(no subject)
As soon as he walks through the door, he knows. The TARDIS tells him that she's here, yes, but even if she didn't, he could tell. The scent of her is unmistakeable, even after all this time.
His feet know the way better than he does, every twist and turn. It's not long before he's standing there by that door, complete with the scarf he just never got around to removing.
He knocks softly, then eases the door open and peeks in. She's fast asleep on that giant bed that always looked like it wanted to swallow her. The Doctor creeps in silently and looks around. All her things were exactly as she'd left them. He hadn't wanted to disturb anything at the time, certain that he'd return for her as soon as that Gallifrey mess was sorted.
When the time came, though, he just couldn't. He told himself it's because his life wasn't safe, it wasn't the life that someone like her needed. But it was a lie then, and it's a lie now. The truth was that he'd let her too close. He'd let her mean too much. And the future had come to him all too clearly. She'd age; he wouldn't. She'd die; he wouldn't. They could have had years, sure, even decades. But inevitably, he'd have the pain of losing her. And he couldn't go through that.
Then, he'd met her again, so many years later, for both of them, and he knew he'd done the right thing. Because all those old feelings rushed back into him as soon as he'd heard her name. Centuries without her, and the sight of her, sound of her voice, almost suffocated him. If he'd let that grow, spent those years with her... She would have died, and it would have crushed him beyond repair.
It's the same reason he's kept his distance from all the Companions to follow. The same reason he's keeping his distance from Rose, despite her attempts to the contrary. The loneliness tears at him, but with nowhere near the intensity as the loss would. And he's lost so much already.
So he just stands there at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep. When she shifts, he pulls the blanket over her, smooths the hair from her face, and slips out the way he'd come.
His feet know the way better than he does, every twist and turn. It's not long before he's standing there by that door, complete with the scarf he just never got around to removing.
He knocks softly, then eases the door open and peeks in. She's fast asleep on that giant bed that always looked like it wanted to swallow her. The Doctor creeps in silently and looks around. All her things were exactly as she'd left them. He hadn't wanted to disturb anything at the time, certain that he'd return for her as soon as that Gallifrey mess was sorted.
When the time came, though, he just couldn't. He told himself it's because his life wasn't safe, it wasn't the life that someone like her needed. But it was a lie then, and it's a lie now. The truth was that he'd let her too close. He'd let her mean too much. And the future had come to him all too clearly. She'd age; he wouldn't. She'd die; he wouldn't. They could have had years, sure, even decades. But inevitably, he'd have the pain of losing her. And he couldn't go through that.
Then, he'd met her again, so many years later, for both of them, and he knew he'd done the right thing. Because all those old feelings rushed back into him as soon as he'd heard her name. Centuries without her, and the sight of her, sound of her voice, almost suffocated him. If he'd let that grow, spent those years with her... She would have died, and it would have crushed him beyond repair.
It's the same reason he's kept his distance from all the Companions to follow. The same reason he's keeping his distance from Rose, despite her attempts to the contrary. The loneliness tears at him, but with nowhere near the intensity as the loss would. And he's lost so much already.
So he just stands there at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep. When she shifts, he pulls the blanket over her, smooths the hair from her face, and slips out the way he'd come.