Doctor Who: Deserted (part 02)
Title: Deserted (part 02)
Author: percontata
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: "Handy"
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 690 (1350 total)
Warnings: Spoilers for S04E13.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. I'm just having fun with them. Not responsible for underage readers.
Summary: Having an identity crisis is never a pleasant experience.
He stood barefoot in the sand, feeling the muddy mixture sift between his toes, the waves eddy around his ankles. He vaguely registered that he was getting his suit wet, and with that thought came another: he wouldn't be able to rummage around the TARDIS for a dry pair of slacks. Not ever again. Well goodbye, convenience, he thought, barely keeping the hysteria behind the sentiment contained.
Nothing ever had seemed so big before. Certainly he was well aware of how extensive the universe was, having experienced such a great variety of what it had to offer a perpetual traveler such as himself. But he'd had the power to hop around space and time on a whim, and now--nothing. Here he was, stuck on this rock that had always fascinated him for its people and culture and everything, and now this was all he had left to him. It was wrong that it felt so daunting, so immense, when he'd seen so much else.
But there he was, ankle-deep in the North Sea thinking it was the most daunting thing he'd ever laid eyes upon, despite knowing full well that the Shetland Islands were a mere four hundred-something kilometers in front of him. The discord between his mind and emotions was too much to handle, and he felt a terrible churning in his gut. Human physiology... just one more thing he would need to get used to.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, and that realization sent another spark of terror through him. Was this what every passing moment would become? Just so many moments strung together, unable to be differentiated from what came before or was yet to come? His world had flattened from a sphere of endless possibilities to a straight line leading into darkness.
The salt in the air bit at his face and stung his eyes, and then without warning he was retching into the sea.
How did humans do it? How could they stand it, living one day to the next and the next after that? How could that ever be satisfying? Maybe they were stronger than him. Or maybe they were just blessed, oblivious fools. For once, he truly did not care to know the answer.
So much for damage control. If his other self was so worried about him going genocidal again, shouldn't he have kept him close, to keep a patronizing eye on him rather than leave him to the whims of a mending universe? Shouldn't he have made damned sure that this human part of him didn't drive him mad?
That was when it struck him. His other self had honestly, truly believed that he would be rejected from this world, shucked into the seams of space and time. Just a piece of driftwood catching the tide out to the open ocean.
It was absolutely horrifying.
He would have rather thought he'd been stupid; stupid for a moment was eternally more acceptable than callous. He was brilliant, he knew that, but he was not callous.
But his other self must have thought that he was, when he'd fulfilled the prophecy and consigned the Daleks to their deaths, even though he was only doing what he knew had to be, what was necessary. There had been no alternative.
I'm defective. He thinks I'm defective.
He was not the Doctor. He couldn't be, not any longer. He'd sacrificed himself to condemnation through purely Time Lord eyes. Part human, part Time Lord, completely unacceptable.
He needed a new identity; his mind grasped onto this thought and dug deep, seeking anchor where it could. He needed to separate himself from the growing chasm of self-loathing that threatened to overtake him when he surrendered too much thought to what The Doctor would have expected of him. Himself. But he was not himself, and never could be again.
...Or perhaps an old identity would serve well enough.
Welcome to the world, John Smith. It was neither a smirk nor a grimace that stretched across his face, but it felt wrong and twisted all the same. Perhaps that was appropriate. You've a long life ahead of you.
next
Author: percontata
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: "Handy"
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 690 (1350 total)
Warnings: Spoilers for S04E13.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. I'm just having fun with them. Not responsible for underage readers.
Summary: Having an identity crisis is never a pleasant experience.
He stood barefoot in the sand, feeling the muddy mixture sift between his toes, the waves eddy around his ankles. He vaguely registered that he was getting his suit wet, and with that thought came another: he wouldn't be able to rummage around the TARDIS for a dry pair of slacks. Not ever again. Well goodbye, convenience, he thought, barely keeping the hysteria behind the sentiment contained.
Nothing ever had seemed so big before. Certainly he was well aware of how extensive the universe was, having experienced such a great variety of what it had to offer a perpetual traveler such as himself. But he'd had the power to hop around space and time on a whim, and now--nothing. Here he was, stuck on this rock that had always fascinated him for its people and culture and everything, and now this was all he had left to him. It was wrong that it felt so daunting, so immense, when he'd seen so much else.
But there he was, ankle-deep in the North Sea thinking it was the most daunting thing he'd ever laid eyes upon, despite knowing full well that the Shetland Islands were a mere four hundred-something kilometers in front of him. The discord between his mind and emotions was too much to handle, and he felt a terrible churning in his gut. Human physiology... just one more thing he would need to get used to.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there, and that realization sent another spark of terror through him. Was this what every passing moment would become? Just so many moments strung together, unable to be differentiated from what came before or was yet to come? His world had flattened from a sphere of endless possibilities to a straight line leading into darkness.
The salt in the air bit at his face and stung his eyes, and then without warning he was retching into the sea.
How did humans do it? How could they stand it, living one day to the next and the next after that? How could that ever be satisfying? Maybe they were stronger than him. Or maybe they were just blessed, oblivious fools. For once, he truly did not care to know the answer.
So much for damage control. If his other self was so worried about him going genocidal again, shouldn't he have kept him close, to keep a patronizing eye on him rather than leave him to the whims of a mending universe? Shouldn't he have made damned sure that this human part of him didn't drive him mad?
That was when it struck him. His other self had honestly, truly believed that he would be rejected from this world, shucked into the seams of space and time. Just a piece of driftwood catching the tide out to the open ocean.
It was absolutely horrifying.
He would have rather thought he'd been stupid; stupid for a moment was eternally more acceptable than callous. He was brilliant, he knew that, but he was not callous.
But his other self must have thought that he was, when he'd fulfilled the prophecy and consigned the Daleks to their deaths, even though he was only doing what he knew had to be, what was necessary. There had been no alternative.
I'm defective. He thinks I'm defective.
He was not the Doctor. He couldn't be, not any longer. He'd sacrificed himself to condemnation through purely Time Lord eyes. Part human, part Time Lord, completely unacceptable.
He needed a new identity; his mind grasped onto this thought and dug deep, seeking anchor where it could. He needed to separate himself from the growing chasm of self-loathing that threatened to overtake him when he surrendered too much thought to what The Doctor would have expected of him. Himself. But he was not himself, and never could be again.
...Or perhaps an old identity would serve well enough.
Welcome to the world, John Smith. It was neither a smirk nor a grimace that stretched across his face, but it felt wrong and twisted all the same. Perhaps that was appropriate. You've a long life ahead of you.
next