he had been since he wiped Donna’s memories. He was so tired of being alone.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, though, could you? She might have seen your face.” His ninth persona leaned against the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t have to elaborate further for the Doctor to understand what he was referring to.
“You would have done the same,” the Doctor said with certainty. He glanced over at his counterpart with a grin and he saw those piercing blue eyes soften.
Within the depths of the television, he finally noticed a few loose connections. With the sonic screwdriver, he fastened everything back into place. The static sounding from the television ceased and the sudden absence of the white noise drew the attention of his younger selves, halting their quarrelling.
“Just a couple of loose wires,” said the Doctor, replacing the rear panel and hopping down from the stool. “Probably got jarred free.” Already the picture was beginning to clear.
Ten rapt faces watched the screen as the transmission cleared, showing an image of the TARDIS interior, or, at least what was left of it. The Doctor awkwardly scratched the back of his head. Had he really expelled enough regeneration energy to reduce the console room to ashes?
“I was never fond of that layout,” said his first incarnation. “Dreadful. It’s time we had a change.”
“Like all white again?” suggested the Doctor, meaning it as a joke.
He received seven murmurs of agreement.
He spun around so fast to face his other selves that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Are you serious? We might as well as go back to the steampunk setting.”
The outburst that followed seemed to hint that he had hit upon a sore spot. The nascent images from their new incarnation were forgotten as the ten Doctors debated the finer points of TARDIS console room design. Words like “appalling”, “boring”, and “leopard print” were tossed around along with other heated opinions.
The Doctor spared a glance back at the television. The new Doctor was emerging from the wreck of the TARDIS, clearly disoriented from the crash and the regeneration. He wobbled on his legs like a newborn giraffe, barely able to avoid the fires that licked at the pillars and at the console.
He was on his own, but there was no doubt he would find a willing companion to travel with him in no time. Because there was one notion the Doctor was certain remained in his new self’s mind despite the regeneration: the realization that the journey was better off with company.
In a language dead to the rest of the universe, he wished the Time Lord all the best.
Rating: G
Characters: Ten, with appearances from past incarnations of the Doctor
Timeline: Set post-"The End of Time Part 2"; mild spoilers
Summary: The Doctor finds himself in the company of his previous incarnations as they wait for the new Doctor to emerge from the regeneration
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to the BBC
A/N: Many thanks to my beta meremoon. You rock! Posting to celebrate the premiere of season five on Saturday. Here's to another year of adventures in time and space!
The afterlife - the Time Lord version of it at any rate - turned out to be a pub.
The Doctor materialized a step over the threshold, like he was a spirit and no longer flesh and blood. And, in a way, he was a ghost, an echo of a man.
He wasn’t alone.
There were exactly nine other men in the pub. All of their faces were familiar to him. After all, he had, at one point in time, been all of them.
His former incarnations sat amongst the tables and booths scattered around the pub. At one table, his first and seventh selves played a game of chess, only rather than standard chess pieces like rooks and pawns, they used miniaturized people. In one corner, his fourth self lounged peacefully, with his feet propped up on the table and his chair leaned back against the wall, his colourful scarf thrown over his eyes to block out the lights. Near the back of the pub, his third and fifth selves were engaged in a game of darts. The scoreboard had them both tied. A piece of paper pinned next to the dart board kept track of previous games and the name “the Doctor” was written out nine times, with varying tallies under each. In another corner, his second, sixth, eighth, and ninth selves sat around a table playing a game of hearts. His most recent incarnation seemed to be losing the current round, judging by the scowl on his face and the pile of discarded cards in front of him.
Behind the bar stood an android. The Doctor quirked an eyebrow as he recognized the barman, or rather, the bar robot. The last time he had seen this particular invention, it had begged him to end its life.
“Hello, Doctor,” greeted Kamelion, stiffly nodding its head in his direction. The robot wore an apron and was cleaning a mug with a damp cloth.
