Ficathon Entry
Author: ponygirl72
Recipient and Prompt: doyle_sb4, Five/Nyssa, after the 'Autumn' segment of Circular Time, 'nothing lasts'
Title: Object Impermanence
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Nothing lasts forever. (A coda to Big Finish 91: Circular Time - Autumn, by Paul Cornell.)
Author's Notes: This story was written for the Big Finish Ficathon. Much thanks to wendymr for agreeing to beta read and offering helpful suggestions and britpicking even though she's not a BF fan, or a Five fan. You're the best, m'dear!
Object Impermanence
I'm not sure what sort of reception to expect as the inner doors of the TARDIS close behind me. These last few days have been... unsettling, in several respects. It is as if I have been thrust into the role of a rebellious teenager pursuing a forbidden love affair, and he, cast as the disapproving parent-- roles to which neither of us are particularly well-suited, to say the least.
For the first time since his regeneration, I can believe that the Doctor is much older than he appears. Especially now; in the instant before the sound of the doors closing gains his attention, I catch a glimpse of him bent over the console as if a great weight is pressing down on him, lines of fatigue creasing the normally smooth skin around his eyes.
Did I cause that?
Before I can focus properly on that rather startling question, he straightens up to greet me, and I think I can detect a flash of surprise in his blue eyes. Surprise, and something else.
"Nyssa!" he greets in that overly cheerful voice that can hide so very many things. "Ready to leave at last, then?"
"Yes," I reply. "Anton said that the cricket club ball had been cancelled..."
He cuts in before I can turn it into a question, already moving briskly around the console, setting co-ordinates and not meeting my eyes.
"Hmm, yes. Probably for the best. Occasions like that can be terribly tedious-- bad music, uninspiring food, and drunk forty-year-old men trying not to step on their wives' feet during the slow dances. I think we'll have a much more interesting time on Beta Orionis; I've been meaning to pay a visit during the spawning of the Grand Hiveling for almost a century, now."
"Did you think that I was going to stay with Andrew?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. He stills at the controls, his eyes rising slowly from the readouts to meet my own. The weight behind his pale gaze makes it hard not to look away... to look down.
"I assure you, Nyssa, I had no opinion on the matter. You are an adult of your species, and what you do with your life is your own choice. I believe I made that quite clear earlier."
... an adult of your species...
The words prick at that part inside of me where Traken used to live, and anything that I might have said in return remains firmly lodged in my throat. He seems to realise that he has done something to upset me, and immediately retreats to neutral territory.
"Why don't you go find a jacket from the wardrobe room-- the Hives can be quite chilly at night. We'll arrive in a few minutes."
"Yes," I say quietly, and escape into solitude where I can pack away all the unwelcome feelings that are bubbling up from the hole in my psyche-- the hole which should be filled by things like home, and family, and future.
* * *
As it happens, the Doctor is correct. The Hives can be quite chilly at night. Especially when one is stuck in a cell made of rock, with no furnishings, and a freezing wind is blowing through the metal bars of the door.
He is pacing back and forth, brimming with restless energy like a gyrecat in a cage at the Centre for Zoology.
"Of all the idiotic reasons to be arrested, this has to take the biscuit!"
"That's what you said last time," I tell him, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. "At least that time we got to meet Sir Isaac Newton. And the cell was warmer."
He carries on, unheeding. "What sort of society bases political policy on a two-thousand-year-old prophecy, for heaven's sake? 'The Day of the Shadow Assassination,' indeed!"
"The sort that's convinced by passages in its sacred texts that the progenitor of its species is in imminent danger of being killed by 'strange, two-legged creatures from beyond the furthest realms,' apparently." As ripostes go, the delivery would probably be more effective if my teeth weren't chattering... but at least it finally gets his attention.
"Are you quite all right? You look cold."
Patience. A Trakenite of noble birth does not lose her temper over such trivial matters. That would be unseemly.
"Doctor, your words, I believe, were to 'find a jacket.' Judging by the layer of ice forming in that bucket of questionable-looking water in the corner, the temperature has dropped considerably below freezing. And there's a decided draught in this cell, as well. I find that this jacket is of limited usefulness, especially after several hours of forced inactivity."
He is immediately contrite, although his tone is slightly gruff, as if my refraining from whining about personal discomfort is a source of some irritation to him.
