theatrical_muse: Everything passes
"Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live." Haruki Murakami.
Have you faith in the midnight sun?
The words ran through his head, as though he'd just asked the question, as though the name of the star had just kissed his tongue, and an answer waited expectantly to bookend the query. He was grateful that Ace had stayed behind in the TARDIS, more inclined to tinker around in her lab than to assist in some last minute housekeeping; the adventure was over-another enemy defeated, another triumph secured-and though even then, he had difficulty convincing her not to follow after him, his insistence that she not come had eventually caused her to acquiesce. Not to mention, Ace had not seemed particularly fond of their comrade this time around. She was a nice enough woman, Ace had said, but there was something...missing. Just...something. It unsettled her, and the Doctor realized the futility in pressing the matter.
The Doctor had never found any ordinary human too unsettling for him, not when their actions had done little to warrant that, anyway. He'd hardly spent enough time with Ellen to get any authentic sense of her character. And now it was time to take her home. Her right forearm was wrapped with gauze, protecting the mild chemical burn she'd received, and the Doctor followed behind her as she unlocked the door to her flat and invited him in for a few minutes.
Removing his hat, he immediately began to look around at the décor, the various photographs adorning the walls, and smiled at the dog that came up to greet him eagerly. Though his gaze was fixed on a watercolor, and his free hand gently massaged the dog's fur, the Doctor offhandedly remarked, “Remember to apply that ointment to your burn tonight, and it should be nearly healed by tomorrow.”
Ellen had wandered into her kitchen, and he faintly heard her mutter an acknowledgment under her breath. His mind reviewed the few days she'd been with them, the fear she'd expressed to him, privately, about what she would be coming home to. Being here, now, the Doctor found it absurd to imagine she'd been afraid of anything at all.
Have you faith in the midnight sun?
What does that mean?
What are you afraid of?
The kettle had begun to boil, emitting an unpleasant shrieking sound; when it persisted, the Doctor moved into the kitchen, glancing curiously at Ellen, who was resting her elbows atop her table, with her hands folded and her eyes closed. A strange smile, that contained more sadness than contentment, held her face.
He removed the kettle, and sat next to her, trying to decide whether he should inquire, or wait for her to speak. A minute passed before she lowered her hands, folding her arms and looking at him with an expression that was warring between resignation, disappointment, fear, and resolve.
“You asked me what I was afraid of,” Ellen whispered, chuckling derisively as the last syllable got lost in her throat.
“Yes,” was his terse reply.
“This,” she spread her arms, gesturing to the empty space around her.
The Doctor's brows furrowed in bemusement. “What, precisely, is this?”
“I knew he'd leave, and he did. I always knew he would, eventually,” she sighed.
At that, understanding passed through him, although a mild terror accompanied that as well, for he realized he was in the precarious position of having to remark on the end of love. Humans had always been the species most proficient at love, and simultaneously most awful at it. More often than not, they ruined each other by the time love had seen through to its inevitable end.
He thought about what to say, all the words of comfort available to him. But he was the Doctor, and nothing came out the way it was ever quite supposed to.
“Is it so hard to love another?” He didn't mean for it to sound callous, or dismissive, but it did, nonetheless.
“That's not the point,” Ellen huffed, standing up sharply and leaning against the counter, where she folded her arms and looked down to examine her shoes, presumably.
The Doctor thought her shoes were the least of her problems, now.
“I'm terribly sorry, but I really have no experience with this,” he stood as well, a warm sincerity filling his eyes. And that was the truth, of course. He'd never really had to see love end, because he always dismissed it before it could start.
Because if it started, it would end. That was an absolute he had never been able to reconcile. And in the end, he would always be alone. But the silence would hurt worse, when he had an abundance of love to compare it to. Without knowing what he had foregone, there was one less tragedy to live through.
After another minute or two, and possibly having decided that her shoes were acceptable after all, Ellen looked up. There was another smile on her face, but this time, it was...unsettling. Yes, it was. Unsettling, because it was a lie trying so hard to be a truth.
“You know, it doesn't matter. I wanted him to go, anyway. He beat me to it,” she announced, and there wasn't a tremble in her voice. She said it with absolute certainty, shrugging her shoulders, and pouring herself a cup of tea.