The nine men all stopped what they were doing and looked up, finally noticing that they had a new addition.
“Took you long enough to get here,” said his ninth self.
“Where is ‘here’?” asked the Doctor, looking around the pub with a critical eye. The walls were covered with dozens of framed pictures. Glancing at one by the door, he saw it was a picture of himself in his first incarnation, standing at the TARDIS console with Susan, Ian, and Barbara. The picture was faded, the colours slowly being leeched away, but the image was still discernible.
“‘Here’, my boy?” His first incarnation tut softly, unable to believe the Doctor was actually asking the question. He made a move on the chess board. “This is our subconscious.”
The Doctor continued to take in the pub, his eyes roving over every detail. He started to see that all of the framed pictures featured him in his different personas with his various travelling companions. The pictures were fuller in colour as they went on. Various memorabilia also hung on the walls and among them he spotted the walking stick given to his first self by Kublai Kahn and the recorder kept by his second self. A hat stand by the door bore an Inverness coat favoured by his third persona, a felt hat worn by his fourth incarnation, the Panama hat sported by his fifth incarnation, and two umbrellas, one multi-coloured like his sixth incarnation and one with a question mark handle, undoubtedly the one carried by his seventh incarnation. Rather surprisingly, the Doctor noticed his own brown coat hung from the hat stand, but he had neither been wearing it when he entered nor did he have any memory of hanging it there.
A television mounted on brackets above the bar caught his eye. The screen showed only static, the white noise pouring from the speakers just above a whisper. In a room full of geniuses who could work mechanical wonders, it went largely unnoticed.
“This is where we spend the rest of eternity?” asked the Doctor. “In a ye olde English pub?”
“Not all of eternity, I’d imagine,” said his second persona. “Just until we reach our final regeneration.” He laid down his final card, his hands now empty, and he glanced around at his subsequent selves in triumph.
“I suppose it’s better than fading away completely,” added his fifth incarnation with a sigh. He let a dart fly and it struck near the centre of the board.
“You would say that,” muttered his sixth incarnation, pushing aside his pile of cards disdainfully. “Eternal optimist.”
“Don’t incite them,” advised his fourth self. He pushed aside his scarf to regard the Doctor and with a lazy grin, he held out a white paper bag. “Jelly baby?”
The Doctor ignored the offer and chose instead to wander over to the bar. He sat down heavily on one of the stools and slumped his shoulders, as if someone had turned up the gravity in the room. The static from the television above him sounded like the crashing of waves on a beach; if it was meant to be soothing, it wasn’t. He wasn’t used to being surrounded by his past selves. The only time it ever happened was when there was an emergency, and now he was left feeling like he should be running around, trying to fight back against a formidable foe. But there was no emergency and no one to fight.
The Doctor felt useless.
He had regenerated nine times before this, but he never wondered what happened to his earlier personalities; where they went after the new identity took over. The memories remained, of course, but the quirks and habits unique to each seemed to disappear. Now he knew each of his former selves just lingered in some forgotten part of their shared mind.
“Don’t you get bored?” asked the Doctor, looking around at his former selves. His gaze lingered on his ninth incarnation who had been here the least amount of time. “How can you just sit there?”
“Unfortunately, there’s not a lot we can do about it,” replied his eighth incarnation. With nimble hands, he shuffled the deck of cards. “There’s always a lull between regenerations. Our new self seems to be taking his time emerging.” He nodded his head at the television above the Doctor.
“He’s not taking nearly as much time as you took, old chap,” said his third persona. His dart went wide, striking the outer circle.
“Have you ever been shot in the chest?” countered his seventh incarnation. He pushed back the brim of his ever-present straw hat as he contemplated his next move on the chess board. “The outcome is far more traumatic than radiation exposure.” He rolled the “r” on radiation, amplifying the slight Scots accent he spoke with.
“Being forced to regenerate before my time was up was certainly no walk in the park either.”