"You should have said something earlier, Nyssa. Here, take my coat." He removes his frock coat and drapes it around me, before sinking to sit against the rocky wall a few feet away. The coat's material is not heavy, but it is large, and I gather the folds of cloth around myself and huddle inside the added layer of warmth.
"What about you?" I ask, and he waves off the question with a movement of one hand.
"I have a much lower body temperature than you. Don't be concerned for me."
Apparently, I have succeeded in derailing his diatribe against our captors... perhaps too effectively, I think as he continues to study me from under furrowed brows.
"Are you happy, Nyssa?" he asks out of nowhere, and I'm afraid I must look very stupid for the couple of seconds that it takes my brain to catch up with my gaping mouth.
"What?" I manage eventually, stalling for time.
"Are you happy, travelling with me? I can never seem to tell about these things."
"I--"
Happy isn't a concept I've spent much time thinking about, since Logopolis. Am I happy? I think back over the past few years. Completing a particularly delicate experiment. Poring over a maths problem with Adric. Giggling with Tegan about some silly, irrelevant subject. Dancing the Charleston, surrounded by friends and laughter. But Adric is dead. Tegan is gone. And the Doctor... he seems different, lately. Sadder. For myself, more and more of my energy these days seems devoted to keeping the darkness in my own mind at bay. I thought that writing it all down would help me gain some peace... some perspective about the loss of my world. However, it seems to have done the opposite... bringing the loss closer to the surface. Allowing it to bubble up when I don't expect it; when I'm not prepared to deal with it. It scares me.
Am I happy?
"-- I don't know."
My voice sounds really rather unsteady. The Doctor's frown deepens.
"Nyssa, you're still shaking. Are you sure you're all right?"
I can feel myself trembling, and I don't think it's because of the temperature anymore.
"I'm not sure. I feel very--" I feel awful. Panicky and frightened, even though I'm not under any imminent threat. And all I can think of is how it felt to press my face into my father's neck as he held me tightly when I was a child. How he would comfort me with soft words and strong arms, when something had upset me.
I thought I would never have that feeling again, after the Master destroyed him; corrupted him. But on a handful of occasions since, immediately after I had escaped some peril or another, I have found myself enveloped in the arms of the man sitting across from me. Held protectively, and with a desperation that one would not normally associate with such a mild persona.
I know why he shies away from physical expression under normal circumstances-- both Trakenites and Gallifreyans understand the concept of propriety better than most races-- but perhaps an emotional crisis is as important to a friend as a physical crisis? It certainly feels as real, at this moment, as any threat of death I've ever faced.
"Nyssa?" he prompts.
"C-Could you hold me, please?"
There is a bare instant of hesitation before his response. "I mentioned my lower body temperature. I'm not sure I'll be of any help in keeping you warm. I might even be a hindrance. I'm sorry I--"
"Could you hold me anyway?" I break in before he can apologise for bringing me here.
"Oh." He seems to make the connection at last. "Oh, of course. Forgive me," he murmurs.
I cross the short distance separating us, and lean against him as his arms close tentatively around me. It's a bit awkward, but the double thump of his two hearts is soothing, and it does make me feel warmer, despite his words. "What happened, back on Earth?" I ask, to distract myself from the unwelcome darkness nibbling at the edges of my thoughts. "You seemed sad, and a bit angry. Was it because of Andrew? Because of Andrew... and me?"
I can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he sighs. "No, Nyssa. I'm not angry at you, or your friend. I'm always saddened when my companions leave to pursue their own lives, but I wish only the best for all of you. If anything, I was angry with myself, for having unrealistic expectations of that particular time and place. And sad, because Don-- the leader of the team-- died during the last game. A heart attack, probably. That's why the ball was cancelled."
My heart lurches at the thought that even such a safe, idyllic place should be marred by death. "Oh, Doctor. I'm so sorry-- I didn't realise. How horrible!"
His arms tighten around me slightly, and he makes a strange little sound that could almost be a breath of laughter. I raise my head enough to look up at him with a frown. "Why is that funny?" I ask, bewildered and a little upset.
He shakes his head slowly and guides my head back down to rest against his shoulder. "It isn't, Nyssa. It isn't," he answers, and there is no trace of humour in his tone. "It's just the thought of you, of all people, trying to comfort me, of all people, over the loss of a single acquaintance."
"What do you mean?" The tremble is back in my voice as I try to push back the darkness that is looming over me.