There are places on Earth where you don't have to be alone in darkness. That's some small measure of comfort, isn't it? To be alone, to still see the sun shining there. The midnight sun. Enduring.
Yeah, but...no one lives there.
You can feel it, though. Sometimes you go on in spite of yourself.
The Doctor had no reason to believe her, and a dubious look crossed his face.
“Are you certain of that?” He inquired, gently.
She set the kettle down, hard, and sighed. “Sometimes...hell, we stay together just so we don't have to be alone. We stay together when we have no reason to. It's just that no one really wants to be alone.”
There were more platitudes floating through his mind, but he quelled them. He'd never been one for platitudes, anyway, they were emotionless and almost...iniquitous, in their own way, causing more harm than good. So, he said nothing, and merely brushed a hand to her shoulder.
When he returned to the TARDIS, the Doctor sought Ace out, though he had no idea why, as he had nothing in particular to say to her, either.
Have you faith--
“Professor? You look...weird.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, sorta like you've been startled or somethin'.”
“Perhaps,” was his ambiguous response.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” He repeated, absently picking up a stray part on Ace's workstation.
“Why do you look like that?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” he replied, easily. A part of him was always surprised at how effortless it was to lie, and how adept at it he had become.
It was Ace's turn to look dubious, though his intentional aversion of her gaze made her think that it was something he really had no desire to dwell on, likely because it had hurt him on some level. And though that made her even more curious, to know why he was hurting, she also didn't want to prolong his pain. It was a vicious cycle, but nothing had never been easy between the two of them.
The Doctor set the metal object down, finally looking at Ace and smiling wanly. He spared a moment to tweak her nose, and then turned to leave.
“We'll both be here in the morning,” he said, more to reassure himself.
And even though there was no 'morning' on the TARDIS, and even though there was no reason at all that neither one of them wouldn't be here, Ace still smiled at him.
“'Course, Professor,” she reassured.
It was what he needed, all he needed.
“What is it you humans say-life goes on?”
Despite every catastrophe.
Muse: Seventh Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,341
Have you faith in the midnight sun?
The words ran through his head, as though he'd just asked the question, as though the name of the star had just kissed his tongue, and an answer waited expectantly to bookend the query. He was grateful that Ace had stayed behind in the TARDIS, more inclined to tinker around in her lab than to assist in some last minute housekeeping; the adventure was over-another enemy defeated, another triumph secured-and though even then, he had difficulty convincing her not to follow after him, his insistence that she not come had eventually caused her to acquiesce. Not to mention, Ace had not seemed particularly fond of their comrade this time around. She was a nice enough woman, Ace had said, but there was something...missing. Just...something. It unsettled her, and the Doctor realized the futility in pressing the matter.
The Doctor had never found any ordinary human too unsettling for him, not when their actions had done little to warrant that, anyway. He'd hardly spent enough time with Ellen to get any authentic sense of her character. And now it was time to take her home. Her right forearm was wrapped with gauze, protecting the mild chemical burn she'd received, and the Doctor followed behind her as she unlocked the door to her flat and invited him in for a few minutes.
Removing his hat, he immediately began to look around at the décor, the various photographs adorning the walls, and smiled at the dog that came up to greet him eagerly. Though his gaze was fixed on a watercolor, and his free hand gently massaged the dog's fur, the Doctor offhandedly remarked, “Remember to apply that ointment to your burn tonight, and it should be nearly healed by tomorrow.”
Ellen had wandered into her kitchen, and he faintly heard her mutter an acknowledgment under her breath. His mind reviewed the few days she'd been with them, the fear she'd expressed to him, privately, about what she would be coming home to. Being here, now, the Doctor found it absurd to imagine she'd been afraid of anything at all.
Have you faith in the midnight sun?
What does that mean?
What are you afraid of?
The kettle had begun to boil, emitting an unpleasant shrieking sound; when it persisted, the Doctor moved into the kitchen, glancing curiously at Ellen, who was resting her elbows atop her table, with her hands folded and her eyes closed. A strange smile, that contained more sadness than contentment, held her face.