“Oh, here we go,” his sixth incarnation said to his second incarnation, rolling his eyes.
“You smacked your head on the TARDIS console,” said his fifth self. “How is that more dignified?”
“Are you going to tell the story of how you sacrificed your life to save Peri’s?” asked his fourth incarnation, lowering his chair to the floor. Despite the look of rapt attention on his face, he wore a smile of mockery.
“For the three hundred and eighth time,” his third self added.
His first incarnation moaned wearily while his seventh persona claimed one of his pieces. “Why does this devolve into a competition every time our latest self arrives?”
The Doctor ignored all of the chatter as he turned his sights on the television. If it was their one link to the outside world, he was determined to fix it. The set was just out of his reach, as tall as he was. As he stepped up onto his stool, he idly wondered if their new incarnation would be taller or shorter.
The stool wobbled precariously, but two pairs of strong hands steadied him and his impromptu step ladder before he could tumble to the floor. He looked down and found his eighth and ninth selves assisting him. Both had chosen to avoid entering the bickering that had erupted amongst his younger selves. One might have thought it was age that set them apart. His eighth and ninth incarnations were, after all, the oldest incarnations in the room, aside from the Doctor himself. But the Doctor knew it was more than that. The three of them shared a connection that their other selves would never understand. They had fought in the Time War and suffered through its consequences. In a way, he was glad his younger selves would never have to go through that experience.
“I just wanted to say we know you did the right thing in the end,” said his eighth incarnation. Compared to his ninth incarnation and himself, the Doctor thought he looked so old-fashioned, in his Edwardian clothes. A man out of his element; that was who he had been while fighting the Time War.
The Doctor busied himself with removing the rear panel of the television and fiddling with the connections. Banishing his people back to the Time Lock had solved everything, but he chose not to admit that a minute part of him would have welcomed the return of Gallifrey. Seeing all of his companions again, even from a distance, had made him acutely aware how lonely he had been since he wiped Donna’s memories. He was so tired of being alone.
“You just couldn’t help yourself, though, could you? She might have seen your face.” His ninth persona leaned against the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t have to elaborate further for the Doctor to understand what he was referring to.
“You would have done the same,” the Doctor said with certainty. He glanced over at his counterpart with a grin and he saw those piercing blue eyes soften.
Within the depths of the television, he finally noticed a few loose connections. With the sonic screwdriver, he fastened everything back into place. The static sounding from the television ceased and the sudden absence of the white noise drew the attention of his younger selves, halting their quarrelling.
“Just a couple of loose wires,” said the Doctor, replacing the rear panel and hopping down from the stool. “Probably got jarred free.” Already the picture was beginning to clear.
Ten rapt faces watched the screen as the transmission cleared, showing an image of the TARDIS interior, or, at least what was left of it. The Doctor awkwardly scratched the back of his head. Had he really expelled enough regeneration energy to reduce the console room to ashes?
“I was never fond of that layout,” said his first incarnation. “Dreadful. It’s time we had a change.”
“Like all white again?” suggested the Doctor, meaning it as a joke.
He received seven murmurs of agreement.
He spun around so fast to face his other selves that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Are you serious? We might as well as go back to the steampunk setting.”
The outburst that followed seemed to hint that he had hit upon a sore spot. The nascent images from their new incarnation were forgotten as the ten Doctors debated the finer points of TARDIS console room design. Words like “appalling”, “boring”, and “leopard print” were tossed around along with other heated opinions.
The Doctor spared a glance back at the television. The new Doctor was emerging from the wreck of the TARDIS, clearly disoriented from the crash and the regeneration. He wobbled on his legs like a newborn giraffe, barely able to avoid the fires that licked at the pillars and at the console.
He was on his own, but there was no doubt he would find a willing companion to travel with him in no time. Because there was one notion the Doctor was certain remained in his new self’s mind despite the regeneration: the realization that the journey was better off with company.
In a language dead to the rest of the universe, he wished the Time Lord all the best.