"Nothing lasts forever, Nyssa. Not lives, not planets, not families or friendships or love affairs. You've never grieved for Traken. Not properly. That's why you needed to write the novel-- it was your unconscious attempt to deal with your staggering loss."
There is a hard, heavy lump in my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I don't want to hear this, but the Doctor continues to speak, the words rumbling against my cheek, where it is pressed to his chest. "But it isn't that simple. The only way to deal with grief is to experience it. I wish I could take it from you, but it's something that only you can do, and only in your own time."
"I-- I can't-- " I can't do this, I try to tell him, but it's too late. A sob breaks past my control as the darkness crashes down on me. I cling to the anchor of the Doctor's arms and soft words as the tears come.
"That's it. It's all right to weep, Nyssa. It's all right to mourn them." His voice is hoarse as he continues. "I'm so very, very sorry for what's happened to you. I can't begin to imagine what it's like to be the last survivor of one's planet. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met."
It seems to take hours, but the painful sobs eventually begin to subside as he continues to stroke my hair and speak softly to me. "Some day you will find a place to call home, Nyssa. A place where you are needed, and where your talents can make a huge difference to the universe. Until then, you have a home with me, in the TARDIS, and I am honoured to count you as a friend."
With my tears seemingly exhausted, I sheepishly pull away and sit up, not meeting his eyes. The weight hanging over me is still there, but it seems lighter, somehow. More distant. "Thank you," I tell him. "I'm sorry for losing control like that. I don't know what came over me."
"Nonsense," he says matter-of-factly, and rummages for a clean handkerchief. As I wipe my eyes and face, I can make out a commotion in the distance; the sound of running and yelling.
"Can you hear that?" I ask, glad of the sudden distraction.
"Hmm," he answers. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that's the sound of the Grand Hiveling being assassinated. Which is bad news for the Hiveling, but good news for us, since it does rather prove our innocence." The sound of pounding feet grows nearer. "And that is the sound of guards rushing to see if we've somehow escaped, which could well be our chance to talk ourselves out of this cell."
Reaching down, he takes my hand and helps me rise to my feet as my muscles protest against the cold and the damp, a glint of excitement back in his eye.
"Come along, Nyssa. We've got work to do."
fin
Recipient and Prompt: doyle_sb4, Five/Nyssa, after the 'Autumn' segment of Circular Time, 'nothing lasts'
Title: Object Impermanence
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Nothing lasts forever. (A coda to Big Finish 91: Circular Time - Autumn, by Paul Cornell.)
Author's Notes: This story was written for the Big Finish Ficathon. Much thanks to wendymr for agreeing to beta read and offering helpful suggestions and britpicking even though she's not a BF fan, or a Five fan. You're the best, m'dear!
Object Impermanence
I'm not sure what sort of reception to expect as the inner doors of the TARDIS close behind me. These last few days have been... unsettling, in several respects. It is as if I have been thrust into the role of a rebellious teenager pursuing a forbidden love affair, and he, cast as the disapproving parent-- roles to which neither of us are particularly well-suited, to say the least.
For the first time since his regeneration, I can believe that the Doctor is much older than he appears. Especially now; in the instant before the sound of the doors closing gains his attention, I catch a glimpse of him bent over the console as if a great weight is pressing down on him, lines of fatigue creasing the normally smooth skin around his eyes.
Did I cause that?
Before I can focus properly on that rather startling question, he straightens up to greet me, and I think I can detect a flash of surprise in his blue eyes. Surprise, and something else.
"Nyssa!" he greets in that overly cheerful voice that can hide so very many things. "Ready to leave at last, then?"
"Yes," I reply. "Anton said that the cricket club ball had been cancelled..."
He cuts in before I can turn it into a question, already moving briskly around the console, setting co-ordinates and not meeting my eyes.
"Hmm, yes. Probably for the best. Occasions like that can be terribly tedious-- bad music, uninspiring food, and drunk forty-year-old men trying not to step on their wives' feet during the slow dances. I think we'll have a much more interesting time on Beta Orionis; I've been meaning to pay a visit during the spawning of the Grand Hiveling for almost a century, now."
"Did you think that I was going to stay with Andrew?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. He stills at the controls, his eyes rising slowly from the readouts to meet my own. The weight behind his pale gaze makes it hard not to look away... to look down.
"I assure you, Nyssa, I had no opinion on the matter. You are an adult of your species, and what you do with your life is your own choice. I believe I made that quite clear earlier."