He removed the kettle, and sat next to her, trying to decide whether he should inquire, or wait for her to speak. A minute passed before she lowered her hands, folding her arms and looking at him with an expression that was warring between resignation, disappointment, fear, and resolve.
“You asked me what I was afraid of,” Ellen whispered, chuckling derisively as the last syllable got lost in her throat.
“Yes,” was his terse reply.
“This,” she spread her arms, gesturing to the empty space around her.
The Doctor's brows furrowed in bemusement. “What, precisely, is this?”
“I knew he'd leave, and he did. I always knew he would, eventually,” she sighed.
At that, understanding passed through him, although a mild terror accompanied that as well, for he realized he was in the precarious position of having to remark on the end of love. Humans had always been the species most proficient at love, and simultaneously most awful at it. More often than not, they ruined each other by the time love had seen through to its inevitable end.
He thought about what to say, all the words of comfort available to him. But he was the Doctor, and nothing came out the way it was ever quite supposed to.
“Is it so hard to love another?” He didn't mean for it to sound callous, or dismissive, but it did, nonetheless.
“That's not the point,” Ellen huffed, standing up sharply and leaning against the counter, where she folded her arms and looked down to examine her shoes, presumably.
The Doctor thought her shoes were the least of her problems, now.
“I'm terribly sorry, but I really have no experience with this,” he stood as well, a warm sincerity filling his eyes. And that was the truth, of course. He'd never really had to see love end, because he always dismissed it before it could start.
Because if it started, it would end. That was an absolute he had never been able to reconcile. And in the end, he would always be alone. But the silence would hurt worse, when he had an abundance of love to compare it to. Without knowing what he had foregone, there was one less tragedy to live through.
After another minute or two, and possibly having decided that her shoes were acceptable after all, Ellen looked up. There was another smile on her face, but this time, it was...unsettling. Yes, it was. Unsettling, because it was a lie trying so hard to be a truth.
“You know, it doesn't matter. I wanted him to go, anyway. He beat me to it,” she announced, and there wasn't a tremble in her voice. She said it with absolute certainty, shrugging her shoulders, and pouring herself a cup of tea.
There are places on Earth where you don't have to be alone in darkness. That's some small measure of comfort, isn't it? To be alone, to still see the sun shining there. The midnight sun. Enduring.
Yeah, but...no one lives there.
You can feel it, though. Sometimes you go on in spite of yourself.
The Doctor had no reason to believe her, and a dubious look crossed his face.
“Are you certain of that?” He inquired, gently.
She set the kettle down, hard, and sighed. “Sometimes...hell, we stay together just so we don't have to be alone. We stay together when we have no reason to. It's just that no one really wants to be alone.”
There were more platitudes floating through his mind, but he quelled them. He'd never been one for platitudes, anyway, they were emotionless and almost...iniquitous, in their own way, causing more harm than good. So, he said nothing, and merely brushed a hand to her shoulder.
When he returned to the TARDIS, the Doctor sought Ace out, though he had no idea why, as he had nothing in particular to say to her, either.
Have you faith--
“Professor? You look...weird.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, sorta like you've been startled or somethin'.”
“Perhaps,” was his ambiguous response.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” He repeated, absently picking up a stray part on Ace's workstation.
“Why do you look like that?”
“I haven't the faintest idea,” he replied, easily. A part of him was always surprised at how effortless it was to lie, and how adept at it he had become.
It was Ace's turn to look dubious, though his intentional aversion of her gaze made her think that it was something he really had no desire to dwell on, likely because it had hurt him on some level. And though that made her even more curious, to know why he was hurting, she also didn't want to prolong his pain. It was a vicious cycle, but nothing had never been easy between the two of them.
The Doctor set the metal object down, finally looking at Ace and smiling wanly. He spared a moment to tweak her nose, and then turned to leave.
“We'll both be here in the morning,” he said, more to reassure himself.
And even though there was no 'morning' on the TARDIS, and even though there was no reason at all that neither one of them wouldn't be here, Ace still smiled at him.
“'Course, Professor,” she reassured.
It was what he needed, all he needed.
“What is it you humans say-life goes on?”
Despite every catastrophe.
Muse: Seventh Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,341