Drabble: Clocks. (PG, Ten/Rose-ish, Regeneration.)
Clocks. PG-ish, vaguely Doctor/Rose. This is just a short, spacey, sad drabble about the possibilities of regeneration. Don't read if you're not feeling up to thoughts of Tennant leaving... ever. Heaven knows I'm not really up to it.
"We did it," the nice person tells him, feeling that this will somehow encourage everybody. "We did it, and the rockets are going up and they'll finally find us. You saved us. You can't die."
"You and what army ?" he asks, drunkenly.
Sometimes, it's a relief.
It's a relief because it hurts- it hurts it hurts it hurts and to his starring eyes the world is like thirty different worlds and all of them hurt- and he can't stop thinking about standing on the roof of the estate after Christmas and teaching her to swear in any alien tongue he could remember. Does she swear like that now, still- holding a kitchen knife and sucking her thumb and muttering t'klla t'ko under her breath like a crazy woman ? Does Donna still flirt with waiters ?
"Mister, are you hurt ?" someone asks him. "Can you move ?"
"I was at Pompeii," he says, to nobody. "I went to the mall- there were robots. Jack's got a dinosaur. Basement in Cardiff. I met Charles Dickens. He had a funny beard. Oh, there's so many places to die."
"You're not going to die," says that young voice, making itself heard again over the departing sound of rocket engines. "Don't you die."
He might really, this time. There's no telling what happens to the body of a time lord who's already split a great big chunk of himself off and given it as a gift to the only person who wouldn't be disgusted by something like that. Rassilon. He might really just die. He might really just turn into a big pile of sparkles or a corpse and oh by the beards of the founders, why is there a chunk of metal in his thigh ? The blood seeping into his pants is nice and warm. "Don't close your eyes," begs the young companion that he can't quite see anymore. There seems to be cotton wool over his eyes, filling his mouth. "We did it," the nice person tells him, feeling that this will somehow encourage everybody. "We did it, and the rockets are going up and they'll finally find us. You saved us. You can't die."
"You and what army ?" he asks, drunkenly.
He can feel his fingers curling up and that's alright, really, he's tired of these fingers. They were born to fit hers and never will again and that's an ugly, maudlin thing to face at the moment. He'd rather not. He'd rather think about clipping new fingernails that are funny-shaped and maybe even dirty. Martha would be disgusted with him- she always used to complain that he didn't wash his suits enough. Maybe he'll stop washing altogether, or take dust baths like a sparrow. Fun.
His eyes, quite of their own volition, begin to close. The TARDIS protests a little in his head. "Yes, I know, it's alright," he murmurs, in her direction. "I promise to be just as demonstrative in my next body."
She feels quite close.
I want you safe, my Doctor. The feeling drowns him and re-makes him and he'll live again, this time- and it has never left him, not really, not this sensation. Not since the awe and the flood and the time he saw inside the TARDIS, inside himself, inside everything. Inside her, her complex winding heart. It was like a clock, really, after all. There was time, endless time, and hands that met. I can see everything. What good sense it had all finally made. If only for a second between this one and the next.
That second is all there ever is.
"What's wrong with you ?" somebody yells, above him. "Stealing a dead man's wallet is still a crime !"
Sometimes, it's a relief.
"We did it," the nice person tells him, feeling that this will somehow encourage everybody. "We did it, and the rockets are going up and they'll finally find us. You saved us. You can't die."
"You and what army ?" he asks, drunkenly.
Sometimes, it's a relief.
It's a relief because it hurts- it hurts it hurts it hurts and to his starring eyes the world is like thirty different worlds and all of them hurt- and he can't stop thinking about standing on the roof of the estate after Christmas and teaching her to swear in any alien tongue he could remember. Does she swear like that now, still- holding a kitchen knife and sucking her thumb and muttering t'klla t'ko under her breath like a crazy woman ? Does Donna still flirt with waiters ?
"Mister, are you hurt ?" someone asks him. "Can you move ?"
"I was at Pompeii," he says, to nobody. "I went to the mall- there were robots. Jack's got a dinosaur. Basement in Cardiff. I met Charles Dickens. He had a funny beard. Oh, there's so many places to die."
"You're not going to die," says that young voice, making itself heard again over the departing sound of rocket engines. "Don't you die."
He might really, this time. There's no telling what happens to the body of a time lord who's already split a great big chunk of himself off and given it as a gift to the only person who wouldn't be disgusted by something like that. Rassilon. He might really just die. He might really just turn into a big pile of sparkles or a corpse and oh by the beards of the founders, why is there a chunk of metal in his thigh ? The blood seeping into his pants is nice and warm. "Don't close your eyes," begs the young companion that he can't quite see anymore. There seems to be cotton wool over his eyes, filling his mouth. "We did it," the nice person tells him, feeling that this will somehow encourage everybody. "We did it, and the rockets are going up and they'll finally find us. You saved us. You can't die."
"You and what army ?" he asks, drunkenly.
He can feel his fingers curling up and that's alright, really, he's tired of these fingers. They were born to fit hers and never will again and that's an ugly, maudlin thing to face at the moment. He'd rather not. He'd rather think about clipping new fingernails that are funny-shaped and maybe even dirty. Martha would be disgusted with him- she always used to complain that he didn't wash his suits enough. Maybe he'll stop washing altogether, or take dust baths like a sparrow. Fun.
His eyes, quite of their own volition, begin to close. The TARDIS protests a little in his head. "Yes, I know, it's alright," he murmurs, in her direction. "I promise to be just as demonstrative in my next body."
She feels quite close.
I want you safe, my Doctor. The feeling drowns him and re-makes him and he'll live again, this time- and it has never left him, not really, not this sensation. Not since the awe and the flood and the time he saw inside the TARDIS, inside himself, inside everything. Inside her, her complex winding heart. It was like a clock, really, after all. There was time, endless time, and hands that met. I can see everything. What good sense it had all finally made. If only for a second between this one and the next.
That second is all there ever is.
"What's wrong with you ?" somebody yells, above him. "Stealing a dead man's wallet is still a crime !"
Sometimes, it's a relief.