... an adult of your species...
The words prick at that part inside of me where Traken used to live, and anything that I might have said in return remains firmly lodged in my throat. He seems to realise that he has done something to upset me, and immediately retreats to neutral territory.
"Why don't you go find a jacket from the wardrobe room-- the Hives can be quite chilly at night. We'll arrive in a few minutes."
"Yes," I say quietly, and escape into solitude where I can pack away all the unwelcome feelings that are bubbling up from the hole in my psyche-- the hole which should be filled by things like home, and family, and future.
* * *
As it happens, the Doctor is correct. The Hives can be quite chilly at night. Especially when one is stuck in a cell made of rock, with no furnishings, and a freezing wind is blowing through the metal bars of the door.
He is pacing back and forth, brimming with restless energy like a gyrecat in a cage at the Centre for Zoology.
"Of all the idiotic reasons to be arrested, this has to take the biscuit!"
"That's what you said last time," I tell him, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. "At least that time we got to meet Sir Isaac Newton. And the cell was warmer."
He carries on, unheeding. "What sort of society bases political policy on a two-thousand-year-old prophecy, for heaven's sake? 'The Day of the Shadow Assassination,' indeed!"
"The sort that's convinced by passages in its sacred texts that the progenitor of its species is in imminent danger of being killed by 'strange, two-legged creatures from beyond the furthest realms,' apparently." As ripostes go, the delivery would probably be more effective if my teeth weren't chattering... but at least it finally gets his attention.
"Are you quite all right? You look cold."
Patience. A Trakenite of noble birth does not lose her temper over such trivial matters. That would be unseemly.
"Doctor, your words, I believe, were to 'find a jacket.' Judging by the layer of ice forming in that bucket of questionable-looking water in the corner, the temperature has dropped considerably below freezing. And there's a decided draught in this cell, as well. I find that this jacket is of limited usefulness, especially after several hours of forced inactivity."
He is immediately contrite, although his tone is slightly gruff, as if my refraining from whining about personal discomfort is a source of some irritation to him.
"You should have said something earlier, Nyssa. Here, take my coat." He removes his frock coat and drapes it around me, before sinking to sit against the rocky wall a few feet away. The coat's material is not heavy, but it is large, and I gather the folds of cloth around myself and huddle inside the added layer of warmth.
"What about you?" I ask, and he waves off the question with a movement of one hand.
"I have a much lower body temperature than you. Don't be concerned for me."
Apparently, I have succeeded in derailing his diatribe against our captors... perhaps too effectively, I think as he continues to study me from under furrowed brows.
"Are you happy, Nyssa?" he asks out of nowhere, and I'm afraid I must look very stupid for the couple of seconds that it takes my brain to catch up with my gaping mouth.
"What?" I manage eventually, stalling for time.
"Are you happy, travelling with me? I can never seem to tell about these things."
"I--"
Happy isn't a concept I've spent much time thinking about, since Logopolis. Am I happy? I think back over the past few years. Completing a particularly delicate experiment. Poring over a maths problem with Adric. Giggling with Tegan about some silly, irrelevant subject. Dancing the Charleston, surrounded by friends and laughter. But Adric is dead. Tegan is gone. And the Doctor... he seems different, lately. Sadder. For myself, more and more of my energy these days seems devoted to keeping the darkness in my own mind at bay. I thought that writing it all down would help me gain some peace... some perspective about the loss of my world. However, it seems to have done the opposite... bringing the loss closer to the surface. Allowing it to bubble up when I don't expect it; when I'm not prepared to deal with it. It scares me.
Am I happy?
"-- I don't know."
My voice sounds really rather unsteady. The Doctor's frown deepens.
"Nyssa, you're still shaking. Are you sure you're all right?"
I can feel myself trembling, and I don't think it's because of the temperature anymore.
"I'm not sure. I feel very--" I feel awful. Panicky and frightened, even though I'm not under any imminent threat. And all I can think of is how it felt to press my face into my father's neck as he held me tightly when I was a child. How he would comfort me with soft words and strong arms, when something had upset me.
I thought I would never have that feeling again, after the Master destroyed him; corrupted him. But on a handful of occasions since, immediately after I had escaped some peril or another, I have found myself enveloped in the arms of the man sitting across from me. Held protectively, and with a desperation that one would not normally associate with such a mild persona.
I know why he shies away from physical expression under normal circumstances-- both Trakenites and Gallifreyans understand the concept of propriety better than most races-- but perhaps an emotional crisis is as important to a friend as a physical crisis? It certainly feels as real, at this moment, as any threat of death I've ever faced.
"Nyssa?" he prompts.
"C-Could you hold me, please?"
There is a bare instant of hesitation before his response. "I mentioned my lower body temperature. I'm not sure I'll be of any help in keeping you warm. I might even be a hindrance. I'm sorry I--"
"Could you hold me anyway?" I break in before he can apologise for bringing me here.
"Oh." He seems to make the connection at last. "Oh, of course. Forgive me," he murmurs.
I cross the short distance separating us, and lean against him as his arms close tentatively around me. It's a bit awkward, but the double thump of his two hearts is soothing, and it does make me feel warmer, despite his words. "What happened, back on Earth?" I ask, to distract myself from the unwelcome darkness nibbling at the edges of my thoughts. "You seemed sad, and a bit angry. Was it because of Andrew? Because of Andrew... and me?"
I can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he sighs. "No, Nyssa. I'm not angry at you, or your friend. I'm always saddened when my companions leave to pursue their own lives, but I wish only the best for all of you. If anything, I was angry with myself, for having unrealistic expectations of that particular time and place. And sad, because Don-- the leader of the team-- died during the last game. A heart attack, probably. That's why the ball was cancelled."
My heart lurches at the thought that even such a safe, idyllic place should be marred by death. "Oh, Doctor. I'm so sorry-- I didn't realise. How horrible!"
His arms tighten around me slightly, and he makes a strange little sound that could almost be a breath of laughter. I raise my head enough to look up at him with a frown. "Why is that funny?" I ask, bewildered and a little upset.
He shakes his head slowly and guides my head back down to rest against his shoulder. "It isn't, Nyssa. It isn't," he answers, and there is no trace of humour in his tone. "It's just the thought of you, of all people, trying to comfort me, of all people, over the loss of a single acquaintance."
"What do you mean?" The tremble is back in my voice as I try to push back the darkness that is looming over me.
"Nothing lasts forever, Nyssa. Not lives, not planets, not families or friendships or love affairs. You've never grieved for Traken. Not properly. That's why you needed to write the novel-- it was your unconscious attempt to deal with your staggering loss."
There is a hard, heavy lump in my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I don't want to hear this, but the Doctor continues to speak, the words rumbling against my cheek, where it is pressed to his chest. "But it isn't that simple. The only way to deal with grief is to experience it. I wish I could take it from you, but it's something that only you can do, and only in your own time."
"I-- I can't-- " I can't do this, I try to tell him, but it's too late. A sob breaks past my control as the darkness crashes down on me. I cling to the anchor of the Doctor's arms and soft words as the tears come.
"That's it. It's all right to weep, Nyssa. It's all right to mourn them." His voice is hoarse as he continues. "I'm so very, very sorry for what's happened to you. I can't begin to imagine what it's like to be the last survivor of one's planet. You are one of the strongest people I have ever met."
It seems to take hours, but the painful sobs eventually begin to subside as he continues to stroke my hair and speak softly to me. "Some day you will find a place to call home, Nyssa. A place where you are needed, and where your talents can make a huge difference to the universe. Until then, you have a home with me, in the TARDIS, and I am honoured to count you as a friend."
With my tears seemingly exhausted, I sheepishly pull away and sit up, not meeting his eyes. The weight hanging over me is still there, but it seems lighter, somehow. More distant. "Thank you," I tell him. "I'm sorry for losing control like that. I don't know what came over me."
"Nonsense," he says matter-of-factly, and rummages for a clean handkerchief. As I wipe my eyes and face, I can make out a commotion in the distance; the sound of running and yelling.
"Can you hear that?" I ask, glad of the sudden distraction.
"Hmm," he answers. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that's the sound of the Grand Hiveling being assassinated. Which is bad news for the Hiveling, but good news for us, since it does rather prove our innocence." The sound of pounding feet grows nearer. "And that is the sound of guards rushing to see if we've somehow escaped, which could well be our chance to talk ourselves out of this cell."
Reaching down, he takes my hand and helps me rise to my feet as my muscles protest against the cold and the damp, a glint of excitement back in his eye.
"Come along, Nyssa. We've got work to do."
fin